Ransomed
The Missing Children Case Files
M. A. Hunter

One More Chapter

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © M. A. Hunter 2020

Cover design by Lucy Bennett © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

M. A. Hunter asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008443283

Ebook Edition © September 2020 ISBN: 9780008418519

Version: 2020-08-07

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Acknowledgments

Thank you for reading…

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About the Author

Also by M. A. Hunter

One More Chapter...

About the Publisher

Dedicated to all the key workers who kept

the world ticking during Lockdown 2020

There I walked, and there I raged;

The spiritual savage caged

Within my skeleton, raged afresh

To feel, behind a carnal mesh,

The clean bones crying in the flesh.

– Full Moon, Elinor Wylie

Chapter One
Then

Rickmansworth, Hertfordshire

‘I can’t find Cassie Hilliard,’ Gerry Connors declared, his Belfast accent betraying the rising panic in his voice as he stepped through the patio door.

Penny finished counting the party bags on the kitchen counter, trying to prove to herself that she hadn’t underestimated how many were needed. ‘What do you mean you can’t find her? She must be outside somewhere.’

Gerry turned and stared back out across the vast expanse of lawn, where the fully inflated castle wobbled as a dozen or so princesses and pirates threw themselves about inside. From here it was difficult to see the wild and overgrown end of the garden where Sean loved to while away the summer holidays building dens out of fallen branches and plant pots he had managed to scavenge from his mother’s greenhouse.

‘She’s not with the other children,’ Gerry repeated, his eyes dancing over the faces of those inside the castle, searching for six-year-old Cassie.

Frustrated with the interruption, Penny Connors joined her husband at the patio door, staring out into the garden. ‘Have you asked Sean where she is? Or any of the others? Maybe she’s talking to a friend behind the castle.’

Gerry stepped out into the garden, the late September sun warm enough that coats weren’t required, but not warm enough to worry about sun lotion. He’d opted for tailored shorts and the Avengers T-shirt Sean had given him for his birthday the month before. ‘I’ll go and have another look,’ he said, moving forward into the garden, his mind already wandering to the potential repercussions of explaining to Richard Hilliard that he’d lost his daughter.

‘Okay, well I’ll double-check she hasn’t come inside,’ Penny said affirmatively, less troubled than her husband. ‘She’s probably just in the toilet or something.’

Penny took a final glance at the party bags before moving through into the dining room where the spread of sausage rolls, finger sandwiches, crisps, pizzas, and chocolates looked good enough for a king to consume. Sean’s seventh birthday party had been months in the planning, and after much debate with Gerry, they’d finally settled on hosting a gathering for all of Sean’s class at their house. Certainly cheaper than hiring a venue or taking them all bowling as Sean had requested.

‘Money is tight,’ Gerry had reminded her every day since he had been made redundant from the factory, and she couldn’t help but feel proud of what she’d achieved on such a tight budget. She hadn’t told Gerry that she’d borrowed an extra hundred pounds from her sister to buy Sean the handheld console he’d desperately been craving.

No sign of Cassie in this room, and although they’d told their guests that they weren’t to come into the dining room until feeding time, she could see a hand-shaped gap in one of the crisp bowls; she ducked to look beneath the table. Penny closed the door as she left, and stepped into the living room. The mountain of brightly wrapped gifts the party guests had brought stood beneath the bay window, and to the right of that was the large black rubbish sack they’d started filling as Sean had torn into his gifts from them first thing this morning. With the sofas flush against the walls, there really wasn’t any place to hide, so Penny left the room, closing the door behind her again, and proceeded up the stairs of their three-bed semi-detached house.

Spotting the door to the bathroom closed, Penny moved across to it, and gently knocked. ‘Cassie? Is that you in there?’

There was no answer, but Penny could hear the tearing of toilet paper, and waited patiently. This was followed by the flushing of water, taps turned on, taps turned off, and fumbling with the towel at the radiator. A moment later, the bathroom door opened, and a startled boy emerged.

‘Oh, Jason, it’s you,’ Penny said, disappointment dripping from every word. ‘You haven’t seen Cassie Hilliard recently, have you?’

The boy stared back at her wide-eyed, slowly shaking his head, before hurrying past her and back down the stairs.

Such an odd boy, Penny thought to herself. Had she been able to, she wouldn’t have sent an invitation to Jason Knightwood, but Sean had wanted practically everyone else to come over so it had felt harsh to single out those he didn’t interact with as much. Of course, none of the children really interacted with Jason. Penny didn’t know for sure whether there was a reason why he rarely spoke but there was more to it than that. Although she’d just heard him washing his hands, the pong emanating from his body hadn’t escaped her. Jason’s mother was just as difficult to engage with, arriving at the school in a ratty headscarf and moth-bitten cardigan every day, always staring at her feet, and making no effort at small talk with the other parents.

