Where the Missing Go(13)

The police had questions for us, too. Was there anywhere she could have gone? Anyone that she might have been in contact with? Anyone we could think of, at all?

Dad, Charlotte and Mark, we talked endlessly, racking our brains at the kitchen table, late into the night. Back to London? She hadn’t lived there since she was, what, twelve – everyone she knew was up here. Some pretty seaside resort we’d once visited? We didn’t think Sophie would even remember the time we used to holiday closer to home, before Mark started doing so well. Still, we dutifully wrote all our ideas down and passed them on to Kirstie.

And then there were the other types of questions, more personal. How was Sophie feeling about her GCSEs? How important is academic success in your family? Did Sophie go out with her friends? Was she allowed to? Could you run through again, just so we understand, what exactly you were rowing about, in that last argument you mentioned? And, once: you lost your mother in recent years, Mrs Harlow, in distressing circumstances, we understand?

I’d drawn in my breath. I didn’t know Mark would have told them about that. The driver had been heading home the morning after a wedding, after catching a few hours’ sleep to sober up. Except he hadn’t sobered up, he was still well over the limit when he’d ploughed his four-wheeler into the car in front. Mum had been on her way to the garden centre. It had been quick, at least.

‘That – that was a shock, yes, but I don’t think it changed the way I treated Sophie in any way …’ I trailed off. Maybe it had, just as she hit the age when she needed more freedom.

And, underneath it all, I heard the questions left unspoken but sounding just as loud: Is this your fault? Did you do this? Did you push your daughter away?

Sophie, I’m so sorry, I’ve failed you. I’m so sorry.

In the end it had been Charlotte, always such a mum, who told me I needed to go to my GP, that I should get some pills. And Dr Heath was very understanding, writing a prescription that finally let me sleep; more for the daytime ‘if I needed them’. I’d been grateful for that.





7


Home safe from the supermarket, I pour a cup of water from the tap and drain it, twice. I’m hot and flustered – and I’m getting bogged down again. I need to stick to my routine, not get thrown off by changes. That's why Ellen bloody Fraser’s slipped under my guard. I feel the old restlessness rise up in me, the electric buzz of anxiety. I want to soothe it. I know how I could. But I have to be careful, these days.

I just need to keep playing the game of distracting myself: I will go and see Lily.

Outside again, the afternoon sun is still strong enough to turn my pale skin pink. As I cut through the copse of overgrown bushes that separates our homes, heading up the slight incline, I tilt my head up to admire Parklands through the leaves overhead. Even for Park Road, it’s a beauty under its torn plastic sheets and the plywood on the windows – it’s all towering chimneys and carved stonework, that over-the-top detail the Victorians loved.

Lily’s little redbrick cottage, once the mansion’s carriage house, sits in its own small garden on the side of the drive that continues on to the big house, set far back from the road.

She was the house manager for Parklands, she explained once; it was rented out as rooms. I got the impression the residence had got increasingly shabby with the years. She’d stayed on with her late husband, after it was shuttered up for redevelopment: at least her rent can’t be much.

I’ve got my own key, now, so she doesn’t have to get up. That’s what I said, anyway. I worry about her; I had visions of her falling and me assuming she wasn’t answering because she was asleep or at a coffee afternoon.

As I let myself in, the smell of gingerbread slaps me. I sniff the air. There’s a smoky edge to it. ‘Lily? It’s me.’ I find her in her sunny sitting room, in her chair. Her eyes are closed. ‘Lily,’ I say loudly.

She raises her head and fumbles for her reading glasses. It takes her a moment to place me then her face breaks into a smile. ‘Oh hello, darling, you look lovely.’

I can’t help but laugh – she always says I look lovely. ‘Lily, have you been baking again?’

‘What? Goodness, you do mumble.’ I don’t think she likes to admit her hearing’s not as good as it was.

I repeat myself, and add: ‘I’m just going down to make us both a nice cup of tea.’

‘Oh yes, dear, and let’s have something to nibble,’ she calls after me.

‘Sounds lovely.’

Down the steps, in her little kitchen built half underground, I crack open the small, high-up windows as far as they will go and open the oven, fanning the smoke away. The gingerbread men are black, welded to the tray. There’s no saving them, or it. I’ll chuck it later, when the thing’s cooled.

I pull out the tin of biscuits I bought her and arrange a few on a plate. I know she’ll only pick at one, still conscious of her ‘figure’ even these days.

It’s as neat as a pin in here, as ever, but under the sharp whiff of bleach – Lily’s a huge believer in potent chemicals – there’s a darker current. Damp. I make a mental note to have a think about what to do about that. Lily’s vague about arrangements and utterly private about money, in that old-fashioned way.

We met my first winter here, when she drove her ancient Ford into the back of my car at the lights at this end of Park Road, as you head into the village. She blamed the ice on the roads.