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

  The room feels like it’s swimming a little now, a queasy feeling swirling slowly in my stomach. Ellen swishes the orange juice around her mouth as if it’s mouthwash.

  ‘That’s no good for your teeth to do that,’ I say. She looks panicked and swallows it, rubbing at her teeth with her finger.

  ‘How’s school?’ I ask. The ultimate boring adult question.

  ‘It’s OK. You know.’

  I hear Jeannie’s voice raised slightly upstairs. ‘It’s a bloody game!’ she says.

  I know that I shouldn’t but I also know I don’t have much time. I might not get another chance.

  ‘Ellen,’ I say. The sweetness in my voice sounds fake to me. I don’t mean it to.

  She looks at me attentively.

  ‘Can I ask you a question?’

  ‘Yeah. ’Course you can.’ But she looks cautious. She knows the conversation, the approach, is not usual. Her eyes are shiny, staring at me intently, waiting to see where this is going.

  ‘You go to the same school as Kayleigh, don’t you?’

  ‘Kayleigh…?’ She looks up towards the stairs. Checking whether Jeannie is coming, or hoping that she is?

  ‘Kayleigh Jackson. You know the girl who...’

  ‘The missing girl.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right.’ I hate myself for doing this. ‘Do you know Kayleigh?’

  ‘No, she… she’s above me at school.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. It’s an awful situation, isn’t it? So you don’t know anything about her?’

  ‘She hangs around with a girl with blue hair. That’s all I know.’ She shrugs.

  ‘Blue hair?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s dyed like a silvery blue colour. All the lads in my year fancy her.’

  ‘Kayleigh?’

  ‘Both of them.’

  ‘You’re allowed blue hair at school?’

  ‘Dunno. She has blue hair. Silvery blue, like I said.’ She shrugs. ‘Mum won’t let me dye mine.’

  ‘You don’t need to. It’s lovely as it is. Does she hang around with anyone else, Kayleigh?’ I realise I am being careful to use the present tense.

  ‘A few other lasses. And some boys, I don’t know their names.’ She’s blushing now.

  ‘So, what are people saying at school? I remember when I was at school. There must be all sorts of rumours and stuff.’

  She stares down at her lap, twisting the pink dressing-gown belt in her hands. Her shoulders are hunched, turning in on herself.

  She just shakes her head. ‘Sorry, I don’t know what they’re saying. I don’t pay any attention to that stuff.’

  ‘Yeah, you do right.’ I hate myself for manipulating her like this but I can’t stop myself. ‘Do they say things about Chris?’

  She looks at me. Please don’t do this, her eyes are saying.

  ‘My Chris.’ I try to sound cheerful.

  ‘Sometimes,’ she answers so quietly I can barely hear.

  ‘And what do you think?’

  ‘I told you, I try not to pay attention. Mum said to ignore them.’

  ‘So you know Chris?’ I begin. I could drop this right now. I should. I’ve drunk too much and I will regret this, I know it. But I can’t stop myself.

  ‘Ye-es, of course I know him, silly.’ She’s trying to change the tone but she already looks stiffer, more guarded. ‘Is he… is he back?’

  ‘No, not yet, unfortunately not. What has your mum told you about him? You know, him being missing.’

  She shrugs again. ‘Just that we don’t know what’s happened and that he’s just missing... And… and that you’re upset.’

  ‘That’s right. But I’m OK. Don’t worry about me. Honest.’ I touch her hand lightly and she looks back up again. I try to smile encouragingly.

  I gulp the last of my wine down. It’s warm now. Sam starts to grizzle but I talk over him. ‘Now, listen. I just need to ask you a question. OK? And there isn’t a right or wrong answer. I just need you to be honest. OK?’

  She stares back at me, stricken. Sam lets out another squawk, and she starts to go to him but I put my arm out so she stays sitting down. Like ripping off a plaster, I have to just do this.

  ‘Did Chris ever touch you?’ I can hear myself slurring.

  Ellen looks at me confused, a little startled. I stroke her hair. This is all wrong. I shouldn’t have started this.

  ‘Just answer me.’ My voice sounds strained. ‘Did Uncle Chris ever touch you anywhere he shouldn’t?’

