The Girl You Lost: A gripping psychological thriller (3 page)

I
stare
at the girl sitting before me, my heart thudding in my chest. If I were an objective bystander I would urge myself to leave. To get out of this café and as far away as possible from this girl who is claiming to be my daughter. But I remain where I am.

She is tall, like me, but that means nothing. Her hair is dark like Matt’s, and even though both of us have brown eyes, so do the majority of people. None of this tells me anything, so all I have to go on is my instinct, which, because of the rabbit, is now telling me to hear her out. If nothing else, I will just listen to what she has to say.

‘I know this is difficult,’ Grace says, stirring her Coke again. ‘I just didn’t know what else to do. I had to find you and tell you what I know. I need your help.’ Her eyes plead with me.

I tell myself I can do this. I can listen to what she says, let it wash over me as if I am interviewing someone for a news story. That is all I have to do. And then I can walk out of here, go back to work, and one day recount the story of the crazy girl who claimed to be my daughter.

‘Tell me everything,’ I say. I am doing well so far, no emotion escapes into my words. Outwardly, I am calm and detached.

She lets go of her straw and looks around, scanning the faces of the other customers, and I wonder why. She is jittery and on edge, and this is only one of several reasons not to believe her. Surely I am the one she should be nervous of?

‘I always felt different,’ she explains. ‘You know, a bit out of place, like I didn’t really fit anywhere. I mean, it’s such a cliché, but it’s the only way I can describe it. But I never really thought for one second that my mum … I mean, she’s not my mum, is she? But I’ll call her that for now, it will just be easier, until I’ve told you everything.’

She pauses, and I wonder if I’m supposed to speak at this point. But what would I say? That I’m struggling to allow myself even the tiniest hope that she is Helena? I’ve been burnt too many times, so what happens if I dare to hope this time? But what’s becoming clear is that whether she is or isn’t, this girl – Grace – actually
believes
she is my daughter.

‘Last week,’ she continues, ‘a family friend, well, more a friend of Mum’s, accidentally let something slip about her not being my real mum.’ She flicks back a strand of hair that’s fallen across her cheek. ‘He was drunk, and I don’t think he meant to say it. When I pushed him about it a few days later, I managed to get your name out of him. I looked you up online.’

She stops again and watches me, and I can sense her desperation for me to speak. But I am speechless. It is all so far-fetched, I keep expecting someone to jump out of nowhere and tell me I’ve been pranked.

‘Look, this is crazy,’ I say. ‘The man was drunk. He probably remembered the story about my daughter and used it to try and get to your mum for some reason. You can’t take what he said seriously.’ But as I say this I look down at the rabbit I’m still clutching, and know that there is something more to this. The police kept details of the rabbit private so it wasn’t mentioned in the media.

‘Tell me everything he said. Word for word. Leave nothing out.’

She inhales a sharp breath then begins. ‘His name is Lucas. Lucas Hall. He went to school with Mum’s brother, my uncle. They were best friends. But Uncle Daniel had a brain tumour and died recently so Lucas came to the house to visit Mum. I guess to check how she was doing.’

‘Had you met him before? This Lucas?’ I am doing what I am trained to do: ask questions to get to the heart of a story.

Grace shakes her head. ‘Not until that day. I’d heard about him. He owns a posh restaurant, in west London, I think, but he never came over. Uncle Daniel used to talk about him a lot.’ She pauses and I urge her to continue.

‘That day he and Mum were having a glass of wine in the kitchen when I turned up to visit her. She doesn’t normally drink but she said they were celebrating Uncle Daniel’s life. The thing is, they were really close. Mum was a lot older than my uncle so I guess she mothered him a bit, looked after him.’

All the while she talks, painting this picture for me, I cannot believe I am part of her story. These people are strangers to me; how can any of them have anything to do with Helena?

Oblivious to my thoughts, Grace continues. ‘Mum got called out. She’s a home carer and one of her ladies needed urgent help with something. She told Lucas that I’d keep him company until she got back. But after a couple of hours Mum still wasn’t home, so he ended up opening another bottle. I kept trying to hint that I had uni work to do, I mean, I didn’t even know the man, but he wouldn’t leave, he just kept on downing the wine.’