Penny continued her search of the upstairs, but with their own bedroom locked, it didn’t take long to complete a circuit of Sean’s messy room – resembling the aftermath of a burglary as it always did – and the spare room which was still filled with boxes they’d yet to go through following their move nearly two years ago. Heading back down the stairs, Penny made her way back through the kitchen and out into the garden. Gerry was nowhere in sight, and she could only assume he’d found Cassie.

Excited squeals echoed off the bouncy castle, almost drowning out the incessant hum of the machine keeping it inflated. It was nearly four o’clock, and the afternoon sun was already hanging low in the sky beyond the wild trees and fence at the foot of the garden. Gerry’s head appeared from behind a tree, and she waved, but he didn’t seem to notice her as he bent and stooped, and Penny’s heart skipped a beat as she realised he was still searching for Cassie.

Upping her pace, Penny darted to the bouncy castle, her eyes scanning the faces and costumes inside as she tried to recall exactly what Cassie had been wearing. Picturing the moment when Elizabeth Hilliard had arrived, carrying a parasol for the short trip from the chauffeur-driven Range Rover to the front door, Penny couldn’t forget the involuntary urge she’d felt to curtsy. It was silly really; it wasn’t like Elizabeth Hilliard was actual royalty, although rumour had it she was some distant cousin of the Earl of Wessex. Wearing an expensive-looking cerise-coloured coat, she’d pulled a face when she’d offered to stay and help supervise the crowd of children. Penny hadn’t wanted to disappoint, and had waved away the offer, telling her that some of the other parents were already inside helping, even though the two mums who had offered to help had cried off at the last minute.

Cassie had been hiding bashfully behind her mum’s perfectly tanned legs until Penny had crouched and told her how pretty she looked in her luminescent green dress and cherry-red wig.

Penny snapped her fingers together: Cassie had come dressed as Ariel, the little mermaid from the film of the same name, not the eccentric Shakespearean spirit. Of course she had!

Staring back towards the pirates and princesses dashing from one side of the castle to the other, some tumbling as they howled with laughter, there was no sign of a red wig.

‘Has anyone seen Cassie?’ Penny called into the group.

Either nobody heard her, or they chose not to listen.

‘Sean?’ she tried again. ‘Sean, have you seen Cassie?’

Her son stopped and stared at her with the one eye not covered by a black eye patch, the bandana soaked through with sweat, before shrugging and running again.

‘Sophia?’ Penny called next, catching sight of the Moana-inspired outfit. ‘Do you know where Cassie Hilliard is?’

Sophia bounced to the edge of the castle, before dismounting and landing on the soft mat where the shoes were scattered. ‘What did you say?’

‘I’m looking for Cassie Hilliard,’ Penny said, her voice tightening as the first pangs of paranoia took hold. ‘Do you know where she is?’

Sophia wiped the wet fringe clinging to her forehead. ‘She was here. I don’t know. She said she wanted to go to the toilet.’

Penny’s brow furrowed as she looked back at the house, certain she hadn’t missed any obvious hiding places. She couldn’t remember anyone passing through the kitchen, but then, she’d been focused on setting up the party bags, placing an equal number of sweets, stickers, toys, and party poppers in each. In fact, she hadn’t noticed Jason Knightwood move past her and upstairs, so would she really have noticed Cassie Hilliard?

‘Is everything okay?’ Sophia asked, snapping Penny’s attention back to the garden.

Penny forced a reassuring smile. ‘Everything will be okay, sweetheart. Can you let Sean know we’ll be going in for food in the next ten minutes or so?’

Sophia nodded, all concern wiped from her face, leaping back onto the castle, and re-joining the madness.

The wild side of their garden loomed beyond the castle and its pump. They’d planned to clear out the section and build a small summer house where they could unwind on a long summer’s day. But problems with planning permission and then Gerry’s redundancy meant the plans had been shelved, and so the throng of weeds and wild grasses towered above the freshly mown green lawn it bordered. Gerry was still moving about, lifting fallen branches, and rising and stooping as he went.

‘She’s not in the house,’ Penny said nervously, as she joined him in the tall grass.

Gerry paused momentarily, out of breath, a fresh sheen clinging to his cheeks. ‘I’ve checked the fence and there are no holes she could have squeezed through to get out, and it’s too high for a six-year-old to scale. I’ve been calling her name, but there’s no response. Most of the ground here is uneven, and there are so many branches that it’s impossible to see whether she might have fallen and bashed her head.’

