The Girl You Lost: A gripping psychological thriller (2 page)

I
t is a strange sensation
, being certain that someone is following you. Until now I don’t think I’ve experienced it, but it’s unmistakeable; feeling eyes on you, but the heaviness lifting the minute you turn around. Knowing nonetheless that someone is watching.

Five minutes ago I slipped into John Lewis, even though I don’t need to buy anything. I just want to be sure. It’s lunchtime and I’m due back at work in half an hour and still need to eat, but now I am unnerved. I only came out for some fresh air, to escape the stuffy studio, but now I wish I’d stayed there.

I turn around and there she is. The same young woman I spotted as I left work. The same woman I noticed behind me at the top of Oxford Street. This could be coincidence but I also noticed her this morning by Tottenham Court Road station.

She is following me.

Do I know her? In my job I come across a vast amount of people, but I’m not one to forget a face. Or much else. Matt says my memory astounds him; that my brain somehow stores up even the most trivial of details. He says I should have his job, that it would be a godsend for a GP to have my gift. But I’ll leave that up to him; I’d be no good delivering bad prognoses to people. I don’t have his ability to remain detached.

I am calling her a woman but she is barely that. I cannot guess at her exact age but she can’t be much more than twenty. This should make her less threatening, but it doesn’t.

I steal secret glances at her and see she is studying the box of a coffee maker. She is tall and thin, dressed in leggings and a short leather jacket, a turquoise scarf wrapped around her neck. The edge of a long grey t-shirt hangs underneath her jacket but it can’t be keeping her warm. On her feet she wears black Converse boot trainers, the bottoms bright white.

Thoughts of Helena try to invade my head. Would she dress this way? But I have to push these destructive contemplations away. I can’t let myself think of her now, not here, in the middle of John Lewis, in front of my newly acquired stalker.

Picking up a set of brushed silver cutlery I have no interest in, I try and work out what to do. I could approach her and ask if I can help her. Show her I’m not disturbed by the huge coincidence of seeing her here as well as outside my work. Or I could ignore her, make a speedy exit out of this shop, get back to work and forget this silliness. Sometimes my imagination runs away with me: it is a hazard of the job. And of my past.

Before I have a chance to choose an option, she appears next to me and taps my arm. It is not a gentle tap, but a fast and urgent demand for attention.

‘Excuse me?’ Her voice is surprisingly soft.

Now that she is barely centimetres away, I realise how pretty she is. Her dark brown eyes are huge and shiny and her long hair is almost black, straightened to within an inch of its life.

‘Yes?’ It’s all I can think of to say, despite my earlier plan.

Her eyes dart to the left then right before she focuses on me again. ‘You’re Simone Porter, aren’t you?’

So I was right. She must know me from a story we’ve covered. But whatever she wants can’t be good, otherwise why would she follow me away from work when she could have asked to see me there? She could have emailed me, like other people needing my help do.

‘Yes.’ My voice is wary now. ‘Can I help you?’ I glance at my watch, hoping she’ll take the hint that I’m pressed for time.

She checks behind her, reinforcing my belief that whatever she wants to tell me won’t be something I’ll want to hear. ‘Can we talk? Away from here?’

‘What’s this about? Who exactly are you?’

She places her hand on my arm and I flinch. She must notice because she apologises and immediately steps back, almost knocking into a row of neatly stacked boxes of kettles. ‘I just … really need to talk to you. But not here.’

‘You’ll have to come and see me at work, I’m afraid. The network gets funny about things like this.’

The young woman sighs and shakes her head. ‘No, no, it’s nothing to do with your work.’

I am not expecting this and am thrown off guard. ‘Then … how do you know me?’

‘I don’t … not really … ’ She stares at her trainers.

‘Look, I’m sorry but I have to get back. If it’s important, call me there, okay?’ I turn away but feel her eyes boring into me.

‘Simone?’

I know I shouldn’t turn back. I should keep walking as if I haven’t heard her; she won’t know and it doesn’t matter anyway. This obviously wasn’t important. Perhaps she does know of me from my work and wants to ask if I can get her in the door. That’s what happens when you work in TV. But despite this, I look around and her eyes have grown even larger, imploring me to listen to her, to take her seriously.

