Reported Missing: A gripping psychological thriller with a breath-taking twist Page 10

  I can’t see any signs of anything having been done. It’s full of clutter. Boxes from London that we haven’t even unpacked yet. It makes me feel sick to be surrounded by all this unused stuff. The money spent on it; the wasted time and effort buying it, carrying it from one place to another. But I couldn’t persuade Chris to part with a lot of it. He said it had sentimental value, ‘might come in handy one day’. And, of course, I can’t get rid of it now.

  It’s dusty and I can only stand up halfway in most places because of the low ceiling slopes. There are cobwebs hanging in the corners in some places already. We’ve only had the house since last summer. You wouldn’t expect it to age; the scum and detritus to accumulate so quickly. Boxes full of random crockery that we’ve long since replaced with new, matching stuff. But most of it was Mum and Dad’s – what’s left of the blue, floral set they got for their wedding present. We only used to use it at Christmas and birthdays when we were young. I’ll never use it again but I can’t bring myself to throw it out.

  There’s a box with a projector in too – all this stuff I’ve forgotten about already. We got it at a junk shop in London. Chris bought it, an old cine film projector and some old Super 8 films, unlabelled. We joked about having probably found someone’s home-made porn stash or a snuff film.

  One was a home movie; a chubby baby in a knitted blue cardigan and a nappy, a woman supporting him in case he fell, her body cut off by the camera from the knees up. The faded colours and clothing style make it look like the 1970s, like old pictures of Dad and me in the paddling pool in the yard, or out on day trips. It took Chris ages to get the projector all set up, and we sat with wine and crisps in the dark in the unfurnished back bedroom. But the film only played for a few seconds before bubbles started appearing, then a big black burn as if someone put a cigarette through the film. It spun faster on the projector, like a broken bike chain, and eventually the screen was completely black, the film destroyed. We tried a second one too – at an air-show, the old-fashioned planes flying in formation, the camera pointing at the sky on a bright sunny day. But again, the film burned up quickly. I thought of planes exploding and falling out of the sky.

  I try to remember where the photos are, the ones Simon asked me to bring for Mum. There’s a chest of cheap drawers that we had couriered from London for no good reason other than we were bringing loads of other stuff and we couldn’t be bothered to deal with it at the time.

  I check the bottom drawer, shunting and yanking it to get it to glide along the runners, sticking due to all the stuff rammed inside. There are Chris’s old drawing books – the charcoal has smudged so much, though, that it blurs the pictures. I told him to hairspray them. Most are from the life-drawing class. I find pictures of nudes quite ugly but he said they were fun to draw – the shapes, light and shade. Even the idea of this makes me cringe now; I question the motive.

  I always wished I could draw like Chris; have a talent like that. When I tried to draw, people’s hands and legs would always look withered, everything out of proportion. Chris would say you have to look again, draw what you actually see, not what you think you can see. The mind can play tricks. It fills in the blanks.

  There’s a coloured picture poking out so I take a better look and see it’s of the beach here in Shawmouth, done in coloured pencils – windsurfers can be seen in the distance. The sparseness of the picture, the smallness of the boats and surfers, gives it a sadness somehow. It has more of a childlike quality than his usual stuff, but maybe it’s just because of the soft colours.

  I consider taking the picture back to the caravan, maybe framing it, putting it up. But what am I even thinking? Am I trying to torture myself? As if I could bear to look at it.

  In the top drawer, among old birthday cards, CDs for long-discarded computers and old notebooks, I find the photo album. The corners are bashed, some of the protective film over the white-framed photos is missing, but most of them are still held in place by the corners. Pictures of Mum on the beach, bleached-out colour, a red halter-neck swimsuit. I can’t imagine her like that, in that life. There’s Mum and Dad’s wedding picture too, Mum’s dress high-necked, long-sleeved, simple lace. A small flower crown on the top of her head, a chiffon veil spilling over her shoulders. Dad in a sturdy-looking dark suit, a matching flower in the lapel. I put the album into my rucksack. There’s one box near the loft opening that isn’t sealed at the top like the others. I know what’s in it.

