The Girl Who Vanished, page 1
About the Author
R.M. Ward was born in Surrey and now lives in Bath with her husband and two dogs. She has two grown-up children. She worked in local government for years before writing full-time. Her debut YA thriller, Numbers, published under Rachel Ward, won many regional awards in the UK and Europe, was released in twenty-six countries and is currently optioned for film. She has written two psychological thrillers for HQ Digital, Safe With You and The Girl Who Vanished.
Also by R.M. Ward
Safe With You
UK
The Girl Who Vanished
R.M. WARD
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2023
Copyright © Rachel Ward 2023
Rachel Ward asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © May 2023 ISBN: 9780008560287
Version: 2023-03-21
Table of Contents
Cover
About the Author
Also by R.M. Ward
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Note to Readers
The Girl
Frances
Frances
The Girl
Frances
The Girl
Frances
Frances
Naomi
Frances
Naomi
Frances
Frances
Naomi
Frances
Frances
Naomi
Frances
Frances
Frances
Frances
Frances
Naomi
Frances
Naomi
Naomi
Frances
Naomi
Frances
Naomi
The Girl
Frances
Frances
Frances
Frances
The Girl
Frances
Frances
Naomi
Frances
Frances
The Girl
Naomi
Frances
Frances
The Girl
Frances
Frances
Naomi
Frances
Naomi
Frances
The Girl
Naomi
Naomi
Frances
Frances
Frances
Frances
Naomi
Frances
Frances
Frances
Frances
Frances
Frances
Frances
Frances
Frances
Frances
Naomi
Frances
Naomi
Frances
Frances
Frances
Frances
Frances
Frances
Frances
Frances
Theresa
A Letter from R.M. Ward
Keep Reading …
Acknowledgements
Dear Reader …
About the Publisher
For Ozzy, Ali and Pete
Note to Readers
This ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings:
Change of font size and line height
Change of background and font colours
Change of font
Change justification
Text to speech
The Girl
She looks down as she walks, concentrating hard, following the messy trail of treasure, a ribbon of stones and seaweed running along the sandy shore parallel to the water’s edge. She crouches down, not caring if the water laps in and catches the bottom of her shorts, and sifts through a promising spot, hoping for a crab leg, a stone with a secret stripe of quartz or, the greatest prize of all, a cowrie shell.
The sun is warm on her arms and the back of her legs. Her hat with daisies on it is protecting her neck and there’s a tiny breeze blowing in from the water.
A shadow falls across her and she shivers.
She looks up and sees a tall, dark figure against the bleached-out sky, bare feet on the sand, head almost touching the sun.
‘Your mum’s looking for you. She’s really worried.’
She looks past the woman’s legs at the crowded beach. It’s a kaleidoscope of windbreaks and fold-up chairs, clutches of people and towels all over the sand like crazy paving. She has no idea where Mum and Danni are.
‘Come on, let’s get you back to her.’
She holds out her hand. It’s a beautiful hand – long fingers and painted nails.
The girl picks up her bucket and spade and slips her grubby, gritty hand into the hand of the stranger.
Frances
The call comes when I am asleep. The call no mother ever wants. A ringtone piercing my fitful dreams, jerking me back to consciousness.
‘Mrs Brookman. Frances? My name is Harriet Smith. I’m a staff nurse at St Thomas’ Hospital. Your daughter, Naomi, was in an accident earlier today. She’s in surgery now. You should get here if you can.’
My foggy brain tries to make sense of her words.
‘Is she okay? An accident? What happened?’
‘We’re not sure. A road traffic accident of some sort. She was brought in by ambulance. We’re assessing injuries now.’
‘Oh my god. Is she going to … I mean, will she be all right?’
‘We’re doing everything we can, but you need to get here.’
‘Yes, of course. I’m on my way. Did you say St Thomas’? London, right?’
‘Westminster Bridge Road.’
‘Okay. I’m two hours away. Tell her … tell her to hold on.’
I’m already up, clutching my phone, staggering towards the bathroom.
In the bathroom, sunlight floods through the textured glass. I’ve come to rely on afternoon naps – they’re the only way I can cope with the exhaustion of the insomnia that has plagued my nights for years. I’ve given up trying to fight it. It’s easier for me to get up when I wake, work at my drawing board at four in the morning, but then I must sleep later on. Waking up in the afternoon is disorientating enough. Being woken suddenly like this plunges my brain into confusion; my sense of time, gravity, reality all jumbled up.
I splash cold water onto my face. The shock of it brings clarity. This is real. Naomi’s in hospital. I’ve got to drive to London. Now.
In the kitchen, Tiggy threads her way through my legs, almost tripping me. I curse and clutch the cold granite worktop of the island in the middle of the floor. The cat looks up at me enquiringly and meows.
