The Girl You Lost: A gripping psychological thriller (4 page)

It is a relief to step outside. The cold air brushing against my cheeks helps me think, helps me reach a decision. I stop by an iron railing and dig in my bag for my mobile.

‘What are you doing?’ Grace asks, her eyes widening.

‘I need to make a call.’ I quickly add that it is not the police I need to speak to. Not until I know what’s going on.

She shakes her head. ‘Not here, though. We need to get away from this place.’ Turning away, she stares at the building, hunching her shoulders as if she has only just become aware of the temperature out here. Pulling out a pair of black wool gloves from her pocket, she slips them on.

We walk for several minutes, rain starting to pelt down, and head back the way we came. I study the faces of everyone passing by. It is unlikely I would recognise the man who rushed from the flat, but it is worth being cautious. Beside me, I can tell that Grace is doing the same, her anxiety returning.

It is only when we reach Embankment station that we stop walking. I delve into my bag and once more pull out my phone to call Matt. I don’t expect to get through to him – he will be with his afternoon patients – but I need to give him some warning.

Warning that a girl who has information about Helena will be coming back to the house with me.

G
race stands in my hallway
, making no move to remove her jacket. Even her scarf and gloves remain fixed in place, a silent testament to how out of place she must feel here. I turn up the thermostat and take off my own coat, wondering if she’ll follow my lead. But she doesn’t; she simply stares around her, taking in the contents of my house.

Perhaps I should feel nervous, letting this stranger into my home, but I don’t. In fact, I feel as if I have the upper hand. Grace is in my domain now, so she is the one who should feel anxious. She’s got to be wondering if she can trust me not to call the police. After all, aren’t I just as much a stranger to her as she is to me? I should call them, but what would I say at this moment? There is no evidence that Grace has done anything, and no proof other than the rabbit that she’s Helena.

As I watch her, I see that her shoulders have dropped, her posture less defensive now we are no longer in public.

‘Come through to the kitchen,’ I say. ‘It’s always warmer in there.’

She follows me through the hall. ‘You’ve got a lovely home. It’s massive. You should see Mu – Ginny’s place, it’s quite big, but like a matchbox compared to this.’

In the kitchen I look around and try to see the house through her eyes. It is a four-bedroomed Victorian terrace in Fulham, which is deceptively spacious, but I never think of it as being excessively large. Matt and I are not the type to flaunt money or possessions. We just wanted somewhere we would be comfortable. Somewhere we could grow into, if we could ever bring ourselves to do that.

‘Do you have other children?’ Grace asks, as if reading my thoughts.

I swallow the lump in my throat and motion for her to sit at the table. ‘No … we thought about it, but I just couldn’t. It would have felt like replacing Helena. I couldn’t do that.’ I’m surprised how easily I’m able to say this to Grace.

Taking a seat at our huge farmhouse table, she doesn’t reply, but nods.

‘Would you like something to drink?’ Even as I ask, I am aware of how ludicrous it is for me to be offering this stranger a drink in my home. As if we are friends catching up after a long absence.

‘Anything cold,’ she says, ‘I’m not keen on tea or coffee and haven’t had any for ages. Not since I last visited Mum.’ She doesn’t bother correcting herself this time and the word hangs in the air, full of silent accusation.

Neither of us speaks while I pour Grace a glass of orange squash, but I’m conscious of her presence, of her eyes studying my every move. Is she analysing my features, searching for similarities? Or is she silently mocking me for allowing her into my home? Nothing about her body language or expression suggests this, but I cannot give her my trust too easily. The silence is not a comfortable one, but neither is it threatening. Just like with Grace herself, I don’t know what to make of it.

I put her drink in front of her and she takes a sip, all the time gazing around the kitchen.

Joining her at the table, I sit across from her so I can study her face.

‘I called my husband when we were at the station. Matt. He’ll be home in a couple of hours. He’s seeing patients this afternoon.’

She becomes alert. ‘So … he’s a doctor?’

‘Yes. A GP. His practice is not far from here. Fulham Palace Road.’ As soon as I’ve said it I regret my words. I shouldn’t be giving her personal details about us. Not when I still don’t know who she is or what she wants.

‘I don’t know it. Actually, I’ve never been to Fulham properly before. I mean, I’ve passed through, but don’t know it at all.’ She clutches her glass in her hands but makes no move to lift it to her mouth. ‘Does he know about me? What did you say to him? Do you think he’ll believe me?’