  She is starting to cry but there is this compulsion in me that needs to hear an answer. I shake her – only a little, grabbing onto her by the sleeve of her dressing gown. My grip is tight, but I think it is just the fabric that I have hold of, not the flesh. I can hear a voice getting louder. It feels detached. ‘Just tell me! Tell me if he ever touched you!’ I realise that the voice is mine. The baby is screaming now too, an angry, guttural screech.

  Then, like a slap across the face: ‘What on earth are you doing, Becs?’ Jeannie is looking through the gaps in the bannister, then coming down the stairs as fast as she can. ‘What is going on?’ She’s clutching at her hair and Dan is coming down the stairs now too. Ellen and Sam are still crying.

  ‘I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry,’ comes out of my mouth. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing.’ I go to get up and accidentally kick over the wine glass, invisible shards exploding across the laminate floor.

  ‘For fuck’s sake.’ Jeannie’s cheeks are bright red. She looks set to explode, her finger raised to point at me, trembling, but then she pauses and swallows it down again.

  Dan helps Ellen to hop over the broken glass and pulls her sobbing face into his ribs to comfort her. ‘Come on, love – get upstairs to bed. I’ll be up in a minute.’

  Ellen starts up the stairs, still sniffling.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ellen,’ I say, pathetically. ‘I didn’t mean anything by it.’ She looks back once but I can’t read her expression.

  I step forward to speak, to give Dan and Jeannie another pointless apology, but I feel a sharp pain at the ball of my foot, followed by warm moisture. I look down and there’s blood on the beige floor. ‘Oh Christ. Becs, are you OK?’ Jeannie asks. ‘Is it deep? Get some pressure on it.’

  The chandelier shadow is wobbling again, watery.

  I hop through to the kitchen and remove my sock, dabbing my foot with a tea towel. Used. It’s not deep, but every time I clear the blood, it stays clean for a second before a fresh surge seeps out again.

  ‘Do you think it needs looking at? Do you need to go to hospital?’

  ‘No, honestly, it’s fine. It looks worse than it is. There’s just loads of blood. It’s not deep.’

  ‘Are you sure? I’m just going to…’ She gestures into the living room with a dustpan and brush and some kitchen roll, and hands me a tin. ‘Put some antiseptic and a dressing on it. And give it a bit of a prod – check if there’s anything inside, just to be sure.’

  At first the blood keeps making the plasters slide off but eventually, with two plasters crossed and a cotton wool square held in place with tape, it feels secure and the bleeding seems to be slowing.

  Dan’s voice filters into the kitchen, a low rumble. I open the door, approaching it as quietly as possible, turning the handle lightly to prevent the catch making a sound.

  Jeannie is bent down searching for bits of broken glass, Dan stooped over her. ‘No wonder he’d started…’ I can’t quite catch what he says so I carefully open the door a bit more. ‘She’s off her bloody head! It’s no wonder…’

  Jeannie looks up from the glass to answer him and spots me standing in the doorway. Dan looks over too.

  ‘Rebecca, please, I am so sorry. I did not mean that.’ He looks genuine but maybe he just knows what a bollocking he is in for from Jeannie after I leave.

  ‘Becs…’ Jeannie says.

  ‘Rebecca, please, I feel awful. I was just blowing off steam because Ellen was upset. Honestly. I know this whole situation is terrible for you. S
he’s just a little girl though, you know? My little girl.’

  ‘It’s fine, Dan. Really. What were you saying about Chris, just then? No wonder he what?’

  ‘Dan, go upstairs and see to Ellen, will you? And take Sam with you.’ Jeannie throws me my shoes. ‘Put these on before you slash the other one open.’

  Dan disappears upstairs, apologising twice more as he goes. Jeannie and I sit on the sofa.

  Dan and Chris played football together sometimes. I think Jeannie encouraged him to invite Chris along, take him to the pub after. They got along well enough but it was mainly through me and Jeannie.

  ‘What was he saying?’

  ‘Nothing, Becs. He’s just… just worried about Ellen. He’s worried about you too. Do you want to sleep down here? I’ve got bedding and stuff.’

  ‘Nah, I better get back.’