‘Were you drinking as well?’ I have to ask this; her answer could put a different slant on things.

‘No, I don’t drink. I’m too busy studying to cloud my mind with alcohol.’ It is the third time she has referred to how studious she is, and I can’t help thinking she’s deliberately focusing on this point.

The café door opens and once more Grace’s eyes flick to the latest customer walking in. After a second she relaxes and continues her story. ‘He started talking about Uncle Daniel. Saying what a good man he’d been, how he’d have done anything for Mum. How they all would. Then he got a bit creepy. He started flirting with me, telling me how pretty I was. It was awful. I told him to cut it out and he seemed offended at first, but then he started laughing. I don’t know, maybe he was trying to make out he didn’t care that I’d shot him down. But then he told me I was better off with Ginny for a mum than that teenager. I asked him what he meant but he shut down, said it was the alcohol talking. He left before I could question him further.’

I listen to what she tells me, organising the words so I can make sense of them. I still don’t understand how she has concluded that she is my daughter.

‘Look, Grace, I admit that what this man, Lucas, said is strange, but it’s not evidence that you’re … Helena. Perhaps he was just annoyed with you for rejecting his advances?’

She sighs, clearly frustrated. ‘Wait. I saw him again. I found out from Mum … Ginny … that he was going to a bar last night and I went there. I caked myself in make-up and wore a short skirt and that was all it took.’

I am filled with horror. Whether or not this girl is Helena, I feel an overwhelming urge to protect her. She is the same age as my daughter would be now. ‘What are you saying? You didn’t … ’

She stares at her empty glass and doesn’t look at me as she speaks. ‘I eventually got the truth out of him. He gave me your name.’

And now I am torn. Surely her story is too elaborate to be false? Or maybe that’s exactly the point. Isn’t the truth always simpler than a lie? For now, I will continue to hear her out, until I find out what she really wants, because I’m waiting to hear what that is.

‘Look, if this is all true then we need to go to the police. Now.’

She startles at this, as if I have punched her in the gut. ‘No, we can’t.’

‘Yes, Grace, we have to. If this Lucas was telling anywhere near the truth, then it needs to be investigated.’ I am doing well. I am detached, acting as if I am not involved in this. I will just help this girl, whatever it is she wants.

She begins to cry then, her chest heaving with each sob. ‘I know, but please, we can’t. I just need you to help me. I need to know if it’s true. If I’m your daughter. If my whole life has been a lie.’

‘There’s no other way, Grace. Can’t you see that? We need to tell the police.’

When she looks up at me her eyes are wild with fear. ‘We can’t,’ she says, her words barely audible. ‘It’s Lucas … He’s dead … It was an accident. And I’m the one who killed him.’

D
id you have a normal childhood
? Parents wrapping you in love, protecting you from the outside world, yet still somehow managing to teach you independence?

Well, I had all this. And more. A comfortable house, no siblings to fight with – but that was okay with me – any toy I wanted, within reason. And I have to add the ‘within reason’ part because I don’t want you to think I was spoilt.

I’m telling you this because I’m not the cliché you will want me to be by the time you’ve finished my story. You will need to think I was neglected or abused, that none of what came later was my fault. It is the only way you will be able to sleep at night: to feel there is a clear distinction between human and monster, a line so wide that you will never meet anyone who has crossed it.

Sorry to disappoint you, but my childhood was normal in every way.

So how did I end up like this; drowning in hideous secrets and foul acts?

The problem was not family or environment or school.

The problem was within me.

Years later, he told me we were cut from the same cloth. That’s why we did what we did, driven by the compulsion within us. Life was to be experienced, he said, the only limits were those inflicted upon us by narrow-mindedness and fear. Our own and that of others.

Did it excite you? he asked, after the first time. Did you feel as if your blood would burst from your body? That no feeling would ever match up to it?

I tried to still my shaking limbs, to hide the fear I was drowning in.

But what was I truly frightened of? What we had just done, or the fact that I had liked it?

