The Missing Children Case Files
From her position in the bed, she hadn’t been able to look into the small bathroom, and hadn’t realised the far wall was a floor-to-ceiling mirror. Yet the painfully slight reflection was a complete stranger. Her hair was darker than she’d realised, straggled and greasy, cut to her neckline.
A flash of memory fired behind her eyes. He’d told her it was getting too long, and he didn’t like it when it fell on his face. He’d pulled out a pair of shears, grabbed a handful of her hair and cut straight through it. She’d begged him to stop, but he’d lifted the shears towards her eye, and the fight had left her. She’d allowed him to continue chopping without protest, and when he was done she’d thanked him as he’d demanded. Once he’d left, she’d wept as she’d scooped up the discarded locks and thrown them into the bucket in the corner. After that she didn’t dare complain when he came at her with the shears; not a battle worth picking.
This was the first time she’d seen what it looked like, as her hole hadn’t included a single mirror, yet it was the rest of her appearance that she now found so startling. Where was the ten-year-old girl with freckles either side of her nose? Who was this taller woman staring back at her?
She emptied her bladder and tried to wash her one free hand, before shuffling back to the bed, not daring to look back at the woman who had taken over her life.
A knock at the door was followed by the white-coated Mr Truffaut entering with a short woman dressed in black trousers and a short-sleeved black polo shirt; the radio hanging from her sleeveless jacket indicated she was someone of authority.
‘Hello again, Four.’ Truffaut spoke in partially accented French. ‘I would like to introduce Detective Sergeant Zoe Cavendish. She is a police officer, and would like to ask you some questions. Is that okay?’
Four considered Cavendish: fixed shoulders, legs apart; her petite size belied her obvious upper body strength. This was certainly not a woman you’d want to take on in a fight. And yet her face was soft, probably not much older than Four herself, and as their eyes met, Cavendish offered a simple professional smile.
‘Bonjour,’ Cavendish said with no attempt at proper enunciation.
‘Bonjour,’ Four echoed, nodding for the two of them to approach the bed.
‘Detective Cavendish does not speak French,’ Truffaut explained, ‘so I have offered to translate on her behalf. Is that okay?’
Four nodded again, relieved that they seemed to finally be taking her drawing seriously.
Cavendish began speaking in rapid English, and Four could only blink, picking up fewer than one of every six words. She was grateful when Truffaut translated the question.
‘She wants to know who did this to you.’
Four frowned. Who did what exactly?
Truffaut looked away for a moment, before fishing into his pocket, pulling out the drawing Four had sketched on the nurse’s pad. ‘Is this you?’ he asked, pointing at the stick figure.
Four pointed at the stick figure and then back at herself with an affirmatory nod.
‘And who is this?’ Truffaut asked, pointing at the round mass of squiggles.
She stared at the ball of blue scratched hard into the paper. What did a name matter? He was her captor; her master; her everything.
‘Bad man,’ she tried in English.
‘Bad man? He is a person then?’
Four’s eyes widened in panic, as she felt the lash of his belt against the still raw welts on her lower back.
The detective was speaking again, asking Truffaut to translate.
‘Did you know this man?’
It was such a difficult question to answer. She’d learned what she needed to about him: he came to her at night; he smelt of B.O. and cigarettes; he liked to restrain her; he liked to choke her; he didn’t speak much; he preferred the lights off; he said he loved her.
‘This man attacked you?’ Truffaut tried again.
The way the question was phrased it sounded like a one-off occasion, but not a day had passed when he hadn’t tormented her in some way. She couldn’t remember ever not living in fear.
Cavendish led the doctor away to the back of the room so they could talk quietly, not that it would have mattered; even if they’d shouted their hushed conversation, she wouldn’t have been able to properly understand. He’d brought her books and a candle once, but had then taken them away when she’d displeased him.
Cavendish had removed an envelope from a side pocket in her trousers, and was now showing the contents to Truffaut, explaining what she wanted him to do. He didn’t speak, didn’t argue, just moved his head up and down.
The pair of them agreed their course of action before returning. This time, though, they parted, Truffaut moving to the left side of the bed and Cavendish to the right. It was the detective who spoke first, pausing to allow the doctor to translate.