Penny hadn’t even considered that Cassie could be lying hurt somewhere. ‘I think we need to get all the children together and ask them whether they know where she went.’

Gerry surveyed the rest of the wilderness, and slowly nodded. ‘I’ll keep checking out here just in case. It’s not like anyone has come in and snatched her from under our noses!’

Penny reached for her husband’s hand and squeezed tightly; he reflected her concern with an assured nod. ‘She’ll turn up. She has to.’

Returning to the castle, Penny hollered at the group of children and told them it was time to eat. One by one, they stopped rushing about, slowly disembarked and began the hunt for their shoes. After nineteen pairs had been located and pulled on, the panting group remained on the mat waiting for their next instruction.

‘Cassie’s wearing her shoes,’ Penny whispered to Gerry as he joined her, pointing down at the mat. ‘Whenever she left the castle, she put on her shoes.’

‘Can anyone tell me where Cassie Hilliard is?’ Gerry said, staring at each of the faces, looking for any sign of recognition. ‘We can’t go in for food until we’ve got everyone together. Has anyone seen Cassie?’

The faces remained blank, with the odd shrug of shoulders.

‘Everyone just wait here a minute,’ Penny said, putting on a brave face, before leading Gerry away from the group. ‘What are we going to do? Should we phone the police?’

‘It’s a bit premature for that,’ he replied. ‘She must be here somewhere; if not in the garden then in the house—’

‘I checked the house, Gerry,’ Penny interrupted with a low growl. ‘She is not in the house, and she is not in the garden. What if…’ But she couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence.

‘What if what?’ Gerry began, before connecting the dots. ‘You think someone’s come in and taken her? Don’t be ridiculous! We’ve both been here all day, and there hasn’t been a spot of trouble. Besides, we would have seen someone.’

Penny eventually let out a frustrated sigh, knowing Gerry was trying to remain pragmatic. ‘Well, if she is here, where the hell is she hiding?’

Wrapping a large arm around her shoulders, he pulled her closer to him, and kissed the top of her head. ‘I don’t know, but someone must. Get the other children inside and I’ll check the security camera footage for the last hour and see if it caught her.’ He paused. ‘We’ll find her. We have to find her. There’s more than just her future at stake here.’

Chapter Two
Now

Blackfriars, London

A champagne cork fires somewhere behind me and I start at the sudden eruption of cheering that accompanies the fizz as it explodes from the bottle.

‘Can you pass me a glass, Emma?’ my agent Maddie asks, stretching out her hand as if it’s one of those claw-grabbing devices that children use to try and win impossibly angled stuffed toys at amusement arcades.

There’s a pyramid of plastic flutes stacked on the cloth-covered shelving unit. It is a lame attempt to add a touch of class to the occasion and to make it appear that the room, surrounded by books, looks less like Maddie’s cramped office and more like a privately hired venue fit for a celebration. There are three times more glasses than people gathered in the room, and I can’t be certain if that’s because Maddie overcompensated or because she was expecting more guests at the impromptu gathering. I reach for the flute atop the pyramid and hand it to her crab-like claw; she immediately places it beneath the rim of the bottle to intercept the out-of-control liquid.

‘Here you go,’ Maddie says, handing the half-full flute back to me. ‘You should have the first taste, as you’re the reason we’re all gathered here today.’

I understand why she’s so excited, but I’d rather be anywhere else than at a small party thrown in my honour. Being the centre of attention has always made my skin crawl. Even as a child, I would dread that moment every birthday when family and friends would gather to watch and sing as I attempted to blow out the candles on my birthday cake. At least that level of celebration stopped after my seventh birthday – every cloud and all that.

I understand that book launches and parties are a necessary evil of what we do as writers, but that doesn’t make me any more comfortable with the practice. Maybe I wouldn’t be as on edge if all we were here to do was sign some books.

Maddie moves to where I’m standing and ushers me over towards the television she’s set up in the tight corner of the office, just in front of the landscape window with a view of the Shard, Tower Bridge, and the London Eye in the distance. She proceeds to take and fill one flute at a time, before distributing them to the handful of people crammed into the small office space.

‘Be a love and switch it on,’ Maddie encourages. ‘It’ll be live in a minute.’