I
n my line
of work I hear all kinds of things. But never before have I sat face-to-face with a person telling me they have killed someone. I want to run away from Grace, or whoever she is, back to the safety of work. But then I become conscious once more of the blue velvet rabbit I’m still clutching. And now she has said the words, I am caught up in this. There is no way for me to erase Grace’s statement. Or to forget that she has Helena’s rabbit. Whoever she is, she knows something about my daughter.

I see it clearly as she recounts what happened: the man bearing down on her, pinning her to the bed, tugging at her clothes. I feel the desperation she must have experienced. The fear. And the panic after she smashed the lamp into his skull.

‘We’re going to the police. Now.’

She shakes her head so vigorously that her hair fans out on either side, whipping the air. ‘No, wait, please. I just need to … Will you come with me to his flat? It’s in Embankment. Not far. I need to get something.’

And that’s when she tells me that he was filming her, with her mobile phone, and that she forgot to get it when she rushed out of the flat, but that she had grabbed his keys, which he’d left in the lock. Once again, it sounds unbelievable, like the script of a film. But I remind myself of all the news stories I’ve covered that seem far beyond the realms of possibility.

I shake my head. I can’t get involved in this.

‘Please, Simone,’ Grace says. ‘Come with me and then I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll go to the police, do a DNA test, anything. Please, just do this for me. I can’t let Mu … Ginny see it. Or know about it.’

And then I do what I should have done as soon as she approached me. Without a word, I stand up and head to the door, not looking back as I pass the window and make my way back to Oxford Street.

It is only when I reach the end of the road I realise I am still holding the blue rabbit. Helena’s rabbit. I turn around and head back towards the café; I don’t want this toy and all the questions it brings. I need to give it back to Grace. My daughter has gone; I lost her eighteen years ago and have spent these years trying to come to terms with that. I don’t want anything to do with this.

I see Grace as she is leaving the café, walking in the other direction with her head down. My legs carry me towards her, unconsciously. I keep my distance because I don’t want her to know I’m following her. I need to see where she’s going, to know what game she is playing.

Stuffing the rabbit in my bag, I pull out my phone and call work. Abbot answers and I am relieved to hear his voice. ‘I’ve had an emergency,’ I tell him. ‘A family thing.’ This is not untrue. ‘Can you cover for me for a couple of hours? I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

As I knew he would be, he is full of concern: asking if I’m okay, and if there’s anything he can do, but stopping short of pushing me to tell him what exactly has happened. Abbot is more than a work colleague; in the years we’ve worked together I have come to think of him as a good friend.

Keeping my eyes on Grace, I thank him and disconnect the call. When I slip my phone back in my bag, my fingers brush soft velvet, and my heart aches with the memory of Helena and the last time I saw her toy.

I follow Grace as she heads along Oxford Street, towards Tottenham Court Road. At first I wonder if she is going to my work, but she crosses the road and heads down into the Tube station. I increase my pace to avoid losing her, and get my Oyster card ready in my hand before I reach the ticket barriers.

She heads towards the southbound Northern line and when she boards the tube to Morden, I am certain I know where she is going. She told me Lucas’s flat was in Embankment, only three stops from here.

I jump on the train in the next carriage, only just making it before the warning beep starts, and watch her through the glass on the adjoining door. I try to analyse her expression. Is she disappointed that I wouldn’t play her game, angry perhaps? But I can only find resignation written on her face.

My suspicion about where she is heading is confirmed when she stands up before we get to Embankment and heads to the doors. What am I doing? I walked away from her, refusing to buy into what she’s said, yet here I am, following her. It’s not too late to stop whatever this is. I can get off at the next stop, cross the platform and get on a Tube back to Oxford Street. And then later I will sit down to dinner with Matt and tell him what a strange day I’ve had. What would he think of what I’m doing?

But as the Tube grinds to a halt, I walk towards the doors, as if my feet are making the decision for me. I step onto the platform, keeping my eyes on Grace as she blends into the crowd, and vow to call Matt as soon as I’ve seen what Grace does next.

It is hard to keep up with her once we exit the station. Her Converse trainers allow her to take long strides, while my mid-heel Mary Jane shoes only slow me down. But I can’t lose her, not now.

