Читать книгу Have You Seen Her: The new psychological thriller from bestseller Lisa Hall - Lisa Hall - Страница 13

CHAPTER 4

My mobile buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to see seven text messages from Jessika, my nanny friend, three missed calls, and several texts from numbers that I don’t recognise. I shove it back in my pocket without opening them, realising I have fallen behind and Dom is now several paces in front of me. I consider asking him about the previous evening, asking him where he was when he wasn’t at the hospital, but he marches towards the fields at a brisk pace.

I take long strides in order to catch up. Finally, I draw level with him. His face is grim, his eyebrows knitted together and his mouth a harsh line scored into his face.

‘Dominic?’

‘What?’ He turns back to me, that angry, desperate look still etched into his features. His face softens. ‘Sorry, was I going too fast for you? I just . . . I just want to get there, you know? I should have been there last night.’

‘That’s what I wanted to ask you – about last night.’ I slow right down, a stitch in my side making me wince. ‘Where were you? You said you’d be here . . . and you weren’t at the hospital. And you asked me not to say anything to Fran.’

He stops abruptly, before turning to face me. ‘That is none of your business, Anna.’ His voice is cold, and it sends icy shivers down my spine. Dominic has never spoken to me this way before. Clearly, I have overstepped the mark, but he carries on before I can apologise. ‘Wherever I was last night had nothing to do with Laurel, do you hear me?’ He takes a step towards me, grabbing me by the upper arms, and I draw in my breath in a hiss of pain as his fingers dig tightly into my flesh through my jacket. ‘Are we clear on that? I’ve told the police where I was, and that’s the end of it. I don’t want to hear another word, OK?’ He lets me go, and I rub at the tops of my arms before I give a slow nod.

‘OK. I’m sorry.’ I swallow, fear making my throat dry. ‘I never meant anything by it. I’ll forget about it.’

‘Thank you.’ Dominic strides off again, not even attempting to temper his pace so that I can keep up this time. I watch him for a second, as he hurries past Mr Snow’s house, onwards towards the school, his head bent, and I run his words over in my mind again before I start to follow him. I’ll forget about it. I’ll try, but it will be difficult to forget the way his eyes flicked up and to the right, as he said he’d told the police where he was last night: up and to the right – a classic sign that someone is lying.

As we approach the field, a police officer directs us towards the school hall, that backs on to the fields a little further along from where the bonfire was held. There are people everywhere, and I hear Laurel’s name as groups gather together, some prepared with bottles of water and backpacks, as if in for the long haul. There is a sense of urgency in the air, underwritten by something else, something that if I had to name it, I would say was panic. Things like this don’t happen in places like Oxbury.

I lose Dominic as he forges ahead, which I think is probably for the best – I don’t think I can cope with the now strained atmosphere between us – and as I step into the hall I pause for a moment. The familiar smell of school dinners – cabbage, with an underlying, vanilla-y hint of lumpy custard – assaults my senses, and there is a rousing babble of chatter that dies momentarily as people notice me enter the room.

‘Anna!’ The caramel blonde woman from the PTA rushes towards me, her arms outstretched. The other mother from the PTA admission stand last night hangs back, hesitant, as though she wants to come over but daren’t.

‘What’s going on?’ I look around, puzzled by the sheer number of people in the hall and on the field outside. Quite a few had hung around last night to help search, and while I’d thought it would be similar today, this has the air of . . . organisation.

‘We’ve set up a search station . . . well, I have.’ She fusses at her hair, smiling with perfect white teeth on display. ‘The police are sending volunteers to us, and then we are directing them to start their part of the search, as arranged by the officers in charge. I’ve got someone making up posters and we’re even having T-shirts made up with Laurel’s face on . . . you know, Have You Seen Her? et cetera, et cetera.’

‘Right,’ I say, my eyes still roaming the room. I can’t see Dominic anywhere, and I wonder for a brief moment how he feels about all of this. I know that I feel overwhelmed by it all. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t remember your name?’

