Local Girl Missing (3 page)

I retreat into the kitchen to make us a cup of tea and
I’m touched when I notice that either Daniel or the owner went out and bought a few things, like bread, milk and teabags.

‘I can’t remember if you have sugar,’ I say as I return to the sitting room, carrying two mugs. He’s lounging on the sofa with my bag at his feet. The fire has been lit.

‘No, I’m sweet enough,’ he grins, taking the mug from me. ‘Thanks.’

‘Did you put the milk and teabags in the kitchen?’

He shrugs. ‘Thought they’d come in handy. What have you got in that holdall? It weighs a ton.’

‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ I tease, perching next to him. ‘Thank you, for the milk and teabags …’ I touch his arm but he stiffens so I take my hand away, the rest of my words dying on my lips.

His long fingers cradle the mug and he blows onto the tea before taking a sip.

‘So, what have you been up to all these years?’ I say, trying to keep my voice light.

He frowns and grips the mug tighter. I notice a plain silver ring on the third finger of his right hand and I wonder who gave it to him. At first he doesn’t answer and I worry that I’ve offended him somehow. I’m usually intuitive to people’s moods and feelings, knowing when to ask the right questions or issue the perfect compliment to break the ice. In fact, I pride myself on it; it’s an invaluable tool in my line of work. But I’m not sure what the etiquette is for a situation like this. What do you say to the brother of your
best friend the day after you’ve learned that her remains have been found? What is the appropriate conversation to have?

He looks up at me over the rim of his mug. ‘Well, I went off the rails for a bit.’ He shrugs, but looks shamefaced. ‘You know how it is.’

I nod, remembering your worries about him. His failed GCSEs and lackadaisical attitude to finding a job. Your concerns that he’d stay in Oldcliffe-on-Sea for ever. ‘And then I decided that I needed to follow my dream. Music.’

My heart falls. ‘You’re still in the band?’ I remember the band – mainly because they were rubbish, but that didn’t stop them trekking to Bristol most weekends to play in backwater pubs. Daniel wasn’t a bad guitarist; it was mainly that the lead singer, Sid, couldn’t actually hold a tune, but nobody had the heart to tell him.

He chuckles. ‘Definitely not. I realised I was better at writing about music than making it. So I went to college, got a degree in journalism, became a music journalist.’

‘Wow. You got out of this place?’

He laughs wryly. ‘Don’t sound too surprised. What did you think had happened to me? That I was working in McDonald’s? Or turned to heroin?’

‘No,’ I say, not very convincingly.

‘Anyway, I was a music journalist for a few years, worked for
Melody Maker
, then
Q
. I lived in London, had a great time.’ He smiles as if at some private memory. ‘Now I’m the editor of the local newspaper.’

‘You moved back here?’ I can’t keep the scorn from my voice.

He glares at me and I notice animosity in his eyes. ‘Of course, only recently, but it’s my home and I feel close to Sophie here. I can’t run away for ever. Neither can you.’

Shame makes me dip my head. ‘I couldn’t stay,’ I say into my lap. ‘When my parents bought their hotel in London it seemed best for me to go with them. A new start. Don’t think badly of me, Dan.’

His voice is brusque. ‘I don’t think badly of you. You’re here now, aren’t you? When it matters.’

I look up and he’s staring at me in that way he always used to. Like he could see right through me. You always joked that he had a crush on me, and there were times when I thought so too. I never even entertained anything happening between us. Oh, I flirted with him, of course. And there was a time, a very short time, when I considered the idea of letting him kiss me. But that was the summer we met Jason.

I take a sip of my tea, my cheeks burning.

Daniel eventually breaks the silence. ‘What about you? What sort of charmed life have you been living?’ He grins at me but I find it hard to return his smile. A charmed life. I’m sure that’s what everyone else would think to look at my life. I have money, a lovely home, a good job as the director of a chain of hotels. Yet part of me died the night you disappeared.

Daniel is staring at me expectantly so I spout the usual story: of my marriage to a hedge-fund manager
who I’d adored, of our desire to have children, of my failure to conceive, of his clichéd affair with his co-worker and our subsequent divorce. I fail to mention that the alimony I received helped buy this new hotel and I don’t add that I find it hard to trust men now, even solid, dependable Mike.

