The Missing Children Case Files
‘It’s all right, sweetheart, you’re not in any trouble. I just want to understand where you went and what made you disappear.’
Her head remained bowed. ‘I got scared.’
Penny crouched, forcing eye contact. ‘What scared you? Was it because you bumped into Jason?’
The little girl shook her head. ‘I-I-I thought I heard a gun.’
Penny blinked several times as she tried to process this statement. ‘A gun?’
Cassie raised her head slightly. ‘Daddy told me that if I ever hear a gun I’m to run and hide, so that’s what I did.’
Gerry entered the kitchen, hanging back to allow the conversation to continue, but Penny couldn’t conceal her alarm at what Cassie had just told her. What kind of parent warned their child about what to do in a gun-related situation? Why would there ever be such a need? Although Sean had probably seen guns in use in some of the superhero films he’d watched, as far as he was concerned – based on the consistent message she and Gerry had delivered – that was just something that happened in the movies; people didn’t carry guns in the real world.
‘There are no guns here, sweetheart,’ Penny resumed. ‘Okay? Guns are what you see in films.’
Cassie pulled a disbelieving face. ‘No, Daddy said that there are bad men in the world who might want to hurt us, and they have guns. So, if I ever hear or see one, I’m to run and hide.’
Penny looked up at her husband, exasperated.
‘What made you think you’d heard a gun?’ Gerry asked from where he was leaning against the counter top.
‘There was a loud bang,’ she protested. ‘Didn’t you hear it?’
Gerry thought back before snapping his fingers. ‘A car backfired,’ he said, glancing at Penny. ‘I remember now. One of the neighbours’ cars I presume. Around twenty to thirty minutes ago. That must have been what you heard, Cassie. Just a car backfiring. Mrs Connors is right; there are no guns here.’
Penny couldn’t recall hearing any car backfiring, but the radio had been on in the kitchen when she’d been cutting the crusts off the sandwiches. ‘Where did you go when you heard the bang, sweetheart?’
‘I was in the toilet when I heard it so I hid in your bedroom, under the bed.’
Penny frowned. ‘Our bedroom? But the door was locked.’ She turned back to Gerry. ‘I never checked that room because I remember locking it this morning before the first children arrived. There was no way she could have been in there.’
Gerry pulled a face. ‘Shoot! That may be my fault. I went up to change my shirt and I don’t remember locking the door again. I’m sorry.’
Penny turned back to Cassie. ‘Well, there’s no harm done. I’m sorry that the backfiring car scared you, Cassie. I wish you’d come and spoken to me or Mr Connors and we would have assured you that it wasn’t the sound of a gun.’
‘Can I go and eat now, please?’
Penny nodded, offering a reassuring smile. ‘Of course you can. Run along.’
The cherry-red wig swished as she skipped back to the dining room, leaving Penny searching her husband’s eyes for reassurance before he looked away.
‘Come along, Cassie,’ Elizabeth Hilliard said as she waited impatiently by the front door, not wishing to enter in case any of the other children caught her new cashmere coat with their grubby fingers. The sun was close to setting, and she was bloody freezing.
‘Can I have a word?’ Penny asked, as she handed Cassie a cheap-looking party bag. ‘There was an incident earlier when Cassie got scared by a neighbour’s car backfiring.’
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow, feigning interest, but hoping not to be held up much longer. They were already running late for her next appointment and she didn’t have time to pander to some woman’s irrational concerns.
‘Anyway, I told her that guns aren’t something a six-year-old should be worrying about in this country,’ Penny continued, with no obvious let-up in sight.
‘Thank you,’ Elizabeth interrupted, ‘but we really must be on our way. Come along, Cassie. And say thank you to Mrs Connors.’
Cassie did as she was told and soon fell in step behind her mother, climbing up into the Range Rover and fastening her seatbelt. Elizabeth signalled to the driver they were ready, the engine started, and they pulled away.
‘Did you have fun at the party?’ Elizabeth asked her daughter.
‘Yes, thank you. They had a bouncy castle, and we ate pizza and crisps and cake for supper. It was fab!’
