Where the Missing Go(42)

I don’t need to pull out Sophie’s note to know that it’s the same, but I head into the living room and take it down from the mantelpiece anyway. There it is.

I’m sorry everyone. But I need to get away. Please try not to worry about me, I’m going to be fine. I love you all, Sophie xxx

Just similar words, and that phrase, shared by two missing girls decades apart. Nothing really, for anyone to get alarmed about. Certainly nothing that couldn’t be put down to simple coincidence – or the desperation of a mother to find what’s not really there.

I know that, I do. But I can’t stop myself asking the question.

Why does a runaway note that’s nearly thirty years old sound like my daughter wrote it?





20


The next day, I bring the computer from the study and set myself up on the table in the kitchen, where it’s airier. It’s too hot to be in that little cubbyhole any longer. I make proper coffee, in the cafetiere, and I’ve my big jotter pad by my side, where I wrote down my notes from my call to Olivia. They’re painfully brief, when I review them.

Olivia Corrigan

Nancy

Left a note

‘But I need to get away’

Was going to boarding school?

For something to add, I write now: Corrigans still own Parklands but sister says time to sell.

Now I’m ready to – what? I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that.

I stare out of the window, into the sunshine. My mind starts to wander. All I want to do right now is stop. To just stop thinking. And to go somewhere far away from here, where nobody knows who I am. For a second, just for a second, I can understand the impulse to run away …

When the doorbell rings it takes me a second to come to.

‘Oh. Hi!’ I’m a still a beat behind as I look up into the friendly face in front of me, try to place the navy car in the drive. Then I recognise him … outside of his GP room.

‘Dr Heath, uh, hello.’

‘Hi, Kate, how are you?’

‘Uh, I’m fine thanks, you?’ I try to hide my surprise.

‘I was in the area, doing some house calls, and I finished earlier than I planned. I thought I’d check in on you, too, before I go back to the surgery.’ I realise he’s looking at me expectantly.

‘Sorry, yes, of course. Come in.’ I step aside. I feel awkward and out of practice at having a guest. ‘Would you like a coffee? I’ve just made some.’

‘Please. I’ve just been at a patient’s who gave me instant coffee in cold water, with milk that had gone off. I had to tip it into a plant pot.’ I laugh, relaxing a little, as he follows me into the kitchen. ‘So how’ve you been?’

‘Oh good.’ I busy myself with the mugs, my back to him. ‘Well, you know. There’s a lot going on.’ How ever to answer that question, when the asker knows things aren’t well.

‘And you’re sleeping? Are you still relying on the pills?’

‘Yes,’ I say instantly. ‘I do need them.’ I don’t want to kick away that crutch. I just haven’t taken them the last couple of nights, since the figure in the garden. And last night was OK, actually, now that I think about it. I was so tired from the lack of sleep the previous night that I just dropped off.

Maybe all the running helps. I went again, this morning, just in the fields round here. I can feel the ache in my calves, my body unused to the exercise. But it’s a good ache.

‘And how’re you coping with …’ I remember that I told him about Sophie’s call last time ‘… the investigation?’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ I pour out the coffee. ‘I’m not sure where they’re up to … I mean, they’re not going to trace the call. Because of all the anonymity stuff. But they’re looking into it.’

‘And what does that mean?’

‘I don’t know. The detective said they’d speak to the charity.’ What exactly are they doing, if anything? Nicholls has barely told me anything. It’s still just me, with my pathetic attempts to take things forward myself. I clear my throat. ‘Would you like milk, Dr Heath? I promise it’s fresh.’

‘You can call me Nick, Kate. And I don’t want to upset you. Are you finding the police helpful?’

I roll my eyes. ‘I don’t know. This detective, Nicholls …’

‘Nicholls?’

‘Ben Nicholls, his name is. I’m not sure how much he’s really doing …’ I turn round and hand him his coffee. I smile at him, his face is a picture of concern. But if he gives me any sympathy, I’ll break down. ‘Actually, I did want to ask you something. My neighbour, Lily Green, just up the drive, in the little carriage house? Well, she must be in her eighties – I check in on her, every so often.’ He sips his coffee and nods. ‘She’s been getting more confused, recently, and I’m a bit worried.’ How to phrase this? ‘I noticed that she’s on some quite serious medication: painkillers. Morphine.’

‘So you noticed this?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Where? In her bedroom? She had just left her prescription out? That might be something to worry about, if she has children round, but otherwise …’