Reported Missing: A gripping psychological thriller with a breath-taking twist Read online

  ‘And you say that you knew, is that right? You could just “feel” that she was dead?’ a posh-voiced woman asks on the radio.

  ‘Yes.’ A crackly phone line.

  I catch the conversation halfway through. I am trying to find a spot to grip on, understand the context of what they’re talking about. Just something to distract me; take my mind off things.

  ‘I just had this sensation, you know? It was really weird. I got this massive pain in my stomach. They say that’s where she was fatally injured. Maybe the point of impact. The crash.’ The voice on the phone line wavers. ‘I just hope she didn’t feel any pain.’

  I can picture her hunched over the phone, an embroidered, cotton hanky up to her mouth. Bastards for getting her live on the air like this, I think. But I know myself what vultures these people can be. And I could always switch it off, couldn’t I?

  ‘Thanks for that, Ruth. Thanks for calling in. It must be really painful for you.’ The woman’s snivel is cut off part-way through. ‘And, Professor Benson, it’s not just a twin thing, is it? They say it’s possible with any people who are very close.’

  ‘That’s right. It’s not even always relatives, you know, that’s just it. We can’t underestimate the strength of emotional connections, human connections. As this research shows – husbands and wives, even close friends.’

  ‘This new research from a US university adds weight to the idea that people might be able to sense when a loved one is in pain or has died, even when they’re miles away. We’re taking a look at people who have experienced the phenomenon—’

  I reach over and snap the radio off. Janice has said that she believes Kayleigh is still alive. That she’d know somehow if she wasn’t. Would I feel something? Would I know if Chris was physically hurt? Could I feel if he was completely gone? I close my eyes, but it’s just white space, silence. There’s nothing coming through. Maybe we weren’t close enough, but didn’t we know each other inside out, tell each other everything? Evidently not.

  A few times each week, often more these days, I allow myself a fixed time to pretend that everything’s fine, that my life isn’t shattered. Sometimes I lie with the lights out and picture putting all the bad stuff in a box for a while, closing the lid and locking it. This was advice I got from my short-lived stint with the therapist when I told her that I couldn’t sleep. Surprise, surprise. This is what she suggested. I was hoping for some pills. I got them myself anyway from Boots. I just have to take double the amount these days to get any effect.

  I was all geared up to presume anything she told me was mumbo jumbo. But it turned out in this case she was right. It worked for a while, helped me sleep, then it stopped. Maybe because I used it in the daytime so much my mind just got wise. You can only trick yourself for so long. The days and hours blur quite a lot, especially when I take the sleeping pills and drink. I could say the drinking and pills don’t help. That’s what Jeannie says, but she’s wrong – because the truth is, they do.

  So I block out the fact that Chris is gone, that half the town hates me because they think I lived with and protected ‘a paedophile’, and the fact that I don’t know what to think about it all and can’t keep a thought in my head for over three seconds.

  I pretend that Chris is here with me, that none of this ever happened. Sometimes I imagine we’re lying on the beach in Spain, the sun warming us both, or we’re staying in a cosy log cabin somewhere remote in winter, with a fire roaring and enough supplies to last us weeks. When it does work, I can allow myself to picture the scene so vividly, to almost believe it. Sometimes I try to stay awake to enjoy the dream, but I usually drop off to sleep, and wake up again shivering in the caravan, plunged back into my real life. It’s worth it for the short respite.

  I try it now, slow breathing, imagining clean, cool, pale-blue air. But now I can’t conjure the soothing images so easily. They get polluted. The thoughts about what’s really happening are pushing their way in like smoke under the door, they’re creeping in through the cracks around the window.

  When I eventually get up, I busy myself, like most days, first of all with the Facebook page that I set up in the first week after he’d gone. I post a new update or picture at least once a week. Few people share them or comment anymore. They’ve either tuned it out of their lives, or they just don’t want to be associated.

  It’s more habit now, superstition. There is still that tiny glimmer of hope that stops me closing it down.