She fires so many questions at me I barely know where to start. ‘I didn’t say much. I just left him a message saying I need to speak to him when he gets home. But the minute he gets in I’ll need to talk to him before you see him. To explain what you’ve told me.’ And then I remember Lucas’s flat and the story Grace has fed to me. How can I tell this to Matt? I need to make sense of it myself first.

Grace squirms in her chair. ‘But you can’t tell him about Lucas. Please. No one else can know.’ The panic is back in her voice.

‘No, I won’t tell him that. Not yet anyway.’ I don’t add that I am determined to figure out what’s going on and uncover the truth of what she is telling me. For now I will let her think I am going along with her. It is the only way to catch her out if she’s lying.

She thanks me and I watch her and wonder if she really could be Helena. It is possible that my daughter – if she is still alive – could look like the girl before me. They are the same age and her hair is close in colour to Matt’s. I need to find out more about her.

‘When’s your birthday?’ I ask.

‘Seventh of December.’

‘Helena was born on the first of December,’ I say. ‘A week before.’ I speak these words but have no idea what it all means.

Grace shuffles in her seat, clearly as unsure as I am how to explain what we’ve just discovered.

‘So you don’t live with your mum?’ I say, changing the subject. I try to sound casual, as if I am just asking friendly questions.

She shakes her head. ‘It’s my first year at university and Mum didn’t want me to but I insisted on getting a room in the student halls. Liberty Hall. It’s nice. I did miss her a lot. But that was before I knew anything …’ She trails off and I am sure she is remembering something painful.

I probe further and she tells me she is studying journalism. ‘It’s similar to what you do, isn’t it?’ she says, a proud smile on her face.

Nodding, I tell her my degree is in journalism and agree that it’s a coincidence. But is that all it is? I ask her where her mother lives and her eyes narrow, her head slanting sideways.

‘Ewell. Why? You’re not going to—’

‘To be honest, Grace, I don’t know what I’m going to do. I mean, what am I supposed to do with this information? Everything you’ve told me? What happens now?’ I don’t know why I’m asking her this, because either she has no idea or this is part of some elaborate hoax.

Shaking her head, she puts down her mug. ‘I don’t know. I hadn’t thought beyond finding you and … asking for help. There’s no one else I can turn to.’

Hearing these words again, I begin to soften. What if she
is
Helena? I can’t send her away and take the chance of never finding out. And then my mind is made up. The first thing I need to do is find out for sure if she is my daughter. I can’t decide anything until I know that.

‘Well, when Matt gets home I think we should talk to him about doing a DNA test. Just so we can be sure.’ I study her face but she doesn’t seem shocked by my suggestion.

‘I agree. We need to do that. Even though I already know. I knew for sure the minute I saw your picture on the Internet.’

Her readiness to go through with a DNA test puts me at ease, before it occurs to me that the results may not be ready for weeks.

Grace stands up and stretches. ‘Can I use your bathroom, please?’

I point her to the downstairs toilet, grateful that she won’t be set loose upstairs on her own. I don’t want her out of my sight.

When she comes back I am making a selection of sandwiches. I haven’t had lunch and she probably hasn’t either so she must be hungry too. She offers to help but I tell her it’s fine, and while I finish making them she walks to the french doors and stares through the glass.

She only moves away when I place the plate of assorted sandwiches in the middle of the table and tell her to help herself. She leans forward to take one, biting into it without checking what the filling is. So she is not like me. I am very picky when it comes to food.

I don’t reach for a sandwich myself; now that I’ve made them I realise I can’t face any food. There is too much I need to know. ‘What’s your Mum – Ginny like?’

If she is surprised by my question, her face doesn’t show it. ‘She’s, um … I don’t know. It’s hard to describe people, don’t you think? I mean, especially the ones we’re closest to.’ Her eyes flick down and she begins pulling apart her bread. ‘Or at least think we’re closest to.’ When I don’t speak, she continues. ‘But she works hard. She’s been a good mum, always there for me, supporting me through uni. She’s clingy but I can understand her overprotectiveness. Well, now I can. It all makes sense. She was scared of me being taken away like she took me away from you. That must be what happened, mustn’t it?’

‘What makes you so sure Lucas wasn’t lying to you? Why are you so convinced Ginny isn’t your biological mum?’ As I ask this I wonder if Grace and Ginny have a strained relationship. Perhaps there are problems at home that have caused Grace to so readily believe Lucas.

Grace stares at me for a moment. ‘I can’t tell you any more than that. It’s just a feeling I have. But I just want to know the truth. Don’t you think it’s a very strange thing for a friend of hers to say?’

