Girl, Missing, page 1
PRAISE FOR DREDA SAY MITCHELL AND RYAN CARTER’S SAY HER NAME:
One of Crime Monthly’s Top 5 Killer Thrillers of April 2022
‘Powerful.’
Crime Monthly
‘My book of the year so far.’
Lee Child, #1 New York Times bestselling author
‘A heartfelt and eloquent exploration of the iniquities of racial bias.’
Guardian
‘Dreda Say Mitchell has been flying the flag for crime writing for years.’
Bernardine Evaristo, bestselling author of Girl, Woman, Other
‘A truly original voice.’
Peter James, #1 Sunday Times bestselling author
‘A strong dose for readers interested in watching racial prejudices play out at every possible opportunity.’
Kirkus Reviews
Praise for Dreda Say Mitchell:
‘As good as it gets.’
Lee Child
‘A truly original voice.’
Peter James
‘Thrilling.’
Sunday Express Books of the Year
‘Awesome tale from a talented writer.’
Sun
‘Fast-paced and full of twists and turns.’
Crime Scene Magazine
ALSO BY DREDA SAY MITCHELL AND RYAN CARTER
Psychological Thrillers
Say Her Name
Trap Door
Spare Room
The Rio Wray Series
Vendetta
Snatched (Kindle Single)
Death Trap
The Gangland Girls Trilogy
Geezer Girls
Gangster Girl
Hit Girls
Flesh and Blood Series
Blood Sister
Blood Mother
Blood Daughter
Blood Secrets
One False Move (Quick Reads)
Big Mo Suspense Series
Dirty Tricks
Fight Dirty
Wicked Women
ALSO BY DREDA SAY MITCHELL
Running Hot
Killer Tune
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2024 by Mitchell and Joseph Limited
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas and Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas and Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781662515590
eISBN: 9781662515606
Cover design by Tom Sanderson
Cover image: © vvoe, dmitriynesvit/ Shutterstock; ©Mark Owen / ArcAngel
To Sharon. Our great friend who is a creative genius.
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Follow the Authors on Amazon
Prologue
The police officer cuffs me. I plead desperately, ‘You’ve got this all wrong.’
I should never have come here. I should’ve known better.
‘I know that things look bad,’ I continue, trying to dig myself out of a massive hole.
Bad is the understatement of the century. It doesn’t get worse than my clothes. Covered in blood. Somebody else’s blood. There’s blood everywhere. I look like someone who’s just finished a shift in an abattoir. It’s sticky against my clothes. Smeared, rich and nasty, on my hands. There’s even a fine film of it in my hair. It glues the handcuffs to my wrists. Even I know how incriminating this looks. Traces of blood is how they usually catch criminals, isn’t it? Except the blood covering me isn’t a trace.
The other police officer, the detective, walks towards me. The street lights glint off the grey strands in his almost black hair. He averts his eyes from the blood splattered over me. That’s how bad this is – even an experienced cop is horrified. Finally, his eyes draw level with mine. He looks me up and down as if he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. His knowing expression tells me he doesn’t believe a word that I’ve said.
‘This isn’t the first time you’ve been arrested,’ he states. ‘You know and I know that you’ve got a record.’
He gives me one last look, brimming with distaste, and turns to the younger officer, the one who still holds my arm after he cuffed me. ‘Let’s check out inside.’
The hand on my arm tightens and pushes me forward. I realise what they’re doing. They can’t be serious. Go back inside? Are they crazy? I’m not going back in there. The panic rises again just like before. My heart feels like it’s about to burst out of my chest.
I try to stall. ‘Leave me in your car.’
The detective looks back at me grimly. ‘We’ll all stay together until backup arrives. And, let’s face it, you’ve done a runner before. What’s the matter, embarrassed by your own handiwork?’
My face burns with shame. I shut up. There’s no point begging any more. He won’t listen to me. He’s already made up his mind about me. What kind of person I am. Just like so many others who hate my guts around here.
The night swallows me up as the cops frogmarch me off the street and into the building. A chill runs all the way through my bones when we enter. The shadows are still thick and long, some of them dancing against the wall. The corridor yawns long and menacing ahead of me. And dark. So dark. I don’t want to go back down there. I know what they’ll find.
The blood on my clothes seems to stick more heavily against my skin.
The detective asks, ‘Which room were you in?’