‘We are going to show you some photographs now; these were taken when you arrived at the hospital. They are pictures of you, and some of the scars and injuries we discovered on your body. Do you understand?’
She took a deep breath, as Cavendish lowered the first photograph to the sheet covering her legs. At first it wasn’t obvious what she was staring at, but as Four tilted her head, she could now see it was the back of one of her legs, though she couldn’t be sure which. Small, round darker rings pocked the length of the leg. Though all now healed, the burn of the teaspoon had left its mark. That’s how he’d coerced her obedience in the early days; she had learned to be obedient.
‘Who did this to you?’ Truffaut asked. ‘Was it the bad man?’
Four closed her eyes and nodded. What if he found out that she’d told the police about him? She couldn’t even begin to envisage the pain she would feel for her betrayal.
When she opened her eyes again, another photograph had been rested on top of the first. This time, it was obvious she was looking at her own neckline, though it was larger than she would have imagined. The bruising here was fresher; more recent.
A second flash of memory, this time of him behind her while she was kneeling on the bed. She hadn’t understood why he was so angry, and she’d tried to please him, but that had only made the squeezing harder, to the point where the dimly lit room had seemed to spin, and she’d seen a ghostly-white figure beckoning to her.
‘Did the bad man cause these injuries too?’ Truffaut asked, bringing her back to the private room in the hospital.
A tear escaped as she nodded bravely.
‘Is the bad man your boyfriend?’
He’d said he loved her, but what he’d done wasn’t love, was it? Certainly not the love she’d read about in fairy tales. Where in Cinderella did the handsome prince beat and threaten his new bride in the glass slippers? Had he thought that was love though? Did he consider himself her boyfriend? She’d never asked, and hoped never to find out.
Four shook her head. ‘No. He is… my keeper.’
Truffaut and Cavendish exchanged a silent glance, before the detective returned the remaining images to the envelope and secured them back in her side pocket. She said something to Truffaut, and after a moment of consideration he nodded. The detective reached into another pocket and pulled out a small screen, no bigger than a large matchbox. She tapped on it with her finger before lowering it to the bed.
Four instantly recognised the face she’d expected to see in the bathroom mirror. The freckles either side of her nose, her fair hair plaited in pigtails, and a red and white ruffled dress that stirred a distant memory somewhere in her head. She had no doubt she was staring at a picture of herself, and for the briefest moment all the pain of the recent past evaporated.
‘Do you recognise this girl?’ Truffaut asked.
Four couldn’t take her eyes off the screen; it was as if they had reached into the darkest recesses of her mind and found the one glimmer of hope she’d dared to hold onto for so long.
‘We believe this is you,’ Truffaut continued. ‘We took some blood from you when you arrived to check for drugs and viruses, and when we shared the sample with the police they found you. Your name is Aurélie.’
That sound stirred something else in her head; it was a sound she’d been so familiar with once.
‘Do you remember what happened to you thirteen years ago, Aurélie? Your parents reported you missing when you were ten years old and staying in Worthing along the south coast of England. You were here on holiday; do you remember?’
She continued to stare at the image of the girl in the ruffled dress, not daring to believe any of this was more than a cruel dream from which she’d be forcibly woken at any minute.
Chapter Eight
Now
Ealing, London
I’m not one of those who necessarily buys into the theory that dreams are the subconscious’ way of telling us what our conscious mind refuses to accept. However, it wouldn’t take a trained psychologist to see that the dreams of Jack that plagued my sleep last night were a direct consequence of his attempted kiss. The more I think about it, the more I cringe. But what makes me want to cringe more is the prospect of how he will react when we next see one another. A sensible man would immediately bow out with an apology and quickly sweep the incident under the carpet. Alas, I fear Jack is the second type of man, who won’t even mention it, and will just assume that nothing has changed, as if it never really happened. At least that would be better than the third type of man – the one I secretly think Jack is – who will want to discuss at length what happened, dissecting every minor detail until he is certain he knows why I didn’t lean back in and meet his lips.
