Local Girl Missing (7 page)

Daniel is quiet on the drive home. It’s still spitting with rain, the sky a white, thick duvet of continuous cloud that has swallowed up the rear end of the old pier.

He pulls up outside the villa, the engine still purring, and stares straight ahead. The house is in darkness, the thick bushes that separate it from its neighbours prickly and black.

In the far distance I notice a woman in a long raincoat walking towards us, holding an umbrella over her head. I turn to Daniel. His expression is unusually dark and I mentally replay the conversation at Leon’s house. Did I say or do something wrong? And what had Leon meant when he said he thinks I know why you split up? Was he alluding to Jason? Did you tell him, Soph?

I can understand if you did. Under Leon’s electric gaze it felt as though the oxygen was being sucked from the room. You once said he had the type of eyes that could see into your very soul and in that moment I knew exactly what you meant.

Who knows what I would have said if my phone hadn’t rung when it did. I had pulled it from my bag
with relief, and when Stuart’s name flashed up on screen I muttered my excuses, telling them it was an important work call, and hurried from the house.

I stood in the garden, my feet freezing in my impractical boots. Stuart was all apologies for disturbing me on the weekend but an important order had been messed up which could potentially put the new hotel opening back weeks. I talked him through his options, trying to remain calm despite Leon and Daniel inside the house waiting for me to return. It felt strange taking a work call while in Oldcliffe, as if my two separate worlds were merging, and it unsettled me. I had to push you, Daniel and Leon from my mind and concentrate on what Stuart was telling me as we brainstormed through our options. I don’t know how long I was on the phone for, but eventually I sensed someone behind me. I turned to see Daniel toeing the edge of the grass with his boot and doing his best to look as though he wasn’t listening to my conversation. ‘I’ll call you back later,’ I told Stuart. ‘But remember to call the supplier. Plead ignorance if you must. And put Paul on a warning. This isn’t the first mistake he’s made.’ I dropped the phone into my bag, Daniel’s presence pulling me away from my familiar corporate world and back into Oldcliffe.

‘Come on, let’s get out of here,’ he said, his face grave as he strode up the garden path, leaving me to jog after him to keep up.

He hasn’t said a word to me since.

‘Is everything OK?’ I ask him now, my voice sounding too loud in the silence of the car.

‘What did he mean?’ Daniel asks. ‘Leon. When he said you knew why he finished with my sister?’

He’s still not looking at me and I know I have to be honest with him.

Except how can I? Leon might not have been alluding to Jason at all. He might have been talking about something else entirely.

‘Why don’t we go somewhere and get some lunch?’ I say. ‘And talk?’

He finally turns to look at me and I can see that he’s softening. ‘I don’t know, Franks … I’m supposed to pop into the newsroom at some point today … and …’

‘Oh, come on. We need to eat.’

‘Really? Well, in that case how can I say no?’ He laughs, but it sounds forced.

‘What’s bothering you, Dan?’

His shoulders sag so that he appears deflated. ‘I don’t know, Franks. I’m just worried that all this –’ he throws his arms wide ‘– is for nothing. That I’ll never find out what happened to my sister.’

‘Daniel …’ I pause. ‘We might never know what happened to Sophie,’ I say gently. I reach out and touch his arm.

His eyes cloud over and he shrugs my hand away. ‘No, I can’t bear that thought. I need to know, Frankie.’ His expression is pained and I suddenly have the urge to kiss away his grief.

A thought occurs to me. ‘What happened to your mum?’ I have this mental picture of Anne in my mind,
although over time it has become hazier, like a photograph that has faded with age. I’m remembering a woman in a blue nurse’s outfit, with premature lines on her face and dyed blonde hair that was always a little too harsh for her skin tone. A hard worker, a single mother, a bereaved parent.

‘She’s OK, considering. After Sophie went missing she moved back to Ireland to live with her sister. On the farm. Then she met Tim. He’s a good guy. They’re married now. I visit, but she’s not interested in ever coming back here. Anyway, she believes that it was a tragic accident and that Sophie slipped and fell. Just like the police do.’ He sounds sad, jaded.

‘Maybe that is the truth,’ I say quietly. ‘Maybe it was just a tragic accident.’