Elizabeth tried not to turn up her nose, instead reaching for her phone, unlocking the screen, and opening her emails. ‘Well, at least you enjoyed yourself, I suppose. I’ll have Rosa draw you a bath when we get in and get you cleaned up.’
The Range Rover picked up speed as they joined the narrow A-road that would eventually return them to more clement surroundings. In Elizabeth’s periphery, the large hedgerows streamed by the window in a blur and the air conditioning hummed as it maintained the cool climate.
An explosion shattered the silence.
The rear end of the car swung round as the driver lost control and Elizabeth’s world slowed as it rose and dipped, her beaded necklace flying past her eyes, fragments of the shattered window floating through the air like powder in a snow globe, the phone falling from her grip.
The ringing in her ears wouldn’t stop as the Range Rover landed on its side.
Cassie was suspended just above her by her seatbelt. It felt like a dream. No, a nightmare. She was paralysed by fear, unable to comprehend what had just happened.
Had they hit something? Was that it? But what on earth could have been large enough to flip a car this size?
A muffled scream wrenched her attention back to the vehicle, and she looked up in horror as a gloved hand reached in through the broken window and hoisted Cassie back out through it in one seamless movement, the seatbelt hanging uselessly in her wake.
Elizabeth reached up in desperation but barely brushed the edge of her daughter’s cherry-red wig before she disappeared into the darkness.
Chapter Five
Now
Blackfriars, London
‘My name is Templeton, Lord Fitzhume,’ the man with the cane begins once we’re seated in the lobby. ‘Forgive me for intruding on your day, but you are a difficult woman to get hold of.’
I never used to be. Rachel has gone, excusing herself with traitorous mutterings of deadlines, so I try to fix an earnest and encouraging expression on my face.
Fitzhume removes a red silk handkerchief from inside his tweed jacket and wipes his forehead, pausing to regain his composure. I’d probably place him in his mid-seventies on account of how much he’s panting from just the movement to the seat. Something tells me that despite the polished exterior, things are not quite right beneath the surface; his reliance on that cane is further evidence of a man in pain.
‘Have we met before?’ I ask, unable to quite place the familiarity of his face.
He smiles and returns the handkerchief to his jacket pocket. ‘I, like you, am not immune to having my picture captured for one periodical or another. Alas for me, mine is more to do with my family’s wealth rather than noble deeds such as bringing a ring of monsters to justice.’
‘I was just an instrument; the victims are the real heroes for coming forward. You said you’ve been trying to contact me. What is it exactly that you think I can do for you?’
‘Cassie Hilliard is my granddaughter. Does that name mean anything to you?’
I can’t say I recognise the name but the way he’s looking at me, his eyes glowing with expectant hope, his lips slightly parted, as if he is willing me to say I know exactly who his granddaughter is, makes me want to tell him I do.
‘I’m sorry, it doesn’t,’ I tell him as gently as I can, expecting to see the despondency return, but he bangs his cane on the floor once again, the sound echoing off the marbled wall closest to the leather bench we’re propped up on.
‘The car carrying Cassie and her mother – my daughter, Elizabeth – was driven off the road twelve months ago, and that was the last time any of us saw six-year-old Cassie. She was extracted from the car by a pair of masked invaders, leaving my barely conscious daughter in a state of shock. The family chauffeur was able to confirm to police that he witnessed two masked bandits in dark jeans and leather jackets, but they were gone before he could release himself from the upturned vehicle. It’s a story which would have made all of the newspapers had I not paid to have it kept out of the public eye. It doesn’t surprise me that you are not aware of what happened because only a dozen or so people in the entire world know that my granddaughter was so cruelly taken from us.’
As he speaks, I’m desperately trying to recall any stories from the past year that match any of the detail he has provided, but I soon draw a blank. He could have just as easily invented the whole thing and I would be none the wiser. But the way he speaks, with such authority and more than a hint of remorse, I find myself believing every word.
‘I’m so sorry to hear about your loss,’ I offer, but I know better than anyone that my words mean nothing to someone who has lived through those events. ‘I don’t wish to be blunt, Lord Fitzhume, but why is it you’re telling me about this?’