‘I need to talk to you. It’s about your daughter.’

The air is sucked from me and I clutch the nearest shelving unit to stop myself falling. ‘What?’ I say this, even though I have heard every word as if it’s been delivered through a loudspeaker.

‘Now can we go somewhere else? Please?’

W
e sit
in a coffee shop located on one of the back roads behind John Lewis, away from the bustle of Oxford Street. I simply let her lead me here, storing my questions for when we are away from the crowds, out of the cold January air. There aren’t many people in here, and just the right amount of noise to stop us being overheard.

‘Tell me what you know,’ I say, unable to stop my voice shaking. I reach for my coffee – black with an extra shot – but my hand trembles so I place my cup down again.

‘I’ve shocked you, haven’t I?’ Her lip curls at the side, but I can’t tell whether she’s being apologetic or enjoying my confusion. Whichever it is, she seems more relaxed now.

‘What do you know? And who are you?’ My words are sharp, but I am on edge. What is she about to tell me?

With the straw that’s protruding from her glass of Coke, she stirs her drink, the ice clanking against the sides, her eyes fixed on me. ‘I just need to be sure it’s you first. Please, just humour me and I promise I’ll tell you everything.’

I dig in my bag and find my purse, pulling out my driving license. I hesitate for a moment, unsure what I’m doing. I usually think carefully about things, weighing up the pros and cons of every situation I find myself in, but today there is no time. I hand her my license and she stares at the picture. It’s almost ten years old and my hair is different now – shorter and wavier than it was – but it’s unmistakably me. Hair can change, even skin tone, but eyes always remain the same, despite the passing of time. So why is she taking so long to give it back to me?

‘Thanks,’ she says eventually, sliding it across the table. I grab it quickly and stuff it in my bag, not bothering to slot it into its place in my purse. ‘So you work in TV?’

Trying to hide my frustration, I answer her. ‘Yes, I’m a field producer for News 24. I’ve been there for twelve years. But you know this already, don’t you?’

The girl – for that’s what I’ve realised she is – shuffles in her chair, at least showing me the courtesy of looking uncomfortable. ‘Yeah. Sorry. I just need to be sure it’s you.’

The door is thrown open and she jerks her head up, her eyes following the new customer as he heads to the till.

‘Surely you saw me on the channel website? That picture’s fairly recent, so you can’t still have doubts. Now tell me. What do you know about … my daughter?’ The words almost choke me. It’s been too long since I’ve said them out loud. ‘And who are you?’

She puts her glass aside and stares at me with her dark, wide eyes. ‘My name is Grace Rhodes. And I, um, have information about your daughter.’ Her voice is hesitant, and for the first time I feel her confidence slip.

‘You’ve said that already. What information? What do you know? And why should I believe you?’ My guard is up. I have been fooled before by people claiming to have information about Helena. Not for a long time, not since she was a baby, but that doesn’t mean this girl isn’t playing a nasty trick, or just wanting attention. In my line of work I have come across all kinds of disturbed people. There is no limit to what humans are capable of.

‘I know that eighteen years ago your daughter was abducted in a park. She was only six months old.’

I grow cold, even though I am seated next to a warm radiator. ‘That doesn’t prove anything. You could have found that out online. It’s public information.’ Even to me my voice sounds frail.

She nods. Is she giving up so easily? ‘You’re right, I don’t have anything concrete yet. Not really. I wish I did.’

I can’t work her out. I know this is a game, but what does she want? ‘If you don’t have proof then you’re wasting my time.’ I stand up, determined to reach the door even though I doubt my unsteady legs will get me there.

‘Please, wait.’ She rises from her chair and grabs my hand. Her skin feels warm. ‘I know this is hard for you, but please, you have to listen to me. Just hear me out. And then you can decide whether or not to walk away.’

They say mothers have strong instincts; something innate that will help them protect their children. Well, I am no longer a mother, but looking at this young girl now, something compels me to give her a chance.

‘What do you know about my daughter other than what’s already public knowledge?’

‘Mrs Porter. Simone. I just need you to know I’m not some crazy person spinning you a line.’ She sits down again and I do the same.