Oh my God! Is this really what I’ve become? It feels like I’m fourteen all over again, all padded bras and gloopy makeup residue where I’ve used too much because I don’t know that less is more. I’m a professional writer; no, I’m an award-winning professional writer. Why should I care what some guy thinks? I am a strong, independent woman who needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle. I need to get my head out of the clouds and focus on my own priorities, rather than worrying about Jack or his lecherous intentions towards me.
Yet, if I was back in that moment in his car, and I saw him leaning in again, would my reaction still be the same?
I think that’s the bit that bothers me most: I can’t see past what would have happened had I kissed him back. Would we have given in to passion and been unable to keep our hands off one another? It doesn’t sound like me, and I don’t think Jack has that level of passion coursing through his veins either.
He’s a nice guy, that much I know after the nine or so months I’ve known him – the multiple conversations we’ve had, the way he dotes on his daughter Mila, those moments when I catch him looking away and daydreaming about a life that doesn’t involve hunting down criminals who have thus far evaded the law. And yes, although I’ve denied it to Rachel, Maddie and Freddie Mitchell, there is a part of me that thinks Jack is a handsome man – a bit goofy and nerdy at times – but handsome nevertheless. Could I really see myself in a relationship with him though?
‘You’re doing it again,’ Rachel says from the kitchen countertop, removing her glasses and chewing on one of the arms.
‘Doing what?’ I ask, my mind coming back into the present.
‘You’re staring into space, eyes are glazed over, and so I’d assume you’re daydreaming, but the question is: about what?’
‘I was just thinking about the launch party for Isolated,’ I reply offhand.
Rachel cocks an eyebrow, clearly seeing through the lie, but doesn’t verbally question it. We both know I’m fibbing, but we’re close enough to both know I’m not ready to come clean yet.
‘Aren’t you supposed to be going to the police station to meet Jack today?’
When my alarm woke me, and I began picturing that moment I walk into the makeshift office we’ve set up, and I see Jack, I decided I’m not mentally ready for that confrontation, and was going to message and say I’m not well. So, when Maddie’s text message came through, inviting me to brunch with the editing team from my publishers, it was the perfect excuse.
‘I’m meeting Maddie at eleven,’ I explain to Rachel. ‘Agent and publisher brunch apparently.’
‘But you hate those things,’ she says, her brow furrowing ever so slightly.
‘Maddie insisted,’ I say, avoiding her gaze. ‘Unfortunately just one of those things I can’t get out of.’
I can sense Rachel watching me, but she doesn’t say anything else, returning the glasses to her face and focusing back on whatever she’s reading on her phone.
‘What are you reading?’ I ask, keen to change the subject to anything but me.
‘Oh, it’s nothing important,’ she says, quickly locking the phone’s screen, even though there’s no way I can see what was on it.
I don’t want to judge my best friend, but the speed with which she locked her screen suggests it was anything but nothing.
‘What are your plans for today?’ I ask.
‘I’m going to upload that job advert for an administrative assistant, and then head into the office to check on the latest Brexit negotiations updates. In fact, I’ll jump in the shower now, unless you want to use it?’
‘No, you go ahead, I’d better be on my way to meet Maddie.’
Rachel nods, pocketing her phone, and heads towards the bedroom. As soon as the door closes, I pull out my own phone and perform an internet search for Rachel’s ex’s name. The first hit is a picture of Daniella Vitruvia, looking glam at a movie premiere in Leicester Square last night. She is one of dozens of famous faces who attended the event, but what is most alarming is the flash-looking footballer with his arm looped through hers.
Given the alerts I know Rachel has set up on her phone, I’ve no doubt she’s seen this image and associated story. It is bad enough Daniella looking so cosy with this guy, but the fact that she must have stayed in London last night and didn’t reach out to Rachel speaks volumes. I just want to go in and give her a hug, but then she’ll know that I know what she’s been reading, and it’ll cause unnecessary awkwardness. Tackling this problem needs a more sensitive touch.