‘Not now, Tigs. I’ve got to go.’ I’m halfway to the door when I realise I don’t know how long I’ll be gone for. I go back and fill a bowl with wet food. Her nose is in before the bowl even hits the floor. She loves Naomi, always taking up residence in her room when she’s home from uni for the holidays. There’s a lump in my throat now. ‘I’m going to fetch her, Tigs. I promise I’ll bring her back soon.’
I don’t need much with me – just keys, debit card, phone. I fleetingly wonder if I should take a change of clothes but there’s no time for that. I grab the little cross-body bag I use every day and my car and house keys from on the hall table. As I let myself out, the warm air hits me, contrasting with the cool of the house. I catch sight of my next-door neighbour putting some recycling in her bin.
‘You all right, love?’ Joan calls out.
‘Not really. Naomi’s been in an accident.’
She frowns. ‘Another one? Oh no. Is it bad?’
‘I don’t know. Could you feed Tiggy and the chickens if I’m not back by the morning?’
‘’Course I can, love. Where are you going?’
‘London.’
‘Frances—’ Joan’s lovely, has a heart of gold, but she’d keep me here all day if she could, and I can’t stop. There’s a long drive ahead and every minute counts.
I wave vaguely in her direction and get into the car, which has been sitting baking on the drive all day. It’s stiflingly hot. I turn on the engine so I can wind all the windows down, then check my phone. No new messages. I tap on Rick’s number. It’s midweek, so he’s working away in London. He can get to Naomi more quickly than I can. It rings a few times, then goes to voicemail. I don’t know what to say. I pause, then burble, ‘Rick, it’s me. Naomi’s been hurt. She’s in St Thomas’. I’m heading there now. I’ll see you there.’
I put the phone on the passenger seat, start the engine and reverse out of the drive. Joan is watching me, her arms folded, her face crinkled with concern. She’s always been fond of Naomi, babysat for us when she was little. She still remembers her birthday, brings round a card and a little box of Maltesers or something, even though Naomi’s twenty now and at university.
I’ve suddenly got a vision of my lovely girl lying in a hospital bed surrounded by machines, with tubes and wires going into her. How bad is it? We’re assessing injuries now. Oh god. Hold on, Naomi. Just hold on.
It’s about twenty minutes to the motorway and then a solid hour and a half’s drive. I’m not used to motorway driving. Rick always does the long journeys. I can do this, though. I just need to focus.
The roads through town are infuriatingly busy with parents on their way to or from the school pick-up. We crawl in a stop-start queue through one set of lights after another, music from open windows clashing in the heavy, fume-filled air. The car in front of me is one of those oversized four-by-fours. The driver isn’t paying attention and doesn’t keep up as the cars ahead move away, creating a gap. They are either on her phone or talking with somebody. The lights are on green now, the traffic’s starting to flow, but they haven’t realised. We’ll miss our turn at this rate. I slam the flat of my hand onto the middle of my steering wheel and blast the horn. I see them tilt their head, suddenly aware of the wide-open road in front of them. In their panic, they stall the car, then it judders into life and shoots forward. It accelerates through the lights well after they turn amber. It’s too late for me to follow and I’m stuck at the head of the queue, watching the four-by-four recede into the distance. I slap my hand on the dashboard and give a low scream of frustration. This is killing me.
A lifetime later the lights change again and I’m off, joining the traffic nudging its way fitfully along the London Road. After ten long minutes I’m out of town and onto the A road that winds up through the hills to the motorway. My phone buzzes. I glance down, aware that it’s risky and stupid, but unable to stop myself. It’s not the hospital, just advertising spam from a fast-food place. I look up again as an oncoming truck flashes its lights and blares its horn at me. I’ve drifted over the double white lines in the middle of the road. Jesus! I jerk the steering wheel and career back to my side of the road, only just missing the kerb. A wooded hillside drops away to my left. My heart’s racing and I’m shouting out loud, ‘Fucksake, no!’ – angry at myself for driving like an idiot. How can I help Naomi if I end up in a crumpled pile of metal? I pass a sign, ‘Petrol, ½ mile’. I know I should pull in and calm down, but nevertheless I don’t indicate or brake when I see the awning of the little garage and I’m soon past it and the line of cars waiting to refuel. I can’t stop. I’ve got to get to Naomi.
As I approach the slip road, I close all the windows and switch on the air-con. Joining the motorway is the worst bit, that anxiety that you’ll end up at a standstill or be squeezed into a space that’s not safe. A road traffic accident of some sort. I wonder what happened to Naomi. I knew I would miss her terribly when she left home to start uni. However you try to prepare, the reality of empty nest syndrome is achingly awful. I knew I’d worry about her, too. Would she make friends? Would she fit in? Would she find the work too hard? I never imagined I’d get a phone call like this. This is really all my nightmares come true.