‘Show me some ID at least. You’ve seen mine, haven’t you? Now I want to see yours.’

She reaches into her pocket. ‘All I have is my student ID. Here.’ She slides it across the table.

Picking up the card, I stare at the picture. It is definitely the girl I’m talking to, and it says her name is Grace Rhodes. But how do I know the ID is real? The black font stating City University London looks authentic enough, as does the red coat of arms, but it is probably a form of ID that’s easy to fake.

‘Don’t you have anything else? A driver’s licence?’

She shakes her head. ‘I haven’t started driving yet. I keep meaning to have lessons but I’m always so busy studying. I’ll get to it, though.’

This seems like a reasonable excuse. However, I am still unsure whether this girl is genuine, so I need to keep listening. Keep letting her talk until she spits out what it is she wants. Because there is always something, isn’t there?

‘Go on,’ I say, keeping my eyes on her, searching for proof of deception. ‘You’re telling me Helena’s alive? What do you know about her? Where is she?’

She looks me directly in the eye. ‘She’s alive, I swear to you.’

I am numb as she says this. I’ve had psychics and palm-readers and all sorts of supposed clairvoyants telling me these words before, but nothing has ever come of it. We have never found Helena. I remain quiet and let her finish.

‘I … I can’t say what happened. I don’t know … she doesn’t know. But she’s fine. She’s okay. She’s been okay, I mean.’

Now I feel the air being sucked from my lungs once again. I can’t hear any more of this. I need to get away from this girl. For years after Helena went missing I got my hopes up every time someone said they had information, but all it ever turned out to be was false leads or lies. And with each occasion, I was ripped even further apart. ‘I have to go now. Back to work. My lunch hour’s nearly over.’ I stand up, ready to bolt.

She stares up at me and her mouth gapes open. I realise she was not expecting me to react this way. Perhaps she thought I’d fall to my knees and beg her to take me to Helena.

‘But … I … ’

‘Listen, do you think you’re the first person to do this? Come up with some crazy story claiming to know where my daughter is? I mean, what do you want anyway? Money? Is that it?’ I thrust my hand in my purse and pull out a twenty-pound note, throwing it towards her. It flutters slowly to the table and she ignores it, staring at me with her huge eyes. Other people turn to us; I have spoken too loudly, piqued their curiosity.

I leave the money on the table and pull my bag onto my shoulder. Glancing at her as I turn to leave, I notice her cheeks glisten with tears.

‘Just let me show you something,’ she says, her voice barely more than a whisper. She reaches into her pocket and for a second I am certain I can see the blade of a knife as she pulls out her hand. But then my mind focuses and I realise what I am looking at.

A soft blue velvet rabbit.

Helena’s toy.

‘Where did you get that?’ I say, unable to take my eyes off it.

Grace hands it to me, and with shaking hands I grab it. ‘So I’m right. It’s hers, isn’t it? Your daughter’s? I needed to know if it was.’ she says. None of her words make any sense.

Sitting down again, I study the toy, trying not to let my emotions overwhelm me and cloud my judgement. What would I do if this were a news story I was covering? I would tell the mother there could have been millions of these toys made that year. Matt bought it in a charity shop but I have no idea of its origins. All I know is that as young as she was, Helena loved her rabbit. And it was with her when she was taken.

As I continue to examine it, stroking the soft material between my fingers, I know this is my daughter’s toy. I lift it to my nose and breathe in the fabric, but the scent is unfamiliar: a washing powder I’ve never used.

‘What’s going on? Tell me. Now! Where did you get this?’ My voice is too loud and once more people turn to stare at us.

Grace’s eyes widen and she takes a deep breath. ‘It’s my toy. I’ve had it since I was a baby.’

Only once before have I felt the ground fall from beneath me. When Helena disappeared. But now I am experiencing it again, with the same shortness of breath and fear that my heart will stop beating.

‘What did you just say?’ I need her to repeat it because surely I have misheard?

She tells me again. ‘This toy belongs to me. I’ve had it since I was a baby.’

‘But … so … ’

Grace sucks in a deep breath. ‘I need you to help me, Simone. I think I’m your daughter and I need you to help me find out what happened to me.’