Girl, Missing, page 3
Afterwards, Gem and a few parents escorted their children to the classrooms upstairs, although Sara-Jane had quietly insisted, ‘I want to go on my own. I’m not a baby.’
You’ll always be my baby. Still, her child was growing up, changing every day.
For a few seconds Gem watched her daughter through the glass panel in the classroom door. As a mother she found it so hard to hand her over. Stop being silly, she scolded herself. A school was a home from home. They would look after her precious child.
Chapter 4
CHILD KILLER
The vicious words catch me off balance as I stare at the door. I know that they’re not really there. That it’s a memory. A very terrifying memory from fifteen years ago. As are so many of the most painful times in my life. I manage to shake it off. I’m on the Rosebridge Estate. Staring at the front door of the flat I once lived in with Sara-Jane.
This is the place where I tried to bring up my daughter. Tried my hardest to be a good mum.
It feels funny being back because I haven’t lived here since my daughter was taken. Fifteen long years.
I live in a neat three-bed house in London now. Buying this flat, which I’d once rented from the council, was one of the first things I did when my business started going from strength to strength. Purchasing it had been much easier than I thought it would be. The cash-strapped council hadn’t been able resist a cash buyer. I had no intention of living here; instead I’ve been renting it out through a charity that helps single mums and their children get back on their feet. A temporary residence until they are permanently housed elsewhere. Lucky for me, there haven’t been any tenants for the last few months which is why I can stay here now.
I’ve left my second-in-command, Erin, in charge of my bike shop empire. I’ve got a good team around me. Erin practically did all the work setting up the megastore. She’s loyal and ambitious, so I know she’ll keep everything ticking over. While I sort myself out, focus on my own life for a change. I’ve told her not to contact me unless it’s really, really urgent because I need to go deep now. Back into the past, long before I had a business empire. Before I even had my first bike shop.
Knowing what happened to me here in this flat, when Sara-Jane was taken, you’d think this would be the last place I’d want to buy. Me and this estate didn’t part on the best of terms, to put it mildly. The truth of why I bought my former home is very simple – owning this is my way of clinging on to my daughter’s memory. So it comes as no surprise that when I step inside, I’m again catapulted back into the past. My daughter comes to me, a burning flame to light up my dark.
It’s Sara-Jane. Right there in the hallway. She looks amazing, all good to go in her best clothes. Dark green hoodie, black jeans with white trim on the pocket, Superstar trainers and her all-time fav tune, Beyoncé’s ‘If I Were a Boy’ playing in the background. And she’s smiling at me. A mischievous glint in her eye behind her glasses makes her whole face glow. I’m transfixed. Can’t get enough of her.
Her sweet voice speaks to me: ‘Can we have cheeseburger and chips, extra ketchup for dinner?’
‘You know that’s weekend food.’
‘Oh, please, Mummy, please.’
‘Only if you get all your homework done.’
‘Promise.’
‘Promise. But I might be persuaded if you give Mummy the biggest hug ever.’
She runs towards me. My arms open wide . . .
I’m back in the semi-darkness of the hallway again. Back? I never left. My arms are outstretched, waiting to enfold a phantom, because Sara-Jane isn’t really here. None of this is real. Leaning heavily against the front door I close my eyes. Maybe this was a mistake, coming back here. Maybe I should’ve let Erin book me a room at the pricey hotel on the other side of town. It feels so empty here without Sara-Jane’s voice. God, the pain of losing her runs so deep. Thinking of her voice reminds me why I have to stay here. The truth about what happened to Sara-Jane is nearby.
I move around the flat, trying to reacquaint myself with my one-time home. The flat is furnished with the basics to make it easy to rent. Including the mirror that catches my reflection. I don’t see my black hair, the thinness of my face, my toned and muscular body. What I see is empty. A shell. Sara-Jane’s abductor didn’t take only her, he took much of me as well.
I go into my old bedroom and unpack what small number of possessions I brought with me. Then I make myself go into Sara-Jane’s former room. A bed, a small dressing table, built-in wardrobe, that’s all that’s in there. But I feel her presence. I turn and head into the main room and tiredness practically makes me fall into the lumpy armchair.