‘Lola’s mum. Cheryl.’ She looks a bit put out, and I smile to soften the blow. ‘Is Fran here?’ She cranes over my shoulder, looking towards the door. ‘I thought she might like to see what we’re doing, the effort the community is making.’ She gestures around the room, and I see a man with a large camera around his neck talking to one of the other parents. I shrink back, sure that he must be with the local press.

‘No, she’s not. She’s stayed home,’ I say, spying Jessika on the other side of the room, ‘will you excuse me?’ I push past, ignoring her as she calls something after me, and make my way across the crowded hall, keeping my head lowered as I pass the man with the camera. It’s started to empty out slightly, people moving towards the double doors with polystyrene cups of coffee in one hand, crumpled posters bearing Laurel’s face in the other.

‘Jess!’ I call out, before she can join the hoards leaving the hall. Jessika Lewis is the one friend I have in Oxbury. She is nanny to Laurel’s best friend, Daisy, and we met in the park one warm summer’s day when the girls were tiny. She turns to face me, biting her lower lip.

‘Oh God, Anna. Are you OK? I’ve texted you like, a million times.’ Her arms reach around my skinny frame and pull me tightly towards her in a hug.

‘Sorry, I only just saw the messages . . . what are you doing here?’ I say. ‘Where’s Daisy?’

‘Technically it’s my day off, so I thought I’d come along and see if I can do anything to help find Laurel. But then Claire turned up here anyway, and brought Daisy along with her, so I’m pretty sure I’ve only got an hour or so before Madam calls me over to take Daisy back to the house.’ She gives a little jerk of her head behind her, and I see Daisy sitting at a low table, colouring in, while Claire buzzes around behind her, posters in hand. ‘Cheryl Smythe somehow organised all of this, overnight, single-handedly.’ She points, and I realise that she’s talking about the caramel blonde woman. ‘It doesn’t take long for word to spread around here, you know that, and everybody wants to be involved.’

Somehow this doesn’t surprise me – Fran and Dominic are the closest Oxbury gets to a celebrity couple. Thanks to Dominic’s success as a surgeon and Fran’s bit parts in a couple of BBC historical dramas everyone knows who they are.

Jess must see something in my face, as she says, ‘I meant help. Everybody wants to help, not be involved. Come on,’ she takes a look over her shoulder to make sure Claire is still otherwise occupied, ‘I’ve been assigned the far end of the field – I’m sure no one will mind if I have an extra pair of hands.’

As we turn to leave the mousy woman from the PTA, the one whose face I can’t put a name to, is standing close behind me, and I almost step on her foot as I swivel round.

‘Oh God, sorry.’ Holding up my hands I go to move past her, but she lays a hand on my arm. Her nails are bitten down to the quick, her fingers thick and rough looking.

‘How is Fran?’ There is a slight West Country twang to her voice. ‘Is she OK? Is there anything I can do for her? I haven’t seen her for a while, but you know . . . I want to let her know I’m here if she needs me. Tell her, won’t you? Tell her Ruth, from the PTA, is here if she needs her.’

‘Um . . . OK. I’ll let her know.’ I have no idea if Fran knows this woman – Fran rarely does the school run, so I’d be surprised if she would recognise her, and anyway, even though I know her from the PTA I still can’t think which child belongs to her.

‘Anna, come on, we have to get started.’ Jess tugs on my arm and we walk out of the stifling hot hall, the cold air outside hitting me like a slap in the face.

As we cross the path and step onto the wet straw that marks the entrance to the field, the area where last night the PTA stood guard to ensure no small children escaped (although that didn’t seem to work so well, did it?), I realise that I am still wearing yesterday’s clothes. As well, I’d shoved my feet into trainers, not wellies. Although the sky last night was clear, meaning a frosty start to today, the rain that has fallen all week long along with hundreds of feet marching through the field has led to more sloppy mud, with a thin crunchy shell of frost on top. There is a damp mist in the air, the kind of cold that seeps right into your bones, and already my feet are cold. My shoes slide awkwardly on the mud as I follow Jess.