I have to know, one way or the other.

I have time to think as I follow her. There must be some truth in what she has said, otherwise why would she come here? But then I know nothing about this girl, this could be where she lives, for all I know. I should have asked more questions: about her mother, about her. What about her father? She made no mention of him. I am already too far involved in this to turn back now. This time, it is my own story I am investigating. I don’t know what I believe, but the presence of the rabbit means I must continue on.

For twenty minutes Grace continues walking, the crowds thinning out the further we get from the station. Grey clouds have formed in the sky so it is only a matter of time before rain showers down on us. But this is the least of my worries.

Finally she turns into a quiet street and heads in the direction of a purpose-built block of flats. It is far from run down, but its characterless grey concrete façade makes me feel uneasy. I stop where I am; I have no idea what to do next.

When she disappears inside the building, I realise the choice has been taken from my hands. There is bound to be a secure entry system, so there is no way I will be able to follow her inside. As well as this, I have no idea which flat she is going to and there are three floors.

But despite this, I edge forwards until I am standing outside the main doors where Grace stood only moments ago. And then I am pushing at the door, surprised to find it unlocked.

The communal entrance hall is basic, with no lift, only an uncarpeted staircase. From here I have a full view of the ground floor corridor. Grace is not here and she wouldn’t have had time to open a door or wait for someone to let her in, so I head up the stairs, my legs feeling heavier with each step I take.

When I reach the second floor, she is there, disappearing into the flat at the end of the corridor. She no longer seems nervous, and doesn’t check to see if anyone is around to see her.

It’s not too late. I can still walk away.
I repeat this mantra in my head, but it does no good; within seconds I am outside the flat door, and finding it unlatched, push it open as Grace spins round, her mouth hanging open when she sees it is me.

‘Fuck! What are you doing? You scared the hell out of me!’ She flattens her palm against her chest, as if she’s trying to slow her heartbeat.

Stepping inside, I curse myself for being so stupid. I have no idea what’s going on here, and what I am about to become involved in, but it’s not good.

The flat – whomever it belongs to – is immaculate. I recall Grace’s story, and find it hard to believe that the events she recounted took place here.

When I don’t say anything, Grace fills the silence. ‘But I’m glad you’re here. How did you – ? Never mind.’ She steps towards a closed door but stops short. ‘I can’t look, Simone. I can’t. He’s lying in there … dead.’ She is crying again now, and for some reason, I believe her tears.

I walk towards the door, preparing myself for the worst. With my eyes squeezed shut I fling it open, rooted to my spot in the hallway. But when I open my eyes again, I am staring at a freshly made bed. And nothing else.

I step further in and take in the room: white walls, a built-in oak wardrobe, a spotless beige carpet. But no one is here, living or dead. And there are no lamps on either bedside table.

I turn round and Grace is right behind me, brushing past me to get in the room.

‘What the –? I don’t understand.’ She rushes round to the other side of the bed and kneels down to check underneath it. ‘But … he … I … ’ Her words fall away. She stands up, staring at me, her eyes wide and wild.

Finally I speak. ‘Look, I don’t know what the hell is going on, but I’m walking out of here now, and I don’t want to see you or hear from you again. Ever. Whatever game you’re playing stops now.’

But she is not listening. She sits on the bed, smoothing her hands over the crisp white duvet. ‘I don’t understand,’ she mumbles. ‘He was dead. I know he was. I … I killed him.’ Her body trembles.

‘There’s no body here, Grace. You didn’t kill anyone. There’s no blood. Nothing.’ I turn away but then remember something that doesn’t add up. Reaching into my bag, I pull out the rabbit. ‘Where did you get this?’

‘I told you. It’s mine. I’ve had it since I was a baby. You have to believe me, Simone. You have to help me. There’s no one else I can go to.’

I walk out of the bedroom. I cannot hear any more of this. But within seconds she has followed me into the living room.

‘Please. We just need to talk about this. Work out what’s happened. I’m not lying to you, Simone. I was here last night with him and he was … dead.’

‘There’s no body!’ I repeat, shouting this time. ‘What do you want from me?’