Around thirty minutes later there’s a harsh bang on the front door. It’s the noise that makes me realise that I’ve fallen asleep. The door goes again. Who can it be? No one knows that I’m here. My body is sore, almost creaks as I unwind my tucked-up legs and stand. I make it to the doorway and hesitate; there’s a silhouette behind the glass in the front door. The darkness surprises me, which means I must’ve been asleep for quite some time.
‘Who is it?’
‘Santa Claus and her bloody elves,’ comes the smart-mouth reply.
I can’t help but smile. Traci. My one-time neighbour. I’m surprised she remembers me because I haven’t been back here since . . . well, since. She’s not alone, two of her young grandkids are with her.
Traci’s in her late fifties to my forty and not hiding an inch of it. It’s there proudly in her grey hair and lines around her mouth and eyes and a touch more roundness to her middle. We’re in each other’s arms after I open the door. I hold her tight. I have so much to thank her for. When we move apart, I feel embarrassed, ashamed. Really don’t know where to look. After abruptly leaving the Rosebridge fifteen years ago, I never contacted Traci. After all the emotional support she gave me the least I could’ve done was write to her. Let her know that I was OK. Without this woman I’d have probably ended up in the river.
‘Stop being daft.’ Somehow she senses what I’m thinking. Traci’s got that down-to-earth style that draws people to her. ‘I don’t blame you for not looking back. I’d wondered for years who was renting this place out and I have to tell you I was surprised to find out it was you.’
I don’t ask how she knew it was me who had bought the flat. Or how she figured out I was back. Traci is one of these people who always knows what’s happening, so no doubt word reached her when I turned up at the school earlier.
‘I was sorry to hear about Roger.’ He was her husband. He was much older than her. At least twenty years.
‘No sorries necessary. Roger was a quiet man who didn’t like fuss in this life and so didn’t want it when he was laid to rest.’
Her grandchildren happily play as we catch up over a brew at the scratched kitchen table.
‘I know why you’re back.’ She doesn’t hang around. She never did. Plain speaking has always been her way.
Slowly, I place my cup down. ‘What are they saying at the school? What are the police saying?’
Her kind eyes consider me over the rim of her cup before she takes a sip. ‘All I know is what’s doing the rounds as rumours. Bones were found. I’ve got a friend who works in admin at the police station. Usually she bends my ear about what’s going on. Not this time. They’ve all been told, point blank, not to breathe a word.’
‘Traci, I need to find out.’
She hugs her cup closer. ‘I’ll ask on the Parents’ and Teachers’ Association, see if anyone knows anything.’
Frowning, I ask, ‘Will they help you?’
Her neck stretches up in pride. ‘You betcha they’ll help me. I’m on the board now.’
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Someone from the Rosebridge on the PTA of Princess Isabel School. Things have certainly changed around here.
Traci smiles. ‘Laura Fancy Pants is also still a member of the PTA.’
I frown as something else occurs to me. ‘But how can Laura Prentice still be on the PTA? Surely she hasn’t got any children at the school. Isn’t Abby her only child?’
‘She’s a governor of the school now, and every governor has a specific role in the school—’
‘Ah, let me guess,’ I interrupt. ‘She’s the governor attached to the PTA.’
Traci wrings her lips slightly. ‘You’ve got that right in one. The parents on the PTA still look up to her. Even the parent who’s the actual director seems to take her orders from Madam Fancy Pants.’ She shifts uncomfortably. ‘Ah, she’s not such a dragon really. It was Dale who got me a seat at the table.’
Dale. Of course. Abby’s grandfather. He was always close to Traci. She continues, ‘He made the PTA embrace the idea of families meaning not just parents. So I represent families. My grandkids go there. Granny Traci.’ Her eyes suddenly light up. ‘I wish I could be the director. I’ve wanted that role for years. The election is coming up soon.’
‘So why don’t you go for it?’
