The Girl You Lost: A gripping psychological thriller (5 page)

‘I got your message and tried to call back a few times but your phone went to voicemail and there was an emergency with a patient so I couldn’t get home until now. What’s going on? Is everything okay?’ he says, reaching for the glass.

I pull my phone from my pocket and sure enough, the screen is blank and my battery is dead. ‘Just wait here a sec,’ I say. ‘I need to talk to you, but don’t move.’ Ignoring his puzzled expression, I hurry out to check on Grace.

The living room is bathed in darkness when I open the door. She is asleep on the sofa, the television muted, its flickering images highlighting her face. She looks like a helpless child. I close the door and head back to Matt, suddenly nervous about how to tell him what’s happened.

He is standing at the french doors, so close to them that his breath leaves clouds of condensation on the glass. A wave of sadness filters though me. I am about to change our lives forever; to disrupt the equilibrium we have spent years building up and keeping in place. We have learnt to live with our grief, to keep it contained, but now it is about to erupt again.

‘Matt,’ I begin, as if starting with his name will make my words easier to digest. ‘I think you should sit down.’

He does as I ask, and doesn’t need to urge me to speak. I let the events tumble from my mouth, like a news story I have to inform my team about at work. Instinctively, I omit any mention of Lucas, or how we went to his flat, because I haven’t got my head around this part myself yet, and when I explain about Helena’s rabbit I pull it from my bag and place it on the table, watching as deep lines crease his forehead.

‘This is … ’

‘I know. I mean, I’m almost certain it is.’

‘But … how?’

‘I don’t know how, Matt, but she had it.’ I keep my voice low, even though I am sure Grace will still be asleep.

‘And she says she’s … our daughter?’

‘Yes. Well, she thinks she is. But we need to be sure, don’t we?’

Matt takes a deep swig of wine. ‘I … um, yeah. We need to find out.’

‘I suggested a DNA test. That will prove it, won’t it?’

He nods but doesn’t speak. I haven’t seen him this quiet since the aftermath of Helena’s abduction.

‘So she’s in there,’ he says finally, gesturing with his head. ‘I … this is all a bit of a shock. What are we supposed to do now?’

‘I don’t think there’s anything we can do until we get the test results. How long do you think it will take?’

He thinks about this for a moment before answering. ‘I’m sure I’ve got some swabs upstairs. I can get them sent off tomorrow. It usually takes a couple of weeks but maybe I can call in a favour and get it fast-tracked. Maybe twenty-four hours if they can do it?’

Relief floods through me. I had assumed it would take weeks, but twenty-four hours is no time at all.

Matt takes another gulp of wine, this time emptying his glass. ‘But in the meantime we should call the police, shouldn’t we?’

I need to tread carefully here. I can’t object too heavily and make Matt suspicious. ‘I, um, I think we should wait until we know for sure. It won’t be long.’

He is too flustered to realise my answer has no logic. ‘Can I see her now? Grace, is it? Surely I’ll know when I set eyes on her, won’t I? Surely we should know our own daughter?’

This time yesterday I would have assumed so, but it’s not that simple. I have tried to recognise something in her, to find something tangible to cling to, something a mother should automatically know, but I don’t think it’s possible. Not when Helena was taken from us before she’d reached her first birthday. We would have seen no glimpses of the young woman she would become. I try to explain this to Matt, but I can see in his face he is hoping it will be different for him.

In the living room Grace is still asleep. Matt stares at her, just as I have done all afternoon, and as if sensing him there, she begins to stir.

‘This is Matt, my husband,’ I say, when her eyes fully open.

‘Oh.’ She pulls herself up and looks embarrassed. ‘Sorry, I guess I fell asleep.’

For a moment nobody moves or speaks until Matt finally steps forward, awkwardly holding out his hand. ‘Hi. Grace. Um, Simone’s filled me in.’

As soon as he says this Grace’s eyes flick to me, panic once more filling them. I give a discreet shake of my head and hope it is enough to let her know I haven’t mentioned Lucas.

It appears to work and she focuses on Matt, taking his hand. ‘I know it’s all a bit weird,’ she says. ‘But Simone’s promised we’ll work it out. We’ll find out what happened.’

I decide to leave them to talk alone. If she is our daughter then this is the first time she has met her dad since she was a baby. Or if she is lying, perhaps without me present, Grace will somehow slip up and reveal an inconsistency in her story. Matt and I can compare notes later. ‘I’m just going for a bath,’ I tell them. ‘But I think Grace should stay here tonight. At least until we have a chance to talk more.’

