Finding Grace

by K. L. Slater

  He did go on and on at me, though, in support of Grace’s obsession with walking home alone. I told him I thought she was still too young, and he dismissed my concerns.

  Mike effectively did his bit watching Grace leave, but Blake put checking his phone before his daughter’s safety. Then he slipped on the path he’d failed to maintain because of his councillor duties and twisted his ankle so badly he couldn’t get up for those fateful few minutes.

  Unwelcome possibilities thunder through my mind.

  So many times I’ve heard how the missing child’s father is the first suspect in cases like this, and that’s exactly what the detectives must be thinking now.

  I stare at my husband, sitting there with his head in his hands. I’m certain he loves Grace every bit as much as I do. I just think he just worries less, believes she needs a little more leeway than I’m sometimes prepared to give her.

  There are plenty of us can see right through the facade…

  Damn Barbara Charterhouse and her vicious words that seem to have opened up a crevice of doubt in my mind.

  My husband has no facade; what you see is what you get, and Blake would never do anything that might hurt our daughter. I believe that with every fibre of my being.

  I open my mouth to tell the detectives that he didn’t push for Grace to walk home alone, that he wasn’t negligent in monitoring her progress back to the house.

  ‘Blake, I wonder if it might be better if we continue our conversation down at the station,’ DI Pearlman suggests, breaking into my thoughts. He raises his hands to show he means no harm. ‘Nothing formal, nothing to worry about. Just that being away from the house might give you the space to—’

  ‘You seriously think I’ve got something to do with my own daughter going missing?’ Blake stands up, runs his fingers through his hair.

  ‘Not at all, Blake. That’s not—’

  ‘The press are out there, and I’m the local councillor. What do you think people are going to say if you take me off in a marked police car?’

  For a second, I detest him. That he could think about his image at a time like this is beyond belief… but then he redeems himself.

  ‘I’m dying inside that Grace is missing. And who do you think I blame? Me. Of course I blame myself, for failing to watch her home safely.’ His eyes fill and tears career down his face. He doesn’t look at me. ‘My wife has had the good grace not to blame me, but it must have occurred to her that I allowed this to happen.’

  ‘Blake…’ I feel shamed by my secret thoughts about his phone obsession, the neglected path.

  ‘It’s only natural you would, Luce. I’m a fucking idiot. I should’ve realised, I should have…’

  He squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his hands into fists as he tries to conquer his emotions. I’ve seen him do it before, when his grandfather died.

  ‘Calm down, Blake. Sit down for a moment, please.’ DS Paige’s friendly tone has gained a bit of an edge. I can understand it: Blake is six foot two; the detectives won’t want him losing it. ‘If you’d prefer not to go down to the station at this stage, that’s fine. We can carry on with our interview here. But I will have to ask you some difficult questions. Try and think of it as part of the process of finding your daughter.’

  The more I think about this, the more obvious it is that they must suspect Blake had something to do with Grace going missing. It’s ludicrous.

  ‘I’d prefer to stay here.’ Blake blows air out of his mouth, seems to pull himself together and sits down again.

  ‘Right then, sir, time to press on.’ It’s sir now, not Blake. Is it my imagination, or has DI Pearlman assumed a slightly more formal manner? ‘Let’s start with you telling us exactly where you went and who you saw during the two hours your wife took her nap earlier today.’

  There are three pairs of eyes on my husband’s face as his cheeks fire up like someone lit a furnace beneath his skin. It’s always been a physical reaction of his when he feels threatened or challenged in any way.

  He meets my gaze and I wait for something – an unspoken message, a feeling – to relay between us, like sometimes happens when we’re in tune.

  But there is nothing, and his eyes look empty, cold even. It feels as though an invisible barrier has been erected between us.

  Then, unexpectedly, he stands up, dusts down his already spotless jeans and gives one of his nervous sniffs. He keeps his eyes trained on DI Pearlman, who looks a little taken aback at his action.