The twinkle is back in his eyes and he straightens slightly, taking in the vast lobby. ‘Do you have children, Miss Hunter?’
I shake my head.
‘Any brothers or sisters?’
‘A sister,’ I say, picturing her sweet face. ‘Well, I did… I mean…’ I can’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to hear about the baggage I carry with me every day.
‘They say having children changes you as a person,’ he continues. ‘It changes your priorities and expectations in life. Most will learn to settle for what they have and wave goodbye to any long-term dreams they had. Don’t misunderstand me, Miss Hunter; becoming a parent doesn’t force you to give up on hope and ambition – if anything, it focuses that hope towards your infant – but we all make a conscious choice to put the best interests of our child ahead of our own. Granted, that’s not true for every parent, but most do experience some kind of shift in their moral compass.’
He wipes his forehead again and sighs. ‘I wasn’t as involved in Elizabeth’s life as I wish I had been. My own stupid fault chasing after one foreign adventure or another and I didn’t realise the error of my ways until it was too late. And that is why, you see, when Cassie was born, I was determined to make amends. She became my reason for living. If becoming a parent changes you as a person, then becoming a grandparent changes you even more. Every day since that angel arrived in our lives has been a blessing, and when she was taken it was the saddest day I can ever recall.’
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ I offer, still uncertain why he has approached me… and today of all days.
‘My granddaughter hasn’t been seen since the day she was abducted, Miss Hunter, but I am certain she is still alive out there somewhere and I want your help to find her.’
I don’t speak for what feels like an eternity. ‘With respect, Lord Fitzhume, I’m not sure I’m the right person for this. I’m a journalist, not a private investigator. Presumably, you’ve made the police aware that your granddaughter was abducted?’
The bang of the cane echoes off the wall again. ‘Of course we did!’ The relaxed smile has gone, and he is once again leaning heavily on the handle of the cane, as if he might crumple if it were swiped away. ‘They were the first people we called, and they did what they could – even caught up with one of the abductors – but they never brought Cassie home. As far as they’re concerned, she died in their company and so the case is closed.’
My phone is buzzing in my pocket and, as I look at the screen, I can see it is Maddie, probably wondering how much longer I plan to be away from her small office party.
I reject the call and fix Fitzhume with my sincerest smile. ‘If the police have reason to believe that Cassie died after she was taken, what makes you think they are wrong?’
He reaches for the handkerchief again, this time wiping the small pool of spit gathered at the corner of his mouth. ‘It is too easy a conclusion to assume that they killed her. With everything that happened after that awful day, it is the easy way out. It’s more convenient to say she died than continue to search. I offered them a king’s ransom to continue searching but they refused. That’s why I need you, Miss Hunter. I need the help of someone who doesn’t take no for an answer, someone who knows what it takes to separate the lies from the half-truths. Without your help, Arthur Turgood and that ring of monsters would never have faced justice. I’m willing to pay whatever it takes to secure your time, Miss Hunter. I need your investigative skills.’
I can just picture the pound signs in Maddie’s eyes, but he really has approached the wrong person. ‘I’m sorry, Lord Fitzhume, but I think you have the wrong idea about me. I am not some investigator for hire. My role in the St Francis Home case came about because I felt passionately about helping those in need of a voice. With all due respect, I’m not what you need. I appreciate that my name is being bandied about because of the High Court case, but I’m not a resource that you can add to your payroll. There must be hundreds of qualified, professional investigators who’d be prepared to take on your case. I’m just a writer. I’m sorry, but the last thing I want to do is lead you down the garden path. You need more than I can offer.’
I’m half expecting to hear the sound of the cane reverberating again but instead he sticks a hand back into his jacket and withdraws a card, handing it towards me. ‘I appreciate your honesty, Miss Hunter, and thank you for your time. Please take my number in case you change your mind.’
I accept the card out of politeness but have no intention of ever using the contact details on it. We both stand and I wish him good luck with finding his missing granddaughter. I’ll admit I feel guilty as hell as I watch him struggle through the revolving door and out into the warm, late-summer sunshine.
