Local Girl Missing (23 page)

I can’t face going back to the apartment yet, so I get out of the car and walk along the promenade. The wind tugs at my hair and gathers under the hem of my coat, trying to lift its edges. There is hardly anyone else about, which isn’t surprising on a cold Tuesday afternoon in February. I sit on the sea wall, watching as the waves crash against the metal legs of the Grand Pier. Do you remember how we used to sit on this wall in the summer, Soph? We would sit for hours as teenagers eating pasties and chatting about boys. Things were never the same once you’d met Leon. If I’m honest, things were never the same after I left to go to that horrible boarding school.

I sit for a few minutes longer but the wind is so strong it’s as though I’ve been slapped in the face, and my fingers and toes feel numb with the cold. I get up and head back to the car. When I’m safely ensconced in the driver’s seat I ring Stuart and ask how things are ticking over in my absence. He tells me that one of the staff, Paul, has messed up another order.

‘It was him last time,’ he says, sounding frustrated. ‘The mistakes are costing us time and money.’

I sigh. ‘You have my permission to let him go,’ I say. ‘We can’t afford any more of his mistakes.’

Stuart sounds pleased. ‘Great. I’ll have it sorted before you get back.’

‘I’ll be back tomorrow,’ I say, pushing aside my feelings about leaving Daniel. I need to get out of this place. This town is my undoing. Then I call my mum to find out how Dad is, but there is no change from the slight improvement she told me about yesterday. I imagine Mum sitting by his bedside, clutching his hand and massaging his legs, the picture of the perfect, loving wife. Sometimes I wonder if she prefers him this way: vulnerable, malleable, unable to answer back. Unable to cheat on her or hurt her. I tell her what I told Stuart, that I’ll be back tomorrow, but I can tell by her vagueness that I’ve already lost her. That her mind has returned to her wifely duties.

You could never understand my relationship with my mother, could you? You were always so close to yours. I admitted to you once on a sleepover how I felt about her. We were sharing a bed in your room; I preferred your house to mine. It was always so much cosier and not filled with strangers and their things. The hotel never felt like home and I was quite lonely, if I’m honest, stuck up in that attic bedroom while my parents’ time was consumed by ensuring their guests were comfortable, that they had clean bedding, tidy rooms and a cooked breakfast and dinner. I would lie in bed at night listening to the faint chattering of my parents entertaining the guests, the shrill sound of laughter and the
chink of wine glasses. Hotels, to me, have always been businesses, not homes, which is why I never stay in them now. It doesn’t feel relaxing to me. It either feels like work or reminds me of walking on eggshells around other guests when I was a kid.

Your house had a mother’s loving touch. My mum was perfunctory in the way she dealt with me. She cared about my welfare, she made sure I had clean clothes and food on the table. But she wasn’t loving towards me. She didn’t care about me, she never took time to get to know me. I now understand that she suffered post-natal depression, that she found it hard to bond with me. And it never mattered because I had Dad. He made up for my mum’s coldness. But that night, as we snuggled under your duvet cover, I admitted that I felt Mum loved Dad much more than she loved me and that she was jealous of the attention he paid me.

You had sounded shocked as you’d whispered into the darkness, ‘How can your mum be jealous that your dad loves you?’

‘I don’t know,’ I’d mumbled, embarrassed. How could you understand when you had a mother whose love for her children was written all over her face every time she looked at you both? Then you told me about your dad, how you could barely remember him apart from the night when he had given your lovely mum a broken nose and the three of you had fled ‘down South’. That was the only time we admitted this to each other. We never spoke of it again, but I’ve never forgotten it.

By the time I get back to the apartment it’s nearly 3.30 p.m. Not long before Daniel comes over. I take a shower and change into my last clean pair of jeans and a figure-hugging jumper. I don’t want to look like I’ve tried too hard.

I pour myself a glass of wine. I feel tense and on edge. Something is niggling away at my subconscious, something about Daniel and Leon. I perch on the old-fashioned school radiator, relishing the warmth that seeps through my jeans, and watch a white van trundle past as I try and organise my thoughts.

Daniel lied to me when he said this apartment was owned by his friend. Why didn’t he tell me this place was his? I understand he might have felt a little embarrassed at having to ask me for money, but I would rather have given it to him than some faceless mate of his. I can’t help but think it’s an excuse, that he deliberately wanted to mislead me. But why? And the way he acted with Leon this afternoon – I can’t put my finger on it, but it was odd.

