Читать книгу S is for Stranger: the gripping psychological thriller you don’t want to miss! - Louise Stone - Страница 9

I felt cold, shaking furiously; DI Ward said it was the shock and advised me to do my coat up, wrap my scarf tightly around my neck. But I couldn’t warm up. An icy, hard dread sat in the pit of my stomach and I knew that, until I found Amy, it wouldn’t go away. I dabbed pointlessly at my eyes with tissues but they were disintegrating after two hours of constant use; white bits fell to the floor. I wondered if tears could run out. At this point, it didn’t seem that they could. Whenever I managed to slow my breathing and try to focus on what was being asked of me, I thought the tears might have stopped but then, in a heartbeat, I’d remember and fresh tears would spring up.

‘Here.’ DI Ward handed me a new one. ‘It’s clean,’ she assured me.

‘What happens now?’

The detective surveyed the scene, taking in the chaos of the fairground. I was trying not to get my hopes up but, surely, with an active search party on the lookout, our chances of finding Amy had just gone up ten-fold?

DI Ward gazed at me, her brown eyes steady. She put a hand on my arm. The gesture lacked warmth and made my skin crawl with goose bumps. ‘We start at the beginning. Tell me what happened.’

‘I should’ve, you know. I should’ve kept a closer eye on her.’ My words were coming out all garbled and I stopped, took a deep breath, and started again. ‘When I couldn’t see her, I thought maybe she had just wandered off. But, I knew in my heart, she doesn’t do that. She’s such a good child.’ I blew my nose. ‘We had just been chatting, you know?’

‘Have you told the missing persons tent?’

I shook my head, my gaze shifted downward. She quickly removed her arm and started walking in that direction. I got the impression the no-nonsense detective was finding it hard to deal with my tears.

‘No,’ I said lamely, jogging to catch up with her. It hadn’t even entered my head.

‘Well, Ms Fraiser, it’s always a good place to start. Amy might have headed there herself.’

‘Right,’ I said, a woman reprimanded.

DI Ward led me over to the marquee and addressed the nearest official, a tall girl of no more than nineteen kitted out in jeans and trainers.

She flashed her ID. ‘This lady’s little girl is missing. Can you put a call out?’ She looked at me. ‘Ms Fraiser, tell her what you know. Where you last saw her.’

‘So how old is your daughter?’ the girl prompted me. ‘Why don’t you tell me what she was wearing?’

‘Ms Fraiser, the quicker we act, often the better the result,’ DI Ward urged.

I went to speak but my body had shut down. Inside I was screaming: I shouldn’t be having this conversation. This kind of thing happens on film sets, not in real life. Why was everyone acting so goddamn calm and rational? They wanted me to think straight; but my brain was a fug of emotions and every fibre of my being so taut, I thought I might snap right in half.

The tears had started to flow again and the detective spoke more softly this time. ‘Ms Fraiser, we all want to find your daughter. You’re going to have to help us out here. What was Amy wearing?’

I dabbed my nose and eyes before filling the girl in on the details. DI Ward thanked the girl and took me to one side.

‘So, I need to ask, your daughter, Amy, is she at risk? For example, does she suffer from any medical conditions?’

‘No, she hasn’t got any medical conditions.’ I leant heavily against one of the marquee’s poles and just as quickly straightened up. ‘Course she’s at bloody risk, she’s missing!’ I shoved my shoulders back. ‘I saw someone talking to Amy earlier. A woman.’ She nodded. ‘She was wearing a black coat and I think she might have bribed her with a lolly.’

‘How do you know she gave her a lolly?’

‘She had one in her hand.’

‘So you spoke to Amy after her meeting with this woman?’

‘Yes, I saw her talking to her and ran in Amy’s direction. When I did find Amy, the woman had gone.’ I paused. ‘But …’

‘But what?’ She shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

‘Amy told me she hadn’t spoken to anyone.’

‘And you’re sure she had definitely spoken with a woman?’

I squinted at her. ‘Yes, I’m not delusional.’ But even as I spoke, the fuzziness started up, the tingling at my temples. Had I imagined it? ‘I have this feeling I know this woman.’ I looked up. ‘I think she’s come back for me.’