Neither of them objects to my plan, and as I turn to leave, Matt tells Grace he’d like to do the swabs now.

L
ater that night
Matt and I talk in whispers, cuddled up together in bed while Grace sleeps in the spare room next to us. Neither of us say out loud what a crazy, reckless idea it is allowing her to sleep in our home, but I am sure he feels it as much as I do.

‘Do you believe her?’ I ask. ‘Is she telling the truth?’

He kisses the top of my head and exhales a deep breath. ‘I don’t know what to think,’ he says. ‘But my gut is telling me no. It’s all lies. We lost Helena a long time ago, and this girl is not her.’

M
att leaves early this morning
. He has a meeting at the surgery before seeing his first patient and it’s one he can’t miss. But he takes Grace’s DNA swabs with him so soon we will have some answers. I pray he is able to get it fast-tracked; there is no way I will be able to wait two weeks for the result.

Grace is already in the kitchen when I go downstairs, sitting at the table, and I smell toast before I see that she has made breakfast.

‘I hope it’s okay?’ she says, biting her lip. ‘Matt said I could help myself. I’ve made you some tea too.’

I sit down and stare at the plate piled high with overdone toast, drenched in pools of butter. ‘That’s great, thanks. It looks lovely but I usually just have tea or coffee in the morning.’ As I say this, her smile disappears, so I quickly add that I’ll make an exception.

Last night I gave her one of Matt’s old T-shirts to wear and it swamps her narrow frame. The faded white logo on the front says U2, and I think Matt had it before Helena was born. It is strange to see her in it.

‘What’s the plan for today?’ she asks, biting into a slice of toast.

‘Actually, I need to go into work.’

She doesn’t try to mask her disappointment. ‘Oh, okay.’

I have spent all night wondering what to do with Grace this morning. I suggested to Matt when he woke up that she stay with us until the test results, but he was heavily against it. I can see his point. Whoever she is, she is a stranger to us so we can’t just leave her alone in our house.

Thankfully Grace unwittingly solves my problem. ‘I have to go to uni, anyway. I missed all my lectures yesterday and it will be a nightmare to catch up. I really hate getting behind.’ She reaches for a slice of toast. ‘I need to see Mum too.’

This surprises me, and not just because she’s gone back to calling her
Mum
instead of
Ginny
. ‘But what will you say to her?’

She shrugs. ‘Nothing yet. Not until we decide what we’ll do. But I can try and get some info about Lucas. I don’t think that flat in Embankment can be his only place because there was nothing in it. I also want to find out where exactly his restaurant is. We have to start somewhere.’

I’m not sure this is a good idea but how can I stop her? I have no hold over her, not really. Even if she is Helena. But I can’t allow myself to think like that yet, not until we have proof.

And then I surprise myself; my heart and head pulling me in different directions. ‘Well, we should meet up after work,’ I say. ‘Do you want me to come to you? I can meet you at your uni?’ It is only now I realise how much I want to help Grace.

She shakes her head. ‘Actually, could I come here? I mean, just in case Mum turns up at my place or something and wonders who you are.’

With each ticking minute the situation gets more complicated, but I agree to her request. ‘I should be back here by six-thirty so meet me then. I doubt it but it’s possible Matt may be able to get the results early. We could know something by tonight.’ I know this is unlikely but I want to check her reaction to this news. But her expression doesn’t change.

Grabbing a notepad from a kitchen drawer, I scribble down our address and the house and my mobile numbers. ‘You might need this,’ I say, tearing the sheet off and handing it to Grace.

‘Thanks, Simone. I really appreciate this. I know you don’t owe me anything, but—’

‘Don’t worry, okay?’ I have to cut her off because I can’t easily explain why I’m helping her. Matt’s insistence that she isn’t our daughter weighs heavily on my mind. He seems so sure, but I cannot so easily dismiss her. Perhaps I’m letting my emotions cloud my judgement, but it is so hard not to want and need answers.

Grace stands up and begins clearing away the breakfast plates. ‘I’m going to get a new phone today, or see if I can borrow one, so I’ll text you the number when I have it.’

I tell her that’s a good idea, but don’t mention it’s because I want to be able to contact her any time.

‘Is it okay if I have a shower?’ she asks, once everything’s cleared away. ‘I need to be quick, though, my first lecture starts at nine.’

‘’Course,’ I say. I have been dreading her asking this; it will be impossible to know what she is up to behind the locked bathroom door.