With this thought in mind, I reach for my satchel and anorak, and head out of the flat in the direction of Ealing Broadway tube station, which is a ten-minute walk away at most. I know this route now, as I’ve ventured to and from Rachel’s flat more times than I can remember in the last year. Although it’s cramped when I stay – me crashing on the sofa bed – I think Rachel appreciates the company, though she does also keep mentioning the prospect of the two of us getting something bigger to share. Although I want to remain based in Weymouth, the requirement to be closer to London – for my writing career, as well as hunting the likes of Jemima Hooper from those videos – is becoming greater, and it may soon be time to put some tentative roots down here. It’s not like I would give up my flat in Weymouth; that will always be home.
Maddie has messaged to say she will meet me at the restaurant instead of her office, but as always has included the restaurant’s full address so I can copy it into the navigation app on my phone; she knows me so well!
Alighting at Moorgate tube station, I find that the restaurant is a short walk away, and a stone’s throw from the Barbican Centre, but it isn’t what I was expecting. The large glass panels separating the restaurant from the space would have you thinking it was just another tower of office blocks, if it weren’t for the large neon sign hanging in the window, and the bar stools just the other side of the very reflective glass. Maddie is waiting for me by the entrance and hugs me as I arrive.
‘Great, you found it,’ she begins. ‘I was beginning to worry I’d get a phone call saying you were somewhere south of the river because you’d got lost.’
I know the dig is meant to be light-hearted, so I don’t allow myself to react to it; Maddie knows only too well how bad I am at following directions.
‘The publishers are already inside,’ Maddie continues, straightening the collar on the cotton dress I’ve opted for. ‘This is nice; is it new?’
Maddie is wearing her usual ensemble of straight skirt, hanging just below the knee, suit jacket and crisp white blouse. She is the consummate professional, and I’ve only ever once seen her looking less than pristine. Unfortunately we differ in our opinions of what looks good on me, which is why I deliberately opted to leave my usual array of thin cardigans at home today.
‘Yes, it is,’ I comment, brushing the pleats. ‘Do you like it? I’m not underdressed for today, am I?’
‘Relax, there’s no dress code, and yes, I think it really suits you. The autumnal colouring brings out your eyes beautifully.’
I try not to gush at the compliment, and as we head into the restaurant, I don’t tell her I picked it up in a charity shop in Weymouth. My editor Becky beams as we approach the table, and then it’s a flurry of introductions, and air kisses before we all sit.
‘I hope you don’t mind,’ Becky begins, her Dublin upbringing evident in her gentle tones, ‘but when I told the office I was meeting you for brunch today, this motley crew insisted on coming along so they could all tell you how much we loved Isolated! I have no doubt that by the time this meal is over, we’ll struggle to get you out of the restaurant because your head and ego will be so big!’ She laughs at her own joke, not realising that hearing virtual strangers enthusing over my work is not my idea of fun; quite the opposite in fact.
With no cardigan sleeve to absently chew on – Maddie always tells me off for that – I reach for the crusty bread roll beside me, and break a bit off to nibble.
The restaurant is packed, and it is difficult to hear what Becky is saying as she introduces the unfamiliar faces around the table. Despite the relaxed decor and Tex-Mex menu, I instinctively sense that this is the sort of place with a weeks-long waiting list, and even though I know Becky’s team will front the bill, my eyes are immediately drawn to the less expensive meal choices.
‘… and this is Greg,’ Becky continues, as I strain to hear, ‘who is our metadata guru; all hail Greg!’
Those at the table echo, ‘Hail Greg!’ He raises his hands and accepts their accolades. This is clearly some in-house joke that is lost on Maddie and me.
‘And then finally, next to you, is Lucy, who is the creative genius behind the amazing covers used on the series so far.’
I offer a friendly smile, whilst inside I’m cringing like mad.
‘I loved your book Ransomed,’ Lucy now tells me, leaning in, her arm brushing mine, ‘and I can’t wait to read whatever’s next! I find myself devouring your books in a single sitting, desperate to get to the end, and then devastated when it ends too soon.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, my throat suddenly dry, but there’s no sign of any water on the table.
‘Have you two started sketching out ideas for what you want to do next?’ Becky asks, though it is clear the question is aimed more at Maddie than me. In this relationship I am just the one who churns out the words; anything career-related is dealt with by the grownups.
‘We have one or two irons in the fire,’ Maddie tells her secretively, as if divulging anything could cost lives.