I think about lying, taking them to another room. But I know that’s stupid, they’ll only find it soon enough. So I tell him the truth. I’m not shocked by his look of guarded surprise.
‘What have you done?’ He sounds horrified. What’s he going to sound like when he sees what awaits him in the room?
I don’t answer. I should’ve kept my mouth shut from the beginning. Isn’t that the golden rule of being arrested? Make no comment until your lawyer arrives. So that’s what I do while I’m taken to the last place I want to be back in.
We reach the room. The younger officer holds me back while the detective moves cautiously towards the closed door. He puts on those blue forensic gloves they wear. Then he reaches for the door handle. His hand lingers before turning. He pushes the door and looks into the room. Then staggers back in utter repulsion and horror. I know what he sees. And it makes my stomach heave.
It’s a scene of brutal carnage inside the head teacher’s office in the school.
Chapter 1
The news alert goes off on my phone in my pocket. A sensation of electricity jolts through my body. That’s what always happens every time I get one of these alerts. I haven’t had one for over a year now. I’m rattled. Feel like I’m on the brink of falling apart. Then again, anyone would feel like this, especially with what I’ve been through. I thought I’d turned the alerts off. Yesterday I’d made a decision to enjoy today and think of nothing else.
But who am I kidding?
How can I ever put it out of my mind?
They say when you’re in love, the object of your love is always on your mind. And it doesn’t matter what you may be doing at the time, they’re still always there deep down. Perhaps you’re merely doing the washing-up, shopping for groceries or watching your clothes spinning in a tumble drier, but your lover is always in your thoughts even if you’re not conscious of it. It’s never happened to me personally, but I believe it because I’ve had the same experience for the past fifteen years. But it’s not a lover who’s always on my mind. It’s something else entirely, something that breaks my heart every hour I’m awake.
Even on a special day like today.
She’s always in my thoughts.
My heart quickens with the need to find out what’s on the news alert, but I can’t because I’m attending one of the biggest moments of my life. It’s the opening of my latest bike shop, the largest one yet – some would call it a megastore – in the shopping centre. I’ve worked long and hard for this moment. I force a smile to meet and greet those who have turned out to join in the celebration of my success to date. The shop floor of the business I own in the local mall is festooned with balloons, ribbons and party food to celebrate an award that will be bestowed on me today. Every year, our local council give these presentations for businesses that have contributed something to the local community. My company was singled out for its contribution to making our area of London a cleaner place and for offering employment to people with a troubled past. Troubled people like me, in other words.
The store continues to fill up with worthies and local journalists and photographers covering the store’s opening. I try to forget about the news alert – try – when the mayor comes over to me.
‘Gem, congratulations.’
‘Thank you. And for the grants you and your office have so generously given. With this place we’ll be able to do amazing things.’
‘You deserve being voted businesswoman of the year. Your journey has been remarkable.’
My face grows hot. Sometimes I still find it hard to deal with praise because in my eyes I’m just an ordinary woman who seized an opportunity and ran with it. I’m the sole owner of five bike shops and stores called Old Gems. My business started out repairing and recommissioning old bikes, and when everyone was becoming more environmentally conscious, especially about the use of cars, sales hit the roof. Bike manufacturers started contacting me and asking for my company to become the local outlet for their new models. Soon there was so much work in the workshop that staff had to be hired.
I’ve always been willing to take a chance on people, perhaps because very few ever took a chance on me. Young offenders, kids who’d dropped out of school, people with health problems, all those who’d been chewed up and spat out by the world. It didn’t always work. But more often than not it did.
Suddenly there’s the ringing of a multitude of bike bells. Scowling with surprise, I step back from the mayor. I look over at Erin, my right hand, who gives me a far too innocent look. What’s going on?
A procession of young women and teenage girls on a variety of different bikes ride into the store. My face lights up with delight. They’ve taken my breath away because I had no idea this was going to happen. I know each and every one of these women and girls and they are so dear to my heart.
The crowd clears a path for them to ride through the middle, creating a line going down the store.
One of the women rings her bell and then addresses the crowd. ‘We come here today to salute Gem. She not only gave us confidence in riding our bikes but the bigger confidence we needed to create a great life. She doesn’t come from a background of money but that didn’t stop her from reaching for her dreams.’
She addresses me directly now with such pride. ‘That’s what you taught me, how to stand tall and reach high. I want everyone to raise a glass to the woman you call Gem Casey. But we all call her Goddess.’