But I do what little I can, and while she is in there I stay in my bedroom, sitting on the bed so I have a full view of the bathroom door.

B
y the time
I leave the house it is too late to meet Abbot for breakfast. I text him an apology and he replies within seconds, telling me not to worry. That’s another thing I like about him: he never gets annoyed unnecessarily. He understands that sometimes things happen.

When I get to work I find him sitting at his desk, staring at his computer screen. He started at News 24 a couple of years after me, but in that time has worked hard to become a field producer, the same role I have. There is no rivalry between us, and although we work on different stories, being able to share ideas with each other has become something I wouldn’t want to be without.

We have easily slotted into our friendship, but I know it helps that I didn’t know him when Helena went missing. Not many of my friends back then knew how to handle it and they dropped off one by one, out of my world of sorrow. Abbot knows all about it, but he is part of the new life I’ve built for myself. It also helps that he gets on with Matt and there is no tension between them. My husband is not the jealous type, although Abbot’s smooth coffee-coloured complexion and striking blue eyes are enough to unsettle a less confident man.

‘I’m so sorry about breakfast, I’ll make it up to you, I promise,’ I say, sliding into my chair.

‘Hey, don’t worry about that. Is everything okay?’

I want to tell him what’s happened but now is not the time. ‘Yeah, thanks for covering yesterday.’

He tells me I don’t have to thank him then points to his computer screen. ‘Have you heard? That young woman who went missing in Kilburn a couple of weeks ago? They’ve found her bag. In east London! That’s miles from her house.’

I try my best to remain composed, to appear detached. Even though Abbot is the one who’s been working on it, I have been following this story closely, and have been dreading news like this. My heart grieves for her family. ‘She’s only twenty, isn’t she?’

‘Yep.’ Abbot shakes his head. ‘God, that seems so young, doesn’t it?’

Abbot is thirty-four, so slightly younger than me, but twenty must seem like a distant memory to him. It’s not quite the same for me; at that time I was still grieving for Helena, so the memory is as vivid as if it were yesterday.

I try to focus on what Abbot is saying; I make it a rule not to let work and my personal life overlap.

‘Mark wants you to take it over,’ Abbot continues. ‘Is that okay? I’m just knee-deep in this banker story. We keep getting new information by the minute. Corrupt doesn’t even begin to describe him.’

‘’Course I will. It’s fine.’

He places his hand on my shoulder and gives it a brief squeeze. No words need to be spoken; we both understand he is offering comfort.

For the rest of the morning I bury myself in the story, acquainting myself with every detail. Her name is Charlotte Bray and she had only just celebrated her twentieth birthday two days before she went missing on the fourth of January. The night she disappeared, she had told her parents she was meeting friends at the pub, but all her known friends have been questioned and nobody claims to know anything about this arrangement. This detail strikes me as odd: why would a twenty-year-old woman feel the need to lie to her parents about what she is doing? But I am getting carried away. It isn’t my job to investigate, only to produce the story. I always do this when the events are too close to home; the scar Helena’s abduction has left on me will never fade.

Once I’ve familiarised myself with all the relevant details, I pick up the phone and call Charlotte’s mother. I explain who I am and count the seconds of heavy silence before Mrs Bray lets out a deep breath.

‘We don’t want to talk to any media,’ she says, and I can sense her grip on the phone loosening. So I do the only thing I can, and tell her I’ve been through something similar. I don’t provide personal details, only enough to let her know I understand.

Thankfully the risk pays off. ‘Will you be on your own?’ she asks.

‘If that’s what you’d prefer.’ Once I get there I will try to persuade her that it’s in her interest to speak on camera; that her story needs to be told from her point of view. It might not have worked for me, but I don’t regret trying.

‘Okay, I’ll talk to you,’ she says, after a long pause. ‘Can you be here at three o’clock?’

T
he Brays live
in a three-storey town house off Kilburn High Road. As I expected, a crowd of journalists and photographers have gathered outside, hovering on the pavement, bringing too much noise and commotion with them. I barge past them, pleased that it is me Charlotte’s mother has agreed to talk to. I ignore the questioning shouts as I head to the front door.

Pressing the doorbell, I hold my breath and wait. Within seconds, Mrs Bray answers, her eyes swollen red and her cheeks flushed. She is younger than I expected, no more than forty-five, but something like this ages you, fast-forwards time, so inside I know she will feel a lot older.