There are maybe thirty other people combing the edges of the field where the grass leads into the wooded area that surrounds the lake beyond it. I see others heading out of the gate, presumably to search the lane. I look around, but I don’t see Dominic.

‘Are they looking anywhere else?’ I ask. I hadn’t felt able to ask DI Dove for any information this morning, or indeed last night, not in front of Fran and Dominic. After all, Laurel isn’t my daughter, as Fran regularly goes to great lengths to remind me.

‘Mainly the woods this morning, I think, and then out into the lane,’ Jess says, her cheeks pink with the cold. She’s remembered to put wellies on, at least. ‘They said the main area of the field was searched last night, but they want to search again in daylight. Police are going door-to-door through the main road to the village this morning as well, I believe. Hopefully someone saw something that might point them in the right direction.’

We reach the edge of the woods, the rough path in front of us splitting in two just a few yards into the bushes. Jess stops and points to the left. ‘I’ll go that way, you take the right-hand path. Meet back here in an hour?’

‘OK. Jess . . .’ I say, panic starting to beat in my chest as I look towards the thick overhang of trees above me. It’s winter, and the branches are bare, but they reach towards each other, tangling their limbs together leaving dark, sinister shadows across the mulchy forest floor. ‘What am I looking for?’ I blink rapidly, to fight back the tears that spring to my eyes.

‘Oh, Anna.’ Jess reaches for my hand, clasping it in her gloved palm, transferring warmth to my cold fingers. ‘Anything – anything at all that doesn’t look right. Bushes that have been flattened, any signs of . . . disturbance.’ She blinks hard. ‘The police gave us a talk when we all arrived at the hall, told us what sort of things we should be looking out for. We’ll find her, Anna, I’m positive we will.’

I give her a watery smile and wish that I shared her conviction. She steps away, on to the left-hand fork of the path and I turn to the right, keeping my eyes trained on the ground for the first few feet, anxious in case I miss something. Then I realise that some of the tree branches are shoulder or even head height to Laurel, and I might have missed something that may have caught on the bony fingers of the branches.

I retrace my steps back to the edge of the wood, a flash of colour catching my eye as I reach the outskirts. It’s Dominic’s yellow ski jacket, and he paces backwards and forwards a little way from the entrance to the woods, mobile phone clamped to his ear, his breath escaping in tiny clouds of vapour as he speaks. I slide my thin frame behind the nearest tree, straining my ears to try and hear what he’s saying. He paces the same route over and over, shoving a hand through his hair until it sticks up in short silver spikes, but it’s no good, I’m too far away to hear him.

I start to creep backwards, into the shadows of the woods, when a branch cracks under my trainer, and Dominic looks up. He starts to walk towards the woods, when whoever is on the other end of the line says something he clearly doesn’t like. He hangs up with an angry curse and stares at the phone for a moment as if wondering whether to throw it at the nearest tree. After the way he reacted earlier, grabbing me when I mentioned his whereabouts last night, I can’t help but feel nervous – but he tucks the phone into his back pocket and walks off towards the hall. I let out a shaky sigh of relief and edge back onto the path, my eyes combing every branch.

The damp, mulchy path squelches underfoot as I get further into the wooded area, muddy water leaching up from the leaf litter and soaking my white trainers. This far up there is a large expanse of woodland before the lake, and I am glad that I don’t have to search near the water. The thought of finding something that belongs to Laurel close to the edge of that dark, dank, silty water makes my blood run cold. As does what I see in front of me next: a pile of leaves, clearly recently disturbed, their wet, smelly undersides exposed to the open air, filling the area with the scent of decay.