Swiping my pass at the security barrier, I head back towards the bank of lifts and wait to board and return to the sixth floor. Only Maddie remains in her office as I enter.
‘Oh, there you are,’ she coos from behind her desk, four half-empty champagne flutes standing on the periphery of the mess. ‘I was beginning to think they’d carted you off for some devious offence I had no idea about. I told the others you’re probably some top-secret agent needed to defuse a diplomatic incident or secretly leading a double life as a porn star.’
I raise my eyebrows at this last remark but she waves away my concern.
‘Only kidding. Shall I get the others back? I didn’t know how long you’d be so I told them to go back to work, but if you’re ready to get the celebration going again, I can—’
‘Do you mind if we don’t?’ I interrupt, realising I’m once again chewing the sleeve of my cardigan.
She fixes me with a sympathetic look, but doesn’t oppose. ‘I had a phone call from Freddie Mitchell. He wanted you to know how grateful he is and said they’ll be throwing a small wake in honour of those voices silenced before today’s verdict, if you wanted to go along. He says they’ll be holding it in The Black Horse on the waterfront but that you’d know where that was.’
The place where Freddie first opened up about his history; I know it well. I don’t think I really want to intrude on what is sure to be an emotional night for all involved. I’ll give Freddie a call later and make my excuses.
‘Thanks for letting me know,’ I tell Maddie.
‘We should probably book some time in to discuss your next project. Have you had any thoughts yet on how you want to follow up on Monsters Under the Bed?’
I’m glad she’s raised this question as we’ve been skirting around it for the last couple of weeks, but with all the hoo-ha of the trial, neither of us has been brave enough to take the first step.
‘I want to write about my sister,’ I say in the same voice in which I’ve rehearsed it in front of the mirror. ‘I think, given my personal interest in the story, I can give it a unique spin. I still think there are people out there who know more about what happened than they’ve previously shared with—’
‘I know how passionate you are,’ she interrupts, ‘but I just don’t think there’s a market for it now. If you had a fresh source who could shed some light on the story then fine, but all you’ve got is hearsay based on your hours of research when the rest of us are receiving a healthy dose of sleep. I admire your determination to discover the truth about what happened, but I just don’t think it has the legs to get the green light from the publisher. They loved what you did with the St Francis Home for Wayward Boys story, and how you managed to get close enough to the victims to earn their trust and uncover the gruesome details. That’s the sort of story they want to see for your second book of the contract.’
This is exactly what I was afraid she would say.
‘Monsters has been a bigger success than any of us predicted,’ she continues, ‘and there’s an opportunity to locate similar cases and deliver the same kind of success as you did for Freddie Mitchell and the others. See what you can dig up and I’ll book some time in for us to discuss it early next week.’
I thank Maddie for her time, as I always do, leave what remains in my plastic flute, grab my bag and head back out. I know I’m lucky to have an agent who only cares for my interests and I don’t like feeling down about the fact she has dismissed the project I’ve set my heart on. Catching the lift back to the lobby, I can’t stop thinking about the look of raw anguish in Fitzhume’s eyes, and although I’m certain I did the right thing in turning him down, it weighs heavy on my heart.
Chapter Six
Now
Blackfriars, London
The warm breeze smacks my cheeks as I emerge from the revolving doors and, with my head down, I allow my feet to take control. I don’t respond to the gasp of someone recognising me and quickly snapping a photograph on his phone. I’m not sure what he plans to do with an image of a woman with far too much on her mind and I’m not even bothered that I probably look haggard and distressed. When did it become okay for strangers to just take photographs of others without asking permission? The advance of mobile-phone technology has turned everyone into a potential paparazzo.
Bestselling Author Spotted in London, is hardly the stuff of sensationalist headlines. Maybe that image will appear on the front cover of one of those airbrushed glossy gossip magazines in the weeks to come, and then a panel of people whose opinion means nothing to me will dissect the lack of colour in my cheeks, the dowdy cardigan that has seen better days, and the messy hair clearly in need of a good brush and trim. None of this is anywhere close to my mind as I continue to pound the pavement, replaying the meeting with Fitzhume in my memory.
