by M. A. Hunter
Satisfied that my hair and makeup are passable, I put on my glasses and hunker over the laptop. It’s nearly eight now, so we have plenty of time before the signing is due to start. Loading up the missingpeople.org site, I type Faye McKenna’s name into the search box, and view the results. There’s one hit, and sure enough the picture that presents itself is of the same girl Maddie emailed over, albeit she is several years younger. She has dark hair tied in pigtails, uneven teeth, and large square prescription glasses that do little to compliment her round face. According to the site, she was twelve when she went missing in November 1998. There is a message from her family begging her to get in touch, but little other detail. I can only assume someone in her family sent the picture to Maddie’s office in a cry for help; perhaps they haven’t heard about the Anna Hunter Foundation, and given the success Jack and I experienced in locating Cassie Hilliard and Sally Curtis, maybe they were just hoping to appeal to my better nature and stimulate some interest in their case.
I hear Rick approaching, but thankfully he makes no attempt at pushing open my bedroom door. He clears his throat. ‘Miss Hunter? I’m sorry to hurry you, but we really should be making a move; time is of the essence.’
‘Won’t be a minute,’ I call back, opening an internet search window and typing in Faye’s name and disappearance date. There are a number of internet articles that open, mostly from local Oldham-based news agencies. The same picture as on the missingpeople.org site is used in the articles. I skim-read, conscious that Rick has remained just the other side of the door. According to one, Faye was last seen waiting for a bus home from secondary school. She’d stayed back as a result of a school detention, and although one witness recalled seeing her siting at the bus stop, she never boarded the number eighteen bus that would have taken her back to her estate.
My heart goes out to her family. There are so many similar stories of children who just disappear, with no trace of who has taken them, nor the reason why. A neighbour is quoted as saying that Faye and her mum were such a close pair but Faye’s father hadn’t been on the scene for a number of years. Presumably he would have been the investigating team’s first suspect, but the article doesn’t allude to his identity.
Rick clears his throat again. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Hunter, we really must be going now. I was tasked with bringing you to the station as a matter of urgency.
I close the laptop lid, leaving the search page open so I can do some further digging later. At the very least I feel I should reach out to Faye’s mum and tell her how the Foundation might be able to provide some guidance or support.
Standing, I double-check my appearance in the mirror; it certainly isn’t the outfit I would have selected for today but I promised Maddie I would follow her instructions. When I pull open the door, Rick stands there, his mouth open.
‘Wow! I never realised just how beautiful you’d be in real life.’
I should have powdered my cheeks because I can feel how much they’re glowing right now. ‘What do you mean, you were tasked with bringing me to the station?’ I say, ignoring the compliment. ‘Surely you meant bookstore, right?’
He frowns. ‘No, I meant the police station in Portland.’
I mirror his frown. ‘Why would you need to take me there? I thought you’d been sent to escort me to my book signing.’
He shakes his head. ‘Oh, I’m well aware of your book signing today, Miss Hunter – I’ve asked my sister to queue and get my books signed for me – but that’s not the reason I’m here.’
I fold my arms, embarrassed by my own mistake and suddenly conscious that I haven’t a clue who Rick really is, nor whether he is the PCSO his lanyard suggested. ‘Then exactly why are you here?’
‘I’m not allowed to say; I just need to take you to the station. Please?’
I make no effort to move, making my stance clear.
‘Okay.’ He relents with a small sigh. ‘All I can tell you is a nine-year-old girl went missing from her home in Portland yesterday afternoon and the parents have insisted you be brought in to assist the investigation.’
Chapter Twelve
Now
Portland, Dorset
Coming back to Portland after so many years away feels so odd, but even more so since Rick explained the reason my presence has been requested. Most people of my age probably associate the small island with the popular children’s show from the 80s, but for me it harbours such painful memories that have driven and shaped my future. Almost twenty-one years after my sister went missing from the island, the same fate has befallen another family. I can imagine exactly what they’re going through.
The island itself hasn’t changed a lot in the years since it was home. The prison where my father worked still dominates the landscape, cut into the hill as it is, and references to the prison can be found on virtually every street sign, as if nobody would come here for any other reason. Away from that though, there is still a real sense of community amongst residents, and whilst it isn’t an island accessible only by water, the feeling of ‘us versus the world’ remains. This isn’t my first time coming back here, but it’s the first time in two decades that I’ve been summoned.
The police station at Portland brings back too many unwanted memories as well. It still carries that tired mustiness in the air that instantly transports me back to that time: the smell of the unwashed criminals dragged through these very doors as the men and women in blue try to make charges stick; the smell of terrified victims being gently coaxed to reveal the truth of what happened to them; the smell of families alert to the possibility that they’re about to receive the most heart-breaking news.
The entrance and reception area have both been given a makeover since I was last here, but it does little to prevent the memories resurfacing. I still recall the social worker taking my hand and leading me to a tiny room filled with children’s toys and games. She’d encouraged me to play as I would at home, but they weren’t my toys, so how could I play with them as I would at home? I wanted to be with my mum and dad, but they were being interviewed in another room somewhere; out of sight, out of mind, the social worker had probably thought, when the opposite was true.
