Where the Missing Go(46)

‘It wasn’t an overdose. Not how you mean, anyway. It was a mistake.’

‘Whoever made these calls from the phone box made them dozens and dozens of times …’

Suddenly I understand. ‘Oh. You think I know something.’

‘Mrs Harlow, no one’s accusing you of anything, all I asked was—’

‘You think I’m making prank calls,’ I say flatly. It’s not a question.

‘I didn’t say that.’ He didn’t need to. ‘And I wouldn’t call them prank calls. Maybe’ – he lifts his eyebrows, questioning – ‘calls for help, perhaps?’ His eyes are kind. I can’t stand it.

‘Well, I’m not,’ I say. ‘Yes, I had some obsessive thoughts, over-anxious thought patterns.’ I won’t shy away from this. ‘I couldn’t move on from my daughter’s – Sophie leaving. I didn’t cope very well. And I couldn’t sleep, so I took pills to help me. But I didn’t make those calls.

‘There are a lot of kids round here, they could be messing around.’ It sounds weak even to my ears. Who on earth would be calling from there? A thought crosses my mind: ‘And Sophie’s call, you’re not saying that was from that phone box, too, are you?’

‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘There was nothing from the phone box on the evening in question. Of course, you were working at the helpline then. Your colleague Alma Seddon, she’s confirmed that.’

Now I realise: in his eyes, I might well have just incriminated myself. Of course there wasn’t a call made from near my house that evening. I was busy at the helpline. But the other times …

‘Look, it’s not a criminal matter to call a helpline and hang up,’ he says quietly, pulling something out of his jacket. ‘Regardless of whether … I just wanted you to know: there are some excellent resources available for families of the missing.’ He hands me a leaflet, one that I’ve seen before, and I keep my eyes on it as he starts talking about post-traumatic stress disorder, counselling, the various charities that specialise in these issues. He manages not to mention the one I volunteer for, I’ll give him that.

‘Thank you,’ I force it out. Be polite. Keep control. ‘I’m glad you’re here, anyway. I wanted to talk to you about Sophie’s diary, the email address in it. I’ve noticed some similarities with another case that I wanted to bring to your attention—’ I look up, catch the expression on his face: I’m still not getting it.

My heart starts to pound. ‘What is happening with the investigation? After the diary – what Sophie wrote about Danny? You were speaking to him. And Holly Dixon, right? Is nothing happening with that?’

He speaks slowly, like he’s working out how to put this. ‘Yes, we’ve spoken to both Danny and Holly. They don’t necessarily quite agree with your version of things: of your conversations. Which is perhaps not surprising.’ I can imagine: I picture Holly in tears outside the police station, begging me to tell them the pregnancy test was hers. Danny insisting he didn’t sleep with Sophie.

Nicholls leans forward, getting my attention. ‘And they say there was some tension between you and them. Before Sophie went away.’

I can’t deny it – I wasn’t the biggest fan of either of them.

‘When someone goes missing, it can be tempting to find someone to blame.’

‘That’s not it,’ I insist. ‘I’m not saying that they … did anything, but I just know something’s not right. Something’s keeping her away. You’ve got the diary, you showed it to me!’

‘The diary explains that she got pregnant, and her boyfriend wasn’t happy about it. It doesn’t change anything, not materially.’

‘But why didn’t you say any of this before? You let me think …’ But did he? I thought they were taking this seriously, that things were moving again. I try to remember what they’ve told me.

‘I said that when I’ve information I can share with you, I would of course do that.’

And with a sick plunge of my stomach, I realise that he just has: but it’s information that suggests I might be unreliable, a little unbalanced. I feel the panic rising in me. ‘But Sophie was scared, on the phone.’ Oh God. ‘You do still believe that she called me. Don’t you?’

He’s as measured as ever, utterly professional. ‘You said the voice was a whisper. That the line was bad. Then you heard your and your ex-husband’s names – your first names. And …’

‘And I heard what I wanted to hear,’ I finish for him, dully.

‘I’m not saying that, not at all, not necessarily.’ He doesn’t say: it doesn’t really matter. Not to the police.

I’ve had enough now. ‘I’m not losing it. I’m not.’ I stand up. ‘Thanks for coming, DI Nicholls.’

‘Mrs Harlow—’

‘Thanks for coming. I’ll see you out.’

I keep it together until I’ve shut the door after him and I hear his car engine start up.

I’ve still got the leaflet he gave me in my hand. I scrunch it up deliberately and drop it on the floor. I lean against the front door, shaking with anger. It feels better than despair, at least. How dare he suggest I’ve been making calls?