‘There was more to it.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I know –
knew
– my sister, Frankie. We were close, I
knew
her. And she wasn’t herself before she died, something was bothering her. Something was wrong. And I wish –’ he shakes his head sadly ‘– I wish that I had paid more attention at the time. But I didn’t, I was too busy with my own life. But looking back now, with hindsight, there was definitely something wrong.’

‘Hindsight is a wonderful thing. But you were a kid yourself, just twenty-three. And what about me? I was her best friend, and I didn’t know there was anything wrong.’

Which isn’t strictly true.

He sighs in answer. ‘What did Leon mean? What did they argue about?’ he asks again.

I fidget in my seat. I can’t reveal the truth. But I need to tell him something. ‘I warned Sophie about Leon. I told her he was no good …’ I hesitate, feeling sick.

‘Why?’ His eyes are hard.

‘Because … because he came on to me, and when I turned him down he harassed me, stalked me even. He was pretty bloody scary, Dan.’

His face darkens.

‘There’s more.’ I have to force the words out, I feel so ashamed.

‘I slept with him. Nearly a year after Sophie went missing. It was just the once, we bumped into each other. In London. We bonded, over her. I was drunk and …’

‘He took advantage.’

I sigh. ‘I don’t know. We took advantage of each other, I guess.’

Daniel turns away from me again. We both watch as the woman with the umbrella gets nearer. She has wiry grey hair and glasses. She marches in front of the car and heads towards Beaufort Villas. She’s struggling with the umbrella, as though she’s having a game of tug of war with an invisible person. She pauses outside the front door and fumbles in her bag. Could she be the anonymous letter-writer? She retrieves a key and opens the front door. She must be one of the guests downstairs. Maybe she’s the grandmother of the baby I heard screaming last night. Her eyes flick
towards us as she shakes out her umbrella and discards it on the step. Then she closes the door. A few minutes later the light in the downstairs apartment comes on.

‘Let’s go to the pub,’ I say. ‘We can talk about the next stage of the plan. I’ve only got a few days, remember? I can’t stay any longer than that.’

He smiles and it transforms his face so that he’s the cheeky, happy Daniel of my memories. ‘OK, you’ve persuaded me like always, Lady Frankie.’

He pushes the gearstick into first and I re-fasten my seat belt, relieved that I get to kill a few more hours before having to return to the apartment. As Daniel turns the car, something at the bay window of my apartment catches my eye. I look up, startled. A face is pressed to the glass, gazing down at us. My blood runs cold. Is it you? I crane my neck to get a better view but it’s too late, Daniel is already heading away from the house, to the coastal road below.

The Seagull has hardly changed in twenty years. The old-fashioned paisley wallpaper, the ruddy-faced old men nursing pints at the bar, each with a malodorous dog in tow, the smell of chips and vinegar with the faint undercurrent of wet fur hanging in the air – all is exactly as I remember. Even the fake birds hanging from the ceiling and the stuffed seagull on the windowsill are still in residence. It’s like stepping into a time capsule.

The pub is on the edge of the town, overlooking the stormy seas and the strip of beach, which narrows the
further you go along the coast so that by the time you reach the old pier it’s disappeared. A middle-aged man sits alone at the table in the corner reading a tabloid and drinking a pint. His dark hair is thinner, his stomach has expanded but I recognise him straight away. It’s Leon’s brother, Lorcan.

Daniel nods greetings to the men at the bar and the woman serving them pints. She’s buxom, older than me, mousy hair springing out from her parting in corkscrews. I hover behind him, hoping that I’m not recognised by Lorcan.

‘Awright, Daniel, my love,’ the woman sing-songs in a strong West Country accent. ‘Haven’t seen you in a while. The paper keeping you busy, is it?’

Daniel grins. ‘You know what it’s like, Helen. All work and no play.’

She cackles and then notices me for the first time. Our eyes meet and with a thud of recognition I realise who she is.

Helen Turner. Your friend from the estate.

Her jolly face falls. ‘Frankie? Well, well, well,’ she tuts and shakes her head disbelievingly, ‘so the rumours about you being back are true.’

I know I shouldn’t be surprised that gossip about my return is already rippling through Oldcliffe like a Mexican wave, but I am. I’d forgotten what it’s like living in a small town. And then it hits me, and I suddenly feel too hot in the stuffy pub. Anyone from my past who still lives here could have sent me that letter. They’re obviously all aware that I’m back.

