The Girls Who Disappeared(3)

As if on cue the rain comes, fast and furious, drumming loudly on my roof. I notice a young couple dart into a nearby shop, holding hands and giggling, and I experience a tug of envy. Gavin and I were like that once. I drive around the war memorial, the stones now on my left, as I head out of the high street and onto the sinister-sounding Devil’s Corridor once more. There is a dirt track that forks off, no more than half a mile from the field of standing stones, which will take me further into the forest. As I turn down it, I wonder if it’s a little too remote. Perhaps I should have booked a B-and-B in the town.

After a few hundred yards I come to a purpose-built holiday cabin similar to the type you get at Center Parcs, surrounded by beech, pine and fir trees. I slow down to get a better look at the name on the front door. Fern. I’m staying in Bluebell, though I’ve no idea where that is. In the distance I think there are two or three more, but it’s hard to see clearly with the rain battering my car and the phalanx of trees as deep as the eye can see. When I spoke to Jay Knapton, the owner, on the phone to make the booking, he’d explained that the complex wasn’t fully built yet and that only half a dozen cabins were dotted through the forest at the moment. He had sounded impressed when I told him the reason I was visiting.

I drive on, my tyres sluicing through the wet mud. I hope the first cabin, Fern, is occupied, although it certainly looked empty. I don’t like to think about being alone in the forest. I slow down as I approach the second cabin trying to catch the name on the grey front door. Bluebell. Relieved, I pull up on the driveway. It’s only matting and turf underfoot, and as I step from the car my heel sinks into it. What was I thinking wearing heeled boots to come to a forest? Thank goodness I have my wellies in the car. I stand for a moment, looking up at the cabin, ignoring the rain seeping through my wool coat and soaking my hair. I’m besieged by the memories of our family holiday to Center Parcs last Christmas. Finn had been so excited – the house among the trees, he’d called it. My heart twists when I realize there may never be another family holiday with all three of us, or a Christmas Day spent all together. From now on, it will be Finn with either me or his dad – and in time Gavin’s new partner. Because, of course, there’s going to be a new girlfriend, if there isn’t already. Why else would Gavin announce, late one night four months ago, that he needed ‘space’ from our fifteen-year marriage? And our nineteen-year relationship? Why else would he move into a studio flat near his office?

This is not the life I’d envisaged. This is not the future I want.

And I’m still bitter about it. I’m furious that the life I’d had, the life I’d loved, has been ripped away from me. That our little family unit has been broken up. This is not what I wanted for our son. For me. Sometimes I want to hurt Gavin so badly – to punish him, to stop him seeing our son – that it eats away at me. But I know that’s selfish and unfair on Finn. I know that. I do. And I’d never do it. Yet this anger … I take a deep breath. Get it together, Jenna, I tell myself. I won’t think about all that now. I won’t wallow. I’m here to do a job. This is a career-changing opportunity for me and I can’t let my emotional turmoil over Gavin mess it up.

I turn back towards my car, plipping open the boot to retrieve my large holdall. It weighs a tonne and I curse myself for packing too much stuff. It used to infuriate Gavin, who only ever needed the bare minimum. I like to pack for every eventuality and can’t go anywhere without my heated tongs. There is a small porch, which I shelter under while I release the key from the coded safe on the wall as per the rental instructions. The hallway is warm and welcoming, with a coat rack, a padded bench and pull-out wicker boxes for shoes. I hang up my wet coat and perch on the bench to take off my boots.

The open-plan interior is even nicer than the photos suggest: white walls, wooden floors, which must be warm due to the underfloor heating, a modern orange L-shaped sofa, sheepskin rugs, snuggly blankets and cushions. There is a fabric deer head on the wall that has coloured fairy-lights entwined around its antlers, which Finn would love. The living area has an open fireplace with a stack of logs in a basket beside it, and beyond the sofa there is a small dining-table. A white high-gloss kitchen overlooking the front driveway leads off the living room. It has grey stone worktops and an island with chrome-legged bar stools. I take in the gadgets: the fancy sound system that I’ll never be able to get working but if Gavin was here he’d have on within minutes, the instant-boiling-water tap, the scary high-tech cooker and hob. I’m used to an old range. I wander back through the living room and along the hallway to the bedrooms. There is a master bedroom with an en-suite and next to it a twin room. I try not to think of Finn and what a kick he’d get out of this place as I dump my bag on the king-size bed.

I return to the living area and take my mobile from my bag. Then I snap a close-up of the deer’s head to send to Finn, before opening the front door and taking a photo of the forest, grateful for the porch. The result is an atmospheric image of the woods and the rain, which softens the edges of the trees, the purple uplighters through the branches giving the image some colour. I’ll add this later to my Instagram page. It will help whet the appetite for when the podcast comes out.

It was my idea to make this podcast. As soon as the press release landed on my desk a few months ago I became obsessed with wanting to know everything about the case. And I was surprised to learn that, apart from reports of the late 1990s and early 2000s, it seems to have been largely forgotten. I’d remembered it as Olivia Rutherford’s friends had been in their late teens, like me, when it happened and, as I stared down at that crumpled press release, I suddenly knew that I needed to cover this – and not just as a cursory three-paragraph article on the BBC website marking the twenty-year anniversary, but a proper in-depth investigation. Thankfully, my editor Layla at the Salford office agreed that it would be perfect for their new streaming service so I’ve been sent here to gather as much information and record as many interviews as I can. Layla will help me edit it into a six-part series when I return to Manchester. I’m excited about the new challenge as, even though I’ve been a reporter for seventeen years, I’ve never made or hosted a podcast before.