I think back to the other day when we first went to see Leon. The way they had squared up to each other, how Leon had called Daniel ‘Danny Boy’. He’d never called Daniel that back in 1997. It all seemed rather forced, as though they were actors in a play. And why has Daniel bought a place across the hall from his enemy, his nemesis?

I have a pain behind my eyes. The wine has already gone to my head. I’ve never been very good at holding my drink. A lightweight, you always called me. A cheap date.

I massage the space between my eyes, trying to knead the headache away. None of this adds up. The child crying, the letters. What does it all mean, Soph?

The letter box rattles, startling me. I put the glass down and hurry along the hallway, stooping to pick up a newspaper and then throwing open the door just in time to catch Jean on the stairs.

‘Jean?’

She hesitates, her hand still on the banister, her eyes startled. ‘Hi, Francesca, love.’

‘Did you post this through my door?’ I say, waving the newspaper unnecessarily high. I hurriedly glance at the door of the apartment opposite but it’s firmly closed.

She nods. ‘There were two in the hallway and I just assumed they were for us. It’s only the local freebie but it might be worth a read.’

I frown at her. Why would she bother? She flashes me a maternal smile and then continues down the stairs, leaving me staring after her. Clutching the newspaper I return to my flat, puzzled. I throw it onto the coffee table where it unfurls and I gasp.

On the page staring up at me is a news story about my dad.

I grab the paper, noticing that the other pages have been folded back so that this is the first thing I’ll see. I quickly turn to the front page. It is indeed a free paper but it’s not from this town but somewhere near Bristol, and it’s dated three weeks ago.

I run out of the apartment and go charging down the stairs in my bare feet. ‘Jean!’ I call, banging on her door.

She opens it up, her face set as if ready for a fight.

‘Where did you get this from?’

She pulls her cardigan around her body. ‘I told you. It came through the front door.’

‘Why would a free Bristol newspaper come through the door? It’s not even a recent copy.’

She shrugs, her eyes cold. ‘How should I know?’

Is it her? Is she the one responsible for all the strange things that have happened since I arrived? ‘Who are you?’

Her usually pleasant face contorts so that it looks as though a completely different person is standing before me. ‘It doesn’t matter who I am. But I know who you are. You’re the daughter of a rapist.’

‘How … how do you know?’

‘Everybody knows.’

‘He’s innocent.’

‘That’s what they all say,’ she spits. ‘But I’ve known men like your father. They think they can get away with it. And now he’s faking a stroke to try and get out of the trial. He’s scum.’

It’s as though she’s hit me. ‘You don’t know anything about it.’

‘Oh yes, I do. I knew there was something strange about you, all this looking over your shoulder, saying you were being followed. You looked like you were involved in something dodgy. Drugs, probably.’ Her lips turn up into a sneer. ‘Men turning up day and night. That girl on the stairs, creeping about. Lurking. It’s not right.’

What is she talking about? What girl? Is she talking about you? ‘Is that why you’ve been looking through my bin? Trying to find some dirt? Or a stash of drugs?’

‘I didn’t need to find any dirt. I heard all about it yesterday in the newsagent’s. A lovely man couldn’t wait to tell me that I had the daughter of a rapist sharing a building with me. He was the one who gave me the newspaper, if you must know. He could see how disgusted I was by it all.’

My blood runs cold. ‘Who?’

‘He didn’t tell me his name. Tall, dark hair. About your age. Now leave me alone.’ She glares at me and then slams the door in my face.

She could be describing Leon.

Or Daniel.

I climb the stairs to my flat, dejected, the newspaper still in my hand. I pour myself another glass of wine and slump onto the sofa.

Who would be malicious enough to give this to Jean to pass on to me?

The piece is short, not even five hundred words, yet it spills everything: my father, ‘the one-time West Country hotel owner’, charged with historic rape crimes and his severe stroke before the trial even began. All this time Daniel must have known. When he said he was sorry to hear about my dad I thought he meant his stroke. How naive of me. He’s a journalist, for crying out loud, of course he was going to know about the charges hanging over my dad.

A young woman contacted police last year. She
remained anonymous. She made a statement saying my dad became obsessed with her, stalking her and raping her when she was twenty. It was less than a year after you went missing. Her testimony meant that others came forward of course. He admitted to having sex with these women but said it was consensual and my mum believed him. And I so want to believe him, Soph. But it’s becoming harder to. Why would these women lie?

