Where the Missing Go(5)

She interrupts me. ‘I’ve got to be quick. I need you to tell them not to worry any more about their daughter. That she … that I’m fine—’

The words are drowned out by static again. ‘Who? Who do you want me to tell?’ Suddenly my heart is racing.

Silence, then the voice, now tiny, like it’s very far away, ‘… not to worry if they don’t hear from me after this, it only hurts …’ and it’s gone again.

‘I can’t hear you, sweetie.’ I’m gripping my headset to my ears, pressing harder, harder, straining to hear. The line pops and sings.

Then the voice again, now clear, one that I know better than any other. ‘… are Kate and Mark Har—’ My skin is cold, all over.

‘Sophie,’ I say. Finally allowing myself to finally say it. ‘Sophie, is that you?’

But then there’s another burst of static, I can’t tell if she’s still talking.

‘Are you still there?’ I wait, my heart pounding. ‘Are you still there?’

‘Yes, yes, I’m here,’ she says. ‘I’m still here.’

‘Love you, So,’ I say.

It’s all I want to tell her, in the end. I don’t know what she’s going to answer, and then—

The dial tone sounds, too loud as I strain to hear. I breathe out, setting the phone back, slowly.

Every part of me knows that voice. My daughter, Sophie.

By the time Alma’s back, I’m calmer, at least on the surface. I’m good at that. You’re so calm, people kept telling me. And later: I can’t believe how calm you’re being about it. I knew it wasn’t a compliment.

But I find I can’t quite sit still, my mind replaying those few syllables over and over: ‘Kate and Mark Har—’. She was about to say Harlow, I know. ‘Kate and Mark Harlow.’

I’ve told Alma what’s happened, the call that’s finally come for me, that I’ve always expected. The reason, she will know without me having to tell her, that I started to volunteer here.

‘Well, I’m so glad, dear,’ she said, after a pause. ‘I know you’ve been waiting a very long time, haven’t you.’ I returned her hug, so she couldn’t see my eyes fill with tears. Her soft cardigan had her perfume – rose scent and custard creams.

She’s letting me skip the rest of the shift: she thinks it’s best if I go home. She can handle it tonight. For Alma, a veteran of the helpline, family break-ups and reunions are the bread and butter of her life, as much as trips to the supermarket and walking her dachshund.

I find I am trembling now, despite the two sugars in the milky tea Alma’s made me sip (‘For the shock, dear’). I want to get out of here, itching to act. And there’s something on the edges of my mind, if I can only grasp it …

I shake my head. Be practical. I’ll leave a message on the extension of the family liaison officer the police assigned to us. If it’s not too late, maybe I’ll drive to Dad’s. I want to tell him in person. And I need to get a message to Mark, I suppose. It’s the right thing to do. As Sophie’s father, my ex needs to know.

As soon as she hung up, I’d tapped in the numbers for caller ID, even though I knew what the answer would be. That automated voice: ‘The service requested is not available.’ We can’t identify our callers even if we want to – it’s a fundamental policy, and the system’s set up to ensure that.

But I’d know that voice anywhere. She was talking quietly perhaps, and the line was terrible, but it was her. She wants to get a message to Kate and Mark: me and her dad. Not to worry about her – and not to worry if we don’t hear from her? What does that mean?

I feel a burst of longing, raw and hurtful. If only I could have spoken to her longer, I could have persuaded her to come back, I could have. Come home, Sophie, I will her, as if I can convince her to do so through the sheer force of my emotion. Come home.

I am halfway to my car, keys in hand, when I realise. I check myself, stopping dead in the car park, suddenly rigid. What it is that’s bothering me.

I’ve thought about this call before. I’ve imagined it so many, many times: all the things she could be. Distant. Angry. Upset.

But I never imagined that she’d sound so … scared.





3


My coffee from the vending machine, lukewarm to start with, is now cold. It’s not making it taste any better. With my back to the room, I pull a face.

‘Well, there must be something you can do to find her,’ I say steadily, turning round. ‘There must. Some sort of log kept by the phone company maybe – something.’ I sound more confident than I am, I used to be good at that. ‘I mean, the police must trace calls all the time.’

‘I do understand your frustration, Mrs Harlow. I really do.’ The young officer taking down a report of the call has been polite, even solicitous, making me go over every detail. Getting him to do something about it, and now, is another matter. ‘But we can’t do anything until we take a look into the original investigation, get up to date with that. Which will be this week, I can assure you.’

‘This week?’ I catch the expression on his face. ‘Look,’ I say, ‘I know how it sounds. But it’s not what she said. It’s how she said it.’