  Today there are two red notifications. Excess saliva seeps into my mouth. Activity has slowed down a lot since those first weeks. The kindness of the messages and support I received from a few strangers then kept me going for a while, before the word spread, before the perception of me as the simple grieving wife warped in people’s minds. But I think it was the vitriol that really drove me on. With the vigil coming up, the increased attention – perhaps I’ll need that resolve again now.

  They posted defaced pictures of Chris, his eyes scratched out. ‘You get what you deserve,’ they said. I was a whore and a slut and worse besides, and they threatened that I was next.

  Today, someone has posted to the page the news story about the vigil. There aren’t any reactions yet, and I close my eyes and delete it, lying to myself that it was never there. I can’t face the comments; I know what they will say.

  The other alert is from an account called ‘The Watchers’. A video. My blood feels like it’s suddenly infused with icy water, speeding through my veins. They have posted before. Regularly when the news first broke. My hand hovers over the mouse pad, wobbling. I know I shouldn’t watch it but the film is already playing.

  A shaky handheld camera. An empty car park at night, a distorted voice.

  ‘We’re here to meet a creep we have been messaging on the internet,’ a male voice whispers, breathless. ‘He thinks he’s here to meet a thirteen-year-old girl. He’s travelled from Cheltenham to Newcastle. He’s in for a surprise.’ The sound of two men laughing, one shushing the other.

  After a while, a car pulls up. The sound of tyres moving slowly across gravel, a car door closing. A man comes into view. Then I realise I can still hear the sound. Running, breathing. A shout. But my eyes are closed. Like another bad dream.

  I force them open. Night-vision camera. The man is older, fifties, a denim jacket, the glare of a light bouncing off his glasses.

  ‘This is a mistake,’ he says, panic etched in his face. He tries to run, darting one way then back the other. He’s cornered by the two men. One wears a plastic animal mask, too small for his face, the other a gaudy clown mask.

  ‘You’re right it’s a mistake, mate,’ one of the men says. ‘You ain’t been talking to “Annabelle”. It’s been us all along, fella.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything. Just let me go.’ His voice is a whimper.

  ‘We’ve got all the WhatsApps, mate. All the chat is logged, pal.’

  The man’s hand goes up to his face and he tries to block the camera. ‘What are you going to do to me?’

  The dread in me is physical, a dragging heaviness. But the men in the masks, their voices are calm. There is no violence. Only a lightness of foot, the shifting from one to the other, blocking the man’s escape.

  ‘Police are coming, pal.’

  ‘Please, no. It’s all just a misunderstanding. I can explain.’

  ‘It’s too late for that, mate. You can explain to the coppers. Just stay calm, yeah.’

  The man begins to cry, and something shrinks and shrivels inside me.

  Soon the police arrive and guide the man into a car, protecting his head as he gets in. The video ends. Green text and data superimposed on a black background, an increasing amount filling the screen.

  ‘The Watchers. Protecting Britain’s children,’ a distorted voice says. ‘We’re always watching.’ Then the film ends.

  Twenty-one likes already.

  I delete the post.

  ‘Are you sure?’ it asks.

  Pressing my hands har
d against my ears, I take deep breaths. I get up and close a crack in the curtains of the caravan.

  I look through photos, searching for an unpublished one I can scan and upload, touching each photo one time to acknowledge it before I can turn the page, and starting again if I miss one. There’s one of us on the beach, me scrunched under an umbrella, sweating in a bright, synthetic-fabric kaftan and wide-brimmed hat, terrified of getting tan lines for an upcoming wedding we were going to back at home; him stretched on the sand and bathed in sunlight. We’d booked a cheap, last-minute deal to Spain the spring just gone. The hotel was a bit grim really. Feral cats living round the pool, scrawny-looking things. A loud man from Essex got a nasty scratch right across his face when he tried to look into the bushes where the cats gathered. Chris and I had given each other a knowing look, stifled laughter.

