Where the Missing Go(29)

There are a few more details, but not much. I suppose it would all have been covered in the bigger papers already. She went to Amberton Grammar, like all the kids round here still do, if they can get in. It’s still a good school. Her family are concerned for her welfare.

The next week’s edition’s missing – the film just reels right on to the following paper without a gap. But this time the article has a bit more detail: a sixteen-year-old boy questioned by police has been released without charge. The rest of it just repeats what I know already. It doesn’t seem like anyone was panicking.

So what happened to the boy?

But I can’t find another mention of him and I get sidetracked as I scroll through the pages on the reader, my attention wandering into details of decades-old mayoral visits and planning disputes. A Cabinet member visited Amberton and was egged outside the town hall, the photographer catching him furious in his grey pinstripe. The church is appealing for a new roof. It still is today, I think. The more things change …

I’m getting stiff, my lower back seizing up. Wanting to move, I wander out of the side room and over to the water fountain by the main desk. I feel grumpy and tired. I should be worrying about Sophie, I think now, not this. But what exactly can I do? I should be honest with myself: I’m just looking for distractions.

‘How are you getting on?’ says the librarian. He’s tall, thin, with a friendly air. I’ve told him I’m researching local history.

‘Not that well. It’s missing some of the dates I’m looking for, the film I’m looking at. There’s no paper for 22 April that year?’

‘Ah, well,’ he says, frowning slightly. ‘It’s all going digital so we’re not exactly on top of it all, I must admit. What are you looking for, anyway?’

‘I’m looking into a local girl, who went missing. Nancy Corrigan.’

‘They’ll have more papers at the Central Library, in the city centre. I think you’ll have to make an appointment. You might need to be a student. Are you a student?’

‘No.’ I can see he’s waiting for an explanation ‘I mean, it’s a personal project. I’m looking into the social impact of – of missing persons on small communities.’

‘Ah well, it should be fine then,’ he says. ‘Fascinating story, too.’

This gets my attention. ‘Nancy? The missing girl? You know about her?’

‘Oh, it was all very sad,’ he says cheerily. ‘And of course, it was what, twenty years ago?’

‘Nearer thirty. So did you know her? Are you local?’

‘I am yes, grew up round here. But she was a bit older than me.’ He must be younger than he looks. ‘But we used to go and look at the house after the family left, dare ourselves to get into the grounds. You know how kids are.’

‘What house?’

‘I forget the name. You know the big grey one. Park Road, the one on its own at the end.’

‘She lived at Parklands?’

‘That’s it. Parklands.’ He misreads my look of surprise. ‘It would have been different in those days, a lovely house. Grand, even. They had big parties on the lawns …’

So Nancy lived at Parklands. No wonder Lily got mixed up. Another runaway girl. And then they all left. How could they? What if she came home one day and they’d gone? The door closed, a new family in the house, like Peter Pan. I push down the rush of concern. It’s not my story. But now I’m curious.

‘It said in the papers that a boy was questioned?’ I ask.

‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’ He starts to tidy, moving books about, then he stops. ‘But my cousin went to school with her. Nancy. She might remember things. I could ask her if she’d speak to you, for your project.’

‘Uh, OK. Would you?’ I’m always surprised at the friendliness here. I was in London too long. I pull out a piece of paper from my bag and grab the pen in front of me, before he changes his mind.

‘I’m Kate,’ I say. I don’t write down my surname, just in case. I’ve had enough of the questions.

‘David.’ He gives me a little awkward wave from behind the counter.

‘So here’s my number, if she—’ as my phone starts ringing in my bag. ‘I’m so sorry.’ I fumble for it as he gives me a look and tilts his head meaningfully at story time. ‘I’d better take it outside,’ I whisper. On the other side of the sliding doors I wrestle it out.

It’s a withheld number. ‘Hello?’

‘Hello, Mrs Harlow? DI Nicholls here.’

‘Yes, it’s me. Hello?’

‘Can you come into the station today? Something’s come up.’

‘Uh, OK. Now?’ I glance at my watch. It’s just after four.

‘Yes please, if you could.’

‘What’s this about?’

‘Something’s come up,’ he repeats.

Fear clutches at me. ‘Is it bad news? Have you—’

His voice is firm. ‘It really would be best if you came in to discuss it.’

‘Yes, of course. I can be there in ten.’

I lick my dry lips as I end the call. Something digs into my palm. I look down, realise I’m still holding the librarian’s pen, my knuckles white around it, and head back in.