The Bones of You (3 page)

4

I
n just two days, gossip and speculation morph into something much darker. Even as I feel my way in this new landscape, I’m not prepared when the police come here. The young, fresh-faced policeman, barely older than Grace and whose lack of any sense of gravity makes him somehow inappropriate, with the older police woman, who introduces herself.

“Sergeant Beauman, Sussex Police.”

From her manner, the way she speaks, I know instantly, she has done this too many times before.

They talk to Grace first, alone, after I’ve butted in, insisting I want to sit in with her, while Grace assures me that I don’t need to and it’s fine. But it’s not fine. I know she’s not guilty of anything, but irrational fear seizes me, that she’ll accidentally say the wrong thing and somehow incriminate herself.

“We’d prefer it,” Sergeant Beauman says to me as Grace disappears into my study. “Sometimes teenagers say more without their parents present.”

“I don’t think she knows any more than she’s said already,” I tell her. “She doesn’t keep secrets from me.”

Sergeant Beauman gives me the knowing kind of nod that goes with having a teenage daughter of her own, then follows Grace in and closes the door.

I sit for what feels like ages, uncomfortable, the palms of my hands clammy, before it’s my turn, and as I take Grace’s place, even though it’s my chair in my house, under their scrutiny I’m reminded of being back in school.

Sergeant Beauman asks the questions, the young policeman listening intently, occasionally chipping in. They ask me how I know Rosie, writing it down, as though everything I say has hidden meaning.

“She comes to see my horses. Helps out a bit. She’s sweet—and she’s really good with them. I don’t think her parents know. At least, I haven’t told them. She’s never said as much, but I’ve always felt she didn’t want me to.” I gabble the words incoherently, inadequately. “I mean, she’s eighteen.... Parents don’t have to know everything, do they?”

Aware of my own duplicity, because if it were Grace riding someone else’s horse, keeping secrets from me, wouldn’t I want to know?

Sergeant Beauman chooses not to comment. “So, recently, has there been anything different about her?”

“I’ve asked myself exactly that. I can’t think of anything,” I tell them, watching them scribble. “Only the necklace. She wore it all the time—only I expect you know about that. It’s probably not even relevant.”

Sergeant Beauman looks up. “Can you describe it?”

“It was unusual. Really beautiful. Made of red, purple, and green glass beads linked with these delicate swirls of silver. It was a present, but she didn’t say who gave it to her.”

A thoughtful look crosses her face. “How well do you know the family, Mrs. McKay?”

“I know Jo through school.... Grace and Rosie were in the same sixth form. That’s how we met. A few of us mothers get together for lunch sometimes. They’re a really nice family.” I shrug, trying to think of what there is to say. “I’ve met Neal a few times—in passing. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

“Is there a Mr. McKay?”

“Angus works in London. He’s a finance manager. He doesn’t know Rosie. He isn’t into horses.”

The Sergeant Beauman’s pen hovers over her pad, then scribbles again. “Thank you. That’s all—for now.” She gets up. “If we need to talk to you again, can we call you at this number?”

She reads back the number I’ve given her, and I nod. Then she hands me a card.

“If you think of anything else, or hear anything, could you call me?”

Strangely quiet, Grace and I watch them drive away.

“It’s weird,” says Grace. “Only, I was thinking . . . You know when Rosie comes to see the horses? She never comes when I’m around, does she? It’s as if it’s not just the horses she wants. It’s you.”

 

Over the days that follow, painstakingly, methodically, the police work their way through the village, asking questions, making us see each other through a stranger’s eyes. Infecting us with a bacterial kind of fear.

“Do you think they know, Mum?” For once, Grace is actually home longer than just to wash her hair or collapse into sleep. Needing the safe familiarity of home ground.

“Know what, sweetie?”

She’s hesitant. “There were these guys hanging out in the woods.”

I spin round. “Did you tell the police when they were here?”

Grace shakes her head, slightly embarrassed, giveaway pink washing her cheeks.

“
Grace
. . . who were they?”

She shrugs. “I don’t really know. Just . . . friends of Sophie’s.”

“You have to tell Sophie they really should talk to the police.”

“Mum! I can’t! It’s up to her! Anyway, I don’t even know where they are.”

“Well, if they’re Sophie’s friends, she will, won’t she?” There’s a waspish tone in my voice, because from Grace’s flushed cheeks and evasive answers, I’d say there’s more to this than she’s telling.

She says nothing. From an early age, Grace has known that silent defiance is impossible to argue with.