  But the holiday had been good for us. Really, I prefer the cool weather of England, but sunny days do change your world, even if only temporarily. I can’t conjure that back now, if I ever felt it, but I remember distinctly that’s what I came away thinking. We’d be more active when we got home – do up the house, finish work on time – we’d make the most of life. ‘Won’t we, won’t we?’ we said repeatedly, a mantra to ourselves.

  We’d sat on the balcony drinking cheap Spanish wine, eaten outside, read books on the beach all day and taken afternoon naps. It was a relaxing week, my first beach holiday, but by the last day I’d been feeling twitchy and started making my to-do lists and plans, much to Chris’s amusement, or perhaps irritation, I couldn’t quite tell. Maybe I am never in the moment, I don’t make the most of things when they’re there and then they are gone. Maybe I didn’t make the most of Chris while I had him.

  I’d felt like an uptight spoilsport when he went to swim in the sea. The sea makes me anxious and I didn’t want to have to dry my hair again that night. Sitting there on the sand, I couldn’t even enjoy my book or the warm sun. I couldn’t let Chris out of my sight. I watched him bobbing and floating on the turquoise glittering water the whole time, terrified he’d get sucked under the waves. I was looking for danger in all the wrong places.

  I glance at the clock: 11.50 a.m. Half the day is already over. I received a message yesterday from a man named Gary in Leeds. He had seen the posters my cousin Emma distributed round the city centre there.

  I am surprised that she bothered to do it – I hadn’t really believed her when she said she had. I imagined she’d recycled the posters, or just dumped them over the wall.

  Gary’s message was brief. Text speak, badly spelled. He said he thinks he may have worked with Chris on a building site a few weeks ago, in Sheffield. I can’t really picture this, Chris doing manual labour. He struggled to put up a shelf in the house. But in his message, Gary said to call him after midday – he’d be working in the morning, even on a Sunday.

  I fidget as the minute hand on the clock crawls round, wash up some cups, pointless tidying – anything to keep my hands busy. I feel like minutes must have passed but each time I look up, the hand has moved around thirty seconds or less.

  Every now and then the wind throws a spray of rain across the side of the caravan, startling me.

  I wonder if Jeannie will lend me the money to get the train to Leeds. I’d prefer to ask someone else but I am at a loss as to who. Finally it hits 12.01 and I reach for my mobile and dial.

  ‘Yes?’ the unfamiliar voice says, gruff, distracted – still doing something else at the same time. You can just tell, can hear that his mouth is directed slightly away from the phone.

  ‘Hi – Gary? It’s Rebecca Pendle. I’m calling about the poster. About my husband.’

  Silence.

  ‘You sent me an email, a message on Facebook?’

  ‘Oh right, yes.’ He sounds unsure.

  I push on.

  ‘You said you may have worked with him on a building site? Do you—’

  ‘Aw Christ, I meant to message you back. I wasn’t sure what to do. It’s probably best you rang us anyway like, best to speak in person, I suppose.’

  My hope is already fading. ‘So do you have some information, Gary? Did you speak to him? Do you have his number or something? I’m his wife. I’m just really worried about him. Just want to know where he is, that he’s alright.’

  ‘I think I got it wrong. I shouldn’t have emailed you.’ His voice has a slow Yorkshire drawl to it.

  Speak faster, I think. I notice that I am wiggling my feet and toes, nervous energy.

  ‘I checked with the fellas at work. They said it’s been all over the news. I don’t follow it, me. Wife says I should. But it’s always just bad news, isn’t it? Non-stop bad news.’ He trails off again.

  ‘So this man you met at work?’

  ‘Yeah, right, sorry. He’s not Irish is he, your husband?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s what the lads here said. The guy I meant. Who I thought I meant. He was Irish. I should have remembered he had an Irish accent.’

  ‘You’re sure it was Irish?’

  ‘One of the other lads knew him from back home. Got him a job on the site. There’s not much work over there at the minute. Sorry, the poster jogged my memory, but I should have checked first before contacting you.’