I held my head in my hands, willing the tingling to go away. I couldn’t have a panic attack now and not after all this time; what if the court found out? Why would they hand me my child if the attacks were back?

‘Who, Ms Fraiser?’ When I didn’t answer she said, ‘Are you feeling OK?’

I looked at her, terrified that the attack would get worse. My hands were trembling, the grass was shifting in front of me. I rammed my hands into my hair and dug my nails into my scalp, willing myself not to black out. The ringing was intensifying in my ears and I could hear my shallow breathing. I needed to control it.

The detective was behind me now, her hand on my back. ‘I’ll get help.’

‘No,’ I whispered. ‘I’ll be fine. Can you just get me a glass of water?’

She looked at me intently for a moment and nodded before walking off. As soon as she had left I forced my shoulders back and exhaled and inhaled loudly until the ground started to come into focus, the ringing had dimmed and as the DI reappeared, a gust of air cooled the sweat on my face.

‘OK?’ She shoved the glass in my direction.

I nodded.

‘OK, what were you saying about the woman?’

‘When I was at university,’ I started. My lower lip trembled. ‘I witnessed my friend die. Cold-blooded murder. I think the woman was there but I don’t know, I blacked out at the time. The whole thing was like a dream.’ I paused. ‘A nightmare.’ I shook my head, tried to physically remove the fog that descended every time I thought of that night. A coping mechanism, the Priory therapist Dr Hurst, had said: a way of protecting myself.

The DI clenched her jaw, started scribbling madly again in her notebook. ‘Why are you relating the two?’ Her eyes bored into me. I could tell her mind was already running my profile through the system: she wouldn’t find anything.

I leant against the pole again. ‘I don’t know. The woman’s voice was so familiar.’

‘You heard her voice?’

‘She rang me just before Amy disappeared.’ I bit my lip. ‘Although, why the woman would know my number …’ My voice trailed off. Maybe I was imagining things, maybe it was another trick of my imagination. It wasn’t feasible, was it? ‘No, I don’t know what I’m talking about.’ I paused. ‘But there was something about her voice.’

The DI’s shoulders visibly tensed. ‘Why do you think Amy said she didn’t speak to a woman?’

‘I guess she didn’t want to get into trouble.’

‘Maybe she genuinely didn’t?’

She didn’t have to say it: she thought I was delusional. Maybe I hadn’t seen the woman. Maybe because it’s my birthday, I’m remembering … She died on your birthday twenty years ago. I shook my head hard; I didn’t want to remember. Amy was missing but it has nothing to do with the night Bethany died.

My heart twisted when I thought how angrily I’d spoken to Amy only a couple of hours ago: I had been worried about her talking to a stranger. I hoped that wherever she was she realised I wasn’t cross with her. Had she run away because she thought I was angry? Had she run away because, as her gaze often told me, she was scared of me? What if there had been no woman and I had accused Amy of talking to thin air? She would think her mother was mad: again. That thought caught me unawares and I stifled a sob.

DI Ward nodded. ‘OK, I just need to be clear on everything. When Amy went missing, what were you doing?’

‘Buying candyfloss. Over there.’ I pointed to the stallholder at the far side of the green. ‘I gave her money and she went up to order it. Next thing I know, I get a phone call. It was an unknown number and this woman’s muffled voice said, “Happy birthday” and “Your turn”. I looked over again and Amy was gone.’ I gave a small shake to my head. ‘Just like that. Gone.’

‘This caller said “your turn”? and what on earth does that mean? Are you sure?’

I wasn’t sure of anything any more.

‘I presume it was a withheld number?’

‘I didn’t check that,’ I admitted, searching my bag now and scrolling through the recent call list. ‘No number. See here.’ I showed the display to the DI, she nodded.

‘Hmm, OK.’ She withdrew her notebook and scribbled a quick note. ‘First, let’s go and talk to the guy who sold Amy the candyfloss.’

‘There’s something I should tell you. It’s about my ex-husb …’ I walked fast to catch up with the detective but I stopped talking when I realised she was now on her phone. It had been ringing non-stop.

