For something to do, I flick through the visitors’ book in front of me. For all the hoo-hah after Sophie left, I can’t see that they’ve updated their systems all that much; this is the book for guests to the school, more a relic of the school’s traditions than any real security log.
I recognise the odd surname as I leaf through the pages, going back in time; that’ll be the parent of a child Sophie must have mentioned. But schools renew themselves so quickly; Sophie’s year will have left this summer, A levels done. I wonder if many of the pupils still here even remember her now …
One name, neat caps in bright blue ink, catches my eye:
Nicholls, B.
I read across: Greater Manchester Police
This is pages back; ages ago. I check the date:
2 October, 2017 IN: 2.30p.m. OUT: 4.15p.m., his tight scribble of a signature.
‘Maureen,’ I say, as she emerges from the office, a piece of paper in hand, ‘I couldn’t help but notice, this DI Nicholls, I didn’t know that he …’ what? ‘… had a relationship with the school.’
‘Oh, do you know him?’ she says.
‘Yes, he’s been very helpful’ – that’s a push – ‘over Sophie’s diary; it was him who let me know that they’d found it.’
‘He’s very good,’ she agrees. ‘He gives talks to the students; safety and personal whatsit, part of the pastoral stuff. He’s done it for a while, now. He’s very popular with the teenage girls in particular. Tells them how to look after themselves.’ She laughs girlishly. ‘Of course it doesn’t hurt that they’ve all got crushes on him, they’ll all turn up to his talks.’ She’s a little pink herself.
‘Nicholls?’ This doesn’t really match the version of him I know; brusque at best, dour, if you’re not so inclined to be nice. ‘But why does he bother?’ I say bluntly.
She draws herself up a little. ‘Here at Amberton we take pride in maintaining alumni relationships, and we do think both sides get something quite important from—’
‘So he went to the school? Here?’
‘Of course he did,’ she says, mirroring my surprise. ‘Not while I’ve worked here, I’m not quite that old, gracious me. He’s quite the success story, he’ll be a chief constable yet, you know, he …’ I tune out, digesting this information. So Nicholls was new to Sophie’s case. But not new to the area; not at all.
And I don’t know why I assumed he wasn’t local. Of course there’s no reason for him to mention personal ties to the area, or to Sophie’s school; he’s a professional. Though he’s had every chance …
He gave the students talks. I wonder if Sophie ever went to one of them?
It’s funny how your brain works. How something jogs your memory, a little nudge and some synapse sparks, a connection is made. It comes to me as I’m driving home: what Danny said, that was niggling at me.
He’d said sometimes Sophie’s dad would pick her up. I’d corrected him, pettily. ‘Sophie was a daddy’s girl. But he didn’t pick her up. I did, if she was late finishing. Mark was always at work.’ And he’d shrugged.
I’d thought it meant that Danny had seen my car and assumed it was Mark’s. But I’m racking my brains now: had he ever even met him? Mark was always working late and it wasn’t like Danny was staying for dinner every night.
No, now I think of it, I don’t think they had met, even briefly; there’d have been grumblings from Mark, if they had. I’m sure of it. So why did Danny assume it was her dad and not me?
The answer’s inevitable, once I see it. He thought it was her dad because there was an older man in the driving seat. Someone he didn’t know.
I’ve got to speak to Danny.
27
SOPHIE
We still went out, in the early days. The first time he woke me one evening, I think I must have been dozing, curled up on the mattress. I was still dressed, so it can’t have been that late. You wouldn’t think you’d get so tired, when you’ve nothing to do. But I’d get cold quickly, when I wasn’t moving around so much, so I’d crawl under the duvet even in the daytime.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Quick.’ I didn’t ask what the rush was about. Even then, I knew he didn’t like me to ask so many questions.
I followed him through the door and down the stairs, off balance. I felt a spike of anticipation, even nerves, as he unlocked the second door, using the same set of keys. I didn’t know he kept that one locked, too.
The blueish light from his phone barely pierced the shadows. It had been so rushed when I came here, I’d barely paid attention. But again I had a sense of space, something in the sound our footsteps made. He led me down more stairs, then made me put a blanket over my head as we went out to the car, the same as when I arrived.
So no one could see me, he said. I couldn’t even hear traffic.
His car was the same dark saloon. He told me to sit in the back seat.
I had a vivid flashback, to when he used to pick me up from school, before he said it was too risky. This time, he told me to lie down, so no one could see me.
I nearly fell asleep, lulled by the movement of the car, but after half an hour, or maybe it just seemed that long, he told me to sit up. I felt almost disappointed, stretching my stiff limbs. We were just driving through country lanes, the car lights picking out hedgerows and winding tarmac, nothing more.
‘Can we stop somewhere, maybe?’ I asked. ‘I want to walk around.’ I was desperate suddenly to run again, feeling the pent-up energy of weeks inside.
‘Don’t be silly,’ he said. ‘Someone might see us, then what would we do?’
I didn’t think they would. But I didn’t want to complain too much.
And it worked. Afterwards he took me out again. I think he was already getting sick of our place, the stuffiness, the silence, the air thick with dust and neglect no matter how much I cleaned.
It was always the same routine. We never went far, just round the quiet back lanes, never where the street lights got closer together. And where was there for us to go? Sometimes, I found myself just falling asleep again. I felt safer in the car, almost back in the world again.
But then one time, bright lights woke me up. I kept still and peeked out under my lowered eyelids, my head lolling back against the headrest. We were at a petrol station. I listened to the noises: he filled the car up, paying for the petrol with his card in the keypad machine. The thought occurred to me then: I could just step out, hammer the window, scream for attention. There would be people in the station, or somebody. I remember my whole body tensed, poised, and then – he got back in and switched on the ignition.
We drove off. Shock flooded my body, at the strength of my reaction – just how much I wanted to go. I was fine. This was what I’d wanted. Wasn’t it?
Still, I wonder: I don’t know if I was as close as I thought, not really. Because a couple of times after that, I tested the handle when his attention was on turning a corner, or going through a junction, just to see. The child lock was always on.
Anyway, there were only a handful more night drives, two or three, if that.
I knew it would be the last time as soon as it happened. I had been quiet, that evening, not the cheerful girl he liked me to be. I was lonely, left alone all day. I’d actually told him that. Maybe that’s why he did it – to punish me, a little. Or to test me, see how I’d react.
We pulled up by a house I hadn’t seen before, a little cottage in a terraced row, with a smart dark green door. We must have driven half an hour, maybe more. He parked up across the street from it, away from the orange puddle of the street lamp and then waited, the engine off.
It was cold, but I knew better than to ask why we were there. His actions, I’d realised, didn’t always seem entirely, well, reasonable. So I just sat on my hands to keep them warm, hunkering into my baggy sweatshirt. All the clothes he’d brought me were too-big castoffs. They’d last me, he said.