Helen glowers at me over the pint glass that she’s cleaning, reminding me of how much she disliked me at school. I always suspected her animosity was because she wanted to be your best friend and was jealous of me. She must have been overjoyed when I left the sixth form to go to boarding school. I remember how grumpy she seemed when I bumped into you again in that bar, and like before, we became inseparable. I know you felt sorry for her so we let her tag along when we went to The Basement on a Saturday night, but for the most part Helen was a hanger-on, a bit part in your life.

She was never particularly attractive but the years haven’t been kind to her; the sea air has taken a toll on her once-smooth skin, enlarging her pores and reddening her nose. ‘How are you, Helen?’ I say, my accent-less voice suddenly conspicuous in this backwater pub.

‘Aw, don’t you talk posh,’ she sniggers, the men at the bar joining in with a chorus of guffaws. ‘And look at you in all your finery.’ I feel overdressed in my black trousers, red wool coat and silk scarf. ‘What are you doing back ’ere then?’

To my annoyance I feel my cheeks flame. ‘I, um, well …’

‘Spit it out, love,’ says one of the men, the short, squat one with a bald head and glasses. He looks like a character from that game we used to play when we were kids, Guess Who?

‘She’s come to see me,’ Daniel interjects.

Helen’s face darkens. ‘Really? I didn’t know you two kept in touch.’ She shrugs as if answering her own
question. ‘Oh well, nothing as strange as folk, I suppose. Why don’t you sit yourselves down over there and I’ll bring your drinks over. What can I get you, Frankie?’

‘A white wine please,’ I say. ‘Just a house white will be fine,’ I add, before she has the chance to make any cutting remarks or ask if I’d prefer champagne.

‘And I’ll have a pint, thanks, Helen.’ Daniel steers me by the elbow away from the bar, whispering in my ear, ‘She might be good for information. She was quite friendly with Sophie, wasn’t she?’

‘Not really,’ I say stiffly, still irritated by Helen’s behaviour, her put-down about my accent and clothes, her inverted snobbery.

We have no choice but to walk past Lorcan’s table and he glances up, our eyes meeting. He puts down his newspaper and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I thought it was you,’ he says, his loud voice making Daniel stop and turn back. ‘Frankie Howe.’

It’s Francesca Bloom, I want to shout; then I imagine the caustic response from Helen and the men at the bar, and the words die in my throat. I look at him sitting there in a pair of paint-splattered overalls. Despite being Leon’s brother, and Jason’s cousin, he doesn’t share their good looks. Instead, it’s as if all the worst parts of his parents were handed down to him while Leon got the best. He was vaguely attractive once, I suppose, in his mid-twenties. And he had that cocky Irish charm that many women seem to fall for. But his eyes, although as strikingly blue as Leon’s, are too close together, his nose too hooked, his chin too big to be considered handsome.

And then a memory hits me. Of us at The Basement, of him pinching your bottom, of you pushing him away good-naturedly. Or was it good-naturedly? Am I remembering it wrong? We were drunk, it was eighteen years ago, but now my memory of your face is morphing into something else, your teasing expression becoming serious, your laughing eyes panicked. And then Leon coming over and pulling him away, punches thrown, Lorcan slinking off into the smoke-filled crowd.

Lorcan fancied you. I can’t believe I’d forgotten that. He fancied you and he made a move on you, the girlfriend of his brother.

‘Are you OK, Franks?’ Daniel’s concerned voice cuts into my thoughts. Lorcan is staring at me, a quizzical smile playing on his lips.

‘I heard you were back,’ he says, flashing a missing tooth.

‘Leon told you?’

But he just smirks and taps the side of his nose. ‘It’s a small town. Word gets around.’ Don’t I know it. He folds his newspaper up and wedges it under his arm. ‘Well, I best be off. Can’t stand around all day gassing to the likes of you. I’ve got work to do, houses to paint.’ And then he gets up and I’m startled at his height – I’d forgotten how tall he is. He’s taller than Daniel, and broad, strong-looking.

I step aside so that he can get past and we watch as he lumbers out of the pub.

‘I don’t envy the person whose house he’s painting,’ says Daniel dryly, staring after him. ‘He’s half cut.’

I laugh, relieved that he’s left. We sit at his vacated table and Helen brings the drinks over and takes our food order. When she’s gone I lean towards Daniel and murmur, ‘I’ve remembered something, about Lorcan.’

Daniel takes a swig of his beer. ‘God, I needed that. What have you remembered?’