Discarded

by M. A. Hunter

  A sudden commotion on the other side of the security barrier has us studying the darkness for the source of the noise, but I’m not sure any of us are expecting to see the armed response unit returning so soon. There are scowls and angry rants as they remove their masks and discharge their weapons, clambering back into the van from where they emerged only minutes earlier. I can also see that the small crowd of residents at the muster point are being told they can return to their homes.

  Just what is going on? A false alarm? Or were they too late?

  Robin’s radio crackles and she moves away from Tina to receive the message. I can’t see Rick to ask for an update.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Neville,’ Robin says, returning to the group, ‘if you’d like to follow me, please? Miss Hunter, you too.’

  I don’t like the sharpness of her tone, but I don’t argue as she leads us to the barrier and shows her identification to the officer standing guard, who allows us entry. It feels as though we’re going against the tide as the stream of officers in their high-visibility vests heads in the opposite direction, down the hill we’re now climbing. I spot Rick, but his eyes don’t meet mine as he continues at a pace. An ambulance speeds past us, and when we eventually arrive at a single caravan at the far side of the site, the ambulance is already parked up and two paramedics are tending to somebody inside.

  Cavendish appears at the entrance of the caravan and surveys the four of us before stepping out and coming over to Robin, whispering something into her ear. Robin nods and takes the Nevilles over to the ambulance. I’m about to follow them when Cavendish places her hand on my forearm and leads me in the opposite direction.

  ‘Did you know?’ she says quietly.

  I frown. ‘I don’t follow.’

  She makes a show of cracking her knuckles. ‘I’m only going to ask you once more, and I’m only giving you the benefit of the doubt because Jack rates you highly.’ She pauses. ‘Did you know?’

  I’m still at a loss as to what she’s implying, but a troubled gasp from behind us has me turning to see Tina inside the ambulance with a pair of tiny arms wrapped around her shoulders.

  ‘Jo-Jo’s safe?’ I ask rhetorically.

  ‘Of course she is… But then she always was going to be, wasn’t she, Emma?’

  My confused gaze returns to her expectant eyes.

  ‘I’m really not following, Zoe. What are you saying?’

  She grunts, shaking her head slightly.

  ‘Let me paint you a picture, and stop me when any of this sounds familiar. An author with an element of notoriety has a new book hitting the shelves, and in her vain attempt to get it onto this or that bestseller list hatches upon a plan. A means of getting her name in the headlines once again. A missing child reunited with her terrified parents courtesy of said author’s expertise and diligence. It would sell one helluva lot of papers, and probably have that author’s book on everyone’s wish lists. But the only stumbling block is that having a child go missing isn’t something that can just be organised. Or is it…?’

  My mouth drops at the insinuation. ‘You’re kidding me, right?’ is the only retort I can manage. ‘You think I somehow arranged for Jo-Jo to be abducted to sell more books? You’re unbelievable!’

  ‘Am I? It isn’t so ridiculous when the parents of the missing child insist that the writer become involved in the hunt for the child.’

  ‘Listen, Zoe, I know you don’t like me, but to accuse me of something so sordid with no evidence is bang out of order.’

  She grunts mockingly. ‘No evidence? Okay, I’ll tell you what I do know, and then we’ll see what you have to say for yourself. The anonymous phone call that alerted us to the fact that Jo-Jo had been spotted in Bridport was traced back to an unregistered mobile phone. But triangulation tells us that the call was placed in Portland this afternoon. So, either our witness spotted Jo-Jo in Bridport but waited until he or she returned to the area before placing the call, or…’

  She deliberately leaves the sentence hanging.

  ‘You think I placed the call?’

  ‘Not necessarily you, no, and I certainly can’t prove that one way or another, but that isn’t the part that I find so strange. Less than an hour after the anonymous tip-off, a crowd gathers at the Portland police station where I happen to be briefing my team about the call. And what shows up next but a local news station van with cameras primed to roll. Somebody wanted the story to make the news.’

