Local Girl Missing (18 page)

I pull up outside the local newspaper offices on the trading estate on the edge of town, relieved to see Daniel’s Astra in the car park.
THE OLDCLIFFE ADVERTISER
is written in huge letters across the front of the 1960s building. It hasn’t changed from when we did our work experience here when we were fifteen – do you remember, Soph? You had aspirations to be a journalist then, although you changed your mind regularly. You just knew you wanted to do something creative. I, on the other hand, had no clue, although went along with it because I thought it would be a laugh. Instead we were separated and I spent most of my time taking phone messages while you shadowed reporters to court.

I’ve tried to call your brother several times since finding the envelope, but he hasn’t answered. In desperation I jumped in the car and raced here, hoping he would be at work. I had to do something because there’s no way I’m going to stay in that apartment by myself now.

My legs still feel shaky as I make my way into the offices. There is nobody on reception so I continue into the open-plan newsroom. The strip lights are on but
there is only one head bent over a keyboard: a woman with a pony-tail twisted at the nape of her neck. She looks up as I approach and smiles questioningly. She’s young, probably mid-twenties, and vaguely familiar. Where is everybody else?

I introduce myself.

‘Hi, I’m Trish,’ she says. It dawns on me that she is the girl who was with Daniel last night. ‘A big story came in. So I’m left manning the phones.’

That might explain why Daniel didn’t meet me and Jez earlier. ‘Has Daniel gone too? His car is outside.’

She frowns. ‘No, he’s here somewhere –’ She’s interrupted by the phone ringing and mouths an apology as she answers it, turning away from me to scribble something down on a notepad. I take the opportunity to wander towards the only glass cubicle in the place. It has a sign saying
EDITOR
on the closed door so I take it to be Daniel’s office. I walk in but it’s empty, although his computer screen is on.

Intrigued, I go to his desk to see what he’s been working on and my hand flies to my mouth. On screen is an article about severed human feet being washed up on the beaches of the Pacific North-west. ‘The reason victims’ feet survived,’ I read, ‘was because they were wearing trainers or boots that scavengers were unable to chew through. This meant they could have come from bodies that had been in the water for years, even decades –’

‘Frankie?’

I jump at the sound of Daniel’s voice.

‘What are you doing?’ He pushes past me to click on the mouse to close the page and then stands looking at me, his eyes narrowed. ‘Why are you snooping around on my computer?’

My head is reeling. ‘I’m not. It was open. And anyway, why are you reading about severed feet?’

‘I just want to understand, before … Wednesday, that’s all.’ But he avoids eye contact, instead shuffling papers on his desk.

He’s googled ‘severed feet’ to get more insight into what happened to you, Soph. It’s so gruesome. I’m suddenly furious with him. What the hell is he playing at? ‘Where were you?’ I cry. ‘You were supposed to meet me to talk to Jez. You left me to face him by myself …’

His expression is dark. ‘A big story came up … I got waylaid.’ He rubs his eyes. He looks shattered, and for the first time I realise how much responsibility this job must be.

‘You could have phoned …’

‘I’m really sorry.’

‘There’s something else too.’ I fill him in on Jean, the dummy and the envelope. ‘It had my name on it and it’s freaked me out. Can you come back with me? I’m too afraid to go alone.’

‘You, afraid? Wow, Lady Frankie, that’s something you don’t admit very often. Give me ten minutes to finish up here and then we’ll go. The deputy editor will be back in a minute and he can take over.’

Back at Beaufort Villas, at the top of the stairs, I point to apartment 3 with a timorous finger and tell him what happened. When I’ve finished he frowns but doesn’t say anything. Instead he goes to the door, now closed, and turns the handle. It’s still on the latch, exactly as I found it earlier, and creaks open easily. Daniel calls out a hello then disappears inside the apartment. I’m too scared to stand out on the landing by myself so I follow him. Everything is the same as it was when I went in there less than an hour ago.

‘There are no belongings,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t seem as though anyone is staying here. It looks like someone has been using this flat purely to type up those poisonous letters to me. Who would do that? Do you know who this apartment belongs to?’

His back is to me and he’s leaning over the desk that’s been pushed up against the bay window. He picks up the envelope and turns to me. ‘This is the same as the ones you’ve been receiving?’ he asks.