‘Well, that’s what we wanted to meet you about,’ Becky replies, her bright smile and wide eyes in contrast to Maddie’s. ‘We have an idea we’d like to pitch to you.’
My shoulders instantly tense at the memory of how it was Becky’s insistence that my second book be based on the abduction of Lord Templeton Fitzhume’s granddaughter. I didn’t like my subject matter being dictated to me, when I wanted to focus my next book on my own sister’s disappearance, and I don’t like the thought that my publishers are in the driving seat again. This trepidation is only tempered by the fact that I managed to reunite Fitzhume’s granddaughter with her mother.
‘Have either of you heard of Aurélie Lebrun?’ Becky asks, her lips trembling in anticipation.
I can see Maddie shaking her head in my periphery, but I do recognise the name. ‘She was the ten-year-old daughter of the French Minister for Trade, right? Disappeared in Worthing, if memory serves… what, twelve or so years ago?’
‘Thirteen years ago, to be precise,’ Becky says, now turning her attention to me, and clearly pleased that I know what she’s talking about. ‘What if I told you that Aurélie Lebrun has turned up alive and well?’
I drop the bread roll to the table. The reason I recall Aurélie’s story is because I saw so many comparisons between her situation and Anna’s.
‘She stumbled into a hospital in Poole on Tuesday evening and has been undergoing treatment for malnourishment and a broken wrist ever since.’
I now recall Rachel mentioning her editor wanting her to go and report on a story about a woman in Poole, and it can’t be a coincidence.
She stumbled in, bruised and beaten, with no identification, and not speaking a word of English.
‘She was identified through DNA, but her true identity has yet to be released to the public,’ Becky continues. ‘We were given the tip-off about it first thing, and I immediately thought of you, Emma. Her injuries would suggest exposure to significant trauma for several years, and could make for an interesting twist on a tried-and-tested format: you could interview the victim and tell her story in her words. What do you think?’
Our meals can’t come soon enough; if Aurélie was taken by the same people who snatched Anna, then she could be the breakthrough I’ve been waiting for.
Chapter Nine
Now
Moorgate, London
As soon as Becky said she would speak to her contact and try and get me some time to speak to Aurélie Lebrun, I rushed through my portion of the tacos, nachos and breakfast burritos ordered for the table. I’ve learned over the years that opportunities like this don’t come along very often, and so all my feelings of angst and reticence about allowing Becky and her team to choose the direction of my next case are gone.
‘It’s definitely her?’ I check, as I drain my glass of water to quell the thirst brought on by the chilli in what I’ve just eaten.
‘DNA confirmed it,’ Becky says, beaming. ‘And the best part is, nobody else knows about it. As far as every other media publication is aware, the girl in that hospital room is an unidentified Jane Doe.’
Becky is naïve if she thinks other media outlets won’t soon lay their hands on this juicy detail. I bet as soon as Rachel’s editor realises exactly who is recovering in Poole, he’ll insist Rachel travel down there. Part of me wants to give my best friend the heads-up to help her get ahead of the curve, but it isn’t my place to share Becky’s tip. Maybe I can just hint that there’s more to the story than Rachel realised, and see if she wants to tag along with me.
‘How much do you know about Aurélie’s story?’ Becky now asks.
In truth my recollection is limited, but I close my eyes and try to picture the notes I wrote at the time of researching it. I’m blessed with the ability to visualise memories. I don’t have a photographic memory, and I’m lousy in general knowledge quizzes, but if you asked me to recite the names of every missing-child case history I’ve reviewed since Anna went missing, I reckon I’d be able to give you better than ninety per cent of the names.
‘Aurélie’s father – Remy Lebrun – was the Minister for Trade; something of a controversial figure from what I’ve read. He was a self-made millionaire when he decided to enter politics in France, and was tipped by many to be the next French Prime Minister until all this happened.’ I pause, trying to recall any other salient details I’d sketched down. ‘Remy Lebrun had come to the UK for talks with our government on renegotiating trade matters that fell outside the EU’s capacity, but he brought his wife and daughter with him, so that they could spend a few days together as a mini holiday.