It’s starting to get dark. The living room is freezing. The tip of my nose feels cold. I throw more logs on the fire, their crackling the only sound in the room. It’s eerily quiet. No traffic noise, no roar of aeroplanes. I switch on a lamp and then go and stand by the bay window. Daniel said he would try and get away by three but there is no sign of him. The roads are empty, the clouds grey, bunched together as if in a frown.

The thought has been unfurling all day in my mind, ever since Daniel told me he owns this apartment – maybe even before then, when I saw the article he was reading on the Internet.

I no longer trust your brother.

A flicker of movement on the driveway outside catches my eye. I stand up and press my nose to the glass, expecting it to be Daniel. But it’s not Daniel. It’s you. You’re standing by the wall, looking up at me. I know that it’s you. I can tell by the point of your chin, by the inclination of your head, by the widow’s peak in your fair hair. You’re wearing an anorak with the hood pulled back and you’re young, with smooth skin and clear eyes. My first thought is that you’re not dead, that
those remains found at Brean Sands aren’t yours – except that can’t be right because you don’t look nearly forty. You look younger even than the day you went missing.

Ever since I’ve come back here I’ve felt your presence, Soph. I’ve felt you in the flat, on my walks, following me, beckoning me, and now I know why.

‘Wait there!’ I call, even though I’m sure you can’t hear me. I grab my coat, pull on my boots and run as fast as I can, almost tripping down the stairs in my haste. I need to see you before you disappear again.

Because I finally understand why you’re here. You’re not going to leave me alone, are you? Until I’ve told the truth about that night.

I can see you in the distance, the flash of your olive parka with the orange hood, like the one you had at school. You’re just out of reach. Why aren’t you waiting for me? I’m calling you but you’re ignoring me. Sophie! I stumble as my ankle bends beneath me. Damn it, my heel has snapped. I lean over to pick up the sharp stiletto and shove it in the pocket of my coat. Then I run onwards, limping slightly now that my boots are uneven.

The wind has picked up and I’m sure I can hear Daniel calling me but I keep running after you. I can’t let you go again.

I’m out of breath as I reach the lampposts at the entrance to the pier. Where are you? I look around me in bewilderment. You’ve vanished.

And then I see you. You’ve managed to get on the other side of the
DO NOT ENTER
sign so that you are standing on the pier. Part of me wants to tell you to be careful, that the boards are rotten and dangerous, until I remember that you are already dead. You’re waiting for me and I know that you want me to follow. So I climb through the barriers, snagging my coat on the
metal posts and scraping my arm but I don’t care. I need to talk to you. I’m not scared any more. And then I’m standing facing you, the pier stretching out behind you, the pavilion a dark shape in the distance.

‘Sophie …?’

‘Hello, Frankie,’ you say softly, your words snatched by the wind. I feel like I’m in a dream, that this isn’t really happening. Am I more drunk than I thought? Because I know that logically I can’t be talking to a ghost.

‘What do you want from me?’

‘I think you know.’ You don’t sound like I remember you. For a minute this confuses me, throws me off track, and I have to reorganise my thoughts. I blink a few times but you’re still standing there. Solid. Real.

‘Frankie?’ A voice startles me and I whip around to see Daniel standing behind me. He’s also managed to get inside the barrier. ‘You shouldn’t be out here. It’s dangerous.’

‘You!’ I cry, brushing the hair out of my eyes. ‘You’ve been lying to me. About everything. Have you been sending the letters? What’s going on, Daniel?’

He creeps towards me, his hand outstretched as though he’s approaching a skittish horse. ‘I can explain everything. Please, just come with me, it’s dangerous …’

‘I’m not going anywhere with you. I don’t trust you any more. Something’s going on. Did you give Jean that paper in the newsagent’s …?’

Then you step forward and for the first time I see that you’re holding something in your hand. A pink striped notebook that’s tatty with age. Your diary. I
remember that diary, you took it everywhere, even when you had sleepovers at my house. You slept with it under your pillow.

Daniel turns to look at you and it hits me. He can see you too. I’m not imagining you.

‘We know what you did,’ you say. ‘We have evidence, including this diary.’ Your voice is different. And as you get closer I notice that your eyes aren’t grey but blue. A vivid, piercing, navy blue. I know those eyes.

‘Can you see her?’ I shout to Daniel. ‘Can you see Sophie?’

Daniel ignores me. ‘Frankie … you have to listen to me. You don’t have to pretend any more.’

‘What do you mean?’ I feel like I’m in a surreal dream.