‘Simone?’ Her timid voice matches her frail appearance. She is very thin, and I wonder if it is her natural build, or whether her daughter’s disappearance has eaten away at her. Her hair is light brown, a good camouflage for the flecks of grey she will not have had the energy to cover. I am not surprised to see that her cardigan and mid-length skirt are also grey.

She doesn’t wait for an answer but urges me inside and shuts the door. ‘They haven’t left us alone since Charlotte’s bag was found. I mean, they didn’t bother much before, when she first went missing. But now … I know they’re all hoping she’s dead. It makes a better story doesn’t it?’ She swipes at the tears pooling in her eyes. ‘Sorry. Please, come through.’

Leading me to the kitchen, she asks if I’d like tea or coffee.

‘Whatever you’re having is fine,’ I say, knowing only too well that doing something even as menial as making a drink will be a momentous task.

‘Tea, then.’ She makes slow, mechanical movements: opening cupboards and pulling out mugs, flicking on the kettle, as if she is being controlled by something outside of herself.

In the kitchen I study my surroundings and think of Grace. Only yesterday she was doing the same thing in my own kitchen, and I wonder what she is doing now. Is she in a lecture, her mind distracted with thoughts of me, desperate for the test results? Or is she up to something? I still can’t fully trust what she’s told me, and she hasn’t yet texted me a new mobile number.

‘I’m so sorry for what you’re going through, Mrs Bray,’ I say, my attention snapping back to the distraught woman before me. ‘Shall I do that for you?’

‘Thanks, but I’m fine. And please, call me Tamsin.’

‘Will it just be the two of us?’ I know she has a husband, but it doesn’t sound as if anyone else is in the house.

She drops a tea bag into each mug. ‘I’m afraid so. Elliott’s at the police station, trying to find out more information. It’s driving us crazy. We just feel so … helpless. I mean, what was she doing in east London? She doesn’t know anyone there.’ She turns to me. ‘I just don’t know what to think. Did you feel like this? I can only imagine how awful it must have been for you; your daughter was still a baby. Charlotte is a grown woman, really. Even though she’s still my baby girl.’

I move closer to her and place my hand on her arm, speaking louder so I can be heard over the rumble of the kettle. ‘It’s still awful for you. It’s the uncertainty, isn’t it? The not knowing. And like you said, the helplessness.’

We both fall silent, each of us lost in our own stories. Tamsin hands me a mug and suggests we take them to the living room. ‘We’ll be more comfortable in there,’ she says.

The sofa cushion sinks so far beneath me that I have to steady myself, almost spilling my tea in the process. Hoping she hasn’t noticed, I begin asking questions I already know the answers to. Over the years I have learnt that starting with the basics will put her at ease, and also give me an idea of how honest she is willing to be.

‘Does Charlotte live here with you?’

She nods. ‘Yes. She’s not really in a position to move out. She hasn’t decided what she wants to do yet.’ A tear runs down her cheek.

I know this is difficult for her, that all she’ll be able to focus on is the discovery of her daughter’s bag, but I need to get more background information. ‘So is she at college? Or does she work?’

‘She helps out in our dog grooming business. But it’s not what she wants to do. I suppose it’s just a stop-gap until she makes a decision.’

I find myself comparing Charlotte to Grace, who seems confident about her career path, despite being the younger of the two.

‘I understand this is difficult but could you tell me about the last time you saw Charlotte?’ This is always one of the hardest parts to relive: realising that you said goodbye or waved your child off without knowing it could be the last time you saw them, without cherishing that sacred moment.

Tamsin leans forward and places her mug on the glass coffee table. She doesn’t sit back afterwards, but remains huddled, her elbows resting on her knees. ‘I’ve told this time and again over the last couple of weeks, but it doesn’t get any easier.’

‘I know, I’m sorry.’

‘No, it’s okay,’ she says. ‘This is important. I’ve got to keep Charlotte in people’s minds, haven’t I? That’s what the police liaison woman said. Anyway, it was Saturday evening and she’d been a bit restless all day. I didn’t notice at the time, but looking back, it’s so clear. She couldn’t seem to focus on anything. She helped me set up my new mobile phone, but she was distracted. Normally she likes doing things like that, but this time it seemed like an inconvenience. I asked her what she was doing that evening and she said she was staying in.’ Tamsin lets out a heavy sigh. ‘Then I didn’t see her until she came downstairs just before eight, dressed like she was going clubbing or something. I was surprised because she’d only just been out for New Year’s Eve, and again on her birthday.’ Her voice begins to shake.