I tut impatiently and tell him that, yes, of course they are. He turns it over in his hand, a puzzled expression on his face. ‘You said it had your name and address on the front, but there’s nothing here.’

I snatch it from him. Sure enough the brown A4 envelope is blank.

Daniel looks irritated. ‘You’ve jumped to conclusions based on a blank brown envelope? A generic envelope that everybody uses?’

‘But …’ I stare at it, confused, as if expecting my name and address to suddenly reappear in the middle
of the envelope. ‘I don’t understand. It definitely had my name on it …’ I throw it back at Daniel but he makes no effort to catch it and it floats to the floor. I get down on my hands and knees to search frantically under the desk. ‘Maybe the wind blew it off the desk,’ I say desperately as I scan the parquet flooring in vain. I stand up and dust down my trousers. Daniel is staring at me, perplexed. The disbelieving look on his face makes my eyes swell with tears. ‘It was here,’ I say in a small voice.

‘Oh, Franks.’ Daniel’s expression softens and he takes a step towards me. ‘You look exhausted – I’m worried about you.’

‘I’m fine,’ I sniff, trying to blink back tears. I can’t fall apart now, not after all this time, although part of me would love to bury myself in Daniel’s arms, to hide within the folds of his long black coat. I’ve been strong for so long. Just a little bit longer, Soph.

I turn away from him and swipe at my eyes with my sleeve, careful not to dislodge any mascara, and I freeze. ‘The vase …’ I say, staring at the coffee table. ‘The vase … it’s gone.’

‘What vase?’

I don’t know what’s happening but I feel an overwhelming sense of dread. ‘There was a vase … the cat had knocked it over. It was on the floor, broken. But now it’s gone, someone’s cleared it up. Someone’s been in here and cleared up, taken the envelope.’ I can hear my voice; it’s shrill, the type of voice I despise, and I hate that it’s coming from me.

‘Frankie, you’re not making any sense.’

I spin around to face him. ‘Don’t you see? Someone is messing with me, Daniel. Someone’s trying to frighten me. Why?’

He takes hold of my elbow and gently steers me towards the door. ‘We shouldn’t be in here,’ he says in a low voice. ‘Come on.’

I feel sick but I let him lead me out of the apartment. He pulls the door to and then I follow him back into my own apartment. I suddenly have the irrational fear that while I’ve been out someone has been in here. I dart from room to room in a crazed manner, checking under the beds and in the wardrobe.

‘Franks, you’re being paranoid.’

Daniel’s voice makes me jump and I whirl around to confront him. ‘You said the other apartments were empty. But they’re obviously not. Do you know I hear a baby crying at night? This is a detached house, Daniel. The sound has to be coming from somewhere. The woman downstairs says it’s not coming from her flat yet this morning I saw her with a dummy. It’s as though someone –’ I swallow a sob ‘– it’s as though they know how to push my buttons.’ I can’t help it, I burst into angry, frustrated tears.

‘Franks …’ Daniel looks stricken but I’m on a roll. All the pent-up fears that I’ve tried to bury spill out of me. I have no control over what I’m saying.

‘I see her, I see Sophie! She’s watching me, she’s on the pier, she follows me home, she’s standing at the bottom of the driveway, calling me. She wants to talk
to me, is she trying to warn me? And now the apartment across the hall has a new guest. Someone who’s writing me poisonous letters … I can’t … I don’t know what to do …’ I bury my face in my hands, embarrassed at my outburst. I’m so good at keeping it together, even in stressful situations, so why do I feel like I’m unravelling, being back here?

Daniel doesn’t say anything but I feel him pull me into his arms. I cry against his chest for a couple of minutes before composing myself. ‘I’m sorry,’ I sniff eventually, not able to look at him. ‘I’m sorry for saying all that about Sophie. I know, rationally, that she’s not there, that it’s my imagination.’

‘Franks,’ he says into my hair, ‘I think that apartment is empty. I can’t explain the vase or the envelope, but it didn’t look as though anyone was staying there.’ He pulls away from me and tenderly wipes a tear from my face. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for putting you through this. I should never have asked you to come back here. I never realised it would affect you so much. What you said about Sophie … I understand. For years I thought I saw her. That’s what happens when someone you love dies, you know that.’