‘I don’t know. But if – and I do mean
if
because I still haven’t decided what to think – this man Lucas was telling the truth, then we can’t jump to conclusions about your … Ginny.’ This is something I’ve learnt in my job. Things are not always as they appear.

‘But why would he lie? Anyway, at least I can avoid her for a while. I’m not due home until half term and that’s ages.’

‘What about your dad?’ I ask. ‘Where is he?’

Grace shakes her head. ‘I don’t know my father. He left Mum the minute he found out she was pregnant. I’ve never even seen a picture of him.’

It is all too convenient. ‘Do you know his name, at least?’

She stares at the table before answering. ‘All I know is that his name was Colin. They met in a pub and were only together a few weeks. Mum doesn’t like to talk about him. I think she’s ashamed that he didn’t stand by her.’

When she says this I think of Matt, and how, even though we hadn’t been together long and were far too young to have a baby, he stood by me and supported my decision to have Helena.

‘What about your family?’ Grace asks. ‘Do you have brothers or sisters? What about your parents? And Matt’s?’

I debate whether or not to answer her questions, but decide it can’t do any harm. ‘Neither of us have siblings. My parents both live in Florida now so I don’t get to see them much, and Matt only has his mum left alive. But we visit her whenever we can.’

Grace’s eyes widen. ‘Is she the grandparent who was looking after me when—’

‘Yes. Her name’s Miriam.’

‘Don’t you … blame her for what happened?’

I know it surprised Matt that after my initial shock, I fully supported Miriam. Of course there were times when I wanted to shout at her, shake her or something, but what would I gain from pointing fingers? It wouldn’t bring our daughter back to us. And we could both see how it destroyed her. Even to this day, she is a different person, as if the life has been sucked from her body.

I shake my head. ‘It wasn’t her fault. And she’s suffered enough already, just knowing she was the one looking after Helena at the time.’

There is silence for a while, both of us lost in our thoughts.

‘Please will you help me?’ Grace asks eventually.

As I’ve been doing since she first declared she is my daughter, I study her face before I answer. Her huge imploring eyes. Her smooth fresh skin.
Is this
Helena?
My Helena? Why don’t I know? Shouldn’t a mother automatically recognise her own child? But the last time I saw her she was six months old and could look like anyone now. Even though the rational part of my mind urges me to let this go, I decide I will help Grace. Perhaps it is my grief for Helena that drives my decision, but whatever the case, I am caught up in this now. And whoever that man in the flat was, he must have seen my face. But still I am unsettled.

‘Let’s just take it one step at a time,’ I tell her. ‘We’ll do a DNA test then decide what to do.’

Grace’s shoulders drop. ‘Thanks, Simone. I know how this all must sound. So thank you for helping me. The first thing I need to do is find out what happened to Lucas.’ She picks up another sandwich and keeps it in her hand. ‘I’ve been thinking about it and there are two explanations: either I killed him and somebody moved the body, or he didn’t die after I … hit him. Which means he’s out there somewhere. With my phone.’

Neither of these options is good news. If she has been telling the truth and he is alive then what will he do to her now? And if he is dead, then someone knows she is responsible. Either way, this girl is in trouble.

‘Let me just think about all this, okay? Why don’t you finish your lunch and then watch some TV or something while I finish off some work stuff? By that time Matt will be home. Nothing’s going to happen in the next couple of hours so let’s try not to worry too much.’

Grace seems appeased by this and helps herself to another sandwich.

When she’s finished, I take her to the living room and she settles on the sofa, taking off her trainers so she can tuck her legs beneath her. I can’t help but marvel at the strangeness of this situation.

Back in the kitchen, I boot up my laptop and email Abbot, apologising once again for not being at work this afternoon. His reply is immediate: a message telling me it’s no problem and that we should meet for breakfast tomorrow so he can fill me in on what I’ve missed. We often do this as a way of catching our breath before the maelstrom of our working day begins, but I can’t remember the last time we were able to make it happen. I reply that this is a good idea and tell him I’ll text him the details later.

For the next few hours I focus on work, trying to forget that Grace is in my living room, comfortably watching TV on the sofa as if she has always been part of our family. I check on her a few times, and the kitchen door is open so from my chair I will see if she leaves the room for any reason.

I am so engrossed in my research that I don’t realise it’s nearly eight p.m. when I hear Matt’s key in the front door. Jumping up, I rush to greet him and usher him into the kitchen so we can talk before I introduce him to Grace. Once he’s inside and I’ve shut the door, I pour him a glass of wine.