Finding Grace(13)

Nobody had asked for Olivia’s help.

‘Darling, did Grace say anything about not going straight home when she left here?’ Her mum bit her lip while her dad paced back and forth, to and from the window. ‘Did she mention she might call somewhere else first?’

Olivia had told them the truth: that Grace hadn’t said a word about anything like that.

‘Is there anything else you can tell us, Livvy?’ her dad had asked. ‘Anything Grace has said or done that shows you she’s been unhappy, or is worried about something that’s happened at home, or at school?

‘No,’ Olivia had said.

She’d thought about telling her parents what Grace had whispered to her in the playground a couple of days earlier, but she didn’t want to get her friend into trouble.

And once Grace was back from wherever it was she’d gone, Olivia was bound to wish she’d kept the secret to herself. If she told, even for the right reasons, Grace would more than likely get into one of her grumps, where she stopped talking to Olivia and was all sulky for a while.

Anyway, even though the thing that Grace told her had happened was horrible, it had nothing to do with her going missing this afternoon.

It couldn’t have anything to do with it at all.





Nine





Lucie





Sunday afternoon





I sit in an armchair in the lounge, alone for the first time in what seems like ages. It’s a seat that Grace has christened ‘Dad’s chair’.

The people who ushered me in here don’t know that. They don’t know our ways, our routines, how we spend our time as a family.

I no longer feel like I know those things either. The room feels strange, unfamiliar. I’m uncomfortable here, like a reluctant visitor who doesn’t know how to act or what to say.

What do you do, how do you react when your daughter is missing, when you feel utterly hollowed out, inside?

The Jo Malone candle Blake’s mother bought me last Christmas sits on the coffee table. I haven’t lit it yet, still waiting for a good enough reason to enjoy its subtle fragrance. My eyes settle on the cluster of photographs on the fireplace… I dithered over those frames in Debenhams for ages. It actually felt like an important decision at the time.

I’m in a stranger’s house because other people are now in charge. My emotional connection to our home has been ripped away like a nail from a fingertip.

The door opens and uniformed officers stand aside as Blake comes into the room with two men, both wearing badly fitting suits. One is short and plump, the other tall and thin. They look like a comedy duo off the television. They don’t look like the sort of people who might be capable of finding Grace.

The plump one steps forward and shakes my hand. His palm feels soft and warm against my own, but there is a steely strength in his fingers that underpins his seemingly benign grip.

‘DI Gary Pearlman, and this is my colleague, DS Rob Paige.’ He perches on the edge of the couch opposite me, bows his head slightly. ‘Mr and Mrs Sullivan. I can only imagine what you’re going through, but I want to reassure you that we’ll do everything within our power to find Grace as quickly as possible.’

It sounds so obviously straight out of the training manual, but the furrows on his brow show me he is genuinely concerned.

‘Thank you,’ Blake says. ‘Please… call me Blake, and this is my wife, Lucie.’

‘Thank you. Blake, I know you’re in a lot of pain with your ankle at the moment and you’re going to need medical attention…’

‘It’s nothing, only Grace matters. Please, carry on.’

The detective nods his approval.

‘I can’t emphasise how important these next few hours are in the investigation. It’s crucial we make as much progress as possible…’ His voice fades out as I recall the numerous times I’ve read in newspapers, watched on television, seen online the assertion that the first seventy-two hours are vital in finding any missing person alive, and terrifyingly, how that time frame plummets to just forty-eight hours when it’s a child who is missing.

‘… so I apologise in advance if my questions seem unnecessary, inappropriate or invasive. Believe me, my only motivation is finding Grace. That’s the aim of anything I ask, say or do.’

Blake nods and I stare at the detective wondering why the hell we’re sitting here like this. We should all be out there, on the streets, searching for my daughter.

DS Paige takes out a small black notebook. He opens it at a blank page and his hand hovers above it with a pen.

‘I know it can seem frustrating sitting here when you’d rather be out looking for Grace,’ he says, as if he’s read my mind. ‘But your information is the most powerful factor we have in finding her. You are Grace’s parents. You know her better than anyone.’

‘She’s Type 1 diabetic,’ I say. ‘It’s really important she takes her medication regularly.’

‘We do know she had her insulin on her,’ Blake adds. ‘She should be OK for a while; she knows how to measure her blood sugar levels and administer the insulin to herself.’

‘That’s good,’ DS Paige murmurs, and it goes down in his notebook as though it’s dealt with.