  ‘You know, I think it might be best if I come to the station after all,’ he says.

  Fourteen

  I shuffle forward to get up out of my seat, but Blake puts a hand up.

  ‘No need for you to come, Luce.’

  ‘But what about Oscar? I’ll have to fetch him from Dad’s and—’

  ‘Stay here, Lucie,’ he says firmly. ‘Someone needs to be here for news about Grace. Just give your dad a call to explain what’s happened. I can pick the baby up later.’

  The two detectives stand up.

  ‘But… why are you going with them? Why are you… can’t you just talk here?’ My words have ragged, unfinished edges. This change in his attitude doesn’t make any sense, and I don’t know what it’s about. ‘You said yourself the rumours will start flying if you leave in the police car.’

  ‘I’ve changed my mind, and what does any of it matter really? If it helps find Grace, then it’s better this way. You’re so stressed, and it might keep the newspaper hacks away from the house if nothing else.’

  I doubt that very much. The small gathering outside the gate I can see from the window seems to swell every minute Grace remains missing. They’re like jackals, waiting to sense an increased weakness in their prey.

  ‘DS Fiona Bean is going to stay here with you, Lucie,’ DI Pearlman says hurriedly. He seems suddenly very keen to take Blake up on his offer. ‘Fiona is your designated family liaison officer; she’s here to answer any questions you might have about the police process and to support you through it.’

  I’ve seen these officers on plenty of TV crime dramas. They’re put in place to help with the parents’ inevitable breakdown when the missing child is tragically found. They also watch and listen for any clues as to wrongdoing in the family.

  My hand flies up to the hot wetness spilling on to my cheek. Blake rushes over.

  ‘Come on, Luce. It’ll be OK, I promise you. Grace will be back soon. There’ll be some crazy explanation and—’

  ‘You don’t know that.’ I push him gently away. ‘Nobody knows where the hell she is.’

  He tries to pull me close, but my body is rigid with the tension that’s also keeping me upright. If I relax my muscles, I fear I’ll just collapse in on myself.

  ‘Hopefully he won’t be with us very long, Lucie,’ DS Paige says.

  I don’t say anything, but the word hopefully only serves to make me feel worse.

  I stand by the window as they leave, watching the camera flashes as Blake reaches the gate. He stops to speak to the press as they drive forward en masse to swarm around him, greedily seeking the smallest nugget of information to base an article on.

  DS Bean hovers around my elbow.

  ‘Would you like a cup of—’

  ‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘No more tea, thanks.’

  ‘Sorry.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘They teach us to constantly offer, you know. Tea often helps.’

  ‘I know. Usually I’d bite your hand off, but everything…’

  ‘Yes. People have described it as an awful new reality, everything turned upside down, inside out.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say vaguely. That’s exactly how it feels.’

  ‘I’ve just had confirmation they’ve increased the number of officers on the street. They’re carrying out comprehensive door-to-door inquiries and asking people’s permission to search their back gardens. The local community are providing added manpower. You have some pretty supportive neighbours.’

  I nod. ‘People are genera
lly good around here when help is needed. But what if…’ I falter. Stop myself.

  ‘You can ask me anything,’ Fiona says gently. ‘That’s what I’m here for, Mrs Sullivan.’

  ‘What if Grace isn’t around here any more? What if she’s miles away? Someone may have taken her away in a car and then everything that’s being done out there is completely useless.’

  She presses her lips together. ‘Measures are in place for every eventuality.’

  I frown, wanting more.

  ‘We’ve put out a national alert and we’re in the process of informing ports and airports. You can rest assured, everything has been considered. But can I make a suggestion?’

  I look at her. She’s a no-nonsense woman, short brown hair, no make-up, tiny silver ear studs and determined mid-brown eyes. She’s probably a realist; deals with facts and nothing else.

  I nod. ‘Please do.’

  ‘Don’t let yourself dwell on that stuff. It will screw you up so fast, you won’t even realise it’s happening until you’re on the floor. Take each step at a time. For now, we’ve no reason to believe Grace is anywhere but local. My advice is, don’t let yourself slide into the abyss, love. Not yet.’

