Читать книгу 11 Missed Calls: A gripping psychological thriller that will have you on the edge of your seat - Elisabeth Carpenter, Elisabeth Carpenter, Libby Carpenter - Страница 15

Anna

The rain is battering against the bookshop window; it’s going to be quiet today. Even though it’s not Sunday, I’m hoping Grandad will come in today. I left him a message to say that Sheila’s not coming in, so he can have free rein of the till, but I haven’t heard back from him. Dad doesn’t seem worried – perhaps he’s been to see him. Maybe Grandad’s angry with me. If I don’t see him today, I’m going to bang on his door and sit on the doorstep until he opens it … or until I need to collect Sophie from after-school club.

Ellen’s in the back room, pricing books that she thinks might be valuable. She said she has never used the Internet before, but I find that hard to believe. Prisons must have computers these days.

‘Annie?’ she says. ‘Can you just help me again with this – the page is blank. I’m not sure it’s connecting.’

I have given up trying to tell her that I don’t like being called Annie, but it doesn’t seem to register. I sit next to her, checking the side of the laptop. I click to slide a switch to the left.

‘You must have put it into airplane mode by mistake,’ I say.

‘But why would I do that if I’m not on an aeroplane?’

I look at her as she stares at the screen, frowning. Surely she must know how laptops work. I click on the refresh button and the Amazon page loads. As I’m getting up, I notice there is another tab in the background. It’s a site I’m familiar with: Missing People.

Ellen has been on the computer for nearly an hour. I keep trying to catch her looking at the missing persons’ website again, but she’s too quick, and both times I’ve gone into the storeroom she’s minimised what she was looking at. I should warn her about using the Internet for personal use, but I haven’t introduced a policy for that yet; we’ve only had the laptop in the bookshop for a fortnight. And once she’s gone, I’ll probably use it myself.

I’m still looking towards the back room when I smell a waft of Obsession.

‘Anna?’

It’s Isobel. Luckily, I have the accounts on the counter so at least I look busy. She glances at them and wrinkles her nose.

‘I do hope you don’t have those in view when we have clientele,’ she says. ‘It’s highly confidential.’

I can’t win.

‘I was just having a quick check while the shop was empty.’

I slam the book shut and shove it under the counter.

‘I’ve popped in to see how your new volunteer is getting on. Is she in?’

Isobel breezes past – the smell of her hairspray never fails to nauseate me.

I try to listen in, but they are talking too quietly. It’s not like Isobel at all. Perhaps she knows Ellen more than she’s letting on.

After nearly half an hour, all I have managed to overhear are the words ‘vicar’ and ‘they might not want to know.’ Now they’re saying their goodbyes, I rush to the window so they don’t think I’ve been listening. I move the elephant bookend a fraction, concentrating on it as though it were the most interesting thing in the world.

‘See you soon, Anna,’ says Isobel. She hesitates at the door, glancing at the window display. ‘I must think of some other paperwork for you to do. We can’t have you twiddling your thumbs all day.’

She hums to herself, putting sunglasses over her eyes before leaving the shop. That woman notices more than I thought. I wish I could tell her what I’m going through – that I can’t concentrate on anything because the mother I can’t remember has come back into our lives and, at the same time, my marriage might be falling apart. But I can’t. She’ll tell the whole of Lancashire.

‘Annie.’

I turn quickly.

‘Sorry,’ says Ellen. She’s already in her jacket. ‘Isobel said it was okay if I left a bit early. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve got an interview for a new flat.’

‘Oh, okay. Yes, I suppose that’s all right.’

‘Sorry. I hope you don’t think I’ve gone above you … it was just she was asking about me finding a place to live and—’

‘Don’t worry about it. I know what she’s like.’

‘She told me about your mum.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I’m sorry,’ she says. She keeps saying sorry. ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’

‘I’m just surprised. I’m sure everyone knows about it anyway … it’s not a big secret.’

‘Do you still think about her?’

‘What? I … Of course. Why?’

She shrugs. ‘I’m getting too personal.’ She looks at her watch. ‘I’ve corrected my time now. I’d better go. See you next week.’

I watch her walk away until she disappears from view. I hurry into the back room and click on the Internet icon, then the ‘History’ button. Who was she looking for on that website?

I will never know: she’s deleted today’s history.

I’ve been standing outside Grandad’s for five minutes. People walking past are looking at me. I have thirty minutes until I need to collect Sophie from school. The curtains are closed, but when I press my ear against the window, I can hear the television on low. Today’s silver-top milk is still on the doorstep.

‘I know you’re in there, Grandad. Are you okay? Are you hurt?’

There’s a shadow moving behind the curtains.

‘Grandad! If you don’t answer the door in a minute, I’ll call the police – they’ll break the door down, you know. Then everyone will come and have a nosy – even Yvonne from across the road. She’s in, I can see her net curtains flapping. I’ve got my mobile right here, I will ring them.’

The left curtain flashes open.

Grandad’s standing at the window. He hasn’t shaved for days; he’s still in his tartan dressing gown.

‘Are you going to let me in?’

His shoulders rise and fall as he sighs. He rolls his eyes.

Moments later, he opens the door, but stands behind it so no one can see him.

‘Well, come in then,’ he says. ‘Don’t make a show of me.’

I do as he says and follow him down the hallway.

‘I’ll make you a cup of tea,’ he says. ‘Go through to the living room.’

‘I didn’t come here for a drink, Grandad. I came to see if you were all right.’

I sit on the sofa anyway. He always makes a drink for visitors, so at least I know he still has his senses. Dad said that when Gran, Debbie’s mother, was alive, Grandad was never allowed to touch the kettle. Dad was probably exaggerating.