  I feel sick as I slowly play the theory around in my own mind. Something has felt off about this whole thing from the beginning, and I don’t like the ring of truth to what Cavendish is suggesting. It sounds so preposterous, and yet I find myself turning and looking at Tina and Trey and questioning everything they’ve said to me to this point.

  ‘It troubled me when I learned that Tina Neville had insisted on having you tag along on the investigation, and how disappointed she looked when I said I didn’t want you anywhere near the public appeal for information. I was surprised that you didn’t insist on being involved, but then when the FLO told me you and your ex-con friend Freddie Mitchell had arrived at the residence, I figured you were playing the long game.’

  I pivot round as my anger reaches boiling point, but she holds up her hand before I can speak. She isn’t finished yet.

  ‘Imagine my surprise when a check of family holdings revealed that Tina’s ex-husband owns a caravan in Bridport. Well, he doesn’t own it exclusively – it’s in his sister’s name – but he is listed on the servicing contract here at the campsite. And when we arrive, who do we find inside with little Jo-Jo but Tina Neville’s former sister-in-law. And little Jo-Jo? She’s perfectly well and eating spaghetti on toast.’

  ‘I swear on my life, I had no idea about any of this,’ I say earnestly, though I get the impression she doesn’t believe me.

  She holds her hands up. ‘Well, I gave you the courtesy for Jack’s sake. I swear to you, though, Emma, if I find any reason to doubt the truth of your answer, I will drag your name through the mud until I get to the truth.’

  She moves to walk away but it’s my turn to reach for her arm. ‘I don’t know what I ever did to offend you, but I’m going to repeat the statement to remove any ambiguity between us: I had nothing to do with any of this! How you could think that I’d be so willing to go along with any scheme which might threaten the welfare of a child is beyond me. For Jack’s sake, I’ll do you the courtesy of not raising a complaint with your superior officer, Zoe. Your attitude towards me on the Aurélie Lebrun case and now stinks, but despite that, I respect you for the way you have recovered Jo-Jo unharmed.’

  She moves away without further comment. I doubt there’s anything I could say or do to mend the bridge between us.

  I watch as she next approaches Tina and Trey, and their reactions to whatever she says paint a picture of how involved they may or may not be. Whilst Tina throws her arms up in apparent anger and unleashes a verbal assault at Cavendish, Trey looks like a broken man. His head dips with the realisation that the wife he has trusted with his own daughter’s care could be capable of such scheming.

  Beyond them, Jo-Jo laughs happily with the paramedics who are checking for any injury or trauma, oblivious to what is unfolding outside of the ambulance. I feel sick to my stomach at the prospect that at least one of her guardians could treat her safety with such disdain. And for what purpose? Fame? Is the cost really worth it?

  It reminds me of a case up in Yorkshire where the mum was going to leave her abusive partner but lost the bottle, and then concocted a story about her daughter going missing. I remember the controversy that followed in the trial. I hate that my recent brush with fame could have encouraged someone to repeat the mistake.

  Did Tina and her former sister-in-law fabricate the story about Jo-Jo wandering off so that I’d make them the subject of my next book? If their motive was money and five minutes of fame, the cost is likely to be jail time now.

  I can’t look at either of them any longer and begin
the slow descent down the hill, with my own indirect involvement weighing heavy on my mind.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Now

  Weymouth, Dorset

  Monday mornings are made for gallons of coffee, and hoping for the best outcome to all endeavours in the forthcoming week. At least, I think I read that in someone’s motivational tweets once. And then I think back to Jack and the suitcase discovered at Pendark, and the urge to pull the duvet back over my head and remain where I am grows. He’s not messaged to say the DNA comparison has been completed, but I’m reluctant to chase him for the news I’m dreading. Until he tells me otherwise, I can cling to the hope that those weren’t Anna’s remains we found.

  Pushing the bedding from me with a groan, I am annoyed at my own inability just to relax and take a duvet day. Instead, I sit up, rub the remaining sleep from my eyes, and head to the shower. I feel more alive when I step out and brush my teeth, before combing my hair and tying it into a messy ponytail that will keep it out of my way.