  I asked Dan to put the box here when I moved to the caravan, after he and Jeannie cleared the glass up from the brick, got the window fixed. I’m surprised she didn’t just tell him to sling it out. I can picture it now, him asking her if she’s sure he should chuck it out. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, just stick it up in the loft, Dan!’ she’ll have said, exasperated. I take a deep breath. I was hysterical then, in a black hole. But I am stronger now, aren’t I?

  I look inside – the newspapers look older now already, like artefacts from another decade, a different life. Curled edges, faded print. But it’s just a few months. I tip the box out, starting to feel hot and dizzy straight away as I remember the early weeks of confusion, panic, sickness. The feelings haven’t gone away. It’s less sharp but the pain runs deeper, to the bone now. Looking at the papers, the articles flood in all at once. I can almost remember them word for word.

  14-year-old Shawmouth girl missing

  Concerns grow for Shawmouth teenager: missing 3 days

  Fears grow over missing teenager and Shawmouth man

  Kayleigh Jackson still missing: not seen for 14 days

  I pick one up to read

  Police hunt for missing man and 14-year-old girl who went missing on same day

  Police are still looking for information relating to the disappearance of Shawmouth 14-year-old Kayleigh Jackson, who has not been seen since 17 July. Kayleigh left her family home at 8.30 p.m. to meet friends locally but did not arrive. She has not been seen since.

  Police are also looking for a local man, 37-year-old Chris Harding, who is understood to have gone missing on the same day from his home in the seaside town, which he shares with his wife.

  Police declined to comment on whether the two cases are connected, saying in a statement: ‘It’s important to be clear that police remain open to all lines of enquiry.’

  Did I expect the information to change? The answer to leap out at me?

  I try to push them out of my line of sight but my eye is drawn to the pictures in the article, as if magnetically. Kayleigh in her school uniform. No make-up in this one. She looks even younger. And then a smaller one of Chris – another of the photos they have in rotation. It looks like it’s been taken on a night out, other people cropped out. Was I there that night, I try to remember? Eventually I have to prise my gaze away because it’s burning the image of them, Chris and Kayleigh, together into my mind.

  Eleven

  Tuesday, 10 November

  I sit on the bench opposite the school, a blue railing separating me from the disused train track behind, flanked by thick undergrowth, dense with rubbish thrown over, knotted into the undergrowth now. I stuff my hands down in my pockets and jiggle my feet to try to keep warm.

  First one or two, then a small group, swelling into a shoal of blazer-clad boys and girls, spilling out of the school. The gates create a temporary bottleneck, encouraging pushing, shouting, jostling. No teachers to be seen. I don’t know what made me come here. Talking to Ellen, maybe the newspaper articles. I knew I was coming though. I went to the caravan after being at the house, put my hair up in a bun, dressed in a vaguely smart outfit – black trousers and a slightly bobbly pink V-neck jumper from the bedroom. All my clothes are just piled on the bed. I smudged chalky concealer to cover my dark circles and scribbled a sheer lip colour across my cheeks and mouth.

  Kayleigh’s friends are one of the only links I have to try to get some answers. I’ve talked to all Chris’s friends, here and in London; I can tell they don’t want to hear from me anymore. Espec
ially not after all this time – they want to get on with their lives, distance themselves from all this. I’ve been into the betting shops – there’s nothing to tell. Some of them vaguely remember Chris coming in ‘once or twice’; most just shrugged. Detective Fisher won’t tell me anything. I can’t very well go round to Janice’s house again. I wince, picturing her flying at me, hands in a claw shape, nails first. I can’t blame her.

  I’ve thought about it for a long time, held off. But I’m afraid I’m becoming more numb now. And I can’t let that happen. Trying to get closer to Kayleigh is the only option I have left.

  None of the school kids are paying me any attention. Perhaps they think I’m an embarrassing overprotective mother. I’m looking for a sign among the sea of young faces.

  Two girls come towards me; they look about the right age. They’re walking along but engrossed in the phone one of them is holding, laughing and pointing at the screen. The phone is covered in sickly-coloured, stick-on plastic jewels. I think of the rainbow drops sweets I used to eat when I was younger. The girl holding the phone has leftover red varnish in the centre of her nails, chipped off round the edges.

