Little Girl Lost (Detective Robyn Carter crime thriller series Book 1) Page 8

  10

  Abigail directed her white Evoque out of the car park and into the busy town, her mind racing with possible scenarios that might unfold if she confronted Jackson. She needed to look at his face and know this was just a prank. Surely she would be able to tell if he was messing about with someone else. He had been fully hers that morning. He was waiting for her back home. Jackson wouldn’t cheat on her. Someone behind blew his or her horn. She shook herself from her daze and realised she had been sitting at lights that had already turned green. She needed to get a grip or she’d have an accident.

  Izzy was strapped in her baby seat in the back of the car and had nodded off, thumb in mouth, oblivious to her mother’s plight. Abigail turned briefly and took in the long dark eyelashes, just like Jackson’s, and the sweet, contented face of her child. A hot salty tear trickled down her face. This wasn’t happening. She and Jackson were sound.

  When Izzy first came home from hospital, she had needed undivided attention and Abigail had spent night after night cuddling her precious bundle in the nursery, sitting in the large chair by the cot, singing softly to her little miracle. But Jackson hadn’t objected to her absence. He’d even sometimes strolled in to watch them both. He’d stood by the door and smiled at them.

  Izzy hadn’t settled into a routine though and instead of beginning to sleep through the night, she cried and cried, tormenting Abigail who spent hours trying to coax her to sleep. Izzy didn’t settle for four months and when Abigail had returned to their bedroom she’d felt so tired; she hadn’t welcomed any of his advances. She told herself there would be time later for all of that. Then Izzy began to teethe and it started over again. And more recently there had been the note that had been delivered by hand, posted through her letter box. At first, it seemed to be an innocuous white envelope, but the contents chilled Abigail to the bone. She had hidden it in her bedside drawer, too frightened to tell Jackson. To tell him would be to reveal her whole life was a lie. The note contained words cut out from a newspaper:

  KEEPING SECRETS LEADS TO UNHAPPINESS AS YOU WILL SOON FIND OUT.

  Added to this there was the recent call. If the individual had been telling the truth, why couldn’t Jackson have talked to her first about their lacklustre love life instead of having some sordid affair? Abigail swatted at another tear and braked hard to avoid colliding with the vehicle in front that was now turning left. Concentrate, she told herself.

  She needed to navigate the roundabouts that lay between here and Hartley Witney, where she lived. The road was as busy as always, filled with commuters and people who worked in the air industry. She and Jackson had moved here when he had started up the business. They hadn’t wanted to live in busy Farnborough or some of the surrounding towns, but preferred the village feel of Hartley Witney with its village green and duck pond with a charming thatched duck house. It was only eight miles away from Farnborough.

  Jackson had put a lot on the line to set up and run BizzyAir Business Aviation– a commercial airline aimed at wealthier people or businessmen who wished to fly privately. He had risked their new home, which had cost them a fortune. Luckily, it was a gamble that had paid off handsomely and now they no longer had a mortgage on their beautiful, five-bedroomed, detached house.

  Her route took her past Minley and the impressive Minley Manor, a Grade II listed country manor built in the French style in 1850 by Henry Clutton. When they first arrived in the area it had belonged to and was used by the Ministry of Defence as an officer’s mess and had also been used as a film location for several blockbuster movies before finally being sold by the MOD to an international investor. She reminisced about walking around the vast grounds there before it was sold and around Hawley Lake with Jackson, admiring the huge rhododendron bushes. He had joked that maybe one day they could afford to buy it but with a price tag of five million pounds at the time that didn’t seem likely. They had laughed at the prospect but Jackson had assured her that one day they would be able to afford their very own Minley Manor.

  That seemed a lifetime ago. She entered the village, passed the rows of shops and houses before turning off the high street. Smart houses stood behind leafy hedges and trees. She wasn’t far from her house. She grappled to regain control of her emotions as she turned into her road, the sense of familiarity assisting as she drove past houses she had driven past every day for years, their neat lawns and hedges trimmed by professional gardeners while the occupants of the homes fought with other daily commuters on the drag to London and worked all hours. She was lucky she and Jackson did not have lives like that. His hours were difficult at times but he did not have to catch trains or drive for hours and come home drained. And he never brought work home with him. He always had time for Izzy and her.