As I talk, Daniel sips his tea and nods encouragingly. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Franks,’ he says when I’ve finished. ‘I’ve never been married. The right one just never came along.’ My eye flickers to the ring on his finger again. There must have been someone special once. He smiles sadly and my heart flutters. What is it about him? It’s like his grief and love for you has matured him into a man with an emotional intelligence that he lacked when we were young. He might have looked like a tortured artist back then, with his black clothes and morose music, but it was at odds with his happy-go-lucky demeanour. Not like your ex-boyfriend, Leon, all brooding and serious as he recited his angst-ridden poetry.

‘I’ve got a plan,’ he says suddenly. ‘We need to talk to everyone who was around that night. I know it’s a long shot, but they might remember something, however small. You’ve only got a week so we’d better get on with it, first thing.’

I open my mouth to say I’ve got less than a week, that I have to get back to London as soon as possible. But something about his expression makes me close it again.

‘Any objections?’ His eyes bore into mine and it feels
as though he can read my deepest thoughts. I have lots of objections; I have so much to do that I can’t afford a day off let alone a week. But how can I say this without sounding heartless? Without sounding like I don’t care about you?

So I gulp down my tea and shake my head, telling Daniel that, no, I don’t have any objections.

‘Good,’ he says, ‘because I had a call earlier from the police. They have more information about what they’ve found.’

My palms immediately start to sweat. ‘And?’

‘After years in the sea, Sophie’s body would have decomposed, Franks. But they’ve found a foot. They think it belongs to a woman due to its size. It’s still in its trainer. Adidas. Apparently floating feet can survive for decades in rubber-soled shoes because the fish can’t get at them.’

‘Oh God.’

His face is paler than usual. ‘I’ve given a DNA sample and they’ve asked if I’ll go into the station on Wednesday morning for the result. And of course they need to see if the trainer matches the one they found on the pier after she disappeared. It’s still in police files. Will you come with me? I … I don’t think I can do it on my own.’

He looks so vulnerable and, despite everything, I like that Daniel needs me, that he wants me to go with him. ‘Of course I will.’ I think of the trainers you were wearing that night. You’d loved those Adidas Gazelles.

He stands up. ‘I’d better go. But I’ll be here tomorrow nice and early.’ His voice is unnaturally bright. ‘Shall we say nine thirty? I think Leon should be our first stop. Don’t you?’

I nearly spit out my tea in shock. Leon? Daniel must be mistaken. Leon left Oldcliffe just weeks after you went missing. ‘I don’t think so,’ I say with faux regret, also standing up. ‘The last I heard, Leon was working abroad. Never mind, who’s next on your list?’

Daniel raises a quizzical eyebrow. ‘I’ve heard he’s back in town, Frankie. I thought you knew.’

My scalp prickles in horror and I sink back onto the sofa.

If I’d known I’d be forced to see Leon again, I’d never have agreed to come back.

The hot guy who was with Frankie last week is called Leon McNamara. He’s half Irish, like me, but with chocolate-brown hair and the most amazing blue eyes I’ve ever seen. They are the exact same colour as my indigo Levi 501s.

‘Leon’. I love the way it sounds. So unusual. So much cooler than Daniel, or James, or Simon, or any of the other boring boys’ names that I can think of. And it’s not just his name that’s cool. He’s an indie kid, but there is more to him than what music he’s into (which is not just Oasis, by the way. He likes bands I’ve never heard of, bands with animal names: Buffalo Springfield and the Byrds. The Animals even!). He’s quiet and serious. And he reads. Not
Playboy
or
NME
, like Daniel, but books, classic novels like
The Great Gatsby
and
Persuasion
. I mean, he’s read Jane Austen, for fuck’s sake! But he’s not pretentious, he doesn’t bleat crap because he thinks it sounds good – like some people I could mention from my uni. He’s intelligent without being taught. He grew up on an estate, much like this
one, but in Brean. He’s full of contradictions; he’s doing an HNC in computers, yet he writes poetry and reads Jane Austen.

And he’s totally lush!

There is just one downside. I will explain.

It was at The Basement last night when Frankie introduced me to him. I’ve seen her nearly every day since bumping into her. It’s just like old times, as if those three years apart never happened. Maybe that’s how it is when you’ve known someone for as long as I’ve known her? When you meet again it’s like you saw each other yesterday.