‘It’s okay. You can do this,’ I coach myself as I ease down the slope, accelerating to match the speed of the traffic I’m joining, glancing to the right to see if it’s okay to slot in. There’s a decent gap. As I put my indicator on and prepare to move out, a big dark car is suddenly close on my right, sweeping past from behind me on the slip road. I didn’t see it coming, guess I hadn’t checked my rear mirror. I cringe in my seat – like that’s going to help – and take my foot off the gas. As it passes, I get a glimpse of a child in the back passenger seat. They’re banging their hand against the window, little palm slapping into the glass. Their face is indistinct, but their mouth is open. My stomach lurches – with the shock of the car, with this weird snapshot, which fills my vision for a split second and then is gone as the car accelerates away. It joins the motorway and immediately crosses into the middle lane, carving its way recklessly through the lorries and vans.
I check behind me properly this time, check again and then pull onto the carriageway.
I can feel sweat pricking the skin on my forehead and under my arms. My breath is ragged and shallow.
This journey was already a nightmare, something I had to endure to get to where I need to be, but now I feel like every nerve ending in my body is shrieking because I’m certain that what I just saw in the car that overtook me was an attempt to catch my attention. I saw so little and for such a short time but there’s a visceral response going on in my body now that I can’t explain, except that what I just witnessed was a child in distress. A child crying for help.
Frances
‘Stop kicking the back of my chair, Naomi.’ Rick’s voice is thick with tension.
I twist round and thread my arm between the seats, then get my hand between Rick’s seatback and Naomi’s feet. I catch a foot and hold it, making a game of it.
‘Got you.’
Naomi giggles and tries to wriggle free, while the other foot is still jarring repeatedly into Rick’s back.
‘Hey, hey,’ I say. ‘Let’s take these shoes off so you can wiggle your toes.’ This gets her interest. She stops kicking. It’s a struggle but I somehow manage to undo the buckles on her shiny new Clarks T-bar shoes with one hand. ‘Okay, now wiggle your fingers and wiggle your toes. Shall we sing “Twinkle, Twinkle”?’
I start singing and Naomi joins in. She’s sitting nicely now, her blue eyes fixed on mine, her face shining with pleasure. She holds her arms out and opens and closes her hands, showing me her twinkly stars. I start to relax. Another bomb defused.
Rick tuts loudly and switches on the radio, drowning out our voices.
Kids mess around all the time, don’t they, especially on long journeys? The girl I saw could have been having a tantrum about something ridiculous, winding up her mum or dad, overtired and grumpy. I want to rationalise it away – I’ve got a real-life emergency of my own to deal with – but my mind and body are in full-on panic mode. My heart is racing, my breath catching in my throat. There’s a tightness in my chest, a squeezing sensation. I need to calm down but it’s impossible. Everything’s speeding up, out of control. I’m fighting so hard for air, I’m almost panting. I’ve got to calm down.
I’ve lost sight of the four-by-four and am boxed in between two lorries now. The one in front is doing sixty-five and the one behind is too close for comfort. It’s getting claustrophobic. I check my mirrors, wait for a gap, indicate and move into the second lane. I put my foot down and overtake, feeling a sense of relief at the sight of open road ahead. My shoulders drop a little and at last I manage to get a decent lungful of air. Keep breathing, you can do this. I keep accelerating. The speed is calming me down. The knot in my chest is unravelling. Every minute like this is a minute closer to Naomi.
A heat shimmer hovers over the distant road. Everything’s bright and bleached out. I wish I’d put my sunglasses on. I move the visor down and angle it so it blocks out as much sky as possible. It looks like there’s a clump of cars ahead, bunching up as one lorry overtakes another. Is that the black four-by-four at the back of them? I’m gaining on the group steadily. If I could catch up now, I could take another look, reassure myself that there’s nothing really wrong.
I push up to seventy-five, seventy-six, seventy-seven. My little Nissan gets noisy at this speed and it’s protesting now. I’m within fifty metres or so of the four-by-four now. The number plate looks familiar – the first two letters catch my eye. GM. Is that the same as the erratically driven car in front of me earlier, the one in town that nipped through the lights on amber?
Ahead of me, the four-by-four moves into the fast lane. I check behind and then follow. We pass the parallel lorries. I glance at my speedometer. Jesus, I’m nearly up to eighty. I follow the car into the middle lane and maintain the distance between us. They are sticking to this lane. I check my mirrors and move over to the left, accelerating to reduce the gap. I move up on the inside. Undertaking feels wrong and risky and I’ve put myself in their blind spot. There’s the danger that they will pull over, not knowing that I’m there. I can see a shape in the back passenger seat, the top half of the little girl’s head. She’s not moving now, just facing forward like you would expect. Okay, it was nothing. I can forget about it and concentrate on getting to Naomi as quickly and safely as I can.