  ‘Why? For what?’

  ‘I just should. Aren’t you angry with me?’

  Jeannie shrugs, picking up the other wine glass and the bottle of wine. She’s probably worried about me drinking the rest. She inhales through her nose. ‘I can’t say I’m pleased but – these things happen. You can’t go on like that. But I understand… OK, understand isn’t the right word. Of course I don’t, but I know where you were coming from. I think.’

  I let her give me a hug for once. Usually I shrink away, but I squeeze her back.

  ‘Thanks for having me round, Jeannie. I know I’m horrible at the moment, but I do appreciate you looking after me – you’re a star. I don’t know where I’d be without you. I’ll try to make it for your birthday, promise.’

  She rubs the tops of my arms.

  ‘Will she be OK?’ I gesture upstairs.

  ‘She’ll be fine. She’s a bright girl. She’s sensitive and she thinks the world of you. She doesn’t know all the details, but in her own way she knows you’re going through a tough time. She’ll probably forget about it tomorrow.’

  I know Jeannie is lying about that last bit.

  She calls a taxi and I begin to gather my things. A car soon pulls up and beeps outside.

  ‘Wow, that was quick. You usually have to wait ages.’

  ‘Jeannie. I really am sorry. I didn’t mean to upset Ellen. I am just a bit up and down at the moment.’ I stuff my scarf into my bag and search my pockets for my keys.

  ‘Becs?’

  I look up to face Jeannie.

  ‘Did Ellen answer you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t ask. I am just checking she said no to what you were asking her.’

  She definitely did hear me then.

  I can see that she’s cringing. ‘I mean I know she would have; I just need to check. I just need to hear it.’

  Jeannie has always stood by me, when we were younger and she still does now. She helped organise everything when my dad died. She always stuck up for me at school. She didn’t think I should move to the caravan park but she still brought the car round and helped me take my stuff over, and she talked Dan into helping me move in and get set up.

  ‘You don’t know until you know,’ I heard him whispering to Jeannie while we were moving things out and when he thought I was out of earshot. ‘The guy deserves the benefit of the doubt.’ This wasn’t something I needed persuading of – perhaps just reminding of from time to time. I thought she was on my side. She is, but this showed me that even Jeannie wasn’t sure about Chris.

  ‘He didn’t touch her, Jeannie.’

  She shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry. Text me when you get in.’

  She tries to stuff a £5 note into my hand as I leave but I run out for the taxi.

  I’ve never told Jeannie, but the police, they asked me about Ellen. If they asked Jeannie too, she never said anything to me either. Because Chris had pictures on his computer. He liked photography, had a new camera. We’d been out for the day a few weeks before he disappeared; a walk on the beach with Jeannie, Dan, Sam and Ellen. Fish and chips for tea. It had been a good day, the way I’d envisaged our life here.

  I’d seen the pictures already, when he took them. The police dug them out again. Who is this girl? What relation is she to you? There were pictures of us all – Dan giving Jeannie a piggy back, me eating chips, Ellen doing cartwheels on the damp sand. They were innocent pictures. The police were just twisting things, looking for something that wasn’t there because of Kayleigh’s disappearance.

  Nine

  Monday, 9 November

  I lean my head against the cool glass of the taxi window, opening it a crack at the top. The wind blows my hair around violently. In the mirror, there’s just a strip of the driver’s eyes, like some weird masquerade ball mask, and every time I glance at the mirror, his gaze is directed at me. He’s probably looking out for traffic behind, but it looks like he’s looking right at me.

  ‘Cheer up, love. Might never happen.’

  It already has.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘I’m just tired.’

  ‘Good night?’

  ‘Yes. Not bad, thanks. Just visiting a friend.’

  I try to focus on looking out of the window to avoid him chatting to me further, and to take my mind off how ill I feel. The toxic mixture of the wine and how I treated Ellen and upset Jeannie.

  The empty streets whizz past; people secure in their houses: lights on, curtains closed. We go past defunct hotels – grand old buildings being left to crumble away.

  On the seafront, almost everything is closed except a few takeaways. The metal shutters are down on the arcades, the restaurants have probably closed early due to it being a slow night mid-week.

