Where the Missing Go(7)

There were endless rows: Sophie, tear-stained, upset that I’d stopped her from going to another party or gig. ‘But everyone’s going, Holly’s going. Danny will drive us, you don’t even need to take us.’

‘Oh, that makes it better. A seventeen-year-old boy who’s just got his licence!’

‘You wouldn’t mind if it wasn’t them, would you. Admit it, you just don’t like my friends.’

‘It’s just not safe, Sophie. I can’t let you go.’

And then that last one, the week she left, about nothing at all, really. I wanted her to eat dinner with us, but she wanted to eat it in her room. ‘To finish some coursework,’ she said.

I remember how it ended, as always: Sophie slamming her way out of the room.

‘Just let me go. I can’t stand it! Don’t you get it? I just want some space!’

‘Sophie …’

I thought it had blown over though, even if she was a bit quieter than usual, before I went. She gave me a proper hug goodbye on Thursday evening, when Charlotte had picked me up, her pale brown bob in a careful blow-dry for the occasion. She’s always hated how her hair frizzes, saying she’d rather have straight flat lengths like me and Sophie.

‘See you Sunday,’ I’d said. ‘Love you, So.’

‘See you Sunday,’ she’d said, over my shoulder. ‘Love you, Mo.’

Our little routine, for so long, since she was a toddler, and I was putting her to bed. So, my little nickname for her; Mo, for Mum, she came up with, just because she thought it was so funny to rhyme.

It just stuck. I still miss that.

We were already on our way back home from the hen, Charlotte driving us, when Mark rang, ‘just to check in’, sounding far too casual. ‘So, er, Sophie was at Holly’s last night, she said. Is there another Holly from school? Am I getting them mixed up?’ He’d never been able to keep track of her friends.

Of course it all came out in the aftermath: the day before, Friday morning, Mark had taken her to school as usual – Amberton Grammar was on his way to work in the city centre. She’d run back into the house as he’d waited with the engine running, he told us, saying she’d forgotten something. ‘Sophie!’ he’d called, tooting the horn. ‘Will you get a move-on.’

He hadn’t noticed anything different, he said later.

But as he’d dropped her off at the school gates, she’d struggled to swing her rucksack onto her shoulder, and the flap had fallen back, just a little.

‘Is that bag big enough,’ he’d teased. ‘What you got in there, anyway?’

She always seemed to carry the world around with her, carting the entire contents of her locker at all times. ‘Oh, just some – some overnight stuff,’ she’d said. Then: ‘You remember I’m staying with Holly tonight?’

‘No.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Sophie, does Mum know about this?’

‘Yes, she said it’s fine.’ She shifted her weight. ‘We’re just going to do some revision, have pizza. That’s OK, right?’

‘I don’t know, Sophie,’ he said, thinking.

She did look a bit guilty, he said later, but he’d chalked it up to the obvious: both of them knew that I wouldn’t like it. But he was late, in a rush to get to work, and what was the harm? She’d been working hard. Of course, there was another reason he didn’t mind her staying away that night.

The car behind tooted at him. ‘So can I?’

‘All right, but don’t be back too late tomorrow. Home by lunchtime,’ he called after her.

‘’K, thanks, Dad. See you tomorrow.’ It was only when she failed to come home by late Saturday afternoon that Mark had called her phone and then, when it went to voicemail, Holly’s house. I’d pinned the number to the noticeboard – she spent so much time there. Did Sophie want picking up?

No, Sophie wasn’t there. Her mum had put Holly on the phone. No, she’d repeated, Sophie hadn’t stayed at her house. In fact, she hadn’t seen her since Friday morning.

‘I’m sure it will be OK,’ Charlotte had kept telling me, after Mark rang off, as I grew increasingly angry – and, underneath that, worried. I couldn’t believe he’d let her go, right before exams.

When he phoned again an hour or so later, I put my mobile on speakerphone. I could tell instantly that she hadn’t turned up, looking sheepish.

‘Katie …’ he’d said, sounding almost bewildered. ‘It’s Sophie. She’s left a note.’ He’d cleared his throat. For a strange moment I wondered if he was going to cry. ‘She’s run away.’

Two officers in uniform – professional, serious – arrived that same evening after I’d called 999. No, we didn’t have to wait 48 hours, they’d reassured us. That was a myth. We’d done the right thing.

They peppered us with questions, as we nursed cups of tea on the living-room sofa.

No, we’ve no idea where she might have gone. Yes, we’ve tried her friends, all the ones we can think of. No, she hasn’t gone to my sister’s, her grandpa said he hasn’t heard from her, he’s very worried. No, there are no other relatives she might go to. No, she’s never run away before. Is she happy at home? Yes. At least, we think so. Have there been any arguments, recently? Well, yes, but she’s a teenager …