‘Yes,’ she says. I can swear I hear gritted teeth. ‘Someone will call you back.’ Hopefully not me, I can almost hear her add, before she hangs up.
I feel a little better once that’s done. But it’s not the receptionist’s fault. I know I’m venting my frustration – at the police, at Nicholls, at my failure to get anywhere.
I get, up restless, and go to the window. How could I have made the conversation with Nicholls go better? I don’t know if I could. Now I remember his comments, when he’d called me at the start, about how I came to pick up the phone call that night at the helpline:
‘I guess it could have been anyone,’ I’d said then.
‘Yes. Quite the coincidence, really,’ he replied, nice as pie. ‘And is it always that quiet – just you on your own?’
I should have known that’s where he was going. That this is what they’d conclude: that maybe I didn’t even get a call, not from Sophie anyway. That I was, at the least, unreliable.
Because it was weird that it was me who picked up.
I can admit that, now that I’m not trying to convince anyone else. Of all the times she could have called the helpline, for her to get through when it was just me.
I frown. For some reason, I felt like the caller was as surprised as I was … the line going dead, like she panicked.
But maybe she was just overwhelmed. What if she had been trying to reach me? What if she knew I was working there, somehow?
Think. If you search for me online … I go to the computer and do it quickly – yes, there I am. You have to scroll down a bit, to find it, but there’s my name, mentioned in that newspaper article from last Christmas about the helpline. In the picture, I’m gurning away in the back row of volunteers – and yes, my name’s in the caption. She could have found me there.
So maybe it wasn’t a coincidence. Maybe the call was meant for me: perhaps, Sophie understood how much I needed to hear her voice again, even as she asked me not to worry any more – to let her go. And of course getting through to me at the helpline, not our home, has meant I’ve had no way of tracing the call: it keeps me at a safe distance. It keeps her at a safe distance.
It’s just an awful lot of effort to go to to reach me, only to stay hidden …
And now my mind’s drifting to something else, because that isn’t the only odd thing in all this. That diary was found by a dog walker, the police said. And for that to happen now, so soon after the call …
I picture the diary again, as Nicholls showed it to me in that little room: the frontispiece with an email address that looks right – it just doesn’t match the one I know.
But, then again, who else would notice a detail like that, other than Sophie’s mother?
My heart starts to hurry, just a little. I want to try something.
I pull up the page I’ve had open: the email account that I can’t get into. Now, typing gibberish, I deliberately get the password wrong and get myself into the security process.
The question flashes up again. I’ve tried so many times to answer it, racking my brains as to what Sophie might answer: What was the name of your first pet?
This time, I type it in quickly: Matilda.
Matilda was the corgi I grew up with, a portly little dog with a strong sense of her own dignity. I used to tell stories about Matilda to Sophie when she was little, to make her laugh …
The next question flashes up.
Where were you born?
I take a deep breath in and out again. I’m through to the next question. I was right. It was a question for me. Stay calm.
London, I type in. That’s what Sophie would answer. We were living in a little flat there when she was born, south of the river.
Error. Of course.
But now I know. It gives me another try.
This time I type in Manchester, for me.
Correct. My eyes start to blur with tears, but I’m smiling as the third question comes up.
These are meant for me. Sophie pointed me to this email and left questions only I’d know. She knew I’d always come looking for her.
What’s your mother’s maiden name?
I was a Greenwood, but over time it just seemed easier to be a Harlow. Once we moved up here, and I wasn’t working any more, the shift seemed somehow definite.
But Mum was Rhodes, before she married Dad.
And yet I hesitate before I start to type again – I’m so close, I almost don’t dare believe it. What if it doesn’t work? What if the email account is empty or, worse, inactive now, and I’ll never know what was in it. Please God … I type:
Rhodes.
And I’m in, the inbox laid out before me.
There is just one message, the subject line reading ‘FW:’, for a forwarded message. I click it open. I start reading.
Then I read it again, quickly. My mouth is dry, a beat starting to pulse in my eardrums. I swallow.
Oh, Sophie. Oh no. What have you done?
Part 2
23
SOPHIE
They say going away is easy, that the hardest thing is coming home again. I read that somewhere, before I did it. I just didn’t think it would all be quite so concrete, in my case.
I can’t quite remember who came up with the idea in the first place. I felt like it was mine. Now, I’m not so sure. I knew people would be upset, of course. And I didn’t want that to happen. They’ll be OK, he’d tell me, you’ll leave a note. I know the kind of thing you can say. And it won’t be forever.
I didn’t have to worry about what to bring, it was just what I should leave: my phone, my bank cards: things that they could trace. And I cleared out my account, though I knew I wouldn’t need money. It had to look right.
Everything went to plan. I just got the bus from the station in Amberton and bought a ticket to London, on the coach coming from Manchester. And then three stops later, after the airport, I slipped off again with my bag, at the services, at the back of a group of students who wanted to smoke. I just didn’t get back on with them.
He picked me up, like we arranged.
He didn’t like it when he saw I’d turned up with my bag stuffed full, worried that someone might twig, just from that. ‘Relax,’ I said. ‘No one thought anything. I told Dad I was going to Holly’s.’
‘And did anyone see you leave school?’
‘I don’t think so. But even if they did, they’ll just think I’m skipping class. Don’t worry.’
I thought it was beautiful when I arrived, the late afternoon sun throwing long shadows across the carpeted floor. The whole place looked warm and cosy.
‘Oh look,’ I said. ‘It’s all ready for me!’
‘I didn’t do much.’ He looked tense. I thought he was worried whether I liked it.
‘I love it.’
A big floor lamp stood in the corner, leaning over a tired green sofa. There was a rug, a small chest of drawers, an upturned box. ‘For the TV,’ he said. ‘I’m going to sort that for you.’ I walked over to the wall and ran a hand over the low wood panelling, smooth and warm to my touch, then traced a flower carved into the wood. I didn’t know quite what to do, now I was here. Behind one of those old-fashioned screens was a mattress, made up with pillows, sheets and blanket. ‘Very posh.’ I smiled, wanting to show him I liked it all. There was even a fridge plugged in to the wall.
I peered inside: milk, eggs, orange juice. ‘What, no mini-bar?’
‘You’re too young.’
‘Duh, I’m joking.’ The smell of paint tickled my nose. I sneezed.
In another corner, behind flimsy partition walls, was a bare sink and toilet, one of those old ones with a pull flush. He followed me in, his head nearly hitting the bare bulb above us, and turned the tap on and off.
‘It all works. I checked it over.’
I touched one white wall – it was still tacky to the touch. ‘You’ve been working hard,’ I said. ‘You’ve thought of everything.’
‘Of course I did,’ he said. I could hear the note of reproach at my surprise.
‘It’s nice,’ I said, to cover my sudden nerves. ‘And now it’s all for me.’ I wanted to keep the mood light, for me as much as him; I wanted his excitement to match mine. ‘No bath,’ I added.