  I stand up, clear my throat. ‘Excuse me. Girls. Could I have a quick chat with you?’

  They stop and look up from the phone – the muffled sound from a video they must have been playing is still crackling out from it. One of them looks me up and down.

  ‘I’m a reporter from the Courier. It’s about Kayleigh Jackson. We’re covering the case, you know, since they announced the vigil.’

  They look at each other.

  ‘So, did you know Kayleigh?’

  ‘Yeah, course we knew her,’ one of the girls says. She is wearing teeth braces.

  ‘So, like I say, we want to make sure Kayleigh’s story stays in the public eye.’ I hate myself for that last bit.

  ‘She’s in the year above. But, yeah, we know her,’ says the smaller friend, reaching up to split her high blonde ponytail and pull it tighter against her head.

  The girl with the braces nudges her, hissing, ‘Remember what Mrs Whittaker said about talking to people?’

  But she shrugs her off. ‘I want to be a journalist when I get older,’ says the blonde one. ‘Not round here, of course. Down London or Manchester or something. I wanna work on like Heat or for a proper newspaper or something. Miss says she’s gonna try and get me some work experience.’

  ‘Sounds good. I’m sure you’ll be good at it.’ It’s a chance to get them onside. I hold myself back from offering to put in a good word for her.

  ‘Don’t you need a notebook or a recorder or something? Or you recording it with your phone?’

  ‘Er... when you’ve been doing it as long as I have you get a pretty good memory. And, yeah, I’ve got my phone to record stuff if I need to.’

  ‘Cool. So what did you study and that?’

  I change the subject. ‘What are your names, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘I’m Abbie,’ says the blonde one, stretching her ponytail again. ‘This is Jess.’

  ‘OK, great. Let’s talk a bit about Kayleigh for now, if you don’t mind?’

  ‘If you say so,’ says the one with the braces, checking her phone.

  ‘So can you tell me what she’s like, Kayleigh?’

  ‘She’s pretty,’ says the blonde one. ‘Everyone fancies her. All the lads. Lucky cow.’

  ‘Mm-hmmm. And have you talked to her or...?’

  ‘Only a bit. She gets on my bus. Well she did. She seems nice. She ain’t a bitch like some of them she hangs about with.’

  ‘And – what are people at school saying about her disappearance?’

  ‘Hang on, Abs. Hey, are you gonna put our names in this like? Miss will have a fit. You know what she said,’ Jess says to Abbie.

  ‘No, no, nothing like that. It can all be anonymous. No problem. So what are people saying about Kayleigh’s disappearance, off the record?’

  ‘Well…’ says Abbie, looking at her friend for reassurance. ‘I heard that it weren’t the first time she’d gone missing. That there were a couple of other times and all and her mum had been worried about her. Her and Paige, who she hangs about with – bit of a cow – they’d been in trouble at school for twagging some lessons as well.’

  ‘And that was recent?’

  ‘Yeah, I think so, but I just heard it so I dunno.’

  ‘And did Kayleigh have a boyfriend or…?’

  ‘Well, she went out with some older lad called Adam but I think they’d finished. He works in town at the phone shop in the arcade. I think she likes older lads because she looks older herself – I think so anyway. That’s why all the lads like her. But then they said it looks like something was going on with this bloke – the one who’s missing ’n’ all. And he’s like in his thirties so…’ She screws her face up in disgust and trails off.

  ‘Anyway, sorry, I go on too much. These lot know her, like. Jack! Come over here.’ She shouts to a group of boys walking down the road.

  There’s a small crowd gathering behind Abbie and Jess now. Two boys play-fighting in the road, another two standing closer.

  ‘Who’s she?’ says one of the boys.

  ‘She’s a reporter,’ says Abbie. ‘She’s asking about Kayleigh.’

  ‘Are we gonna be on telly?’ he asks.

  ‘Do you see a camera? You dick.’

  ‘I’m Jack,’ he says. ‘I was meant to meet Kayleigh in the park that night but she never came. We told the police all this.’