As I edge closer, I see they have been carved into ruts, as though something (or someone, my brain hisses) has been dragged through them. As though two tiny little feet have been pulled through the wet, mulchy mess, a voice whispers in the back of my mind. I raise my eyes to follow the line of rutted leaves towards a diamond mesh fence that runs along the perimeter of the woods, separating it from the field behind. The diamond mesh fence that has clearly been cut, to reveal a small opening. Perfect for the size of a small child.

Heart thumping, a wash of nausea making me feel dizzy, I hesitate, unsure whether to shout for Jess, or take a closer look. It might be nothing, I whisper to myself, running my tongue over dry lips. I step close to the fence, careful not to place my feet anywhere near the drag marks, and peer into the field beyond. I see nothing at first, until I slide through the opening in the fence and into the field. The damp grass near the fence has been flattened down, and a trail of bent stems lead away from the fencing towards the other side of the field – as though someone has walked a path through the longer grass. I look behind me, telling myself that if Jess is in sight I’ll call her over, but there is no one. From here, I can’t even hear the searchers calling Laurel’s name. Stepping to one side, so I create my own path, I follow the trail over the slight hill, stopping short as I see where the path of flattened grass leads to.

A camp. There are eight or nine caravans parked up on the far side of the field, no doubt having forced their way in by cutting the padlock off the gate on the other side. It’s happened more times than anyone cares to mention in Oxbury; the travellers’ arrival usually gets reported to both the police and the council within hours of them pitching up. Nice middle-class people from Surrey don’t want travellers in their midst. Obviously, this time the police have been too busy to come out and move them on, and if they only arrived last night there’s a chance that no one else has even noticed them yet. I force my feet on towards the camp, ignoring the flip of my stomach as I get closer, nervous at having to speak to them. The only experience I’ve had of them before was when one of them threatened to smash up the Co-op after he got caught pinching bacon, while I was buying sweets for Laurel. As I get closer, I see two men standing outside one of the caravans, both turning to face me as I get within talking distance.

‘Hello,’ I say, my mouth dry again. They are both tall and well-built, their skin tanned a dark brown, roll-up cigarettes dangling from their mouths. Neither of them wears shirts with sleeves despite the cold, and I see the tattoos on one of them ripple as he raises a hand to push his hair back from his face, his dark curls dotted with droplets of water from the mist.

He speaks, his voice rough. ‘What d’yer want?’

‘I’m looking for a little girl,’ I say, running my tongue over my lips. ‘She went missing from the fireworks party in the field over there last night,’ I point behind the trees, ‘there’s a huge search operation being organised by the police.’

With an anxious glance at his friend, the tattoo guy speaks again. ‘We don’t know nothing.’

‘Are you sure you haven’t seen anything? No one coming through here last night . . .’ I break off, about to mention the drag marks and the cut in the fence before common sense catches up with me.

‘We said, we don’t know nothing.’ The second, slightly smaller guy takes a step towards me and I flinch a little, hating myself straight away for looking so weak. Adrenaline shoots through me, leaving my knees wobbly. ‘Get lost.’

‘OK, thank you. Forget it, I’m going. Sorry,’ I babble, almost falling over myself to get back through the fence to where other people are. I’m intent on finding a police officer to explain about the drag marks, then I can go home and check on Fran and wait for Laurel, and forget about the intense, intimidating stare that these two guys laid on me. And I would forget, only . . .

I stop, something moving in my line of vision, something that makes my breath catch in my throat. I see it again, from the corner of my eye, the thing that made me stop in my tracks and I turn my head a fraction towards the caravan immediately behind the two men.

‘I’m going,’ I say again, holding my shaking hands up in surrender, as they both take a step towards me, my heart thumping double time in my chest as I try and process what I just glimpsed. The back of a head, at the window of the caravan. A tiny, blonde head, with a high ponytail, that I’m sure I last saw being stuffed into a sparkly silver bobble hat.