Before she can answer, there is a crash from somewhere in the flat. There is no time to think anything, to worry or assess the situation, because seconds later someone throws open a door and hurtles past us, knocking Grace to the floor in his rush to get out. I only see the back of him but it is definitely a man, dressed in a grey jacket and black trainers. That is all I can work out.

I freeze, unable to react. But then I hurry to Grace and help her up. She too, is too dazed to move. ‘Who was that?’ I finally manage to say. ‘Was that Lucas?’

She shakes her head. ‘No. I don’t know who it was but it wasn’t him. It definitely wasn’t him.’

I ask how she can be sure when he pushed past us so quickly, but she ignores me and turns to the door, staring at it as if it will provide answers.

I check the hallway, but he has gone, and I have no desire to catch up with him.

‘Whoever that was … he heard us,’ Grace says. ‘He heard every word we said. And now he knows that I ... killed Lucas.’ Her words blend with heavy sobs so I struggle to make out what she says.

‘But I keep telling you there’s no body here. You couldn’t have harmed him. There’d be evidence of it like blood or some sign of a struggle. But there’s nothing.’ I try to make my voice soft, but rather than stopping her tears, my words seem to cause her to erupt into even more, her breathing fast and shallow.

‘It doesn’t make sense. It just doesn’t make sense.’ She repeats this over and over until I think she’ll never say anything else again.

‘Grace, you need to calm down. Come on, we should get out of here.’

She lets me guide her towards the front door but then stops. ‘Wait. My phone. We need to find my phone.’

I don’t know how or when it became
we
but I feel compelled to help her now, and just by being here I have become tangled up in something. I need answers. Despite the danger we now seem to be in, I have to help Grace. ‘Come on then,’ I say. ‘I’ll help you look. You check out here and I’ll check the bedroom. I think that’s best. But we need to be quick in case that man comes back.’

She nods and walks to the front door, turning to face the room. I can only assume she is retracing her steps; reliving whatever happened here last night. I don’t know what it was, or if it did involve someone’s death, but something took place here. Something has disturbed this girl, whoever she is.

There is no evidence in the bedroom to suggest anyone ever lived here. I open the doors of the giant built-in wardrobe but there are no clothes inside; only four wire hangers, jangling from the force of the door being opened. It’s the same story in the chest of drawers and bedside cabinets: all empty.

I sink to my knees and peer under the bed, but there is no mobile phone here. There is nothing but more immaculate carpet, and not even a speck of dust anywhere. I lift up the duvet and examine the crisp white bed sheet. It smells of fabric freshener and there is no sign anyone has slept, or done anything else, in this bed.

This can only mean one of two things: either Grace is lying about this Lucas and what she did to him, or somebody has done a good job of hiding the evidence. But blood can’t be permanently removed; the police would be able to find any traces of it, no matter how minute.

I turn towards the door. In another room, I can hear her rooting around in drawers or cupboards. ‘Grace?’ I call, ‘what colour were the sheets when you were here last night?’

A moment passes before she reaches the bedroom. ‘Um, white I think.’ She eyes the bed. ‘But these can’t be the ones. There was blood all over them.’

I don’t know why I’ve asked her this; there was surely no other answer she would give me. ‘Okay, well, your phone’s not here. We need to get out of here now. If you’re telling the truth then we’re in someone else’s flat.’ And whoever that man was, he could be calling the police right at this moment.

But Grace doesn’t move.

The urge to leave this place is now stronger than ever. ‘Look, I don’t know what’s going on but I can’t be part of this. Stay if you want, but I’m not hanging around.’

Grace watches as I walk past but then grabs my arm. ‘Please, Simone, can I come with you? I’m scared. I don’t know who that man was but he knows about me now. I can’t go home. They’ll find me. And he must have my phone.’ She begins to shake.

Once again, a strange urge to protect her overcomes me, and against my better judgement, I give in. ‘Okay, let me think. We need to get out of here and then we can decide what to do.’ It occurs to me that I am making decisions for her, taking control, like a mother would. Even though I still don’t know if I can trust her, she seems helpless at this moment and somehow I have warmed to her.