  ‘I’m sure. And how had she been in the days and weeks leading up to her disappearance? Did you notice anything unusual? I’m just trying to build up a picture. Of Kayleigh, and of the time around her disappearance. See if we can jog anyone’s memory.’

  Another boy chips in from behind, standing slightly on tip-toes to be seen over Jess’s shoulder. ‘She was seeing someone.’

  ‘The boy from the phone shop? Adam, was it?’ I look to Abbie for confirmation.

  ‘Nah, not him,’ the boy says. ‘They’d finished. He’s alright. Bit of a knob but nah, someone else.’

  Jack chips in. ‘She’d been meeting that fella, hadn’t she? He were ringing her up all the time.’

  ‘What man?’ I say.

  ‘I dunno. She wouldn’t say. Must have been that Chris bloke.’

  ‘Maybe she was pregnant!’ shouts one of the other boys, then laughs.

  My stomach churns. ‘But you don’t know who he was exactly?’

  ‘Like I said, it must have been that Chris. I tried to look at her phone a few times when it rang or she texted. But it was just a number. No name.’

  ‘Here. Reporter lady – Nicky Blackett fancies you. Says you’ve got nice tits. Put that in the paper,’ one of the boys shouts. Another boy punches him hard in the arm.

  ‘Oi! What the fuck are you talking to her for?’ A stocky girl with a heavy, straightened fringe and thick black eyeliner is coming over, with a smaller, delicate-looking girl with hair with a metallic tinge. The blue hair.

  ‘Paige,’ says Abbie. She looks nervous and readjusts her backpack. ‘This is a reporter from the Courier. She’s just asking some questions about Kayleigh. To get the campaign to find her going again.’

  There’s a crowd gathering round now. I can just see the identical green and yellow stripe of the tie wherever I look.

  ‘Oh, shut up, you thick bitch,’ says Paige. She has a dark foundation tidemark along her jawline.

  Abbie looks taken aback. ‘Paige, I wasn’t saying anything; I was just telling her that Kayleigh was popular and how nice she is, that’s all…’

  Paige goes up close to her face, pointing. She’s wearing a pink watch with sparkly stones around the face, brown marks on her hands from fake tan. ‘She’s not a reporter, you stupid little cow. She’s that pervert’s wife. Chris Harding’s wife.’ She knocks hard on the side of Abbie’s head.

  The girl with the blue hair touches her shoulder. ‘Paige, there’s no need to be so—�
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  But Paige shakes her off. ‘Get off me, Kat. Not now, right. What are you doing here asking questions for?’ Paige is jabbing a finger at me.

  ‘I’m… I’m just trying to get to the bottom of things, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, I have heard all about your husband,’ Paige says. ‘Everyone knows about your husband, you know. Maybe I will tell a real journalist all about it, about what I know, shall I?’

  ‘Tell them what? What are you talking about?’

  She looks down and hesitates for a second, and I think she’s going to back off, it’s all hot air. But she hasn’t lost her nerve at all; she’s just gathering herself. When she looks up her face is all hard edges again. She fixes me with a stare.

  ‘He got sacked from Green Point for looking at dodgy stuff on the work computer. My uncle told me; he works there in the factory. Probably kiddy porn.’

  Stomach bile, hot and acidic, shoots into my mouth.

  A few nervous laughs from those crowded round.

  ‘That isn’t true!’ My voice sounds shrill. I can feel them all looking at me. There are probably only around seven but it feels like hundreds.

  ‘So he didn’t get sacked? You need to stop lying. And you need to stop thinking you even have the right to say Kayleigh’s name.’

  ‘Yes, but not like that. It isn’t like that!’

  She mimics my voice, ‘It isn’t like that.’

  Detective Fisher clearly said he had been sacked for gambling on the computer. That’s all. Why wouldn’t she tell me everything if there was more?

  Chris struggled to find work when we came here. Temped here and there for a bit. He eventually got taken on at Green Point, Shawmouth, a wind-farm plant just opened on the edge of the town. He was excited about it. I wondered if he just tried to be. He was interested in green technology, he said. It was just admin for now: raising invoices and POs, that kind of thing, but there was potential, he said, if you got in there at the start because it was so fast-growing.