The Girls Who Disappeared(37)

I start to introduce myself but she holds up a hand. ‘I’m not interested. I’ve heard about you and I have nothing to say,’ she snaps.

‘But this podcast will shine a light on this case. Someone might come forward who knows something … anything about that night, something overlooked, a clue …’

‘It’s been twenty years,’ she interjects wearily, moving her dirty gloves from one hand to the other. ‘Don’t you think someone would have come forward by now.’ It’s not a question and I open my mouth but she charges on. ‘I’ve given up thinking that my daughter is going to walk through that door. My husband …’ she inhales and touches her chest as though it’s painful ‘… he died not knowing. And I’ll die not knowing. I have my son to think about now, and a granddaughter. I have to … I can’t …’ Her eyes smart and she shakes her head. ‘You need to go.’

‘But …’

She heads back through the gate, her dog trotting behind her. I swallow. I can’t begin to imagine her pain and my eyes fill when I think of Finn. Fuck. Having a child has made me soft. The old me would have followed her, kept on trying to persuade her. I would probably have made a nuisance of myself. But I can’t do that to her. She looks like she’s got the weight of the world on her skinny shoulders.

It’ll be different with Izzy, I hope, as I head back to my car. Not that Izzy won’t be in pain too – but a mother’s grief … I swallow the lump in my throat. I can’t think of it. I just want to go home, hug Finn tightly and never let him out of my sight again.

I sit behind the wheel in the quiet street. The back of my head is still throbbing and I reach into my handbag for two more painkillers, swallowing them with a swig from a warm bottle of water that’s been in my car since Monday. Then I check my mobile, disappointment flooding through me when I see that neither Izzy nor Dale has called. I know Dale must be run off his feet, especially now with Ralph Middleton’s death, and it might not have shown up on his phone that I’d tried to call him due to the sketchy reception in the forest. But Izzy … I really need to speak to her. If she’s willing to be interviewed for the podcast she might be able to convince her parents to cooperate. I couldn’t find either of Tamzin’s parents on the electoral roll.

It’s not yet noon and I decide to try Izzy at the café and hope she isn’t too busy. I park by the standing stones and head into Bea’s again. The young girl, Chlo?, greets me at the top of the stairs – her hair has been newly bleached so that it’s almost silver. It would be ageing on anyone over thirty but it gives her an almost angelic look. It’s piled high on her head. ‘Sorry,’ she says brightly, when I ask if I can have a quick word with Izzy. ‘She’s not in today. She’s doing a course at the college. Beauty, I think.’ She frowns. ‘Or hair. Can’t remember.’

‘Oh, right. Do you know what time she finishes?’

She shakes her head, her topknot wobbling. ‘Nah, sorry. Although,’ she glances at the clock, ‘she did say yesterday she was going to the stones today at lunchtime.’

‘The stones?’

‘Yeah.’ She lowers her voice. ‘Her sister was one of the girls who disappeared back in 1998 and Izzy’s parents set up a memorial bench there.’

I wonder why Sally’s parents would do that when their daughter could still be alive. You hear stories of young girls being abducted by a psycho and kept in a cellar for years sometimes. It’s rare, but it happens.

‘Anyway,’ Chlo? is looking past me now to a couple with two young kids who have come in behind me, ‘got to get on.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, moving past the family and heading back down the stairs.

I can’t help thinking that as Izzy hasn’t rung me yet she has no intention of doing so. I’ll walk past the stones and see if she’s there. I don’t want to interrupt her memorial to her sister, but I might be able to catch her as she’s leaving.

There are a few people out and about on the high street. Two old ladies dawdling arm in arm in front of me. A group of smartly dressed young office workers walking as one entity towards the pub. I shuffle behind the pensioners, who are gossiping about a friend’s new widower boyfriend.

By now I’ve reached the stile. I climb over it and nearly rip the lining from my coat in the process. The field is expansive. And deserted. The stones spring out of the ground like something from Indiana Jones. Up close, they are huge and imposing. Brenda said they’ve been here for more than five thousand years. I walk between them, the ground crisp beneath my boots. I wonder when they were put here and for what purpose. There is a plaque attached to a post near the first stone and I stop to read it. It’s mostly folklore, about how it’s believed the stones were placed there to align with the sun and the moon. I move away, trudging further into the field, wandering in and out of the stones. The field is empty, and from where I’m standing I can no longer see the high street. From my peripheral vision there is a flicker of movement. I turn, hoping it’s Izzy, but I can’t see anybody. The sky darkens a shade and the cloud seems lower. I feel like I could reach out and touch it and the sensation is oppressive. I walk faster, unable to shake the disconcerting feeling that someone else is in the field with me. Someone who keeps darting between the stones so that every time I look round I can’t see them. A macabre game of hide and seek.