Traci looks crestfallen. ‘I don’t stand a chance.’
A lack of confidence. I see it in her face – what all of us mothers from the Rosebridge Estate felt when we entered Princess Isabel School. We entered a world where people had more money than us. Where we were told they spoke better than us. Where they got the attention of the teachers in a way we never could. And Traci had been the toughest of us, the one who was prepared to speak up when we couldn’t. Now I’m a successful businesswoman people listen to me. Money talks. This leaves me feeling sour and pissed. It shouldn’t matter how much money you have.
‘You should do it.’ I rap my knuckles against the tabletop so she knows I mean every word. ‘Let the parents make their choice. I started my bike business in an archway under a railway bridge. I have five large shops, including a megastore. You’ve already got over the biggest hurdle, getting on the board. Now all you’ve got to do is put your name forward.’
Traci stands and gathers her grandchildren to her side. ‘I need to go and get this lot ready for when their dad picks them up.’
She must be referring to her youngest son – no way can she be talking about Billy-Bob, her eldest. He was trouble through and through. I suspect he must be in prison. Or dead of an overdose. Poor Traci, she did her best. Us mothers do.
On the communal balcony Traci surprises me by saying, ‘You’ve done so well for yourself. Get on with your life. Don’t let the poison of the past pollute it. You should not have come back.’
You should not have come back. Is she warning me? If so, about what? Or is she worried that I’ll get hurt all over again and destroy the successful life I’ve worked so hard to make?
Chapter 5
Something falls through the letterbox just as I drain the dregs of my final cup of tea before heading to bed. I stiffen, scowling hard. That’s a bit weird, isn’t it, to post something at night. Before I head off to the hallway my phone pings:
Text message: I can help you. Heather.
That young journalist. Heather Banks. How did she get my number? She must’ve used her contacts. In disgust I chuck my phone down. And go into the hallway. I look down near the door. And frown because it doesn’t look like an envelope, so it’s not a letter. It’s material. Two small pieces of material. Confused, I can’t quite make them out. Crouching to get a closer look I finally figure out what they are. A small pair of socks.
What nonsense is this? Why would someone shove a pair of socks through the door? They’re small and pink with a red ribbon at the top and words embroidered down the side. Flipping one lengthways, I read: Princess For A Day.
A chill slithers down my spine. It can’t be. Stunned, the blood drains away from my face.
They look like the socks that belonged to my Sara-Jane. The last time I saw her wearing them was on the day she was taken.
My mind’s in a state of denial. These can’t belong to my Sara-Jane. They can’t. Unless . . . Feverishly, my fingers turn over the right sock, looking for proof. I find it, the hole in the heel. My worst fear is confirmed.
These belong to my missing little girl.
I choke up, fighting for air. Staggering, my back bangs into the wall, my legs go from under me and I slide down to the cold floor. Squeezing my eyes tight I hug the socks to my chest. My mind flashes back to that last day with her at the school gate. We had a teeny, tiny tiff.
‘I don’t want to wear these stupid socks.’ Her lips compressed in a stubborn line. ‘Princess For A Day! A whole day? I don’t want to be a princess for a minute. No. Thank. You.’
‘I thought you’d liked them.’
Her little face had screwed up. ‘I was only pretending to make you happy, Mum. I want to be a boss girl, not a princess.’
‘Don’t give me a hard time. Please!’
I’d been against the clock that morning, needing to be at the café I worked at early to cover someone else’s shift. As a single mum, I jumped on every opportunity to get extra cash.
‘I know, Mum.’ She looked remorseful. ‘But pink is such a yuck colour. You can’t skateboard in a fluffy, princess dress.’
Sara-Jane was an outdoorsy type of girl who loved climbing, jumping rope, football and anything that was active.
‘Be a good girl for Mummy. And make sure you use your reading glasses.’
‘I’m always a good girl,’ she’d answered with a touch of sauce.
Children come in all shapes and sizes and with their own mannerisms and the one thing I loved about my daughter the most was her cheekiness. Never malicious, always about having fun.