  The black and white image of Faye McKenna stares up at me from the kitchen table where I left it after my meeting with Maddie at the restaurant. Her hair is much longer in the photograph than the image I found of her aged twelve on the missingpeople.org site. It’s only just occurred to me how much older she looks in the photograph on my table. Lifting and moving it closer to my eyes, I inspect the image for any other differences. Her hair was tied in bunches in the picture on the site, whereas it is hanging looser here; gone are the square-shaped prescription glasses, and even her teeth look less crooked. The essence of her is the same, but I would estimate the picture I’ve been sent is Faye at least two, if not three, years older than when she disappeared in November 1998.

  My pulse quickens as my mind reaches the only possible conclusion: whoever sent this picture knew Faye years after she disappeared. That could mean it has been sent by one of the kidnappers (though that feels unlikely); by another victim being held by the same people (assuming a ring is involved, like the one Jack is hunting); or by Faye herself. Who’s to say she didn’t escape her captors and continue her life under an assumed identity? If she was twelve in 1998 that would make her thirty-four now.

  The information I managed to dig up about her disappearance was limited – last seen waiting for a bus home from secondary school, a bus she didn’t catch – but this photograph emerging could be something tangible for the police to follow up. Loading up the site again, I search for the name of the force overseeing her case, and am directed to a phone number for Greater Manchester police.

  Dialling the number, I am connected with a generic answerphone advising me to phone 999 if I have an emergency, or to leave a message if my query relates to anything else and they will arrange for someone to call me back. I leave my name and number, and explain I have information relating to Faye McKenna.

  No sooner have I hung up than I’m hurrying to the knocking at my door. Rick stands there smiling in the same clothes as last night, and looks more handsome than I remember.

  ‘Morning,’ he says jovially. ‘I was about to grab some breakfast before heading home, and wondered if you fancied coming for a cup of tea and a muffin?’

  We didn’t speak much when he dropped me home last night. Although Cavendish had told him he wasn’t required at the station, he told me he was keen to return and lend a hand regardless.

  ‘Or we could get coffee and a waffle, if muffins aren’t your thing,’ he adds, maybe sensing my reluctance. ‘Please don’t make me beg,’ he says, that friendly smile breaking through, a small dimple forming in his cheek. ‘I’m not one for big scenes, but if getting on my knees is what it’s going to take…’

  I stop him as he starts to bend and stoop. ‘Okay, okay, I’ll get a drink and some breakfast with you,’ I say, grabbing my purse, phone, and keys from the side table and pulling the door closed.

  We walk into the town centre and conversation is stilted, neither of us really knowing what to say that avoids the topic of Jo-Jo; he’s not at liberty to discuss the case with me, and I don’t want to put him in an awkward position by asking.

  ‘You weren’t really going to get down on your hands and knees, were you?’ I ask.

  His cheeks redden a fraction. ‘To be honest, it wouldn’t have been the first time I begged a girl to go on a date with me.’

  I frown cynically. He’s tall, handsome, and confident; I find it hard to believe he’s ever had difficulty picking up women.

  ‘I was a late bloomer,’ he confides. ‘At sixteen, I was still carrying baby weight, had a mouth full of metal, and acne that could be used as Braille. At my secondary school, the girls outnumbered the boys, so there wasn’t an option to go stag at our senior prom. I was seventeen and desperate, and I ended up begging Veronica Gibson-Dahl to be my date. She was just grateful to have been asked by anyone.

  ‘And then it was like I woke on my nineteenth birthday and had grown a foot overnight, slimmed down, and the face is pretty much as you see it today. After four lean years of no relationships, things started to improve. I imagine you’ve not been short of admirers down the years either, especially since your books’ success.’

  If only he knew just how far back my lean spell stretched! I’m not about to share any of that though.

  We arrive at a café where I actually wrote part of Monsters, and when Rick suggests we stop here, I’m more than happy with the suggestion.