  A young, uniformed officer coughs in the doorway.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt. We need to take Grace’s hairbrush and toothbrush, is that OK?’

  I nod. I don’t need to ask what for. They’ll need Grace’s DNA on record for if they find a body and…

  Fiona places her hand gently on my shoulder.

  I suddenly feel a real need to escape other people’s eyes; even her’s.

  ‘DS Bean, I think I might go for a lie-down upstairs, if you don’t need me for half an hour or so.’

  ‘That’s a good idea; you must be exhausted. And it’s Fiona, by the way, Fi, if you’d prefer. I don’t mind, to be honest. I’ll answer to anything.’

  ‘And you can call me Lucie,’ I say as I go to the door. ‘Promise you’ll disturb me, though, if anything at all…’

  ‘Goes without saying. You’ll be the first to know if I hear the slightest thing.’

  As I climb the stairs, I hear Fiona return to the kitchen and close the door behind her. She’s obviously making a call, as after a moment or two, I hear her speak. She’s probably reporting my mental state to her superior. I feel like her eyes are on me every second I’m in her sight: evaluating, trying to garner any clues I might have tried to hide.

  I climb steadily, taking a breath in and out again with each step.

  The sheer walls of the stairs rise up on either side of me, confining and claustrophobic. They are dotted with framed photographs of the children, of me and Blake. I don’t look at them. I focus on moving towards the window on the landing that gives a partial view of the bottom of Violet Road.

  From here I can see the rear corner of the roof of Bev and Mike’s house. Grace was in there a couple of hours ago, safe and sound. If one of us had gone to collect her, she’d be home with us now.

  The door to her bedroom is slightly ajar. The police searched in here earlier, looking for her as if she might be playing some silly game of hide-and-seek. They’ll have opened drawers and her wardrobe, looking for evidence that she’d perhaps packed a bag, executing a plan to run away from home. They’ll have found nothing of the sort. Like I told them from the off, Grace is not hiding and she hasn’t run away.

  I push the door open fully and step inside. It’s been a fairly bright day outside today, but of course, now it’s starting to get dark. So there’s no sunlight flooding in through her window to bathe me in a sense of hope.

  The police have been sensitive in their search, I can see that. No drawers left pulled out, nor possessions strewn around the floor. Still, I can instantly see the order has been disturbed.

  Her dressed Spanish dolls on top of the chest of drawers are no longer equidistant from each other, as Grace prefers to display them. The stacked annuals at the side of her bed have been disturbed. The army of soft toys that sit on her windowsill are higgledy-piggledy, falling into each other’s laps.

  I look around, trying to see the room from a stranger’s point of view. This is the bedroom of a child who is well looked after and loved. The Little Mix posters on the wall, the CD player and collection of pop music CDs show her love of music. The essence of Grace is here, and yet something is missing.

  I’m so desperate for a sense of her, but it feels barren in here, devoid of Grace’s tinkling laughter and indomitable spirit.

  In my own bedroom, with the door closed, the silence echoes in my ears.

  The only time the house is this quiet is when Grace is out, and that’s not very often. Noise accompanies her when she is here: she sings, watches television, listens to music and sometimes plays games on my iPad.

  I stand behind the curtain to watch the growing group of people outside. I recognise a few locals, some of whom are talking to the press.

  I turn away and lie down on the bed. My body feels taut and bruised, tender wherever my clothes touch it. I take a few deep breaths in and blow long, extended breaths out, but it doesn’t seem to change anything.

  If wishing hard could turn back time, I’d be transported back to this morning, when Grace sat on the edge of this very bed with her bowl of cereal. I keep constantly wishing – willing – for the chance to make different decisions and of course it doesn’t work. I should’ve learned by now.

  In this life, we’re all encouraged to support other people. We tell them they deserve another chance if they make a mess of things. It only seems fair, and yet when life itself deals a blow, it often has unchangeable consequences.