I know it’s guilt that’s forcing me to relive every sentence, but why should I be feeling guilty? I hadn’t even heard about his granddaughter’s disappearance until he mentioned it. In fact, it’s his fault that I remained oblivious to the news after he paid to have it kept out of the public eye. But even if he hadn’t, and the story had made every front page across the country, it’s not my fault that she was never found; yet the contrition remains.
I stop suddenly as my mind comes into alignment and the truth pokes me like a stick in the eye.
Looking around, I’m suddenly conscious of my surroundings. I’ve been so buried in my own thoughts that I have no idea where I am or even if I’m anywhere near where I should be. To my left and right, traffic chugs slowly in both directions, beyond which the python-like Thames stretches as far as the eye can see. Like used dishwater, it is the heartbeat of the city, growing more polluted with every passing second – a damning indictment of the capitalists looking to profit from the downfall of others.
Stepping to the side of Millennium Bridge, I grip the railing as my knees threaten to buckle under the exertion of the journey here. There is a man leaning a few feet away and the scent of his vape smoke threatens the contents of my stomach. I’m about to shuffle further down when he ends the call he’s making and pulls away, giving me a secondary glance as he does. I can see that look of recognition in his eyes but at least he has the decency to simply gawp rather than framing the scene for eternity on Instagram.
‘Whoa, Emma, are you okay?’ a welcome voice pants from behind me.
Turning, I can’t even bring myself to smile at Rachel whose face is mostly hidden behind a large pair of black designer frames.
‘You’re white as a sheet!’ she exclaims, and despite the warmth of the weather, my face feels like ice.
‘I just need a minute,’ I tell her, turning back to stare out to the river which could tell a million tales about those who pass and cross it each day.
‘You didn’t look a hundred per cent when I left you in the lobby,’ Rachel explains, ‘so I came back to check on you. We must have just missed each other in the lifts because I saw you exiting and had to run to catch up. What did the old man have to say for himself?’
I’m surprised she hadn’t recognised Lord Fitzhume but I don’t share his name. ‘He wanted to hire me to write a story,’ I say instead.
‘That’s a good thing, surely? Why the long face?’
Why am I feeling so guilty about turning down a man who’s asked me to help find his missing granddaughter? I can’t tell Rachel. It’s been too long. Too many bricks have been laid in creating our friendship-bridge to tear them all down with a wrecking ball.
‘I told him he’d be better off hiring a private detective.’
Rachel frowns at me. ‘What aren’t you telling me?’
Her eyes are searching for answers my mouth isn’t prepared to give, but my body language isn’t so discreet.
‘What’s going on, Emma? Don’t tell me you’re okay because right now you look as likely to jump from this bridge as you do to walk from it. What’s put you so on edge? I’m a journalist for The Telegraph; you know I’ll find out eventually. If there’s something troubling you then I want – no, I demand – to know what it is.’
A flash of the day we first met suddenly appears before my eyes: me dressed in faded dungarees carrying my dad’s old, battered brown suitcase; Rachel in a mini-dress, exuding confidence I could only dream of. She wasn’t the sort of girl I was used to speaking to – no chess club on her résumé. But she had been eager to find out all about her new roommate, opening a bottle of cheap supermarket wine and a bag of Doritos, and refusing to let me collect the rest of my things until we’d finished both. I could have told her everything then; no, I should have told her everything then, but somewhere in the back of my head I’d allowed my paranoia to keep quiet about the reality of my history.
She’d accepted me for who I was – at least, the version of myself I’d shared – and on that uneven foundation we’d built a friendship: her the beautiful and sassy princess, me the lady-in-waiting dragged along for the ride. I wouldn’t have had it any other way. So, as she continues to burrow that inquisitive stare into my temples, I’m fighting with all my willpower not to undo history.
‘Does it have something to do with what the old man said to you?’ Rachel tries again, her intuition set to spot any tell or facial tick my body might divulge against my will.
I don’t respond, but she was there when he said his granddaughter had been abducted.
Suddenly, all I can see is Anna.