  ‘Did you always want to write?’ he asks when we’ve ordered and are seated near the counter.

  ‘I used to write a lot of stories as a child. Back before… before my sister went missing, we used to sit in the garden making up stories and telling them to each other. When she disappeared, it felt easier getting lost in those stories and the world I could create in my imagination where such evil didn’t exist. It probably sounds lame to say it, but I think those stories are what got me through my formative years. My parents would argue a lot, and sometimes it was just easier burying my head in a book or scribbling down ideas than actually confronting them. I don’t think I necessarily considered just how tough it was for them too – tougher probably, because they’d lost a child.’

  I’m grateful when the coffee arrives, and am suddenly conscious that I’ve shared far more than I’d intended. I don’t know why but it just felt so natural to tell him.

  ‘Mum is so thrilled with her signed copy of the book, but she’s now requested I buy a second copy of it for her to read so that she can keep the signed edition in pristine condition.’

  ‘Oh, that really isn’t necessary. My scrawled name on the book doesn’t add any value—’

  ‘On the contrary, she’s already put it in pride of place on the mantelpiece; she even moved one of my old chess trophies to make space for it.’

  I raise my eyebrows. ‘Chess trophy?’

  He blushes. ‘Yep, I probably should have warned you: I was a bit of a nerd at school. Head of the chess club. I represented my school at several national tournaments.’

  I decide not to tell him about my own brushes with a chess club. ‘I probably have an old proof copy lying about the house if she’s just looking to read the text and isn’t worried about keeping it.’

  ‘Thanks, but she’d never forgive me if she thought you weren’t getting paid your royalties. I’m a fan of your writing, but she’s like a super fan! I think your stories help her forget about the MS.’

  I bite my lip, unable to resist the urge to please. ‘Tell me if I’m overstepping, but what if I came by to visit your mum at some point? I could sign her other books at the same time, and thank her for such loyal support.’

  Rick’s eyes are practically on stalks. ‘Really? I mean, she’d be blown away by that. You wouldn’t mind?’

  ‘It would be my honour.’

  ‘Then I’m going to hold you to that then. Thanks, Emma, that’s very kind. You’ll have to give me a couple of days to make sure the place is spick and span, but that will be amazing.’

  My phone is
ringing, and as I look at the screen I see Maddie’s name. ‘Do you mind if I take this? It’s my agent.’

  Rick shakes his head as he tucks in to the blueberry muffin that has just been delivered to our table.

  ‘Hi Maddie, everything okay?’ I ask, as I move away from the table.

  ‘There’s another large envelope here for you. Just like last time. Your name on the envelope, care of this office. I’m sure the envelope is a match to the one that came last week. Do you want me to open it?’

  I gulp, but curiosity gets the better of me. ‘Sure.’

  Maddie lowers the phone and then I hear her ripping into the envelope. ‘It’s a picture of a lad this time. Curly hair and freckles. I’ll take a picture of it and email across again.’

  ‘You think he’s a local lad?’ Rick asks, as he walks me back to my flat.

  ‘The other picture wasn’t of a local girl.’

  ‘Other picture?’

  I fill him in on the photograph of Faye McKenna, but omit the answerphone message I left with Greater Manchester Police.

  ‘Who do you think is sending you these pictures?’ he asks as we reach my front door.

  ‘I… I’m not sure,’ I reply honestly. ‘One of the online articles made reference to Faye’s mum, so I automatically assumed it was from her.’

  ‘First rule of policing: assume nothing.’

  I know he’s right, and I will my cheeks not to burn with the embarrassment I’m feeling. ‘Okay, smarty-pants,’ I retort, ‘who do you think sent the photographs?’

  He opens his mouth to speak, before thinking better of it. ‘Can I see the picture of the girl?’

  I invite him inside and take him to the image still resting on top of the kitchen table.

  He stoops over it, studying every pixel. ‘Can you flip it over for me?’ he asks, tucking his hands beneath his armpits, keen to avoid touching the picture.