  I open the window a bit further to let more freezing air onto my face. The smoothness of the road and the newish car are making the nausea catch in the back of my throat.

  His eyes flick to me again, like a ventriloquist’s doll.

  ‘You sure you’re alright back there, love?’

  ‘Fine,’ I say, between deep breaths.

  ‘I’m not being funny, love, but it is £25 if you’re sick in here. And I would need to charge you, else it comes out of my pocket.’

  ‘I’ll be fine, honestly.’ I want to add: ‘If you would please just shut up and stop talking to me.’

  He puts the radio on and begins to whistle along to some dance tune. The abrasiveness and unpredictable beat is making me feel more ill, and my throat contracts once suddenly but then relaxes again.

  ‘You need to let me out.’

  ‘Sorry, what, love?’ He tries to turn to address me but doesn’t want to take his eyes off the road.

  ‘Please, you need to let me out.’

  ‘It’ll not be long before we get there – sorry, pet, I’m doing my best but with all these flaming roadworks… and we seem to’ve hit every red light tonight.’

  ‘I just don’t feel well. Please stop the car.’

  The car jerks as he swerves it quickly inwards. He cranes his head around now to speak to me, a vein like a spiral telephone wire straining at his temple. ‘Do you want to just have a minute?’

  ‘No, it’s fine. I’ll get out here and walk the rest of the way. The air will do me good.’

  ‘Well, I don’t like to leave you at this time of night. Not round here. I’d rather drop you off, love.’

  ‘Please, I will be fine.’ I’m already getting out of the car. I talk to him through the front window now. ‘How much?’

  ‘Just six pounds, please, love. You be careful. You don’t know who’s about round here.’ But I am already walking away and he drives off.

  When he’s gone, I stop and sit on the curb for a few minutes, my head between my knees, waiting for the nausea to subside.

  I am almost certain I put one of Chris’s missing posters on the lamp post here. But when I look up now all that’s there is a flyer for a missing cat.

  I think about what Jeannie said about me moping around, living in a bubble. She’s right. I am out of bed. I’ve got that far, but it isn’t enough. I can’t just wait for thin
gs to happen. I know where I am going to go now.

  It’s after 10 p.m.: the high street is deserted. Some of the windows are still lit; mannequins with blank faces, no features, staring out. I take a deep breath before I go in. There’s someone at the desk signing something, getting his wallet and keys back from a plastic tray. I sit on the bench and wait.

  ‘I hope for your sake we won’t be seeing you here again,’ the police officer says to the man.

  ‘Whatever, mate,’ he says, shoving his items into the pockets of his leather jacket. ‘Laters.’ He raises his hand in a wave as he walks away, arguably giving the policeman the middle finger for a second or two.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ he says to me on the way out.

  ‘Oi!’ the policeman shouts, shaking his head, but it’s half-hearted. ‘Right, love, what can I do for you?’

  ‘I’d like to speak to Detective Fisher. Please.’

  He looks up now, less distracted. ‘Concerning?’

  ‘I’d rather not say.’

  ‘Because…?’ He has a bald head and smooth skin with bright pink cheeks, almost like a cartoon police officer.

  ‘Because she knows me and I’d rather not go through all the details with you, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Your name is?’

  ‘Rebecca. Pendle.’

  His eyes do a small twitch and he pauses. Do they all know my name here? Does the case still come up in the morning meeting where they decide on priorities? Is my picture up on some noticeboard in the offices, perhaps with red string or pen lines connecting me to various facts and times and places, like on TV cop shows? Or is it forgotten now, shelved?

  He sighs and there’s a beeping sound on the computer, diverting his attention for a few seconds, and he makes a few clicks.

  ‘Are you here regarding new information on a crime, miss?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Sort of, or yes?’ A sigh of impatience escapes from him.

  A uniformed female officer comes behind the counter and whispers to him. He looks at his watch and nods.

  ‘Sorry, where were we?’

  ‘I’m here to see Detective Fisher. Is she here?’

  He looks up at the clock. ‘She is as it goes, but I’m not sure she’ll see you. If she’s still here it means she’s got too much to do. And if you won’t tell me what it’s about …’