Then She Was Gone(7)

‘Well, it does seem a bit strange, so close to your exams.’

‘Exactly. I think there are other things I could be using the time for now. Geography, for example. I could really do with some extra study time for geography.’

This was a 100-per-cent untruth. Ellie was totally on top of all her studies. The extra hour a week would make no difference to anything. But still she smiled that mum-pleasing smile, left the request hanging in the air between them, waited.

‘Well, darling, it’s up to you, of course.’

Ellie nodded encouragingly, the echo of Noelle’s loaded words, the tired aroma of old cooking and unwashed hair, the mood swings and the tangential, slightly inappropriate questions pulsing through her consciousness.

‘If you’re sure? It would be nice not to have the extra expense,’ her mother said.

‘Exactly.’ Relief flooded through her. ‘Exactly.’

‘OK,’ said her mother, pulling open the fridge door, taking out a tub of Bolognese sauce, closing it again. ‘I’ll call her tomorrow. Let her know.’

‘Great,’ said Ellie lightly, feeling an odd, sordid weight lifting from her soul. ‘Thank you.’





Eight


The suited policeman who greeted Laurel was young and washed out, clammy-handed and slightly nervous. He led her through to an interview room. ‘Thank you for coming,’ he said, as though there’d been an option not to come. Sorry, I have a lot on today, maybe next week?

Someone went to fetch her a cup of water, and then a moment later the door opened again and Paul walked in.

Paul, God, of course, Paul. She hadn’t even thought of Paul. She’d reacted as though this was all down to her. But clearly someone at the station had thought of Paul. He blew into the room, all floppy silver hair, rumpled suit, the dry smell of the City embedded in his skin. His hand reached for Laurel’s shoulder as he passed her but she couldn’t bring herself to turn to acknowledge him, just forced a small smile for the benefit of people watching the exchange.

He took the seat next to her, his hand pressed down against his tie as he lowered himself into the chair. Someone fetched him tea from a machine. She felt cross about the tea. She felt cross about Paul.

‘We’ve been investigating a site near Dover,’ said the detective called Dane. ‘A dog walker called us. His terrier dug up a bag.’

A bag. Laurel nodded, furiously. A bag was not a body.

Dane pulled some 10-by 8-inch photos from a hard-backed envelope. He slid them across the table towards Laurel and Paul. ‘Do you recognise any of these items?’

Laurel pulled the photos towards herself.

It was Ellie’s bag. Her rucksack. The one she’d had slung over her shoulder when she left the house for the library all those years ago. There was the small red logo that had been such a vital part of the police appeal. It had been virtually the only distinguishing feature on Ellie’s person that day.

The second photo was of a black T-shirt, a loose-fitting thing with a slash neck and cap sleeves. The label inside said ‘New Look’. She’d worn it partly tucked into her jeans at the front.

The third was a bra: grey jersey with small black polka dots. The label inside said ‘Atmosphere’.

The fourth was a pair of jeans. Pale denim. The label inside said ‘Top Shop’.

The fifth was a pair of scruffy white trainers.

The sixth was a plain black hoodie with a white drawstring. The label inside said ‘Next’.

The seventh was a set of house keys. The fob was a small plastic owl with eyes that lit up when you pressed a button on its stomach.

The eighth was a pile of exercise books and textbooks, green and rotten with damp.

The ninth was a pencil case: black and red polka dots, filled with pens and pencils.

The tenth was a solitary panty-liner, swollen and obscene.

The eleventh was a tiny leather purse, purple and red patchwork, with a zip that went round three sides and a red pompom on the zipper.

The twelfth was a small laptop, old-fashioned and slightly battered-looking.

The last was a passport.

She pulled the photo closer; Paul leaned towards her and she pushed it so it lay between them.

A passport.

Ellie had not taken her passport. Laurel still had Ellie’s passport. She took it from the box of Ellie’s possessions from time to time and gazed at the ghostly face of her daughter, thought of the journeys she’d never take.

But as she stared at the passport she realised it was not Ellie’s passport.

It was Hanna’s.

‘I don’t get it,’ she said. ‘This is my elder daughter’s passport. We thought she’d lost it. But …’ She stared down at the photo again, her fingers touching the edges of it. ‘… it’s here. In Ellie’s bag. Where did you find this?’

‘In dense woodlands,’ Dane replied. ‘Not too far from the ferry port. One theory we’re looking at is that she may have been on her way to Europe. Given the passport.’

Laurel felt a burst of anger, of wrongness. They were looking for evidence that backed up their long-held theory that she’d run away from home. ‘But her bag,’ she said. ‘With just the things she had when she left, when she was fifteen? And you’re saying that she took the same things with her to leave the country? All those years later? That doesn’t make any sense.’