She works in her parents’ hotel from 10–2 p.m., changing bedding and getting rooms cleaned for new customers. She’s getting paid well for it too, much better than I get at the kiosk in town serving slimy fish and greasy chips to tourists. That’s the bonus, I suppose, of working for your parents. I finish at 3 p.m., so we then have the afternoons to ourselves. I feel like a teenager again when I’m with Frankie. We do all the same things we used to: walks on the Grand Pier, playing games in the arcade, ambling along the beach with candy floss and chatting about life and the future. We often go to the pub at night, usually the Seagull because the beer is cheap even though the place smells of wet dog, but towards the end of this week, when our wages started to run out, we went to the old pier with Daniel and his mates, Sid and Ade from the band, armed with cans of Red Stripe. We sat there for hours, telling each other ghost stories, particularly the one about Greta and her
lost baby. In the end I started to feel so frightened that I was glad I had Daniel to walk home with me.

Anyway, I’m digressing. Back to tonight. To Leon.

The Basement was impressive and because it was a Thursday night it was cheap to get in. I still can’t believe that while I’ve been at uni, Oldcliffe has become up to date enough to have such a cool club. It’s (funnily enough) in the basement of one of the big restaurants, with its own entrance below ground, and plays all the music I love. It’s small and smoky. Frankie seemed to know everyone; I’m not sure how, but she’s as popular as ever. Especially with the guys. And then she introduced me to Leon.

He was standing at the bar, nursing a pint. He was wearing a tan leather blazer, dark jeans and desert boots and when he looked up at me with those brilliant eyes it was as though my breath was knocked out of me. But he barely registered me. He sort of snuffled a hello into his pint. Frankie draped herself all over him and ordered us some Diamond Whites. Then she got talking to some guy, leaving Leon and me standing awkwardly next to each other in silence.

‘Do you come here often?’ I asked eventually, before realising what I’d said. I was mortified, my cheeks burning. He looked shocked for a second but then his face relaxed and his eyes twinkled. We both started laughing at the same time, which broke the ice.

‘I’m sorry, I’m such an idiot,’ I muttered, chewing my fingernail. ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’ I never have been very good at chatting to guys I find attractive.

‘’S OK.’ Then he looked at me as if for the first time. ‘I haven’t seen you around here before.’

‘I’ve lived here since I was seven. But I’ve been away, to uni.’

‘That would explain it,’ he said, passing me the Diamond White that Frankie had pushed in his direction, his hand brushing mine and sending an electric current through me. I could see Frankie over his shoulder, making kissing faces and causing me to blush.

‘I’ve only been living here a few years,’ he said, hopefully unaware of my discomfort. He told me then about growing up in Ireland, and moving to Brean when he was eight. ‘I moved to Oldcliffe last year. I live with my brother and his girlfriend in Dove Way.’ I had to stop myself squealing in excitement (that’s just not cool!) because he lives two streets away from me. ‘I quite like living with Lorcan. It’s kinda fun, they just let me do my own thing.’ He explained that he has nearly completed his HNC in computers, going to college in Bristol one day a week and working the rest of the time in the IT department of an insurance company. I could detect the slight Irish accent in his West Country twang. I told him my mum was from Ireland too.

I sipped my Diamond White and listened while he talked. And then I opened up about my ambition to work in publishing.

‘Do you want to be a writer then?’

I brushed my hair away from my face and tried to look nonchalant. ‘As long as I’m surrounded by books and words all day I don’t mind.’

‘Have you got anything lined up now you’ve finished uni?’

‘I’m applying for jobs. I did some work experience last summer so at least I have something for the CV and I’ve got an interview with a small publishing company on the outskirts of London in a few weeks’ time.’

I could tell by his expression that I’d impressed him.

‘That’s amazing. What’s the job for?’

‘Editorial assistant. I want to be a commissioning editor eventually, but it’s so competitive.’ I couldn’t bring myself to tell him of the two interviews at other publishing houses for jobs that I didn’t get, not to mention the endless speculative letters that I send out every week.

‘I’d love to be a poet but my parents wanted me to get a “proper job”.’ He used his fingers as quotations. ‘They don’t see the point of college or university.’

‘But they don’t mind you doing an HNC?’

He shrugged. ‘That doesn’t bother them because I’m getting paid. Although I had another job before this one. But the HNC, according to them, has prospects. Computers are the future, don’t you know,’ he said in a voice that I took to be him mimicking his parents. Despite his jokey tone a shadow passed over his face so that he looked sad, wiser, older. I had the sudden urge to hug him.

‘Shall we sit down?’ He indicated a small table in the corner that had just become vacant. I nodded, relieved to get away from Frankie, who was still standing behind
him chatting to a group of guys but every now and again leering at me over Leon’s shoulder and making lewd faces.