  Izzy stirred as if she too knew she was home, and she gave a half smile in her sleep. Abigail breathed out, feeling more relaxed. It was going to be okay. Jackson would be there waiting. He’d be pleased she had returned early. He’d play with Izzy or maybe they could go out to the petting farm. There was plenty of time to do that. She might even make a romantic supper for them afterwards and rekindle their earlier passionate session. Her pulse quickened as she neared the house towards the end of the lane. She could see its roof. She would make this right. The text was a hoax. It had to be. She turned onto the large front drive. The large stone owl – a wedding present from friends – that stood in the middle of their front garden gave her a mocking stare and she hunched over the wheel defeated. Jackson’s Maserati was not in its usual space. He had gone out. The mechanical voice played in her head again. Maybe Jackson had gone to meet his lover.

  11

  Then

  The front door opens with a clatter that wakes me with a start and my mum tumbles into the sitting room, her hair wild, and her coat already removed to expose a tight blouse that shows off her ample bosom. She is giggling and leaning into a bear of a man who has one huge, hairy hand draped around her shoulder; the other is groping at her backside, making her titter like a teenager on her first date. I groan inwardly. I should have gone to bed earlier but I was watching a film and forgot the time. Normally, I go to bed at eight. Mum says eleven-year-olds like me need their sleep. I think that’s an excuse so she can bring home men without them being put off by a kid hanging around.

  She spots me curled on the sofa, brushes away his hand and extracts herself from the arm of the large goon who has accompanied her. The man’s attention is now focused on me and he stares at my bare legs as I move off the sofa, ready to leave the room. His tongue flickers from his mouth and passes over his lips as he tries not to gawp too hard but I know he is looking and what he is thinking.

  ‘You should be in bed,’ says my mother, a flicker of concern in her eyes.

  ‘Sorry, I dozed off in front of the telly. I’ll go now,’ I reply and sidle past the pair of them and race for my bedroom, eager to get to sleep before the noises begin. Unfortunately, this man is overenthusiastic and it is not long before I can hear loud grunts coming from the bedroom next door and my mother’s fake, high-pitched squeals of delight. It is the same most nights. A different man but the same muffled squeals and groans of pleasure. I hate it. My mother sometimes emerges the next day with bruises on her arms and dark rings under her eyes. She is no longer as beautiful as she once was and she is nervous all the time. She’s started smoking and drinks too much.

  I tried to tackle her about the men but she laughed in my face and said, ‘How else do you think we can afford to live here? Serving drinks in some bar isn’t going to pay many bills. At least this way I can afford nice clothes and a better life.’

  She refused to talk about it again.

  ‘Here’ is a semi-detached house near Birmingham. It is a vast improvement on the last flat and I have my own room, which is just as well given my mother’s new occupation. I can’t judge her too harshly though. I have brought this on us. This is the only way we can survive. She has to take on these ‘extra jobs’ to pay the bills. Her penchan
t for designer clothes hasn’t helped the situation. If she didn’t waste so much money on them we might be able to afford the other bills without her degrading herself. My father thinks the same. He grumbles frequently when he hears the noises. He and I don’t discuss what is going on though. I am old enough to understand the situation but Dad is unwilling to share his opinion on the matter.

  The man in her room tonight sounds like an animal. I don’t want to think about what they are doing. I put my head under the cover to muffle the noises and eventually I begin to doze off again only to be woken by a light rapping on my door. I pull the covers up to my chin. A streak of light falls across the front of the room and the large man is silhouetted against the doorframe. He scratches his chin and says, ‘Your mum’s asleep. She needn’t know about it. I’ll pay you. I won’t hurt you. Hundred quid. All yours. You can say no if you want.’

  I ponder his question. At least he has asked my permission and a hundred pounds is a huge amount of money. I whisper, ‘Okay’ and lower the duvet to reveal my naked frame. He ambles towards the bed and removing his trousers and underwear, slides in beside me, pulling my trembling body towards him, caressing my face and stroking my hair. He breathes in deeply and sighs then curls a lock of my hair around his fat finger. He stares at me in the gloom, lit only by the digital display of my clock.

