by S. E. Lynes
‘We also have a witness who says they saw a little girl matching Abi’s description up towards the Landmark Arts Centre. One of your neighbours has set up a WhatsApp group. Your friend Mrs Johnson, Bella, is it? She’s printed off photographs for distributing.’ She takes out her phone, pushes her thumb to it and hands it to me.
I am staring at a photograph of my little girl. The picture blurs.
‘That was taken yesterday,’ I say. ‘They were here for Sunday lunch, Neil and Bella. We told them I was having another baby. I’m…’ I can’t go on.
Lorraine rubs my back. ‘All right,’ she says softly.
‘The Johnsons are Abi’s godparents,’ Farnham says. ‘Is that right?’
I nod.
‘Do you spend a lot of time together?’
‘Yes. They’re our closest friends. Well, Neil is Matt’s closest friend. We often get together at weekends, as couples, you know? They dote on Abi, really dote on her.’
‘Mr Johnson was at home this morning when you went for help?’
‘Yes. The first time I knocked he was in the shower but he answered the second time.’
‘And your next-door neighbours had also gone to work?’
‘Yes.’
A buzzing sounds starts up – a phone on silent. The sofa vibrates.
Lorraine stands up, takes the call. A radio crackles, the sound drifting through the open window. Yeah, yeah, OK, but tell the SOCO to make sure…
‘Yeah,’ Lorraine says into her phone, and, ‘Yeah, yeah, OK, will do. OK, bye.’
I’m glad of the distraction. I’m not sure how many times I can repeat the same words. She pockets the phone and smiles, but it isn’t a happy smile.
‘They’ve found a hat matching your description.’ She returns to sit beside me. ‘Nearby. On Thameside Lane, on a wall near the leisure centre.’
‘The Oasis? Oh my God.’ A gasp leaves me. ‘I didn’t see it when I went past. We were going to feed the ducks. That’s on the way. I should have gone straight there. I should have called sooner.’
‘Mrs Atkins, please.’ Farnham is standing. ‘Don’t beat yourself up. If parents called us every time they lost sight of their little ’uns, we’d be overrun. You called after you’d searched, and you were right to call when you did.’
‘I can’t believe this is happening.’
‘Try to stay calm if you can. Let us do our job. But I need to tell you that we’ll be bringing the dogs into the house, if that’s OK. We’ll need to search the property to eliminate you from our enquiries. We might need access to the Johnsons’ house too, OK?’
‘OK. Whatever you need.’
She is about to leave, but Neil is there, in the doorway. He looks sweaty, though it might be rain. That it was Bella who printed out the pictures of Abi hits me only then. The two of them are so good, such good friends.
‘This is Neil,’ I say to DI Farnham. ‘Matt’s best friend.’
‘All right.’ Neil nods and looks at the ground, the tattoo of a swallow just visible below his left ear.
‘Mr Johnson,’ DI Farnham says. ‘I’ve just mentioned to Ava that we’re going to have to bring the dogs into the house. Do you have any objection if we search your house too, with the dogs?’
Neil’s eyes widen slightly. This is horrible, just horrible.
‘Not at all,’ he says. ‘I can take you there now if you like.’
‘Great. It’s just procedure, nothing to worry about. If you could stay around here, I’ll find you when they’re ready.’
‘Sure.’
DI Farnham makes her move, leaving Neil and me in the newly unfamiliar space of my kitchen, with DC Lorraine Stephens, my newly appointed chaperone.
‘Everyone’s out there,’ Neil says. ‘They’re checking all the houses and gardens,’ he adds, looking out onto my back garden. ‘Anywhere she could have wriggled through.’ He takes a breath. I wait. ‘I can’t believe someone would take her from her own home.’
‘What?’
His brow creases. He looks frightened. ‘I mean, in this area, you know?’
‘No, I mean how do you know she was taken?’
‘I don’t. I mean I can’t believe someone would take her… not round here, that’s all I meant.’
‘We don’t know that’s what’s happened, Neil. We don’t know she was taken.’
He throws up his hands. ‘I’m sorry, Ave, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it. Come on, babe.’