I’d given my adored girl the usual two kisses on the tip of her nose and watched her go through the school gate. The last time I saw Sara-Jane was with a peep of her pink socks showing.
My eyes punch open with anger. Question after damning question starts to come. Who left her socks here? The vile evil monster who snatched her away from me? The thought of what he must have done to her. Might be still doing to her. I want to tear the world apart until I find him. Save my precious-precious girl.
I do what I should’ve done as soon as I saw her socks. I go after whoever left them. I wrench the front door open. Look over the balcony, peering deep into the darkness, but there’s no one around. Maybe they’re hiding downstairs, concealed in the shadows, biding their time until it’s safe for them to crawl back to whatever diseased hole they came out of. I rush downstairs. Once there, I twist and turn, not sure where to go, where to look. The bastard’s out there, I can feel their eyes on me. I run right and look. No one there. Rush the other way. No one there either. In a daze I stumble back to where I started and turn in a disorientating circle.
‘I know you’re out there.’ My voice is hoarse and hurting.
I hear something like a laugh. Are they laughing at me? Then I realise it’s the wind, whirling in my ears.
Someone must’ve seen whoever left Sara-Jane’s socks. Taking two steps at a time, I bolt back up to my landing and start banging on my neighbours’ doors. An older man opens the first one. I wave the socks in his face. ‘Someone dropped these through my door, did you see who it was?’
He stares at me as if I’ve got three heads. ‘What? I’ve been indoors all the time.’
I move on to the next door. This time it’s opened by someone I recognise. One of the other mums whose child went to Princess Isabel at the same time as Sara-Jane. ‘Did you see anyone on the landing, a couple of minutes ago?’
She gives me a startled look. ‘Can I help you?’
What’s wrong with her? Doesn’t she understand English? I talk slowly, emphasising every word. ‘Did you see someone walking along the balcony?’
My hard tone makes her step back, her fingers tighten protectively against the door. ‘On the balcony?’ The shuttered stare she gives me suggests she doesn’t think I’m right in the head.
I show her the socks. ‘I’m Gem Casey. I once lived here. You must remember the business with my daughter, Sara-Jane. Just now, someone dumped her socks through my door. All I want to do is find the animal who did it.’
Her sympathy is gone in a flash. Any friendliness gone in a heartbeat. Hostility is all she has now. I know why that is. It’s hearing my name. Realising who I am. It reminds me that too many people on the Rosebridge Estate still hate my guts.
Screw her!
I leave and knock on door after door after door, my words rushing out louder every time. The pounding of my fist against doors becomes more frantic. There’s a pounding in my head that I can’t shift. My hand hurts. Things around me swirl and tip upside down. Why won’t anyone help me?
I’m not falling apart. I’m not falling apart. I’m not . . .
Arms envelop me with the warm comfort of a prayer. Who’s holding me? I try to shove them off. It’s no use because they only tighten, accompanied by a soothing voice.
‘It’s all right, Gem. Everything is going to be fine.’
Traci. I look into her troubled face, her kind eyes and easy smile. She’s holding me against the wall near her front door. A concerned man hovers behind her. He’s years younger than her and dressed in a suit, obviously a professional man.
‘Do you need help?’ he asks her softly.
Traci half-turns to him. ‘Leave this to me. You get yourself ready to go home.’
He stares, expression full of sympathy. Why does his face look so familiar? When he’s gone, I suddenly realise I’m the centre of attention, my neighbours eyeing me like I’m a mad woman. Mortified, I slump into Traci’s arms, because I realise that’s exactly how I’ve been behaving. But I’m not crazy, am I?
With quivering passion, I declare to Traci, ‘It won’t get better until I know what happened to her.’
‘I know! I know!’ Despite her soothing tone she looks completely baffled. She guides me back into my flat. ‘Why don’t you tell me all about it over a strong cuppa?’
I grab her arm to make her stop. With a calmness I don’t feel I show her the socks. ‘These are Sara-Jane’s. She hated them. Not long after you left someone posted them through the letterbox.’