‘I know you killed Sophie. You killed my sister.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ I shout. ‘How can it be me? What about the letters? They’re from Leon. And the dog tags? He knew about Jason! He wanted to hurt me, he probably hurt Sophie. I’ve been trying to tell you since I got here … I’ve been trying to tell you …’

Daniel stares at me in disbelief and I run out of steam.

He’s right, I don’t have to pretend any more.

There are good and bad people in this world, Soph, and sometimes there are people like me. I don’t think I’m bad. I’ve just done some bad things. You don’t know how hard it’s been, carrying your death on my shoulders for eighteen years. You don’t know how much I wished I could take it back. It got easier to live
with as time went by but I never stopped feeling guilty for what happened that night, Soph. I’ve always been good at compartmentalising. So I put what I did to you in a box and filed it in the back of my mind until that phone call unearthed it all.

That was why I was so reticent about coming back to Oldcliffe. Everyone knows you should never return to the scene of the crime. Yet how could I have let Daniel snoop around without me? I needed to stop him from finding out the truth by throwing him off the scent. Not that there ever really was much of a scent. Without a body there was no evidence. And I didn’t think they would find much from a foot. I thought that when Daniel had seen your remains he would let you go. Of course, I hoped he’d suspect Leon but without any proof he’d never be able to do anything about it. Receiving those letters was a godsend because it gave me the opportunity to point the finger at Leon. All I needed to do was tell your brother what happened with Jason and bang: a motive. I cemented this further by posting myself the dog tags just in case there was any doubt in Daniel’s mind that the letters weren’t about Jason.

I’d wondered if the letters were really about you but I told myself nobody could possibly know what I’d done.

Except for Daniel.

‘Have you known all along?’ I ask him, unable to keep the surprise out of my voice.

He nods slowly.

‘Why did you send the letters?’

‘I didn’t send them …’

‘But then, who?’ My head is pounding and I close my eyes, feeling disorientated. Can this all really be happening? I grab at my hair, pulling it hard from the roots.

I’m backed into a corner. There is nothing I can do. When I open my eyes Daniel is by my side, guiding my hand from my hair. ‘Sophie came to you, didn’t she, Frankie?’ he asks gently. ‘On that last night. She was upset so she left the club but you followed her, didn’t you? And she told you what your father did to her, that she was pregnant. You accused her of lying, of having an affair with your dad. Why did you kill her, Frankie? To stop her from telling anyone?’

How can he know this, Soph?

The wind whistles around us. You’re standing in front of me but you’re not speaking, you’re just staring at me with disgust. With hatred.

‘Frankie!’ Daniel’s voice is insistent, urgent. He grabs hold of my upper arms and spins me around so that I’m facing him. There is desperation in his eyes. ‘Please. If you feel anything for me at all put me out of my misery. We have evidence, we know it was you. But I want to hear it from your lips, Franks. I want to hear why you did it. Why you wanted to kill your best friend.’

I sob and sag against him. It’s almost a relief to be able to tell someone. ‘I’m sorry, Daniel. I never wanted to hurt you, but she took everything from me. She took Leon and then she took my dad.
My dad.
He loved me the best. My mum never gave a shit, I only ever had
him. But even he preferred her to me in the end. Why did she have to take him, Dan?’

I feel him stiffen against me. ‘Frankie. She didn’t take him. He raped her.’

‘She told me everything,’ I cry. ‘About the kiss in the bedroom, about how she’d led him on. She fancied him and she wanted him.’

‘He raped her,’ Daniel says again through gritted teeth. ‘He terrorised her and stalked her and raped her. And he would have carried on doing it. When she was gone he did it to those other girls instead. He’s a monster.’

‘But he’s my dad,’ I wail. I didn’t want to believe you at the time, Soph. You told me everything and I couldn’t face the truth. When my dad was arrested six months ago it made me realise that you hadn’t been lying, had you? My dad raped you. I’m so sorry for not believing you …

‘And what about me,’ says Daniel, his voice sad. ‘I loved you. Wasn’t I enough?’

‘You didn’t love me. You just fancied me …’

‘No!’ he shouts over the wind. ‘I loved you. I loved the fact that you were funny, bright, independent, always up for a laugh. I loved that you had a vulnerable side to you too. I just didn’t realise how insecure you really were.’

What a fool I’ve been.

You come towards me, your face pinched with anger. ‘That’s not all, is it? What about Jason?’

‘Jason?’