Diagnosis Murder is on the television, but it’s barely audible. I look to the mantelpiece. There have always been three pictures of Debbie on there: one on her Christening day; a faded school photo, her hair flicked at the sides like a Charlie’s Angel; and a third with Gran and Grandad – Debbie the only child.

Grandad comes into the living room carrying a tray of tea and biscuits. He’s changed from his dressing gown into his usual beige cords and burgundy jumper over a checked shirt. He must have a wardrobe full of the same clothes. He places the tray on the coffee table. I wait until he’s finished pouring the tea until I speak.

‘I take it Dad’s told you about the email.’

‘He has.’

‘At least we know she’s alive, that’s something isn’t it?’

‘Do we? How can we know if it’s really her? Anyone could’ve written that. What we should be asking is why? If it is her, then why now?’ He plucks a white cotton handkerchief from up his sleeve and presses it against his nose. ‘I wish to God it were her. I’d give anything to see her face again. I just can’t see her not picking up the phone, to tell us she was all right. She was our only child. A miracle, we called her at the time. She came to us later in life – we thought we’d never … I didn’t believe in all that religious stuff before Marion died. But you have to believe they go somewhere, don’t you?’ He looks up to the ceiling. ‘I hope to God we find out the truth about my girl.’

‘I’m sorry, Grandad. This must be so hard for you. But I have to believe that she’s out there. Perhaps she got into trouble? She might have been in prison. Or maybe she had an accident and has only just recovered her memory.’

He raises his eyebrows. ‘You’ve been watching too many films, Anna.’ He picks up his mug of tea and takes a sip. ‘It can’t be your mum. She’d have written to me, too.’

I stare at my cup on the tray.

‘But no one could’ve known about the shells. It could only have come from her.’

‘Hmm,’ he says. ‘Don’t go getting your hopes up, love. At least one good thing may come from this: we might find out what happened to her.’

‘I’m going to try and find her – or trace who wrote the email,’ I say. ‘If the police think it’s a crank, then I’m going to get to the bottom of it.’ I pull out the roll of film from my handbag. ‘I found this in Robert’s keepsake box. It might have some clues.’

Grandad shakes his head. ‘This is only going to lead to heartache, Anna. The police will say it’s some lunatic, obsessed with her or something – they won’t even be interested, they weren’t last time. It’s been too long.’

‘Last time? What happened last time?’

He flaps his hand.

‘A letter, in strange writing. I took it to the police and they said it might be her, or it might not. They logged it and that was that. Said she was an adult – that she left of her own accord.’

My shoulders slump. Robert mentioned another letter the other day, and now Grandad. But I can’t ask him more about it now – he looks exhausted. His eyes are bloodshot, even though he’s tried to hide it with reading glasses. I shouldn’t be talking to him like this. His only child. The bed she slept in upstairs still has the same duvet cover; her record player is still by the window.

‘I’m sorry, Grandad.’

He doesn’t look at me when he says, ‘It’s been hard for us all.’

The carriage clock chimes five.

‘I have to go,’ I say. ‘The after-school club closes in half an hour.’

‘They never had such things in my day.’

I smile a little as a tiny glimpse of the Grandad I know shows through. I lean over and kiss him on the cheek.

‘I’ll see myself out.’

I’m turning the roll of film in my hands, waiting in the queue. Who knew Max Spielmann would be so busy?

‘What are we buying here?’ says Sophie. ‘I’m hungry.’

She says it like she’s auditioning for Oliver Twist.

‘Pictures.’ I hold up the film. ‘This shop can change this little thing into photographs.’

Her mouth drops open and her eyes widen. She steps closer to me.

‘Is this a magic shop?’

‘Yes.’

The man in front leaves, but the woman behind the counter is typing something into the computer. She has one long coarse hair growing from her chin and she’s stroking it as though it were a beard.

‘Is that woman a wizard?’ says Sophie.

She hasn’t got the hang of whispering yet. My cheeks are burning.

The woman looks up quickly; I’ve half a mind to run out of the shop.

‘Not quite, young lady,’ she says, looking up. ‘I’m a witch. And you have to be good for your mum or you’ll end up in my rabbit stew.’ She smiles. ‘How can I help you?’

I put the film on the counter.

‘Can you develop this? I think it’s nearly thirty years old.’

‘That shouldn’t be a problem. As long as it’s been kept in its container.’ She opens the lid and slides out the film. ‘It looks intact. I’ll have to send it off though – we don’t do 34 mm any more in store. No demand, you see. I’ll post it off tonight and it should be back in two or three days.’

I fill out my details and she winks at Sophie as we leave. Sophie doesn’t smile back.

Out on the street, I feel like celebrating. I thought they’d say it couldn’t be done – that they didn’t do things like that these days.

But the pictures might not even come out.

I take Sophie’s hand and pull her away from the kerb.

‘Is there a word for that?’ she says.

‘Word for what?’

‘You always walk on the pavement near the cars.’

‘I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.’

‘What would happen if a car crashed into us and got you first? Who’d look after me?’

‘Don’t think like that.’

‘But who would? Daddy’s always working.’

‘He’s not always working. I work too. I’ll think of the word.’

‘What word?’

‘For protecting you on the pavement. I’ll Google it. And I’m glad you’re thinking so practically.’

She starts skipping. My hands go up and down with hers.

I wish I were in her head.

The back of my neck prickles; I feel as though someone’s watching me. I turn around quickly.

There’s no one there.

I shouldn’t get my hopes up about the photographs. Grandad always says I should manage my expectations. But if I had a choice between forgetting everything over the past few days, or being hurt from finding the truth, then I’d choose the truth.