Maybe it was her age. Maybe it was because, contrary to what I’d thought, teenagers could get into just as much trouble out of London as in it. And they seemed to have so much freedom here in Vale Dean, all driving as soon as they hit seventeen, racing round the country lanes. It filled me with horror.
There were endless rows: Sophie, tear-stained, upset that I’d stopped her from going to another party or gig. ‘But everyone’s going, Holly’s going. Danny will drive us, you don’t even need to take us.’
‘Oh, that makes it better. A seventeen-year-old boy who’s just got his licence!’
‘You wouldn’t mind if it wasn’t them, would you. Admit it, you just don’t like my friends.’
‘It’s just not safe, Sophie. I can’t let you go.’
And then that last one, the week she left, about nothing at all, really. I wanted her to eat dinner with us, but she wanted to eat it in her room. ‘To finish some coursework,’ she said.
I remember how it ended, as always: Sophie slamming her way out of the room.
‘Just let me go. I can’t stand it! Don’t you get it? I just want some space!’
‘Sophie …’
I thought it had blown over though, even if she was a bit quieter than usual, before I went. She gave me a proper hug goodbye on Thursday evening, when Charlotte had picked me up, her pale brown bob in a careful blow-dry for the occasion. She’s always hated how her hair frizzes, saying she’d rather have straight flat lengths like me and Sophie.
‘See you Sunday,’ I’d said. ‘Love you, So.’
‘See you Sunday,’ she’d said, over my shoulder. ‘Love you, Mo.’
Our little routine, for so long, since she was a toddler, and I was putting her to bed. So, my little nickname for her; Mo, for Mum, she came up with, just because she thought it was so funny to rhyme.
It just stuck. I still miss that.
We were already on our way back home from the hen, Charlotte driving us, when Mark rang, ‘just to check in’, sounding far too casual. ‘So, er, Sophie was at Holly’s last night, she said. Is there another Holly from school? Am I getting them mixed up?’ He’d never been able to keep track of her friends.
Of course it all came out in the aftermath: the day before, Friday morning, Mark had taken her to school as usual – Amberton Grammar was on his way to work in the city centre. She’d run back into the house as he’d waited with the engine running, he told us, saying she’d forgotten something. ‘Sophie!’ he’d called, tooting the horn. ‘Will you get a move-on.’
He hadn’t noticed anything different, he said later.
But as he’d dropped her off at the school gates, she’d struggled to swing her rucksack onto her shoulder, and the flap had fallen back, just a little.
‘Is that bag big enough,’ he’d teased. ‘What you got in there, anyway?’
She always seemed to carry the world around with her, carting the entire contents of her locker at all times. ‘Oh, just some – some overnight stuff,’ she’d said. Then: ‘You remember I’m staying with Holly tonight?’
‘No.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Sophie, does Mum know about this?’
‘Yes, she said it’s fine.’ She shifted her weight. ‘We’re just going to do some revision, have pizza. That’s OK, right?’
‘I don’t know, Sophie,’ he said, thinking.
She did look a bit guilty, he said later, but he’d chalked it up to the obvious: both of them knew that I wouldn’t like it. But he was late, in a rush to get to work, and what was the harm? She’d been working hard. Of course, there was another reason he didn’t mind her staying away that night.
The car behind tooted at him. ‘So can I?’
‘All right, but don’t be back too late tomorrow. Home by lunchtime,’ he called after her.
‘’K, thanks, Dad. See you tomorrow.’ It was only when she failed to come home by late Saturday afternoon that Mark had called her phone and then, when it went to voicemail, Holly’s house. I’d pinned the number to the noticeboard – she spent so much time there. Did Sophie want picking up?
No, Sophie wasn’t there. Her mum had put Holly on the phone. No, she’d repeated, Sophie hadn’t stayed at her house. In fact, she hadn’t seen her since Friday morning.
‘I’m sure it will be OK,’ Charlotte had kept telling me, after Mark rang off, as I grew increasingly angry – and, underneath that, worried. I couldn’t believe he’d let her go, right before exams.
When he phoned again an hour or so later, I put my mobile on speakerphone. I could tell instantly that she hadn’t turned up, looking sheepish.
‘Katie …’ he’d said, sounding almost bewildered. ‘It’s Sophie. She’s left a note.’ He’d cleared his throat. For a strange moment I wondered if he was going to cry. ‘She’s run away.’
Two officers in uniform – professional, serious – arrived that same evening after I’d called 999. No, we didn’t have to wait 48 hours, they’d reassured us. That was a myth. We’d done the right thing.
They peppered us with questions, as we nursed cups of tea on the living-room sofa.
No, we’ve no idea where she might have gone. Yes, we’ve tried her friends, all the ones we can think of. No, she hasn’t gone to my sister’s, her grandpa said he hasn’t heard from her, he’s very worried. No, there are no other relatives she might go to. No, she’s never run away before. Is she happy at home? Yes. At least, we think so. Have there been any arguments, recently? Well, yes, but she’s a teenager …
I couldn’t get over the unreality of the situation, the sense that any moment I’d hear the key turn in the back door and her clatter into the kitchen.
She’d left her bank card and her phone – I’d found them in the drawer of her bedside table. That was a good sign, Charlotte had said. Sophie’d have to come back soon. But while Sophie hadn’t taken much, what she had was important. Her passport was gone. That was one of the first things they asked me, where we kept it, and I’d showed them the drawer in the desk in the study.
How much money does Sophie have access to? They asked at some point.
‘Not much, she only just turned sixteen last month, she’s still at school.’ Mark had been flustered. He spoiled her, I’d always said that. Meanwhile I was doing the sums. There was her generous allowance, money she’d collected from her waitressing job the summer before, birthday gifts.
‘We let her look after her own account,’ Mark had told the police, growing slightly pink under their steady gaze. ‘She wanted to save for a car.’ We sounded so naive. Comfortable, trusting – and unforgivably naive. She’d cleared out her account completely, we learned later. With everything added together, she had a considerable sum.
And of course, there was the note, her round bubble handwriting on a sheet torn out of one of her exercise books for school.
I’m sorry everyone. But I need to get away. Please try not to worry about me, I’m going to be fine. I love you all, Sophie xxx
Three kisses, like we always left for each other in our family birthday cards and, once she was older, the notes I’d leave stuck to the fridge. One for Daddy, one for her, one for me. And a little flower doodle, like a daisy, in small strokes of biro, next to her name. She always did that, since she was little. She’d started it for me: she knew flowers made me happy.
They wouldn’t stop running over the details with Mark. ‘And when did you find this, Mr Harlow?’
‘This afternoon, after I’d phoned Holly’s mum.’ He couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes. ‘It was on Kate’s pillow, so I didn’t see it.’
I think Charlotte had snorted.
‘It won’t have made a big difference, will it?’ he’d asked almost pleadingly.
They’d reassured him that they had every confidence, et cetera. But I knew, countless news stories and TV reconstructions flashing in my mind: the first few hours are crucial.
That was the beginning of the end for us. Of course he’d had to own up, and quickly, to what was already obvious to me. When Sophie ran in while he waited in the car, she must have placed the note on our bed, knowing he wouldn’t see it until that night. But he’d had a sleepover of his own that night, elsewhere, so hadn’t seen it until he came home the next day and, worried now, finally checked around.