Nowhere Girl (25 page)

Olivier gathered the paperwork from the rug, and Cate left his bedroom in a flurry of confusion to wake Amelia. Josephine and Roland had just begun to surface as they were making their way downstairs, and Olivier explained to his mother that they had no time for breakfast.

Cate drove at speed back to Luxembourg, Amelia was yawning in the back seat and General whined plaintively, desperate for his morning walk. Olivier sent texts and spoke in rapid French to colleagues, about the woman who was now free, about the accusations she had made against him, and what they were going to do about it.

The British Embassy was close to the city centre, down a tree-lined street. The residence itself was quietly grand, with an iron fence and an imposing stone face that suggested wealth and importance, but not glitz. It seemed the perfect place for a British Ambassador to work, though Cate’s knowledge of what such a job might involve was limited. Two vans were parked on the kerb outside, one from the Luxembourg television network, RTL, and the second from the BBC.

Olivier saw the van too. He paused, sucking in his cheeks, then leaned over and kissed her cheek drily, and simply said, “See you tonight.” That was all. Not an idyllic start to their engagement.

The next stop was the school, despite Amelia complaining that she was wearing the same clothes as yesterday and wanted to go home and change. But there wasn’t time. Not for Cate. Because she had somewhere else she wanted to be.

Without thinking about possible consequences, only knowing that she needed to do so, she drove back into the city, and parked underground, just around the corner from the Embassy. She hadn’t thought through what she was doing, and hadn’t stopped to ask herself if she’d even be allowed in to the press conference, but walked determinedly to the building, knowing only that she had to hear what Bridget was going to say.

There was a bustling crowd in the corridor and Cate found herself pressing against the backs of journalists holding notepads. She followed them, trying to look like she belonged, as they edged their way into a grand room, where a marble fireplace dominated, and cornicing on the ceiling matched its elegance. Wooden folding chairs had been placed in straight lines for the meeting.

The room was already packed and Cate was lucky to get a seat, albeit at the back. Around her journalists checked the batteries on their microphones or fiddled with camcorders. All lenses, all faces, were directed towards the raised platform, upon which was a table with a white cloth, a bank of microphones. No-one was seated at the table yet, but glasses of water waited, as did a box of tissues.

Cate felt someone watching her and looked up to see Eva, five rows ahead. Eva nodded and gave a tight smile that looked slightly triumphant. Cate didn’t know how she herself felt about Bridget being released, and she was glad of the distance from Eva, so she didn’t have to hear her opinion. Not yet, at least. Olivier believed Bridget was guilty, and if he was right then this press conference was a travesty.

A side door opens and camera bulbs flash as Bridget, flanked by a smart looking woman in a navy suit and Achim looking sombre and serious, makes her way to the central chair.
God, how different she looks from the woman who gazed out of the window clutching the pink rabbit
, thought Cate. Bridget walks tall and she looks determined not to cry. Her outfit is loose, not a stiff suit but a cotton dress in yellow with intricate beading around the neck and cuffs. But what Cate notices most is that her hair has been washed and dried smooth, so it falls to her shoulders which are pulled back, her chin raised, her eyes taking in the crowd. She looks every inch like her daughter, like the pictures of the rebellious teen Cate had seen on the leaflets. Cate can see for the first time how Bridget would have conducted herself in her previous professional life; there was a toughness to her that Cate hasn’t seen before. Bridget’s dress dazzles, the beads flashing turquoise and red like an exotic form of Morse code, and she looks as if from another world to everyone else here. She must have chosen this dress deliberately, as if to say that she has travelled, has seen things. She is a woman who knows the world and should be taken seriously.

In contrast, the woman in the navy suit beside her looks conservative and solid. She speaks first, introducing herself in accented English as Bridget’s solicitor and saying they had called the press conference as a direct response to the feeling that the police were not taking Ellie’s disappearance seriously. Cate hears the words but it is Bridget she watches, her face is fixed as if she is detached from the information that the journalists are frantically scribbling down. She seems to be staring at a fixed point at the back of the room, but when Cate turns to see if someone is standing there it is only a picture, an old-fashioned painting of a young girl in a yellow dress, sitting in an idyllic garden.

