Bad Little Girl(94)
Thinking about Lorna clouded things. She could imagine her, sitting with Marianne, concocting their bizarre and unlikely future. Only yesterday Marianne had been speaking confidently about London, about Lorna auditioning for West End musicals. London. Claire doubted sometimes if Marianne had ever been to London; she certainly didn’t seem to know it very well, and batted aside any questions about where and when she’d lived there. She spoke vaguely about Knightsbridge, about spending all her time in the V&A while she was studying fashion. How many things did she claim to have done? She was a singer, a fashion designer, an academic, a screenwriter, a model. And it was all rubbish! Something about being in a space she knew she belonged in gave Claire courage, made her sure of herself. Marianne was a liar, a fantasist, a fraud! God knows where she came from and why she’d attached herself to them, but both she and Lorna seemed to be cut from the same cloth. Both of them, in their unhealthy way, supported each other, propping themselves up on Claire, her money, her home, her goodwill. Her heart was beating quickly again, strongly, excitedly, spurring her on to grope towards the truth, the realisation that they were mad. Lorna was mad. And it had to end. She had to make sure. She had to read about the fire.
A voice from far deep inside her: Where do we go to grow our brains, Claire?
‘The library,’ she whispered to herself. And she began to retrace her steps.
This time she strode purposefully, back straight, eyes forward, seemingly drawn to the library by an uncanny force. There it was, an imposing stone building, like an old-fashioned school house or temperance hall. Inside it was all bright sofas, kids’ collages and reading challenges. Computers could be hired by the hour.
‘Would you like to join the library?’ the sweet-faced girl on the help desk asked. ‘You’re a resident?’
‘No,’ Claire answered firmly. ‘I’m just a tourist missing the internet.’ The girl led her to the computer terminals, blocked together, hot and humming. Claire sat down, took a deep breath, and logged on. But what good would it do? A wheedling voice piped – You know what happened. It’s not as if you can change anything. You’re both trapped together, you and Lorna. She shook her head, silenced the voice. ‘Knowledge is power,’ she said to herself. The heavyset woman with the Zimmer frame, sitting opposite, stared at her. Claire blushed and clicked.
A new twist in the tale had re-excited public interest. There were definitely not three human bodies, but two. Someone – a child – hadn’t been in the house when the fire began. Neighbours said that they’d seen Carl playing with the dogs in the street outside, one of them had had to take him back home, talked to his mum about letting the animals run wild. Nobody could now be sure that they’d seen Lorna either in or outside the home after the shopping trip in the afternoon. The Sun ran a picture of Lorna on its front page, and offered a reward for information. The Guardian ran an op-ed piece in its ‘Comment Is Free’ section: ‘A Tale of Two Britains – Why Lorna Bell Will Never Be Another Madeleine McCann’. The Daily Mail had undertaken a forensic investigation into Rabbit Girl’s past: three other children adopted, a series of violent relationships, an anonymous source from the school – who Claire recognised immediately as James Clarke – claiming that the school cared deeply about Lorna and did its very best to support her, and that there had been concerns expressed.
Claire scrolled through the pictures of the police raking through ashes, their harried faces at press conferences. Only two bodies found. Lorna had not been seen in the house before the fire. Will not comment on media stories of her being missing. Being kidnapped.
‘Oh Jesus,’ Claire said out loud. The woman with the Zimmer frame glared again, and shifted her bulk disapprovingly, but this time Claire didn’t notice. Her brain raced ahead of her panting comprehension. Two bodies. No Lorna. They know Lorna’s not dead. They’re trying to find her.
Had anyone seen her with Lorna?
Think! Has anyone ever seen you together? Not here, anyway. Once at the café in winter. That time at the hairdresser’s, but the barber had barely looked at them, and Lorna looked so different now – so much taller, her hair longer again . . . Aside from that, Lorna had taken all her trips to town and the beach with Marianne; Claire had always stayed at home because of her ankle, or because she was still asleep. Just stay here, Mum, we’ll bring you your pills from town. Yes, Claire, you have a little rest. We won’t be long, will we poppet? The dance lessons, the shopping trips, the cinema, McDonald’s, that had all been Lorna and Marianne.
Cool sweat crawled down her sides. She shut her eyes, clenched her jaw. Think, Claire, think. What about at Mother’s house? Could anyone have seen you together then? Old Mrs Foster next door surely would have mentioned something to Claire if she’d seen a girl coming and going; if you left your bins out an hour longer than usual, she was at the door complaining. The house opposite was being renovated and the family had moved out while the building was going on, and the house next to that was vacant. No, nobody had seen her. Couldn’t have done.
She typed rapidly, ‘Lorna Bell kidnap woman’, and got no real information. Then, shaking, ‘Lorna Bell sightings’. A café in Bristol – Bristol? When had they been there? Claire frowned doubtfully. A girl who might have resembled Lorna, with a blonde woman, but the waitress couldn’t be sure, and there was no CCTV footage. The police were at a dead end with that one. And another – an Argos in Newquay. The blonde woman had bought luggage. A blonde woman. Marianne? Claire felt dizzy again, as her mind reached its destination and stood about it excitedly. Lots of links to Marianne, but none to me. I could be free.