Where the Missing Go(8)

I couldn’t get over the unreality of the situation, the sense that any moment I’d hear the key turn in the back door and her clatter into the kitchen.

She’d left her bank card and her phone – I’d found them in the drawer of her bedside table. That was a good sign, Charlotte had said. Sophie’d have to come back soon. But while Sophie hadn’t taken much, what she had was important. Her passport was gone. That was one of the first things they asked me, where we kept it, and I’d showed them the drawer in the desk in the study.

How much money does Sophie have access to? They asked at some point.

‘Not much, she only just turned sixteen last month, she’s still at school.’ Mark had been flustered. He spoiled her, I’d always said that. Meanwhile I was doing the sums. There was her generous allowance, money she’d collected from her waitressing job the summer before, birthday gifts.

‘We let her look after her own account,’ Mark had told the police, growing slightly pink under their steady gaze. ‘She wanted to save for a car.’ We sounded so naive. Comfortable, trusting – and unforgivably naive. She’d cleared out her account completely, we learned later. With everything added together, she had a considerable sum.

And of course, there was the note, her round bubble handwriting on a sheet torn out of one of her exercise books for school.

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

Three kisses, like we always left for each other in our family birthday cards and, once she was older, the notes I’d leave stuck to the fridge. One for Daddy, one for her, one for me. And a little flower doodle, like a daisy, in small strokes of biro, next to her name. She always did that, since she was little. She’d started it for me: she knew flowers made me happy.

They wouldn’t stop running over the details with Mark. ‘And when did you find this, Mr Harlow?’

‘This afternoon, after I’d phoned Holly’s mum.’ He couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes. ‘It was on Kate’s pillow, so I didn’t see it.’

I think Charlotte had snorted.

‘It won’t have made a big difference, will it?’ he’d asked almost pleadingly.

They’d reassured him that they had every confidence, et cetera. But I knew, countless news stories and TV reconstructions flashing in my mind: the first few hours are crucial.

That was the beginning of the end for us. Of course he’d had to own up, and quickly, to what was already obvious to me. When Sophie ran in while he waited in the car, she must have placed the note on our bed, knowing he wouldn’t see it until that night. But he’d had a sleepover of his own that night, elsewhere, so hadn’t seen it until he came home the next day and, worried now, finally checked around.

‘It might not have made any difference, Kate, if he’d found it sooner,’ Charlotte said to me, in the days after. And maybe she was right.

But I couldn’t forgive him for that.





4


It’s too late to wake up Dad, I tell myself, as I pull up at the house after the police station. I catch myself sighing. Coming home to our pretty old redbrick no longer lifts my spirits as it used to. This place is too big for me now, but I can’t leave. What if she came back and found us all gone?

In the drive, a small shape pads up and I bend down to stroke Tom – a ginger tom, unoriginally. Mark took the dog when we split. It was a surprise how much I missed him, I told my sister: King, not Mark. She didn’t laugh.

At least it meant I could house Tom. Lily, my neighbour, had seen a sign in the supermarket advertising a ‘free kitten’ and rung a number: a woman had rushed over with a cardboard box, the animal inside hissing furiously. He was already half-grown, I saw immediately, and – we soon found out – not yet house-trained. Lily had been so upset about it all.

Perhaps that episode was a sign: she was being too impulsive, not her usual sensible self. At least the cat doesn’t require a lot from me. Suddenly I’m exhausted, the adrenaline that’s borne me through this evening disappearing like bubbles from a fizzy drink.

I switch off the downstairs lights, listening to the noises of the house around me: soft creaks and hums as it settles, the warmth of the day evaporating. Climbing the stairs, I make a note to call the blinds company. In a rare burst of activity, I’d taken down the tired curtains at the landing window. I just haven’t got around to doing anything more and I’m reminded of it every time I walk past the pane of glossy black.

In the darkness outside, I can see the bulk of the nearest neighbour, Parklands, its towers confused by scaffolding, alien shapes against the night sky. There are no lights on, of course. A bend in the road means we don’t even have neighbours on the other side, not really.

I feel a sudden pang of longing for our smart London terrace – far too small for us, we thought, with a teenager and a dog.

For a long time, the idea of moving here had been just that – a ‘what if’ to ponder after dinner with friends over dregs of wine, plotting our escapes from the smoke. Then Mark got offered the chance to expand the Manchester practice. An RAF brat, he was cheerfully unconcerned about starting over. ‘Everyone’ll come and stay, it’s just a jaunt up the M6. Have you seen the space we could get up there?’ And we’d be closer to my family. Charlotte had stayed local to Macclesfield, near where we grew up. She, Phil and the boys were ten minutes from Dad, while Mark’s parents spent half the year in France anyway.