‘So, you write poetry?’ I said as we both settled ourselves at the table. We were squashed in the corner. His shoulder was pressed against mine and I could smell his aftershave – CK One by Calvin Klein. I always have had a good nose for scents.

He nodded and took another sip of his pint. ‘Poems, song lyrics. Although I can’t play a musical instrument, unfortunately.’

‘Do you know my brother, Daniel Collier? He can play the guitar but he taught himself. He’s in a band.’

He frowned at the name. ‘I’ve heard of him,’ he said, which sounded ominous, but most people in Oldcliffe have heard of my brother, just like most people seem to know Frankie. They’re gregarious, able to make friends easily, unlike me.

We chatted about music and took it in turns to list the bands we loved. When I told him I’d never heard of Buffalo Springfield he promised to lend me one of their albums.

‘I have to say, Jez is a knob but he knows his music,’ he said as the DJ put on a Bluetones track.

I laughed. ‘Why do you say he’s a knob?’

Leon shrugged. ‘Look at him.’ He was leaning over his decks, earphones clamped to his head, chatting up a pretty blonde in a very short skirt and platform boots. ‘There’s always some girl hanging around him. Just because he’s a DJ.’

‘You sound envious,’ I laughed.

He scoffed and supped his beer. ‘Not when I’m sitting here with the best-looking girl in the place.’

‘You charmer.’ I swiped at his shoulder and he turned towards me with an intense stare. I held my breath, his eyes fixed on mine, his face edging closer.

‘There you are!’ Frankie stood over us imperiously, hands on her hips, breaking the moment between us. ‘You’ve been nattering, like, for ever. Come on, Soph, we need to dance. You love this song.’

‘Babies’ by Pulp. I hadn’t even noticed. Before I could protest, she dragged me from the table and away from Leon. I glanced back at him and he shrugged and laughed and carried on supping his pint. But I wanted to kick Frankie.

‘Why did you have to interrupt us?’ I hissed when we got to the dance floor. ‘We were getting on well.’

Her green eyes were suddenly serious. ‘He’s bad news, Soph. He’s not for you.’

Anger swelled within me. ‘How do you know who is and isn’t right for me, Frankie?’ I stopped dancing to illustrate my point.

She waved her hand dismissively, still clutching her bottle of Diamond White. ‘He’s a bit of a psycho, that’s all. Very intense. Doesn’t take no for an answer, if you know what I mean.’

Shock rippled through me. ‘What?’

‘Oh, I don’t mean in that way, he didn’t try it on or anything,’ she said when she noticed my horrified expression.

‘What do you mean then? Is he an ex?’

She shook her mane of dark hair and took a swig of her bottle. ‘He wishes,’ she laughed, infuriating me further. When she saw that I wasn’t joining in, the smile vanished from her face. She stopped dancing. ‘It’s just …’ She hesitated. ‘Look … I quite fancied him when I first saw him. We had a snog a month or so ago and he was just a little too intense afterwards, that’s all.’

‘He wanted to go out with you?’

‘Of course. He’s good looking, but not my type. He has no prospects, ambition.’ I opened my mouth to protest, to stick up for him, but she ignored me. ‘He sort of harassed me. In the end I had to tell him in no uncertain terms that I wasn’t interested. Threaten him a bit. He got the message. Eventually.’

My heart sank at her words.

‘But you’re friends now?’ I said, recalling that she was with him last week in Mojo’s, when I first saw her again.

Her lips turned up into a half-smile, almost as though she was harbouring a secret. ‘Well, it wasn’t his first choice. But I suppose you could say we are friends now.’ Oblivious, she carried on dancing, her eyes closed, with all the confidence in the world.

I was tempted to stomp off in a strop, but I wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t Frankie’s fault that Leon fancied her. As we danced I let my gaze sweep over her in her short black and white dress and long black boots. Like a sex kitten from the 1960s. Of course Leon was going to fancy her. I didn’t stand a chance.

I tried to pick him out in the smoke-filled club but despite searching through the hordes of people, I didn’t see Leon again. We left just after 1 a.m., Frankie chatting all the way home about Jez, who (naturally!) had asked her out.

It wasn’t until this morning that I found a note in my coat pocket. A folded ticket stub with a cloakroom number printed on the front and a short message squeezed onto the small space on the back. He must have bribed one of the cloakroom staff to put it in my pocket. In small blocked writing, it read:
MEET ME. OLD PIER. FRIDAY 7 P.M. L
.