She spoke hurriedly. ‘Thank you, DS Franklin,’ the DI finished and flipped her phone shut.

I was almost running now. ‘I’ve already asked him, Detective, the man who sold us the candyfloss. He doesn’t remember Amy.’

‘We’ll try him again. You’d be amazed how often the presence of a police officer jogs their memory.’

‘I promise you he doesn’t know,’ I reiterated, but she still wasn’t listening.

‘OK, here we are.’ She turned on a smile for the ruddy-faced man sat behind the glass counter. He shot up, clearly not immune to the detective’s female charm and, I hated to admit it, Hispanic good looks. Pity her personality wasn’t as appealing.

Without a trace of obvious emotion in her voice, DI Ward brought the man up to speed. ‘Sir, we have a woman here whose daughter is missing. Can you tell me, did you sell candyfloss to a girl about so high?’ She held her hand up and looked to me for confirmation. I nodded. ‘Do you want to tell him exactly what she was wearing?’

I did and he showed no signs of recognition.

‘She bought three candyfloss sticks.’ I knew we were raking over old ground.

‘I told you before, love. I don’t remember her,’ he said through gritted teeth.

The detective looked at me.

‘She was here,’ I stated flatly.

‘To be fair to the lady, I don’t remember many people I serve what with being here all day and so many people passing through. This isn’t one of them country fairs. London is full of strange faces.’

DI Ward thanked him for his time and we made our way back to the tent. I spoke a silent prayer as we entered. But Amy was nowhere to be seen. The detective chatted briefly to the same girl before turning back to me. ‘You had something you wanted to tell me?’

The tension that had enveloped me for the last hour gave way to heaving sobs. The DI put her hand tentatively on mine and gave a reassuring squeeze.

‘Come on, you can tell me,’ she encouraged.

I tried to explain the call to Paul, stopping every few seconds to take a deep breath.

‘Wait a second, Ms Fraiser,’ she said, quickly removing her hand from my arm. ‘Are you trying to tell me you spoke to your ex-husband? Mr Mitchell, was it? And he denies ever being here? And you’re absolutely sure he was?’ DI Ward frowned and shook her head. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’

I wiped my eyes with the back of my sleeve. ‘That’s correct.’

She scratched her head. ‘Are you sure that Amy isn’t with your ex-husband?’

I recoiled. ‘Detective, what are you suggesting?’ She glanced at me. ‘My daughter is missing. M-I-S-S-I-N-G.’ I spelt it out for her. She shot me a disparaging look. ‘If we were to go to Paul’s house now, and Amy isn’t there, does anyone mind explaining to me where my daughter is?’

‘Do you have any proof that Mr Mitchell and Amy were here with you? A photo on your phone?’

I didn’t like where this was going. ‘No. Nothing,’ I said flatly; there hadn’t been any time to take photos.

‘In which case, I think we’d better go and talk to your ex-husband.’ I noted the weariness in her voice.

My mind was spinning with questions, doubts. I couldn’t understand it. I rubbed my stinging eyes.

‘We definitely came here together.’ I felt defeated. A voice at the back of my head was taunting me: it’s not real. None of it’s real. ‘But I suppose Paul could’ve taken Amy home,’ I finally conceded. I pinched myself to confirm I could in fact feel pain, that I did exist.

‘How about I drive you over there and we’ll get this all sorted out?’

I nodded and obediently followed DI Ward to her car. It was late afternoon now, the midday warmth replaced by a cool autumnal breeze. I climbed onto the rear seat and shut the door, then I remembered and took out my wallet. At the back, behind my credit cards, I kept a small passport photo of Amy. I looked at it, caressing the glossy picture with my thumb.

‘I do have a photo. This is Amy.’ I showed the photo to the detective as she started up the car.

DI Ward pressed her lips together. ‘Is this a recent photo?’

I nodded.

‘We’ll find her, Ms Fraiser. Don’t worry. It’ll all be fine. I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding.’

I stuffed the photo back inside my wallet and looked out the window. Bethany’s face stared back at my reflection. I let out a sob, squeezed my eyes shut and when I looked once more, I just saw myself: a haggard and frayed version of my young self.