And with a sick plunge of my stomach, I realise that he just has: but it’s information that suggests I might be unreliable, a little unbalanced. I feel the panic rising in me. ‘But Sophie was scared, on the phone.’ Oh God. ‘You do still believe that she called me. Don’t you?’
He’s as measured as ever, utterly professional. ‘You said the voice was a whisper. That the line was bad. Then you heard your and your ex-husband’s names – your first names. And …’
‘And I heard what I wanted to hear,’ I finish for him, dully.
‘I’m not saying that, not at all, not necessarily.’ He doesn’t say: it doesn’t really matter. Not to the police.
I’ve had enough now. ‘I’m not losing it. I’m not.’ I stand up. ‘Thanks for coming, DI Nicholls.’
‘Mrs Harlow—’
‘Thanks for coming. I’ll see you out.’
I keep it together until I’ve shut the door after him and I hear his car engine start up.
I’ve still got the leaflet he gave me in my hand. I scrunch it up deliberately and drop it on the floor. I lean against the front door, shaking with anger. It feels better than despair, at least. How dare he suggest I’ve been making calls?
I push down the wobble of uncertainty, like my world’s twisting around me. It couldn’t have been me, could it? Fear clutches at my gut. Of course it wasn’t me. I know that.
But if my family hear about this, what the police think. Mark. They’ll think it’s happening again, that I’m losing it …
I go back into the kitchen and pour myself a large glass of water, then drink it down. I look at the computer and the closed jotter beside it. I need to face the facts.
I’m back where I started. No closer to finding my daughter. The police are not investigating.
No. I correct myself. It’s worse. They don’t trust me.
The email from the helpline is inevitable, I suppose. That’s what I tell myself, when I read it that night.
‘Dear Kate,’ it begins. ‘We’d like to take the opportunity to thank you for all you’ve done for Message in a Bottle.’
That’s the nice bit, obviously. The rest is not so pleasant.
My services will no longer be required. They phrase it differently of course, stressing that the work of the charity can put high demands on its volunteers, and suggest that I might like to take some time out to reflect on how I might best put my skills to use.
I don’t bother replying.
22
I don’t really know what to do with myself any more. I made myself get up today, though I couldn’t really see why, eating breakfast in front of the TV, losing hours there, my bad habit. I feel so tired and defeated. Then I started to tidy the living room uselessly, picking at dust that’s barely there. After that I went into the kitchen and picked up the phone, twice, wondering.
Should I call Dad? Charlotte? For once, I just want some human contact. But what can I tell them that won’t just make it worse? That won’t make them think that I’m losing my grip?
Then I think: the one person who won’t judge me.
I grab my keys and head out of the door.
Lily’s in her usual spot, dozing in her armchair in a shaft of sunlight. Her head’s lolled forward, that can’t be comfortable.
‘Lily,’ I say. ‘Lily.’ Her eyes open, blink into waking.
‘Oh hello, dear,’ she says, lifting her face to mine slowly. ‘Has he gone then?’ She must mean her care worker. I wonder if he’s actually been though, or she’s getting confused again.
‘Yes, it’s just me, Lil. Shall we have a cup of tea?’
‘Lovely. Yes, please.’ I head to the kitchen, check the milk and make us a cup each. It all looks tidy and clean, I’m reassured to see.
I’ve two china mugs of tea in my hands, pretty things with violets splashed over them, when I see the scrap of newspaper on the sideboard, neatly folded on top of her telephone directory.
RAN AWAY?
Send a message to let them know you’re safe
NO QUESTIONS ASKED
Just phone and give your message
We will pass it on
Send a MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE
I manage not to spill anything.
‘Lily,’ I say, walking back into the sitting room, urgency in my voice. ‘Why’ve you got that bit of paper – the advert for the helpline?’ I hear the sharp note and try to soften my tone. ‘You know I work there, don’t you. That I volunteer there?’
She doesn’t reply.
I put our teas down on the little side table and try again. ‘Have you maybe tried to call me where I work? Maybe a few times?’
I’m not sure she’s listening, but then she starts talking, surprisingly brisk.
‘You said always to call, you know. You said: Lily, if you need anything, don’t hesitate to call. Well, you know I told you I was perfectly fine, but you insisted. Well, I said, I don’t need—’
‘No, no, that’s totally fine. I’m sorry. I just – I didn’t know you knew I worked at the charity.’ My heart’s sinking.
‘Of course I do, I remember things.’ She’s getting cross. A sign she’s feeling vulnerable, I know now. Is she feeling a little guilty?
‘Oh, Lily. I’m only next door. And you’ve got my phone numbers if there’s anything.’ She must have been calling the charity number, trying to get hold of me. And then what – hanging up? Asking for me? But from the phone box? I didn’t realise she was in so bad a state, that she was so confused. What is going on in her head?
I have an idea now: I pull up the footstool in front of her. ‘Lily, how’s your little boy?’
‘My little boy …’ Her brow creases.
‘Yes,’ I say encouragingly. ‘Your little boy, you’ve told me all about him.’
‘I don’t have a little boy,’ she says flatly.
‘Oh. I thought—’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I’m sorry, Lily, I thought you liked talking about your little friend. You said he had blond curls like you had. Does he look like Bob, your husband, too?’
That’s a mistake. ‘We didn’t have any children.’ She looks upset. ‘You’re a cruel girl.’
I draw back, shocked. Lily’s never angry with me. But then I’ve read that, on top of confusion and forgetfulness, mood changes can be a symptom of what I’ve feared: dementia.
‘I’m sorry, Lily. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘All right,’ she says fretfully. ‘But you ask too many questions. I don’t like it.’ She sounds like a child.
‘OK. We won’t talk about it again.’ I take a deep breath. ‘I’ve got a few things to do but I’ll come and see you again soon. Have a nice afternoon.’
What the hell’s going on with her? Back home I hurry to my computer, still on the kitchen table, and type in the name of the drug: the morphine I saw in her cabinet. I click on a website aimed at patients and start scanning: ‘It’s a controlled medication … Strict rules …’
One paragraph I read twice: ‘Don’t break, crush, chew or suck morphine pills. If you do, the whole dose might get into your body in one go. This could cause a potentially fatal overdose.’
Another note makes my stomach give a little flip: ‘What if I forget to take it?’ There’s a warning: never double up your dose to make up for a missed one.
Lily’s so forgetful now. And she’s got so much of it, bottles of pills and liquid. What are they all for?
That decides me. Lily isn’t in a state to be managing this, not when the medicine itself could be making her more confused. The note on the bottle, to take when needed – she could be taking it around the clock.
I don’t care if I’m interfering, I don’t want to wait around for Dr Heath to have a polite word with a colleague. Before I can think about it more, I call the surgery and give full force to the unsuspecting receptionist. She won’t even confirm that Lily’s a patient, which doesn’t help my mood.
‘It’s dangerous,’ I finish. ‘Whoever’s prescribing this stuff to Lily – I mean, Mrs Green – could be in serious trouble. It’s … it’s negligent,’ I add, grasping for a legal-sounding word.
‘Mrs Harlow,’ says the receptionist, Valerie. ‘I do understand. Now, I’ve taken down all your details, and I’ll pass your message on to the practice manager.’
‘OK. Good. And will they call me back? Because I’m going to keep calling you until they do.’