  ‘You’re so pretty,’ he murmurs. ‘Really pretty. I love pretty girls.’ Small sour puffs of breath hit my face as he speaks but I force myself not to recoil. I lie as still as I can, waiting for this to be over. He grunts in approval. His chest is covered in dark curly hairs that make me itch as he rubs against me, his head travelling down my body until he finds my budding breasts with his lips. He is trying to be gentle. A shiver goes through me and I shut out what is happening. I focus only on the one hundred pounds that will soon be mine. I already know what I’ll spend it on.

  The act is painful but mercifully quick. The deed done, he hastens from the room, unable to look me in the eye any longer. I stare at the ceiling, my mind blank. I am numb inside. From the shelf beside the bed I hear Mr Big Ears speaking in angry whispers. I do not want to listen to my father but he tells me to remember this moment and store it up. He says it will make me stronger and it will fuel my hate. I take the money that has been thrown on the bedside table and lift a jewellery box from my drawer, listening to the comforting musical tune as a ballerina in a pink tutu gracefully pirouettes, before placing the money inside.

  I pad silently to the bathroom where I lock the door, and clean the sticky bloody mess from between my legs. I stare at my reflection then reach for a pair of nail scissors from the cabinet. I watch my face, devoid of expression as I systematically cut my hair until all the golden tendrils have fallen in the sink then I turn the scissors onto my flesh and stab the top of my thighs until I have to bite my lips to prevent myself from crying out.

  12

  Robyn rang the doorbell. It chimed cheerily then there was an eager shuffling behind the door before it was unlocked. A woman appeared, petite with ebony hair that cascaded to her shoulders, and dark soft eyes, wearing a red dress with a belt which emphasised her wasp-like waist, a small smile lifting the corners of her mouth.

  ‘What a wonderful surprise. Come in. Come in.’ There was a trace of an accent that belied her French roots more noticeable as she shouted, ‘Amélie, chérie. Come and see who is here.’

  She kissed Robyn on both cheeks before ushering her down the hall and into the kitchen, rich in warm Mediterranean colours more fitting of the south of France than the Midlands.

  ‘I can’t stay long. I have to track down a missing person,’ said Robyn, ashamed that she felt the need to escape so soon after arriving.

  ‘Nonsense, you can’t rush off immediately. We haven’t seen you in months. Amélie will be so thrilled. At least stay for a coffee.’

  Robyn nodded reluctantly. ‘Just a quick coffee. I have to get on the road. I’ll stay longer next time.’

  Brigitte was always warm and welcoming but Robyn did not feel she had the right to be part of this family any longer. It had been different when Davies was alive. Brigitte gestured for her to sit down as she spooned aromatic ground beans into the top of a pewter pot, and filled the base with water before placing it on the hob. Brigitte had not left all of her traditions behind. She always insisted on offering strong percolated coffee served in small delicate cups and accompanied by biscuits.

  When Robyn began seeing Davies on an official basis he had insisted she meet his ex-wife and daughter. In spite of her concerns, there had been no tension at all between the two women and his daughter had accepted her immediately. Before long, Amélie was spending weekends with Robyn and Davies. Robyn forced back the memories. Not everyone got to have a happy ever after. Those days were short-lived and, no matter how strong an attachment she felt to the girl, she reminded herself that Amélie was not her daughter.

  Robyn dropped down on one of the kitchen chairs, painted in duck-egg blue to match the distressed cupboards. Brigitte was an artist who specialised in restoring and painting furniture.

  ‘I guess she’s excited about her birthday party,’ said Robyn.

  ‘Amélie has talked non-stop about Jump Nation. It’s the first “grown-up” party she’s had. It only seems five minutes ago she was into unicorns and Peppa Pig, now it’s all Harry Potter, Twilight and One Direction. It’s good she loves reading. I bet she didn’t hear me call her. She’ll have her nose stuck in a book and be lost to the world. I’ll call her again in a moment.’