  This morning, my daughter sat right here, munching her breakfast, too excited to finish it. Now she is missing.

  So far, nobody seems to know anything. Violet Road is not the busiest street, but it is lined with houses.

  Surely someone saw something?

  My mind is constantly searching for a reason this has happened to us. Surely the stuff of nightmares always happens to someone else, on the TV?

  I really, really need a reason. I simply can’t accept that it’s arbitrary, that some random child disappears off the face of the earth, and it happens to be my daughter.

  I need to put a frame around it, give it some kind of context.

  An uncomfortable ache starts up in my solar plexus. It’s the place I often feel the first rumblings of anxiety when something is wrong.

  I will it to go away, but there’s no chance of that.

  I wiggle my jaw from side to side when I realise I’ve clamped down so hard on my back teeth it’s making my headache even worse. But I have a reoccurring thought rattling around my head that I can’t get rid of.

  I think this might be my fault.

  I’ve tried to be a good person all my life. I made one mistake, many years ago, but it wasn’t my fault. Truly, I would never wish to harm another person.

  Sometimes people find themselves in impossible situations. Sometimes you have to decide in a split second whether to do the right thing and go under, or fight to survive.

  That’s what I did. I made a decision to survive.

  The ache in my belly grows stronger still.

  What happens to the bad things people have done? Does that negative energy just dissipate, never to be seen again, or does it rack up and follow you around until you’re forced to face it?

  I’ve spent the last sixteen years refusing to acknowledge what happened when I was younger, but I’ve always known it’s still there, lurking in the ether. Waiting to make a comeback.

  Living my life in the shadows seems to have worked so far. Until now.

  Now, I can’t help wondering if the moment has finally arrived. Has some greater power finally decided that the price I must pay, is losing my daughter… my entire world?

  Fifteen

  There’s no way I’m going to be able to rest up here. I honestly doubt I will sleep again until we get Grace back. Until we get her back, not if. The word ‘if�
�� leads to madness; I instinctively know that and refuse to even think it.

  I run through the detectives’ questions again in my mind. The way Blake seemed adamant he didn’t want to go to the station and then appeared to do a 360-degree turn and asked them to take him in.

  At first I felt annoyed he seemed to be more concerned with his professional image and the perception of the local community and press. But now I remind myself just how much he – and we as a family – has sacrificed to build his successful political career. He’s making a fantastic success of being a councillor and attracting the attention of all the right people.

  ‘I’m just a step away from going to Westminster, Luce. I can feel it here,’ he’s said more than once, tapping his chest. ‘If I can pull it off, it will transform our lives.’

  Anyone who reads newspapers or takes a passing interest in the popular news sites online will know how the slightest seed of doubt or whiff of scandal can ruin a career, regardless of actual guilt being proven.

  This was the reason Blake was reluctant to go to the police station. I shared his trepidation that pictures of him being led out of our house to a marked police car would instantly be splashed all over the local newspapers and online. No doubt to be snapped up by the nationals within the hour. So to hear him volunteering to go in made no sense to me at all.

  Blake is one of the most moral, principled people I know and I trust him implicitly. Why, then, is this worm of suspicion burrowing into my imagination? What could Blake possibly need to talk to the police about that he can’t say in front of me?

  His assertion that it was to keep the focus off me and away from the house didn’t really wash. Anyway, the press haven’t followed him to the police station; they’re all still out there, watching the house like vultures.

  I close my eyes and try to relax, naming each part of my body as I learned to do in the days when I still attended yoga classes. I might not be able to sleep, but if only I can ease the physical pain I feel in every single inch of my flesh, I’ll be able to think more clearly. I can’t – and won’t – stay stuck in the house waiting passively for them to bring me news. Grace is out there somewhere. The thought both tortures me, because I’m lying here doing nothing to find her, and comforts me, because while she’s out there and hasn’t turned up injured or worse, she may still be safely found.