I cover my face with my hands and he pulls me into his arms. He is right. It has occurred to me a thousand times that she’s been taken, of course it has. But I haven’t thought for one second that it might have been from inside the house. She might never have undone the clasp.
Someone else might have.
Eight
Matt
The helicopter overhead is for Abi. Matt knows it instinctively and feels the muscle of his heart spasm. The sight of the police vans on Thameside and the tape at the end of his road sends a thump of panic through him, even though he’s already seen them. Further into his street, neighbours hold their hands to their mouths against the black and acid-yellow swell of police. A horrible calm. The whole atmosphere has changed. All sound has been muted.
Neil, Ava and a policeman are walking towards him. When they see him, they stop at the end of next door’s driveway.
He brakes to a standstill, unclips his feet. ‘Did someone hand in her hat? A woman said it was on the wall outside the pub, but there was no sign.’
Neil nods grimly. ‘One of the searchers handed it in. It looks like she got as far as Thameside at least.’
Ava bursts into tears. ‘What if it was a hit and run?’ She pushes her head against Matt’s chest. He folds his arms around her and kisses the top of her head, wonders if he’s ever felt more helpless in his life.
Neil swats the rain from his face. ‘I suppose she might have made it as far as the river.’
Matt shakes his head. ‘Someone would have seen her. And she won’t have been run over. That road’s too busy. Someone would have seen.’
‘You’d think.’ Neil frowns.
‘But people can be so focused on their own lives,’ says Ava. ‘Especially at that time in the morning. Parents are busy keeping an eye on their kids.’
The rain is no more than wet mist. A rainbow has formed in a sky trying to hold on to its blue. Neil claps Matt on the shoulder and leaves his arm there.
‘Listen, mate,’ he says, thumbing over his shoulder to the copper from earlier, PC Peak. ‘I’m just going to show this guy round the Lovegoods’ place, yeah? They want to check over all the houses and I’ve got their key. I don’t think they’ll mind.’
‘Go for it.’
‘So it was locked this morning?’ Matt hears the police officer say as he and Neil wander away towards the house.
‘I haven’t been in yet, but yeah, it will have been.’ Neil unlocks the door; their voices fade as they walk into the house.
Ava whimpers. Matt pulls her into his arms again and rests his head on hers, scanning the street, the upstairs windows. All are empty. Everyone out at work or out here, searching. On the damson trees that line the road there are already posters: Abi’s face stares out, her smile incongruous, wrong. He cannot look. He cannot. Ava is sobbing hard against his chest. Lorraine comes out from the side return of his house. She strides over, one arm reaching out.
‘Ava,’ she says. ‘Come inside, love. Come on. You’ll catch a chill out here.’
Ava’s body breaks slowly from his as she lets herself be turned, guided away. Matt hands her over, feeling like he’s abandoning her. But she is pregnant and she can’t be out here searching in the pouring rain.
He is about to take to his bike again but finds himself standing at the Lovegoods’ front door, peering into their wide, generous hallway. The house is so much bigger than his and Ava’s. From upstairs he can hear Neil chatting to the cop, who looked no older than eighteen.
Before he really kn
ows what he’s doing, Matt is tiptoeing into the house. A moment later, he is staring through the glass window of their kitchen door. But in the work site there is nothing, only the typically neat display of Neil’s tools resting against the wall, his tool bag, the usual coffee-spattered mugs on top of the washing machine next to a filthy-looking kettle and a half-eaten packet of digestives. The space is going to be amazing – he can see that. Beyond, the absent back wall gives onto a garden no more than scrubby long grass, a dilapidated shed. This too will be landscaped, no doubt, transformed as is the way around here.
He creeps back towards the front door but is caught by Neil and the police officer returning downstairs.
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I just wanted to have a quick look.’
Neil rests his hand on Matt’s shoulder and together they step back out onto the street.
‘Cheers,’ the cop says.
‘No worries.’ Neil claps him briefly on the shoulder.
The cop crosses the road. Matt follows him with his eyes – watches him lean his head to one side, the way he pinches his jacket to bring his radio nearer his mouth.