I choke up with such emotion. Gem Casey, who left school with zero qualifications. When I opened my first bike shop more than a decade ago, a few girls started dropping by to check out what I was doing and selling. Once they felt safe with me they confided their stories that they didn’t always feel welcome among the young lads riding out on the streets. Being the only girl could sometimes feel a bit tough. So, I started our own girl bike scene. It took off like I would never have expected. Schools started getting interested. And it gave the girls confidence to go back to those same lads who made them feel unwelcome and stake their claim.
I still have trouble believing this has all happened. To me. Gem Casey. I still live in dread that it will all be taken away from me. Just as she . . .
Stop.
Don’t go there.
But I can’t.
SHE’S always on my mind.
Always.
There’s another truth lurking here. None of them knows exactly what I had to go through to get here. None of them realises that I’m the same Gem Casey whose face was all over the front pages of the newspapers fifteen years ago. What would they say if they knew what people in the place I ran from accused me of?
The news story alert goes off again. That jolt of electricity is back. I can’t stall any more; I have to find out. This time, smiling, shaking hands, I deliberately move towards the exit and head outside. I take a breath and lean against a wall. I’m not sure I want to do this. It means going back at a time when my life is going sensationally forward. Then again, the alert might mean nothing at all.
Pulling out my phone I convince myself that it’s probably no biggie. The story is from the area where I lived fifteen years ago, which is about a two-hour train ride outside London. The news alert concerns a school. Parents are reporting that they’ve been told to come and pick up their children as the school is closed for the day following an incident. Photos show police cars in the playground and a forensic team nearby . . . I can’t make out what the building is that they’re next to.
Speculation about what’s happening is already rife across social media:
A schoolkids’ fight that got out of hand.
An accident.
Then the real story breaks and I stiffen.
The remains of a body have been discovered at Princess Isabel Primary School.
They’ve finally found her body.
Chapter 2
‘Get out of my way! I want my child!’
That’s what I practically spit at the burly cop who bars my entrance into Princess Isabel Primary School. Don’t be emotional. Stay calm. Remain rational. That’s what I’d instructed myself all the way on the train from London with only my bike for company. But once the Victorian building of the school rose into view, with its huge windows and sky-high old brick walls, and roof terrace, my resolve crumbled. All I wanted was to find out if the body they’ve discovered in the school is beautiful, fun-loving Sara-Jane.
My daughter.
I’ve never moved on from the abduction of my child fifteen years ago. Hope – that’s what’s kept me going. But am I prepared for hearing that the bones and what’s left of Sara-Jane may have been buried in a grave in that school?
‘Child?’ The cop glances at me, bewildered. ‘What child?’
She’s guarding the school gate, a place that was once so familiar to me. It’s a different gate now. Back then it was the original Victorian gate made of thick, black iron with bars covering it. The old gate is long gone, replaced with a newish-looking steel one with a modern security entry system. What does remain is the inscription written in the brickwork above:
‘THERE IS REJOICING IN THE PRESENCE OF THE ANGELS.’
The gate was there to protect children from the evil of the outside world. It didn’t protect my Sara-Jane. My heart clenches so tight I find it hard to breathe.
A commanding voice intrudes. ‘I’ll take this from here.’
The school gate opens wider, revealing a man in a formal suit, his trousers slightly ill-fitting at the ankle. He’s losing his hair, which is a mash-up of grey and black. Do I know him? He looks familiar.
He motions me into the playground. ‘You don’t remember me.’ After an apologetic shrug, he enlightens me. ‘Detective Wallace. Although I was plain PC Wallace back then. I was one of the officers investigating your daughter’s disappearance.’
‘Wish I could say it’s good to see you again, but it’s not. All I want to find out is this: are the remains that were found Sara-Jane?’
Over his shoulder I get a glimpse of the crime scene. Several police vans are parked in the playground, people in white overalls going back and forth, who I’m assuming are forensics. Police tape surrounds a part of the school that makes my heart sink.
The chapel.
The building is a relic from the school’s former religious past. Its back and side walls are nothing special. But the front wall is a sight to behold. It’s made of small, irregular rose-coloured glass and pottery pieces stuck together, which the weather has smoothed over the years. Legend has it that the glass and pottery came from the once-famous, long-closed pottery and glass works. People around here take great pride in this chapel.
