Bad Little Girl(104)

‘Are you all right, my darling?’ Denise stared at her in the mirror. ‘You look, I hope you don’t mind me saying, you look peaky all of a sudden.’

Claire shook her head. The foil wrappers rattled. ‘I was just thinking, about that poor woman. On the radio. Silly. It just got to me . . .’

Denise smiled, turned the radio off. ‘London,’ she said.

‘London,’ Claire agreed.

When she got back home, she turned on the news, but all the reports were tantalisingly vague and brief. No pictures of the victim, no information on the daughter, just a static shot of one of those slightly seedy hotels in the ungentrified area of King’s Cross. Clarence House, it was called. Teenagers from the nearby FE college gurned behind the reporter. There would be more news ‘as we have it’.

It was just a news story. There was no reason to assume it had anything to do with Lorna . . . but still, Claire kept the TV on all day and she didn’t go outside, or even leave the living room. She skipped, instead, between news channels, searching for more on the story. There was nothing until later that afternoon. The same shot of the same hotel, the same reporter, but different faces in the background; commuters now.

‘. . . body found of a woman. She has been identified as Marianne Cairns, forty-eight, who had previously worked as a teaching assistant in secondary schools in the Bristol area. She checked in a week ago with her daughter, Lauren, who is now missing. The hotel manager says that he heard raised voices on the morning of the twenty-third, but that the woman and her daughter were seen later that day, apparently fine. It wasn’t until two days later, when they were due to check out of the room, that the body of the woman was discovered. The police are treating it as suspicious. You can see behind me the white forensic tent covering the window of what we presume is the room in question. Police now are appealing to the public for any information about Ms Cairns, and of course, her daughter.’

Claire pulled Benji close, flipped to another channel.

‘. . . unconfirmed reports that the woman, Marianne Cairns, was beaten with some kind of blunt object. These reports, if confirmed, would certainly point to a murder inquiry. The Metropolitan Police have put out an appeal for anyone who has any information regarding the whereabouts of Ms Cairns’ daughter.’

A policeman stood behind a row of tables, facing a bank of reporters.

‘. . . imperative that we find the child, named Lauren, who has been described as white, between nine and eleven years old, with brown bobbed hair. When last seen she was wearing a pink T-shirt and blue jeans, as well as distinctive trainers with lights on the side and back. We encourage anyone who has any information on the whereabouts of Lauren to call the information line number . . .’

Claire was still watching the TV hours later, when she realised that the sky was now dark, and that she hadn’t moved for hours. There was no more news on the whereabouts of Lorna. Claire double-locked the door, stayed awake all night, waiting in the dark.

It was strange, so strange, but she found herself worrying about Lorna. Was she safe? She was alone. In London. And she was so small.





42





The next morning, Lorna was found, begging on Holloway Road. She’d been sleeping behind an Ethiopian café, going through the bins for food. She told police that she’d run away from home, but was unable to give them a full address. She said that she was begging to save up money to go to Paris to become a dancer. It wasn’t long before they asked her about the hotel in King’s Cross. She was distraught, she was frightened. It took the social worker a long time to win her trust, still longer to get her to talk about it . . .

The woman, Marianne, well, at first she was nice. Really nice. Like an auntie. And she seemed so sympathetic when she told her about Pete, about the horrible things that were happening to her at home. They’d just met on the street – no, a park. That was it. Lorna was crying because of Pete, and Marianne had been so nice. She’d bought her a hot chocolate and given her her phone number. Then they’d met again when Lorna had been crying at the bus station, and Marianne had taken her to a café, got her some food. She was nice to talk to. And then she’d met her again, and again. It just seemed that whenever Lorna was in trouble, Marianne would be there. They drove around. Marianne told her she was pretty, that she could be a dancer, be on TV.

Lorna trusted her. She loved her. They talked about going away together. Marianne said that some people just didn’t deserve to have kids, and that she’d keep her safe.

And then she was in Marianne’s car, and they were going somewhere safe. She was going to be safe from now on. But she wasn’t. Instead they went to and from different flats and hotel rooms, and there’d be people in the rooms waiting. Men. And at first Marianne didn’t make her do things, but then she did. She said she had to do them, or they wouldn’t have enough money to start their new life together. They were going to have a cottage, in the woods, or maybe by the seaside. But all that took money, and Lorna had to do things to make money. Marianne said she was so sorry, but it wouldn’t be for a long time, just until they had enough money . . . And she was still telling her, ‘You’ll be a dancer, you’ll be famous. Just do what I say and things will get better.’ And Lorna believed her, trusted her, and passed up the opportunity to confide in hotel staff about what was going on.