  ‘No. You’re sure it was work you recognised him from? Not somewhere else? You’re not mixing things up?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure. He just looked a bit like him, I guess.’

  ‘Pretty sure?’ My voice is rising. How can he be so casual?

  ‘I’m sorry, I am sure. I shouldn’t have got in touch.’

  ‘Right,’ I mumble, restraining tears. ‘Thanks, anyway.’ For nothing, I feel like adding but restrain myself.

  I take the phone away from my ear and hear him say he’s sorry, three times in the background, more distant each time.

  It’s not the first time. I should be prepared, shouldn’t dare to hope. There’ve been sightings at reservoirs, on trains, conversations with confused homeless people, even cruel pranks, but all roads lead back to the same place. He’s just vanished, gone. And so has Kayleigh.

  I know it does me no good but I can’t help looking at his Facebook page every time I check my ‘Find Chris Harding’ page. Most days, then: sometimes more than once. Usually ending up in a state, head thumping, eyes swollen. I used to nag at him for always being online, especially in those last few weeks, but now it’s one of the closest connections I have to him.

  Sometimes I write him private messages on there about my day, about how much I miss him. Sometimes I beg him to come back; other times I get angry and just demand answers. They never show as ‘read’. Of course I know he won’t update it or reply – but I can’t give up on the idea. If he did, what would he say? Where would he be? London? Spain? Somewhere more far flung? Or perhaps not far away at all.

  He is there as soon as I load the page, and a small electric current of pain runs through me. Sometimes I touch his face on the screen. Jeannie would hate it if she knew I was doing this. She thinks I’m doing OK now, that I’m a bit more stable than I was a few weeks ago when I was drinking more, when I could barely face getting out of bed at all. I let her and everyone else believe it because it makes them feel better. Now that the initial shock has died down – for other people, not for me, not for Kayleigh’s family – there’s nowhere to go with it, nothing much else to say on the subject.

  It saddens me that I have learnt some things about Chris from this Facebook page, things that I didn’t know before. What he thought about the local election in the spring (‘absolute shambles’). I didn’t even know he’d voted, or who for. Labour, I’d presumed, but I hadn’t asked. When did we stop talking about that stuff?

  I didn’t know that he was currently reviving his teenage love for The Stone Roses, sharing ‘She’s a Waterfall’ and ‘Sally Cinnamon’ videos on his page. He said that one reminded him of me and he used to sing it to me when we first met.

  I didn’t know he’d kept in touch with his ex-
girlfriend, Jenny, from Peterborough. So long ago that he lived there with his parents. But there she is, liking and commenting on his posts. Asking him how it’s going and whether it really is ‘grim up north’. Smug, I think. Her teeth are very white. He changed his picture in May to one of him with his guitar. He used to have one of the two of us together, a blustery day on the beach when we first moved here. Before that, our wedding picture. I rolled my eyes then – I’d never have a coupley picture as my profile shot, I said. ‘It’s so naff.’ But really I thought it was sweet that he’d do that. Now it hurts that he changed it and that he’s trapped there behind the glass on his own, without me.

  If I could get the password and get in – and believe me, I’ve tried – I’d change it to us again. Although I bet that would freak a few people out. But it would be a sign that I’m still here, that I still love him, that I haven’t just presumed the worst like everybody else. That maybe after all this is cleared up, we could still be together. Even if I don’t know whether that’s really true.

  Did I neglect him? Neglect us?

  Not long before he went missing – three nights, maybe – I came in from work and he’d got in before me. He was under the duvet on the couch, even though it was summer, still light outside. I was annoyed at him lounging around, not being busy cutting the grass, making tea. ‘Why don’t you go for a run or something? It’s a beautiful day!’ I said, yanking the curtains open. I didn’t know where the anger, the irritation had come from; I just wanted a reaction from him.

  Was I even really annoyed or did I just think I should be? But he shrugged it off. ‘Come and snuggle up with me,’ he said, holding the duvet open, in just his boxer shorts. ‘Let’s watch Lost Boys.’ One of his favourite films.