I fold my arms. “Okay. I’ll talk to Sophie, then. Or I could always call Lorraine.” Sophie’s most unmaternal of mothers, called Lorraine by her offspring, too.

Grace’s eyes widen. “Just don’t, Mum, okay?”

“So, you tell me. This isn’t funny, Grace. Rosie’s been gone four days now. She might have been kidnapped or hurt or anything.”

Grace looks apologetic, but then she leaps up, alarmed. “Mum! I forgot to tell you. It’s going to be on the news. Josh told me. Quick . . . We may have missed it. . . .”

She runs to turn on the TV. I follow.

Sophie’s friends forgotten, we catch the national news mid-broadcast. It’s left to the last minutes of the program. In case anything more important, more newsworthy crops up? Is there anything more important than someone’s missing child? My head fills with unanswerable questions as Neal appears on the screen.

I watch him, drained, tense, his pain clearly drawn on his face, as he makes a heartfelt plea. To all of us, whoever we are, wherever, to imagine if this were our daughter. To anyone who knows anything, no matter how irrelevant, how trivial it may seem, to please,
please
come forward.

His eloquent, desperate words are the soundtrack to a photo of Rosie, flashed onto the screen, showing her beauty, her pale hair, that faraway look in her eyes. I glance at Grace, who has tears streaming down her face. On the second “please,” his voice cracks, and my heart breaks for them.

Like a fallen, unseasonal Christmas tree, our village lights up with phone calls. My heart tells me to call Jo, but my head cautions me.
At such a time, is it right?
I decide not calling doesn’t feel right, either, and I dial her number, imagining her home alone while Neal’s still in the TV studio, ashamed of my relief when no one answers.

As soon as I put down the phone, Rachael calls me.

“You did see that, didn’t you? Neal on the lunchtime news? Just so bloody awful, isn’t it? That poor family . . . And someone must know something. Come over tomorrow, Kate. Ten-ish. Oh God, Norman’s cut himself. . . .”

Only pausing for breath after she’s gone.

 

I catch it in my words to Beth Van Sutton in the village shop. Here, too, among the locally farmed meat and boxes of vegetables, her trays of homemade cakes, fear lingers.

“Terrible, isn’t it, Kate? That lovely young girl . . . that poor family. The police have been in. They’re talking to everyone, you know.”

It’s no surprise the police have spoken to her. A human inventory of village comings and goings, Beth and her husband, Johnny, have run the shop for as long as anyone can remember. Know everything and everyone—almost.

“Johnny’s talked to the police about organizing a search,” she adds. “People round here need to do something.”

It’s the obvious next step, to turn fear into action, gather our numbers and seek out the most hidden places—but no less shocking.

“It’s unbearable, isn’t it? The not knowing.” It rolls off my tongue almost without me noticing. To a point, it’s true, until my mind inevitably fills with the many possibilities that are each a million times worse than just
not knowing.

Beth looks shocked. “No news is good news.” Then she adds, “Have you seen the strawberries? Second crop, they are. Really tasty.”

Her eyes meeting mine as the cliché passes between us silently.

 

When I get to Rachael’s, she’s in her habitual state of chaos.

“Kate! God, I’m pleased to see you. The police were here yesterday.. . . Have they been to you yet? Of course they have—you told me. Do you know if they have any leads? Someone must know something, don’t you think? Let’s go out for lunch. The kids have eaten everything, and I haven’t had time to shop.”

“Pub?” I suggest.

“Pub.” Rachael sounds relieved.

“I tried calling Jo last night,” I tell her as, pausing for breath, she grabs her bag and hunts around for her keys, before giving up and leaving the door unlocked, as she often does. By her own admission, they have nothing worth stealing. “Just after Neal’s appeal. She didn’t answer.”

“I’m not surprised. I can’t imagine what they’re going through. There was a reporter snooping around the farm this morning. Alan set the dogs on him.”

“Your dogs? That’s hilarious.” Rachael’s dogs may be multiple, but they’re harmless.

“He didn’t know that, though, did he?”

The pub is busy for midweek. Like a car crash on the opposite side of a motorway, is a missing girl suddenly a spectator sport? We opt for inside, a table near an open window.

“Has Alan noticed a group of boys hanging around?” I’m thinking of Sophie’s friends. I must ask Grace if she’s talked to her.

“I don’t think so. Though on all those acres, anyone could be there. He’d never know.” She raises her eyes to mine. “That’s the trouble round here, isn’t it? There are too many places to hide.”

I’ve thought that myself, but if Rosie has run off with someone, the same someone who gave her that beautiful necklace, she could be safely camped out in one of tens of hiding places. No one would know.