‘Yeah, Sarge,’ he hears him say. The rest trails away.
‘Matt? Matt?’ Neil is staring at him. ‘I was saying shall we split up and meet back here?’
‘Yeah, sorry, yeah. Might be better. I’m going to try the towpath again.’
‘OK. I’ll head to Kingston, check Bushy Park.’
Matt stumbles towards his bike and climbs on. Heads off, as if to answer a calling, towards the river.
By early evening, it seems, the whole town is out looking for Abi. Teams of people rummage through grass in the Ham Lands, volunteers comb the towpath, search the park in long, slow lines. The air rings with her name. Acquaintances and strangers alike walk with sober expressions, their skin paling with the hours. Women weep, wipe at their eyes with white paper tissues, comfort each other in the distress they cannot help but share.
Matt cycles through them as through a mourning, murmuring sea. It is 7.30 p.m. Under a darkening sky, he reaches home just as next door’s car reverses onto their drive. Outside Matt’s house, a policewoman is still standing sentry, the same one from two hours ago, when DI Farnham gave a brief statement to the crowd of journalists, which has now, thankfully, dispersed.
‘Hi.’
He turns to see Johnnie Lovegood’s wife getting out of the far side of the car. She is tall, taller than he thought, her grey hair cut short, swept back.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, walking towards him, a tissue clutched in her hand. ‘We just spoke to the policeman at the end of the road.’
‘Yeah, thanks. It’s—’
‘Is there anything we can do? Your wife, is she… Can I… Does she need company?’
‘The family liaison officer is with her. Thanks though. Her name’s Ava, by the way. I’m Matt.’
‘Matt. Hi. I’m Jennifer, and my husband’s Johnnie. Lovegood. Do you need anything at all?’
‘I’m so sorry.’ Johnnie has got out of the car and is striding towards him. He too is taller, somehow, his hair the creamy pale orange of a former redhead. He stretches for a handshake but appears to reconsider. There is a thick silver bangle on his wrist. ‘The police officer said she went missing first thing this morning?’
‘Yeah. Just after I left for work. They think she might have got as far as the river, but they’re still following up leads.’
‘So, what, she just wandered out?’
Matt nods. ‘Looks that way.’
‘Right, right.’ Johnnie shakes his head. ‘God, how awful. I’m so sorry. Do you need anything? I can run up some posters in the morning.’
‘Thanks. I’ll let you know.’
‘You must be exhausted,’ Jennifer cuts in, and he notices only then her soft Irish accent. ‘We’ll let you go. I’m sorry we haven’t… y’know… before now. I’ll drop my number in tomorrow morning, OK? Just in case there’s anything… anything at all. Please. Don’t hesitate.’
The kindness of strangers, Matt thinks. What a way to be introduced to the neighbours.
He finds Ava hunched over on the sofa in front of a plate of untouched supermarket sandwiches. He eats one and drinks a cup of sweet tea handed to him by Lorraine, this woman who now reaches into the correct cupboard for the mugs, who knows where the teaspoons are without having to ask.
‘Next door are just back,’ he tells his wife. ‘They said if there’s anything they can do… Johnnie said if we need any more posters or anything. The wife’s called Jennifer.’
Ava says nothing. It is as if only the outer shell of her exists.
At eight, the light goes. DI Sharon Farnham returns to the house, moving with that slow calm he suspects hides all manner of anxieties, to tell them that the search has been called off until tomorrow.
‘I’ll contact you if anything develops,’ she says. ‘You have my number. Call me if any new information comes to light, OK? DC Stephens will stay with you for as long as you need her.’
When she’s gone, Matt wanders into the kitchen and calls Neil, who answers after two rings.
‘Mate. Anything?’
‘No. They’ve called off the search until the morning.’
‘Where are you?’
‘At home. You?’
‘Just popped back to change into some dry clothes, I was freezing.’ A pause. ‘Listen, I’m going to grab my coat and head back out.’
Matt closes his eyes. ‘Mate,’ he says, his voice a croak. His own clothes are damp too, he realises, and, yes, he is cold and damp, his teeth chattering. ‘Let me check with Ave.’