The solicitor begins by thanking the British Ambassador for her support, and turns to gesture to a woman who is standing discreetly to one side. She takes a step forward and turns to the audience, the cameras around the room follow her, the journalists lift their dictaphones higher. The British Ambassador is sombre in her appearance, professional, in a neatly cut maroon dress with simple gold jewellery. She gives a curt nod, her gaze seeming to assess everyone in the room. She slides a stray blonde lock of hair behind her ear and speaks without needing a microphone. “I want to thank you all for coming. I also want to make it clear that this conference is not a reflection of any ill feeling between the British Embassy and the Luxembourg police. We know they are doing all they can to find Ellie Scheen. However, I have a duty of care to all British nationals and Ellie is still missing. If hosting this event brings forward any information that leads to her coming home safely, then that is our one and only goal.”

Eva turns again to look meaningfully at Cate, and though she is too far away to speak, Cate can see from her expression that Eva thinks the Ambassador is impressive.

Now the attention moves to the people sitting at the table, where thanks are given to the Ambassador and then the solicitor introduces Ellie’s mother to the crowd and invites Bridget to say a few words. Bridget moves towards the microphone, touches it and a sound rings out shrill enough to make the journalists in the front row flinch.

“I want to make a plea to Ellie. I want to say, please let someone know where you are. You can come home now, it’s okay. You aren’t in any trouble.”

Cate wonders if she has been told to say this. It’s not what Bridget believes, that Ellie has simply run away, so it must be some tactic.

Achim takes over from his wife, his voice is steady and low, but she can hear the strain. He says that if someone has got Ellie, or knows where she is, that they should let her go.

Bridget interrupts. Her voice is high and untethered. “Just leave her somewhere safe, so she can call home. Please. I don’t want to see anyone punished for this, it’s not revenge I’m after. It’s my girl. Please return Ellie to me and everything will be okay. I promise you, there will be no repercussions. You have my word.”

Cate thinks that whoever advised Bridget and Achim to say these things was a fool. No kidnapper would be naïve enough to think that simply by returning Ellie everything would be absolved. It was a lie, and Bridget was showing signs of not believing it herself, taking a tissue from the box and dabbing at her face though her eyes remained dry. Cate thinks then of the witness statement, the person at Schueberfouer who saw Bridget talking with a man in his fifties. Is that why Bridget’s face is dry? Does she know where Ellie is?

The solicitor speaks again, telling those gathered that Ellie was last seen going on the ferris wheel at the fair, and that since her disappearance the police had failed to make a wide search or close down borders.

“In fact,” she adds pointedly, her voice rising with each accusation, “the only person to have been interviewed for any length of time has been my client. The local police force is failing Ellie. They are failing Ellie’s family. And they are failing Luxembourg. My client was kept in a police cell for almost twenty-four hours. Is that the way Luxembourg police treats victims? Perhaps Detective Massard would like to answer. Detective?”

The British Ambassador stands up, moving towards the panel, as though to silence this criticism, but it is too late; the words have been said and all three people on the stage are looking towards the back of the room where there is a movement. Heads turn and Cate sees that under the picture of the girl in the yellow dress is Olivier, standing with his back pressed to the wall, his arms folded defensively across his chest. Bridget is staring at him, had been staring at him all along, but Olivier is looking at Cate and he is far from happy.

Olivier shakes his head, he will not be forced into speaking publicly, and the Ambassador is hastily intervening, re-directing the conference away from accusations. Olivier tries to move towards Cate but no journalist is going to let him through at such a crucial moment.

“Please, Ellie,” Bridget says, and the journalists turn back to catch her final words, “wherever you are, come home. Please, if you have her, let my daughter go.”

One of the BBC journalists calls out, “Mrs Scheen! Ellie could be anywhere in Europe. Have Interpol been informed?”

“I believe my daughter is in Luxembourg,” Bridget replies. “Someone has her, someone close. And it’s time for her to come home.”