I can’t tell him that it’s more than that. That when I see you, you’re as real to me as he is. That it’s not just the flick of long blonde hair or a slim pair of legs that fleetingly remind me of you. It is
you
. You’re here. I’m as sure of it as I know my own name. I’m not sure why you’re here, though. Is it revenge for not being there for you that night? Or are you trying to warn me? To help
me? I never believed in ghosts, that was always your domain. But now … now …

He kisses the top of my head then pulls away. ‘I’ll put the kettle on. It will be OK … I have a good feeling we’re getting closer to knowing what happened to my sister.’

When he’s left the room I go to the en suite and splash my face, then hurriedly reapply my mascara and brush my hair until I feel calmer. My eyes look huge in my face, the glisten of tears making the green irises brighter.

Daniel is sitting on the sofa when I finally make an appearance. I draw the curtains, deliberately avoiding looking anywhere but at the drapes. All at once I have a sudden, sharp memory of you – your face, your laughing grey eyes – and it’s so clear, so intense, that I cry out as though I’ve been stabbed. The guilt, it’s eating away at me. That I couldn’t save you.

‘Franks?’ Daniel’s voice brings me back to the present.

‘It’s OK,’ I smile reassuringly. He already thinks I’m losing it, I can’t tell him anything else. I rub my chest where my heart is. ‘Just a bit of indigestion.’

‘Sit down, for God’s sake, the last thing we need is for you to keel over from a heart attack.’ He’s joking but I can hear the note of concern in his voice. I join him on the sofa and sip my tea. He’s put sugar in it, but I don’t complain. I need the energy spike for my frayed nerves.

‘Do you want me to stay here tonight?’ he says. ‘I could sleep on the sofa.’

I long to say yes, for him to share my bed, to lose myself in him, but I know I can’t. My head is all over the place at the moment, and he’s got a girlfriend. Sweet, kind Daniel. I’d hate to hurt him like I did back then. ‘What about Mia?’ I ask instead.

‘She’d understand,’ he says, but I can tell by his expression that he’s lying. I know she wouldn’t understand. I know that if he was my boyfriend I wouldn’t.

I squeeze his hand. ‘Thanks, Dan. But I think we both know she wouldn’t like it. I don’t want to cause you trouble.’

He stays for another hour and we order a takeaway. He has to go down to the driveway to make the call, the reception in this apartment is so sketchy. I leave the front door open for him but I hover in the kitchen, keeping an eye on the hallway just in case the person who is staying in the opposite flat makes an appearance. Daniel doesn’t believe me, but I know what I saw. I’m certain someone is staying in there. Maybe not all the time; they could just be using it to write their nasty letters, for all I know, creeping out in the early hours of the morning, leaving their brown envelopes and their filthy little notes behind. I don’t understand what they’re hoping to achieve. Are they trying to scare me into leaving? I’d love to up and leave, to run back to the safety of London. But I’m not going yet. I refuse to be driven out of this town by a few cryptic notes.

When Daniel returns, his nose red from the cold, a few snowflakes decorating his hair and shoulders like
dandruff, we talk about everything but you. After we’ve devoured our curries he leaves, pausing by my door for a moment. ‘Don’t come with me to the front door, I can see myself out,’ he says as I begin to stuff my feet into my boots. He kisses me on my cheek and I resist the urge to reach up and kiss him.

I reluctantly close the door on him, the apartment feeling empty now that he’s gone. I throw some more logs on the fire and down another glass of wine. I’m going to have to stock up again tomorrow; I’m drinking far too much since I’ve been back here. My head is full of you, Soph. It’s no longer full of the business, like it was before. You’ve managed to wheedle your way back into my thoughts, just like you did in the weeks and months after you first went missing.

As I’ve done every night since I’ve been here, I grab the duvet from the bedroom and curl up with it on the sofa. It still carries the scent of Mike and part of me regrets sending him packing this morning. I could really use the company right now.

The reception on the television isn’t too bad tonight and I’m comforted by the chatter of the characters in some period drama. After I’ve polished off the bottle of wine I fall into a deep sleep, still in my clothes. I’m woken by the howls of the baby. Like clockwork, I think, as I blink at the green lights on the DVD player: 02:00. It’s always 2 a.m. when the baby starts crying. I listen carefully, trying to ignore the goose bumps on my arms, the hairs that stand up at the back of my neck as though someone is blowing softly on my bare flesh. It’s rhythmic,
the crying. Stopping for about five minutes, then starting up again. Stopping. Starting. Stopping. It’s almost like …