‘It wasn’t really like that,’ he says finally. ‘It was kind of … innocent.’
‘Oh? I thought maybe Sophie had a … that you …’ I take a deep breath. ‘She did a pregnancy test, before she went. I wondered if you might have had a scare.’
‘That would have been a miracle.’
‘Oh, really.’ I don’t mean to sound as sarcastic as I do.
‘Yes, really.’ The tips of his ears are going pink. ‘We weren’t much more than friends.’
‘Friends.’
‘Friends. We had nowhere to go, anyway.’
I flash back, suddenly, to when I’d come home and found them all in my kitchen once, Sophie, him and Holly, the laughter drying up as I walked in. She didn’t bring him round much once they were together, but teenagers find a way, don’t they? Sophie was always off with him, at the cinema, she said, or someone’s house.
‘If you want to know, I think she liked the fact that it wound you up,’ he says now. ‘But she intimidated me, a bit.’
I raise my eyebrows.
‘It’s true. It was the whole thing. Her life, her home.’ He looks away. ‘Her family. I mean, her dad was going to buy her a car! And he’s picking her up from school and all that, it’s not exactly easy to …’ He trails off. ‘Do you have your car key? We’ve still got your details. You can pick it up tomorrow.’
‘Oh. Of course, yes.’ I’m being dismissed. ‘Here you go.’
‘I’ve got stuff to do,’ he says mildly. He stands. ‘I’m sorry you had all this upset.’
He’s polite, but I know our conversation’s over. I stand too, automatically brush the seat of my leggings down from the tatty office armchair. I notice him watching me doing it and I stop, abashed.
‘All right. Thanks.’
Len’s gone off somewhere with the dog, so my path to the road is clear. But some impulse makes me turn in the doorway, as I set off for home. ‘Sophie was a daddy’s girl. But he didn’t pick her up,’ I add. Petty, but I can’t resist scoring the point. ‘I did, if she was late finishing. Mark was always at work.’
He shrugs.
‘Bye, Danny.’
I should have got a taxi. I’m regretting running, at first, the pavements throwing up the heat of the day at me. My muscles feel stiff. Too much sitting in front of my computer. But soon, as ever, I feel calmer once I’m really moving, heading down the roads that will take me from these brick terraces to the fringes of the countryside. Why did I ever stop? I suppose I just got used to being indoors, these last few months. Or year. And once Mark took the dog, there seemed less reason to run.
I’m going to make my way home round the outskirts of the village. It’s nicer this way, anyway, along the edges of fields and under the trees. I veer off the tarmac onto the track I’m looking for. It’s instantly cooler, the leaves cutting out the sunshine.
My mind starts to wander as I pad along, my thoughts unspooling.
Holly says that pregnancy test was Sophie’s. Danny says he and Sophie didn’t sleep together. Someone’s wrong. Or lying. And if so, who?
Maybe even today Danny just didn’t want to admit to me, Sophie’s disapproving mum, that she wasn’t still my little girl in the way I thought. I suppose it’s respectful, in a way.
Still. I could have sworn he was telling the truth to me.
Does it even matter?
I almost trip, and right myself. My lace is loose. I stop, bend down to retie it.
The thought occurs to me: what if it wasn’t negative? Would that have been enough to prompt my sensible, good girl to run away?
I actually shake my head, almost stumbling as I start off again. I can’t really believe that. I would have helped Sophie, wouldn’t I? Mark and I, of course we wouldn’t have been pleased, but it wouldn’t have been the end of the world. We just wanted what was best for her. Surely that couldn’t have been enough to prompt her running away?
But then I know that’s what so many families say. I’ve read the research, the plaintive comments from case studies. ‘We couldn’t think of a reason as to why he’d disappear.’ ‘She didn’t give us any sign, it came as a total surprise.’
Suddenly I picture Len again, red-faced with anger. It shocked me. Danny’s always seemed so quiet, so still. But what if he’s got his grandfather’s temper too? The track’s opened up into fields now, great torn-up stretches of dark soil under the huge sky.
A black shape bursts out of the hedge in front of me, leaving the branches moving. I pull up, my heart pounding, even as I register that it’s just a bird – a big one, a crow or maybe a raven. I must have startled it. As I watch it wing its way across the field, low and fast, I’m reminded once again how quiet it is here. There’s not a soul around.
I set off again, picking up my pace.
13
I feel like I spend the next few days on the phone. I’ve left several messages at the charity, and emailed; not Alma, but the higher-ups. I dug out my induction leaflets, looking for contacts in head office. It’s more corporate than I expected: it’s been hard to get through to anyone via the switchboard.
What I want is a long shot: for them to give me all the details of the call I took – and the number that rang it. I don’t know if they do keep a record, or how it works. And it goes against all the rules, but I’ve got to ask. What else can I do?
I’ve tried everyone I can think of, even the CEO. Eventually her assistant, a young man called Jason, told me, in the politest of ways, to stop calling.
‘Someone will be in touch with you, Mrs Harlow, to respond to your enquiry. When they’re in a position to do so.’ From that I judged they’re working out what to do.
And I told Mark about the call. Well, not directly. I didn’t want to speak to him, so I sent an email to his work address, setting it out in the briefest of details: that when I was working at the helpline on Saturday night, I heard from Sophie, who was trying to get in touch with us. But that when she realised who she was speaking to, the call ended.
Put like that, it’s not the most encouraging development, I know. He hasn’t replied yet, but I know he’ll have read it. He’s always on top of his work email.
I haven’t heard anything else from the police yet.
Every time I check my answerphone, it’s my family: Dad was once the only person I knew who still left messages on a landline, rather than just hanging up and trying my mobile. But Charlotte’s started now too. Probably because she knows I won’t pick up.
There was another one this morning.
‘Kate, I really need to speak to you. Is your mobile switched off again? I want to know numbers for Alfie’s birthday party next month. He’ll want you there.’ He’s turning two, I think, he really won’t notice as long as he’s got his favourite wooden spoon to bang on the floor. ‘And I’d like you there, a lot.’ I sigh. ‘Can you get back to me, please? Also, I’ve been speaking to Dad. We should chat. About this call – what it means …’ Her tone changes. ‘Kate, are you there? Are you listening? Pick up, Kate—’ How does she do that? I shut the kitchen door behind me, muffling her voice.
I went out for another run, to the garage, to pick up my car. Danny wasn’t there. I spotted Len in the garage itself, but he didn’t make eye contact. It was a younger boy, the fluff on his cheeks not making him look any older, who returned my car to me.
But the run seems to have unlocked something in me. I feel more full of energy than I have for ages, despite my phone calls getting nowhere and my worry about Sophie. Despite all that, there’s something driving me forward. For the first time in ages, I’ve got a reason to hope.