I’d wanted to know what all the fuss was about. I’d heard Anna’s name being screamed by my frantic parents; I’d been in the blue and yellow police car that turned up at home and drove us here; I needed my big sister with me to explain what was going on, as she always did. Since that day, Anna has never been out-of-sight-out-of-mind; if anything, I’ve spent more of my life thinking about her and that day than if nothing had happened. I wonder whether we would still be close now had she not disappeared twenty-one years ago.
Back then, the parents of the missing child were always the preliminary suspects, but at least the world has moved on somewhat now. It’s a hard enough time for parents to experience without feeling the need to be so defensive all the time.
PCSO Rick Underwood asks me to sit in the waiting room while he fetches one of the team to speak to me, but I’m too on edge to rest. In this day and age it appals me that the horror that tore my family apart can still continue unchecked. In a world of digital surveillance and curtain twitchers taking to social media to spread rumours and gossip, how is it possible for such heinous acts to continue? Although it’s anti-Orwell, maybe the idea of 100 per cent surveillance isn’t so bad if it can prevent tragedies like this unfolding; how many other crimes could have been discovered and prevented if we were all under the eye of Big Brother?
I’m grateful when Rick returns and distracts me from the dark place my mind was headed. ‘DS Robyn Meyers will be out in a moment,’ he informs me. ‘She’s the Family Liaison Officer and should be able to give a bit more detail about what’s going on and why you’re here. The SIO is actively rallying the troops; as I’m sure you know, the first twenty-four hours are key to finding out what happened to Jo-Jo.’
The hairs on the back of my arms stand involuntarily. ‘Jo-Jo? Is that the name of the girl?’
/> He nods grimly with what looks like a fraction of regret in his eyes. Was he not supposed to give me her name?
‘DS Meyers will fill you in on the rest. In the meantime, is there anything I can get you? Cup of tea or coffee?’
‘No, I’m fine,’ I say, not wanting the bitter taste of the tea to take my mind back to that time again.
‘Are you sure? You’re as pale as a sheet.’
I force my face into a smile of reassurance. ‘I’ll be fine, but thank you.’
He remains standing beside me until a black woman in her early forties is buzzed through the security door. She is wearing impossibly high heels, but doesn’t wobble once as she approaches. The suit jacket tied at the middle looks ready to burst and the tight skirt looks mercilessly uncomfortable, and yet there is something that tells me she welcomes the discomfort the outfit causes, as if it reminds her there are others suffering more than her. Her hair has been chemically straightened and catches the overhead light as she approaches and extends her hand. I shake it, and there is a suitably efficient motion before her fingers begin dancing over the tablet screen resting on her left forearm.
‘Emma Hunter?’ she asks, eyes only rising from the screen for a moment to register my acknowledgement.
‘Yes,’ I say, still on edge.
‘I’m DS Meyers, but you can call me Robyn. I don’t know how much Rick has told you, but a nine-year-old girl has gone missing from the area and we’ve launched an immediate emergency response. She was last seen yesterday afternoon by her younger step-sister, and we believe that was around three. We are canvassing the area, looking for witnesses who may have seen where she went, whether she met up with anybody, and whether we can pinpoint a more exact time. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that our number-one priority is getting Jo-Jo home.’
Succinct, efficient, and pragmatic, DS Robyn Meyers, I can see, would be a vital cog in any investigative operation.
‘Jo-Jo isn’t the sort to run away, according to her parents, and they are well known in the local community. The SIO is treating the investigation as an abduction until we know more, which means Jo-Jo’s face has been circulated amongst all neighbouring forces, a social media campaign has been launched, and there will be a press conference before the end of the day. Jo-Jo had use of a mobile phone, but that was found at the family home. There is family living nearby, and we are working with them to pinpoint anywhere Jo-Jo might have gone had she chosen to run away.’
‘I’m happy to do whatever I can to help,’ I say, cringing at how lame it sounds; what can I do anyway?
‘Jo-Jo’s parents – Mr and Mrs Neville – are here at the station now and are bereft with worry. They specifically asked you to come in. Can I ask how you know the Neville family?’
My brow furrows at the mention of the name. ‘I don’t know them – at least, I don’t think I do.’
Robyn’s eyes narrow. ‘As soon as they arrived here today, they specifically requested you be brought in. Can you think of any reason why?’
My instinctive response is no, I have no clue as to why anyone would reach out to me in their hour of need, but then I think about the photograph of Faye McKenna that was sent to Maddie’s office and my heart sinks.
‘I’m a writer and investigative journalist,’ I concede, feeling the heat beginning to fire in my cheeks. ‘I’ve been able to help a couple of families to locate missing family members, and’—I pause, unable to believe I’m about to make such an arrogant-sounding statement—‘and I believe people now have this impression that I’m able to find missing children. I’ve been incredibly lucky with how events have played out in the last couple of years, and I wouldn’t presume to think that I can do anything more than the police.’
The words are getting twisted in my mouth when all I want to tell Robyn and Rick is that they are the experts and I’m merely an amateur armchair detective. Judging by Robyn’s blank expression, I’m guessing I’ve missed the mark.