  The room began to fill with the aroma of quality coffee. The pot began to bubble as the coffee percolated, making small put-put-put noises. Brigitte lifted the percolator from the hob, poured the steaming brown liquid into the thimble-sized cups then placed them onto the heavy wooden table that filled the kitchen. She moved the dried-flower display gracing the centre of the table and replaced it with a tin of finger-sized French biscuits before sitting down opposite Robyn. Brigitte took a sip of her coffee, giving an imperceptible nod of approval. ‘So, how are you?’ she asked.

  ‘Okay. Busy. I’ve returned to the police force. I’m training for a ten-kilometre race and I’ve got an interesting case to work on.’

  ‘That’s not what I mean,’ replied Brigitte, setting down her cup and pushing the tin of biscuits towards Robyn. Robyn took one and nibbled on it before speaking again.

  ‘I get by. I keep hoping it’ll get easier.’

  ‘It will,’ said Brigitte. ‘It will but alas, I don’t know when. I miss Davies too but it is so much harder for you.’

  Robyn was reluctant to continue the conversation but Brigitte was not one to hide her feelings. ‘Have you started dating again?’ she asked suddenly.

  ‘Heavens no!’ replied Robyn. ‘No way. I couldn’t…’ she said.

  ‘But why not? It’s been over a year and you are an attractive woman. You can’t want to hide yourself away forever.’

  Brigitte’s blunt tone unnerved Robyn and she silently cursed the French gene that allowed Brigitte to be completely at ease discussing feelings and sensitive matters and her own stiff British gene that left her uptight and unwilling to talk.

  ‘It’s not right for me,’ she said. Brigitte surveyed her through clear navy eyes that seemed to search her very soul before nodding. ‘Maybe you need more time. He wouldn’t have wanted you to mourn him forever, you know. He was a very practical man.’

  Robyn agreed with that. Davies was not a soft, mushy man. He was stoical but she couldn’t imagine even looking for someone else. No one could replace him. He had been her soulmate.

  The kitchen door opened and a slight girl with shining eyes and dark brown hair interrupted their conversation, her mouth widening into a smile as she saw who was in the kitchen.

  ‘Robyn!’ she exclaimed, rushing over and throwing her arms around her. Robyn felt a familiar ache. Amélie looked so much like Davies, the same nose, the same wide, gentle eyes, the same thick dark hair and the smattering
of freckles sprinkled across her cheeks.

  ‘It’s been ages since you visited. Have you heard about my birthday party? Are you coming to it? We’re going to Jump Nation. The place with all the trampolines. All my friends are coming. It’s going to be awesome.’

  Robyn returned the smile. ‘I have heard about it and it will be awesome but I can’t come as I have to work. However,’ she added, seeing a flash of disappointment cross the child’s face, ‘I’ve got an early birthday present for you.’ She handed over a coloured gift bag she had brought in with her.

  ‘Can I open it now?’ She looked across at her mother who nodded her consent. The girl delved into the bag pulling out a parcel wrapped in silver and white. She tore open the paper and squealed in delight. ‘It’s a Fitbit Alta. Oh my gosh! I really wanted one of these. Toni Clarkson has one and it’s wicked. It tells you how many calories you’ve burned and works out how far you’ve walked and even tells you if you’ve had enough sleep. I love it. I love purple too.’

  The women watched as the girl put on the stylish purple band, her face glowing with excitement. ‘Robyn, thank you. It’s fabulous. Mum, can I wear it to my party?’

  ‘Yes, but not on the trampoline, ma belle. In case it breaks.’

  Amélie hugged Robyn again and kissed her on the cheek. ‘I must show my friends on Snapchat,’ she said. ‘They’ll be so envious. Back in a minute.’ She scampered off, leaving behind smiles.

  ‘Thank you for buying such a lovely present,’ said Brigitte. ‘She’s really into healthy living even though she’s so young. I’m sure she’ll want to wear it all the time. It is hard to think she is eleven now. She will soon enter the dark world of teenage years and heartbreak and change.’

  ‘She’ll be fine. She has a sensible head on those young shoulders.’