‘Do you want Bella to come and sit with her?’
‘She’s got the family liaison woman here with her at the moment. Hold on.’
Matt goes into the living room. He holds the phone to his chest. Ava looks up. Her face is red, her eyes swollen.
‘I was going to go out one last time. With Neil. He’s asking if you want Bella to come and sit with you. Or would you prefer me to stay here?’
Ava glances at Lorraine, who tells them she can stay as long as they want, that she can sleep on the sofa if they need her – she doesn’t mind.
‘If you’re sure,’ Ava says, pushing her nose against the crushed tissue in her hand.
‘Of course,’ Lorraine replies.
Ava meets his eye. ‘I think I’m fine with Lorraine. Tell Neil thanks.’
She looks as if she’s been punched. It is a terrible, terrible sight. It is all, all of it, so horrible. All the times he has used the word nightmare, without thinking, and now this, this is the nightmare. It has that same thrumming, heightened surreality, the same gut-churning paralysis, the longing for consciousness, the impossibility of waking up, of ever waking up.
‘Sure you don’t want me to stay?’ he asks.
‘No, go,’ Ava says, looking pleadingly at him. ‘Find her. Just… find her.’
Leaden-hearted, Matt leaves her with Lorraine and returns to the hall. ‘Neil? Yeah, tell Bella thanks, but the family liaison woman is going to stay until I get back.’
Quarter of an hour later, wrapped up against the chill of an early September evening, they meet outside Matt’s house. The police vans have gone; the neighbours are back inside their homes. Shell-shocked, Matt imagines, talking it through endlessly. Next door, an amber glow leaks through the Lovegoods’ Scandinavian-style shutters. The car is no longer there.
Matt nods towards the house. ‘I met them just now. Looks like they’ve gone out again.’
‘Nah. Johnnie always parks in the garage. So he can remind everyone he’s the only one with a garage.’
Matt shakes his head. ‘Car like that, it’s bound to get vandalised sooner or later.’
‘Either way, he’s a knob.’
Matt doesn’t reply. Once Neil has taken against someone, it’s hard to persuade him otherwise. He’s the same if he decides he likes someone, as if once his loyalty is pledged, it’s immutable – and God knows, Ma
tt has been grateful for that over the years.
‘Where do you want to go?’ Neil hands Matt one of two powerful flashlights.
‘The river,’ Matt says.
Neil nods grimly, and for the first time Matt wonders what he believes, whether he knows it’s a lost cause and, for the sake of their friendship, is humouring him.
They walk, updating one another on the day’s efforts. Neil tells him he’s cycled as far as Barnes, handing out the printed photographs, taping posters to lamp posts in Strawberry Hill, Twickenham, St Margaret’s, Richmond. He is hoarse – from asking questions, calling out Abi’s name, Matt supposes. He looks utterly drained. Of course. It is who he is. No one builds a business from scratch by waiting for others to do the work. Neil has created his life from nothing – with no family wealth, no father, no privilege; who else would he have relied upon if not himself?
At the lock, they head in the direction of the current, up towards Richmond, accessing the riverbank when they can, crawling through spindly trees, sharp-spoked branches, stopping, splitting up to explore the woodland on either side of the path. Matt’s eyes drift always to the river. If she has fallen in, she is lost. He wonders if he knows that this is what has happened, whether his conscious mind is refusing to allow it in, misdirecting him towards wildly optimistic possibility until he is ready to accept the more probable, more obvious truth.
At Ham House, they explore the car park and the hedges, scale the locked gate and run through the ornamental gardens calling her name. Up, up again, past the wooden jetty for the foot ferry over to Marble Hill Park. Up again, back from the river, down the ginnel that leads to Petersham Nursery. Knuckles white around the black iron gates – Do you think she could be in there? No, mate, I don’t think so. It has all been covered, by many dozens of people, and in daylight. What they are doing is senseless.
‘I’ve searched all of this,’ Matt says miserably as they tramp through the dripping gardens at the foot of Richmond Hill, rubbing at the crimson scratches on their hands and wrists. ‘I biked all up this way, and back down the other side, as far as Twickenham.’