‘You shouldn’t be so modest,’ Rick chimes in, but a cheerleader is the last thing I need to convince the FLO.
Robyn’s eyes are back on her tablet. ‘Regardless, the family have asked to meet with you, and it’s my job to work with them to garner as much information as possible. If you’d like to follow me…’ She turns effortlessly on those heels, clicks her fingers at the white-haired man behind the desk, and he buzzes the security door open again.
Following her through the door, with PCSO Rick close behind, it’s clear the makeover the entrance and reception area received didn’t extend further into the station. The corridors bear the same dreary grey paint I remember from childhood, and the carpet is, impossibly, even more threadbare than I remember.
I’m playing the name Neville over in my mind but I’m definitely sure I don’t know any family by that name so I can’t think of any other reason they would summon me here. I suppose desperate people do desperate things, and they’re willing to do anything to get their daughter back. Wouldn’t I do the same if I thought there was some quicker route to finding her?
We reach the end of the narrow corridor and Robyn punches a code into the panel on the wall before pushing open the door. The room is larger than I’m anticipating, roughly the size of my kitchen, with a round table in the centre, cupboards on the wall, and a kettle standing atop a small fridge unit in one of the corners.
A man and woman are slumped at the table, and when the woman raises her head, her eyes are red raw from crying. The skin hangs from her cheeks and her coloured hair is tied in a messy bun, but there are no roots showing. Her husband draws my eye next; he’s dressed in a navy gilet and Manchester United football shirt, and I can picture him knocking back pint after pint in the pub with his mates – the life and soul of the party – but the droop of his mouth and the tear-filled eyes tell me all I need to know.
‘Mr and Mrs Neville,’ Robyn begins, ‘this is Emma Hunter.’
The woman immediately releases her husband’s hand and is around the table before I can move. She throws her arms around my shoulders and I feel compelled to catch her.
‘Thank God you’re here,’ she says loudly into my ear. ‘You’ve got to help us find our poor Jo-Jo.’
‘I’m happy to do whatever I can,’ I offer meekly.
Robyn pulls out one of the chairs to sit on but nods for Rick to leave the room. He closes the door behind him, and Tina Neville finally releases me and reclaims her seat. I take the remaining vacant chair, sliding the satchel from my shoulder and resting it beside my feet.
‘I can’t believe it’s really you,’ Tina says next, once again picking up her husband’s hand and squeezing it tightly. ‘That Rick said you’d come but I didn’t want to believe it. Do you think you can help us find our Jo-Jo?’
I don’t know how to answer. I can see from the way they’re both trying to meet my stare that they have pinned all of their hopes on me performing some kind of miracle, but they really would be better placing their faith in the police officers who are already working the case. I don’t want to tell them that they’ve got the wrong idea about me because I know from personal experience how important it is for parents in their position to keep hope alive.
‘I’m sure the police are already doing everything they can,’ I try.
‘It must feel like history repeating itself for you though, right?’ she asks, and the question catches me on the back foot.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Well, your sister went missing when she was that age too, didn’t she? This all must be a bit weird for you.’
I’ve made no effort to hide details about my sister’s disappearance so I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that they’ve made such a connection.
‘What can you tell me about Jo-Jo?’ I ask in an effort to steer the conversation back to the present. ‘Did she know not to get into cars with strangers?’
Tina looks to her husband for reassurance.
I can only assume the picture he is clutching so firmly is Jo-Jo. She’s v
ery pretty, with chestnut-brown hair, presumably more akin to her father than to her mother’s bleached locks. In the picture she’s sitting on a neon-pink bicycle, proudly smiling and holding up a pair of stabilisers in her hands.
‘She’s a good girl, you know,’ he says, his voice less polished than his wife. ‘Kicked up a right fuss when me and her mum first got together, but things have been better these last six months. We’ve become a proper little unit, us and my Lola.’
‘Lola?’ I question.
‘Trey’s daughter from his first marriage,’ Tina clarifies. ‘Jo-Jo wasn’t happy when me and her dad got divorced last year, and she was a bit of trouble when we moved in with Trey, but things have improved a lot since then. Her grades have improved in school too. It actually felt like things were going our way for a change.’
There’s a knock at the door and Robyn stands to answer it, but I can’t see who’s there through the crack. She closes the door and leans over to whisper in my ear. ‘The SIO is outside and wants a word.’
Giving the Nevilles a reassuring smile, I stand and follow Robyn to the door. Stepping out into the corridor, my mouth drops when I see who’s called me outside.
‘The world really is too small a place,’ DI Zoe Cavendish says.
Chapter Thirteen
Then
Piddlehinton, Dorset
Joanna was shivering when she woke up. She ran trembling fingers over the small bumps lining the skin of her arms. It was only as she forced herself to sit up that she saw the plates of pasta and sauce on the table, and the grim realisation of her current dilemma hit directly behind her eyes. It hadn’t been a nightmare, and she really was still inside this bitterly cold caravan. She scratched the tickle at the back of her neck, realising she was still dressed in the black sequin dress Chez had found for her. She’d felt every part a model when she’d pulled it over her head, but now she realised she was nothing but a cheap imitation.