Finding Grace(22)

‘I know. Usually I’d bite your hand off, but everything…’

‘Yes. People have described it as an awful new reality, everything turned upside down, inside out.’

‘Yes,’ I say vaguely. That’s exactly how it feels.’

‘I’ve just had confirmation they’ve increased the number of officers on the street. They’re carrying out comprehensive door-to-door inquiries and asking people’s permission to search their back gardens. The local community are providing added manpower. You have some pretty supportive neighbours.’

I nod. ‘People are generally good around here when help is needed. But what if…’ I falter. Stop myself.

‘You can ask me anything,’ Fiona says gently. ‘That’s what I’m here for, Mrs Sullivan.’

‘What if Grace isn’t around here any more? What if she’s miles away? Someone may have taken her away in a car and then everything that’s being done out there is completely useless.’

She presses her lips together. ‘Measures are in place for every eventuality.’

I frown, wanting more.

‘We’ve put out a national alert and we’re in the process of informing ports and airports. You can rest assured, everything has been considered. But can I make a suggestion?’

I look at her. She’s a no-nonsense woman, short brown hair, no make-up, tiny silver ear studs and determined mid-brown eyes. She’s probably a realist; deals with facts and nothing else.

I nod. ‘Please do.’

‘Don’t let yourself dwell on that stuff. It will screw you up so fast, you won’t even realise it’s happening until you’re on the floor. Take each step at a time. For now, we’ve no reason to believe Grace is anywhere but local. My advice is, don’t let yourself slide into the abyss, love. Not yet.’

A young, uniformed officer coughs in the doorway.

‘Sorry to interrupt. We need to take Grace’s hairbrush and toothbrush, is that OK?’

I nod. I don’t need to ask what for. They’ll need Grace’s DNA on record for if they find a body and…

Fiona places her hand gently on my shoulder.

I suddenly feel a real need to escape other people’s eyes; even her’s.

‘DS Bean, I think I might go for a lie-down upstairs, if you don’t need me for half an hour or so.’

‘That’s a good idea; you must be exhausted. And it’s Fiona, by the way, Fi, if you’d prefer. I don’t mind, to be honest. I’ll answer to anything.’

‘And you can call me Lucie,’ I say as I go to the door. ‘Promise you’ll disturb me, though, if anything at all…’

‘Goes without saying. You’ll be the first to know if I hear the slightest thing.’

As I climb the stairs, I hear Fiona return to the kitchen and close the door behind her. She’s obviously making a call, as after a moment or two, I hear her speak. She’s probably reporting my mental state to her superior. I feel like her eyes are on me every second I’m in her sight: evaluating, trying to garner any clues I might have tried to hide.

I climb steadily, taking a breath in and out again with each step.

The sheer walls of the stairs rise up on either side of me, confining and claustrophobic. They are dotted with framed photographs of the children, of me and Blake. I don’t look at them. I focus on moving towards the window on the landing that gives a partial view of the bottom of Violet Road.

From here I can see the rear corner of the roof of Bev and Mike’s house. Grace was in there a couple of hours ago, safe and sound. If one of us had gone to collect her, she’d be home with us now.

The door to her bedroom is slightly ajar. The police searched in here earlier, looking for her as if she might be playing some silly game of hide-and-seek. They’ll have opened drawers and her wardrobe, looking for evidence that she’d perhaps packed a bag, executing a plan to run away from home. They’ll have found nothing of the sort. Like I told them from the off, Grace is not hiding and she hasn’t run away.

I push the door open fully and step inside. It’s been a fairly bright day outside today, but of course, now it’s starting to get dark. So there’s no sunlight flooding in through her window to bathe me in a sense of hope.

The police have been sensitive in their search, I can see that. No drawers left pulled out, nor possessions strewn around the floor. Still, I can instantly see the order has been disturbed.

Her dressed Spanish dolls on top of the chest of drawers are no longer equidistant from each other, as Grace prefers to display them. The stacked annuals at the side of her bed have been disturbed. The army of soft toys that sit on her windowsill are higgledy-piggledy, falling into each other’s laps.

I look around, trying to see the room from a stranger’s point of view. This is the bedroom of a child who is well looked after and loved. The Little Mix posters on the wall, the CD player and collection of pop music CDs show her love of music. The essence of Grace is here, and yet something is missing.

I’m so desperate for a sense of her, but it feels barren in here, devoid of Grace’s tinkling laughter and indomitable spirit.



In my own bedroom, with the door closed, the silence echoes in my ears.

The only time the house is this quiet is when Grace is out, and that’s not very often. Noise accompanies her when she is here: she sings, watches television, listens to music and sometimes plays games on my iPad.