The perfectly quotable line appears spontaneous, and the journalists begin to speak at once, questions about Ellie, about the last time she was seen. Then one question, loud and clear, from a local RTL journalist seated just a few rows behind Cate.

“Mrs Scheen! Did you harm your daughter?”

Bridget looks to where the voice came from, then she looks at the back where Olivier is still standing, listening. Achim, too, seems to be leaning forward as if waiting on her answer. For a moment, Cate feels Bridget’s eyes on her, as if she is answering directly to her.

“I loved my daughter. I would never harm her. That is a lie that has been spread by the police, by that man…” Bridget lifts her shaking hand and points again to the back of the room, to the man standing under the picture, but before she can finish her damning sentence the Ambassador places a hand over the microphone to cease the torrent of blame. The solicitor whispers to her client, and along with Achim, they simultaneously move Bridget so she is standing, then walking from the room. Cate can’t judge if the solicitor is pleased with how things have gone or not, only one thing stays with her, something that feels wrong and important and that won’t go away: Bridget had said,
I loved my daughter
. Loved, not love.

As the journalist’s chatter rose around her, Cate felt she was drowning in accents, French and German and English, but that one word was the same in any language, repeated again and again:
Ellie
. Ellie Scheen. Cate wanted desperately to leave, but it was impossible. Journalists scribbled notes, technicians checked they had the film footage they required, when a tight pressure surrounded her elbow. She turned, hoping to escape, but Olivier had found her. For the second time that morning he said, “What the fuck do you think you are doing?”

“Come, we’ll leave by the back entrance. The Scheens will be giving more speeches at the front, it will be a fucking circus.” He guided her the opposite way, deeper into the Embassy, but he was wrong about the speeches. Bridget had not yet started; she was there in front of them in the dark narrow corridor, talking with her solicitor. As if sensing them, Bridget turned and saw Cate, with Olivier’s hand on her elbow, the other on her shoulder. There was a moment, a frozen realisation when Bridget saw the woman she had trusted alongside the man who believed her to be guilty. The shock registered on Bridget’s face, and Cate could do nothing, say nothing. She wanted to apologise, though she didn’t know what for. She didn’t know if Bridget really was wrongly accused, abandoned by the very police force who should be helping her, or if she was just a very good actress with an evil secret.

Outside, Cate breathed the fresh air. She felt as though she’d been underground for a very long time. A police car waited, the driver ready to speed Olivier away from the scene. He told her to go home, it wasn’t a request, and she started to walk away with every intention of doing so. But when his car pulled away she realised she had a choice. Suddenly liberated, she turned around and walked smartly back to the Embassy, curious to see how Bridget would deal with the media when she made her exit.

She handled it with style. Not covering the yellow beaded dress with a jacket, but wearing it with pride and smiling sadly, now grasping the pink rabbit, which she told reporters, had been Ellie’s when she was a baby. The journalists loved Bridget, and she obliged them, standing patiently as they snapped pictures and asked questions. She was wonderful, tough under fire, a world away from the woman Cate had come to know over the preceding days.

And then, as the journalists and cameramen finally began to disperse, Bridget’s shoulders hunched and her smile faded. It was then that she looked close to collapse.

To escape the mélange, Cate took the same route that Olivier had shown her, only in reverse, and ended up back in the corridor. Bridget had said goodbye to her solicitor and was leaning against the wooden walls. Cate wondered where Achim was, why he wasn’t supporting his wife. Her act was over, the mask had slipped and she looked tired.

Bridget looked up wearily. “I can’t do it anymore.”

“You need to sit down. Come on, we’ll call Achim when I’ve found you somewhere to rest.”

Cate thought quickly, all the cafés she knew nearby would be busy now it was getting towards lunchtime and Bridget was fast becoming recognisable in Luxembourg. Instead, she led the now sluggish woman along the street and into the shrouded park. School had not finished, and there were only a few pre-schoolers climbing on the wooden pirate ship. Cate led Bridget to the bench furthest away from the few mothers sitting in the sun, enjoying some peace as their children played.