‘You wanted him too, didn’t you? But you couldn’t have him. So you pushed him into the sea.’

I forgot I’d told you all about that on the night you died.

‘You said Jason was an accident, Franks,’ Daniel urges. ‘You said Sophie pushed him by mistake. During an argument. But that’s not true, is it?’

‘How do you know all this?’ I cry.

‘I want to hear you say it, Frankie. The police are on their way. They know everything – but I want to hear it from you.’ His eyes are pleading.

‘It was an accident,’ I shout over the wind. ‘Sophie had passed out. I tried it on with him, he turned me down. We argued. I didn’t mean to push him. We were drunk. He lost his balance and fell …’

‘Just like with Sophie?’

‘It was an accident,’ I repeat, breaking down. ‘I was just a kid, Daniel … I didn’t mean to hurt him.’ It’s true, Soph. I know you always wondered what really took place that night. You were so wasted you didn’t really know what had happened. I was angry he had turned me down, I didn’t know he was gay. But I didn’t mean to kill him. I watched him splash about in the water. I could have saved him but I chose not to. Then I shook you awake and told you he’d fallen in.

I turn to Daniel. ‘Were you just pretending, this whole time? To get me to confess? I thought you had feelings for me.’

He looks shamefaced. ‘Because of our history I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. I know that
accidents can happen. I hoped you’d explain yourself. Show remorse. I wanted you to confess.’

‘Why?’ I laugh bitterly. ‘When you already know so much.’

His voice catches. ‘Because I wanted to understand why you would do such a thing. Or are you just like your father?’

I stare at him in shock. Is that what he thinks? That I’m just like my dad? That night in The Basement, when I heard you being sick in the toilets, I knew you weren’t drunk. Your pallor, your nausea. It didn’t take a genius to work it out. You were pregnant. But before I could confront you about it you’d run off, out of the club. On the pier you broke down and told me everything, about the kiss, the stalking, the rape. Of course I didn’t want to believe you, this was my father, the man I idolised, loved more than anyone in the world.

In the distance I think I hear the faint sound of a police siren.

Evidence. They have evidence of your death. I think of your Gazelle Adidas trainer that was left behind on the pier. I knew I should have chucked that in the sea after you, but I’d left it there. I never touched it though. I was careful about that. I knew about DNA, you see, even then.

‘If you have evidence,’ I say to Daniel, ‘why would you want me to confess? Because I never will. Not to the authorities. I can’t go to prison. I just can’t …’

You step forward, looking smug. You flash your teeth at me. They are small and pointed. Not like yours
at all. ‘You already have,’ you say and you reach into the deep pocket of your coat and retrieve a tape recorder. ‘It’s a Dictaphone. Everything you said is on this tape.’

‘Mia …’ Daniel’s tone is a warning.

Mia?
I stare at you. But it’s not you, is it? Of course it’s not. How could it ever have been? What was I thinking?

Those eyes, those teeth. That voice. It’s not
you.

‘Who are you?’ I snarl.

‘My name’s Mia,’ she says. She has an Irish accent.

‘Daniel’s girlfriend?’ I frown. But she’s so young. Too young.

She shakes her head and laughs, her next words lost in the wind. The sky rumbles. Hard, angry rain bursts from the clouds. How dare she laugh at me, this young woman. How dare she stand here and throw accusations at me, turn Daniel against me. We could have been happy together but she’s come along and fucked it all up.

Fury swells and builds, threatening to push itself out of my chest. I want to hurt her. I want to wipe that smug smile off her face. It’s my turn to reach into my pocket. I pull out the broken piece of stiletto, faintly aware of Daniel’s cries of horror, as though he’s worked out what I’m about to do before it even crossed my mind.

‘Mia, watch out!’ There is fear in his voice. And love. Jealousy spurs me on and I charge towards her, sensing Daniel’s presence behind me. I want her to cease to exist. The feeling is all-consuming, powerful. I want to wipe her out.

She darts past me, into Daniel’s arms, and because of my uneven heels I stumble, falling to my knees with a thud. What was I thinking? I don’t want to hurt her and I didn’t mean to kill you. You have to believe me, Soph. I loved you. I’m sorry …

The creak of wood is barely discernible over the wind and rain. It takes a couple of seconds for the rotten planks to give way beneath me. I hear the wail of police sirens getting nearer. I don’t try and save myself.

The last thing I see is their shocked, pale faces before I crash through the floor and into the angry, grey sea below.