Perusing the menu, Rachael sighs. “Would it be incredibly greedy to have the steak, d’you think?”

We’re halfway through our lunch when across the bar, I see a face I’d recognize anywhere. One I haven’t seen in years. The last person I’d expect to see
here.

“Laura?” Incredulously, shaking my head in disbelief. Is it her? But as I say her name out loud, she turns toward me, and I see her face light up.

5

“I
don’t believe this!” Laura comes over and hugs me.

“Me neither! Rachael, this is Laura. We were at school together,” I explain. “Went on our first teenagers’ holiday together, fell for the same boy. Then she went away, and I never saw her again. Until now! I can’t believe it!”

“Partners in crime,” Laura says, pulling out a chair. “Are you sure you don’t mind?” Aimed at Rachael.

“God, no. Help yourself. Join us for coffee. I’ll go and order.”

As Rachael gets up and heads over to the bar, I glance at Laura, wondering where the frizzy hair and the soft plumpness have gone. This Laura is sleek and honed—and her clothes incredibly fashionable.

“So what brings you here? I’d heard you moved to the States. Are you back?”

“I live in New York.” She pauses. “I’m a journalist, Kate.” Speaking slowly, gauging my reaction, her eyes rooted to mine, as I start to get a sense of where she’s going with this.

“You’ve heard about Rosie.” It’s a statement rather than a question. My pleasure at seeing her dissipates, because I’m not sure how that makes me feel. Disappointment that my old friend makes her living out of other people’s suffering? “It’s a long way to come, Laura. And no one knows what, if anything, has happened to her.”

Laura nods. “I know. And I really hope, as much as all of you do, that she just walks back in, unharmed. But it’s a big story. Neal Anderson’s a household name. There’s more to it, though. Before this happened, we’d planned a series of articles on the hidden victims of war zones. Including Afghanistan. Human stories about what happens when towns and families are decimated, and about those who remain—the elderly, the maimed. The orphans.” She pauses. “He’s already agreed to an interview with me. You see, he’s connected with an orphanage in Afghanistan.”

It’s the first I’ve heard of this; suddenly, she has my attention.

She goes on. “Seeing as I’m here, anyway, my editor’s agreed to let me cover this, too. Half the country is following this—and it’s been a while, hasn’t it? You must all be terribly worried.”

Thinking of Jo again, I’m not sure. There are more than enough rumors circulating, and it feels disloyal to discuss her family like this. They’re too close to my heart.

“I don’t know, Laura. Jo’s a friend. It might be better if you talk to someone else.”

Laura sits back, still watching me. “Will you give me a chance to explain how we work? I can understand what you’re thinking, because right now, if I were you, I’d feel the same. But I’m really not one of those horrible, ruthless reporters who twist facts and who’ll do anything for a story. I promise you, cross my heart. Obviously, it’s awful that Rosanna—or Rosie, you say she’s called—is missing. There’s a story to write, sure, but accurately. And sympathetically, because awful though it is, this happens to people. The papers will print it, Kate, regardless. And not always the facts, either. You know that.”

“She’s right.” Rachael reappears with a tray of coffee. “So who do you work for?”

“An American magazine called
Lifetime.
. . . It’s a monthly journal—mostly about family and the kind of real-life issues facing women. I’ll give you a copy. I’ve got some upstairs.”

“You’re staying here?” Rachael places cups in front of us.

Laura nods. “For a couple of days.”

Until Rosie comes back, is what she means.

 

However bright the sun, however warm and soft the air on my skin, I discover you can’t unlearn fear. It’s there, all around us, as we gather to search for Rosie. I wonder if Jo knows just how much support there is. But after a long day yields nothing of any significance, as daylight fades, numbers fall away, leaving the police to continue with a dog.

It’s there again, fear, my instant split-second response, that evening, when my phone rings. I’m in my pajamas, tidying the last of dinner away before I go to bed, meaning it’s late enough that it’s important.

Grace’s number flashing up on the screen.

“Mum, they’ve found her. . . .” Her voice is small and shocked.

“Is she all right, Grace?”

“She was in the woods. . . .”

My heart misses a beat, because it’s not what I want to hear, nor is the rushing sound in my ears as it comes back to me.
The storm, Zappa, my fall
. . .

Clamping the phone to my ear as my heart leaps wildly, pointlessly with hope, because I know already from her hesitation, from the tremble in her voice, long before she speaks the words.

“Mum . . .” Her voices breaks. “Rosie’s dead.”