Maddie is one of my favourite people in the entire world. As my agent and closest confidante, I speak to her more than my own mother, but I wouldn’t call Maddie a friend. Don’t get me wrong, I love her to bits, and I wouldn’t be where I am now without her passion, patience, and editorial eye but ultimately, she is by my side because the royalties I earn pay her wages. I don’t see how an employee of sorts can be counted as a friend. If my next book sucks, I can’t be certain she’ll still be there shouting my name at anyone who will listen. It’s an odd dynamic that we have. But I wouldn’t change her for the world.

Reaching for the remote control on her jumbled desk, I am amazed at how she doesn’t get her clients’ manuscripts confused. As well as her laptop, there is a printer and at least four bound manuscripts on the desk. I struggle to read more than a few thousand words in a day, let alone ninety thousand words per manuscript. I guess that’s just one of the differences between us.

Although Maddie is only twenty years older than me, you’d have guessed the gap was larger. While I’m still struggling to make ends meet, and wearing the same cardigans and jeans I did at university, Maddie’s professional approach to life is more than just a leap away. Even now, as she fills glasses and chats enthusiastically with each of the invited guests, her business suit is perfectly pressed, her mop of chestnut curls carefully sculpted into an off-the-shoulder number. She looks pristine, her skin fresher even than mine. I know she hits the gym five nights a week, and swears by her vegan diet, but I’m certain it takes more than that to look so alert all day.

Flattening the khaki cardigan that I managed to rescue from the laundry basket this morning, I wish I’d made more of an effort with my own appearance, but then again, donning a cocktail dress and perfectly straightened hair doesn’t feel right for this occasion either. Fumbling with the remote, I succeed in switching on the set, and flick to BBC One where the news is just starting. The bald newscaster reads out the headlines: more bad news about climate change; yet another established high-street name going into administration; and finally that a verdict has been reached in the High Court case against three men standing trial for historic abuses at a former children’s home.

My heart aches as I see the faces of the victims’ families, people I have met and spoken to on too many occasions to recall, people I’ve cried with, people I’ve hugged, people whose lives were tortured by those who should have been protecting them.

I lower the volume of the television before sipping from my flute, the champagne suddenly tasting bitter.

‘Has everyone got a drink now?’ Maddie calls out. ‘Good. Emma, can I have a quick word outside please?’

She’s already heading for the open door before I’ve had a chance to respond. I follow her into the corridor, and when she closes the door behind us I already know what she’s going to say.

‘Is everything okay?’ she asks quietly, leading me further along the corridor so that nobody inside the room will hear us.

‘I’m fine,’ I say, delivering my usual response. But I’m chewing the sleeve of my cardigan, an involuntary habit I’ve had since school.

‘You should be buzzing,’ she chirps cheerfully. ‘Today’s verdict is bound to see a spike in sales over the coming days and weeks. That Sunday Times number-one bestseller slot will likely be yours again this weekend.’

I turn away from her, not because I’m annoyed, but because I don’t want to see her disappointed face when I speak. ‘It just feels… wrong… profiting from such evil inflicted on helpless children.’

She spins me back around, waving a finger of warning in my face. ‘How many times do we have to go through this, Emma? You weren’t the one who abused those children. You weren’t the one who left those children in the care of that home, nor were you the one who ignored the mountain of complaints made against that disgusting ring of paedophiles. You weren’t even alive when the first abuses started! It is because of you that those victims are receiving the justice they deserve today. If it weren’t for your investigation, and subsequent publication of one of the most powerful books ever to come across my desk, they would still be burying those nightmares beneath years of torment.’

It’s easy for her to say; she didn’t have to hear them recount their anguished stories. When I was first approached by Freddie Mitchell, and he told me about what had happened to him at the St Francis Home for Wayward Boys, I knew it was my duty to help him fight for justice, to pursue the men who still walked the streets, free from punishment. I never expected to uncover so many other victims, nor that they’d all be so willing to go on the record. What started as an honest piece of journalism, something to finally get the police authorities to pay attention, had snowballed into something far bigger. There were moments when I had considered giving up the story, such was the emotional toll it took, but I couldn’t turn my back on Freddie and the others.

‘It was your exposé that led to the police investigation,’ Maddie continues. ‘It was your candid interviews with the victims and staff linked to the home that uncovered the ringleaders, and brought the law to their doors. Don’t feel bad that all those long days and nights are now being rewarded.’

This isn’t the first time she’s delivered this impassioned speech, and I doubt it will be the last time I hear it. I fix her with a strained smile. ‘I know you’re just looking out for me, but I feel like I’m taking advantage. Every time my name is used in conjunction with their story, it’s as if I’ve put myself forward as their spokesperson when that was the last thing on my agenda. I wanted to give them a voice, rather than speak for them.’

‘And your words have done exactly that. You’re thinking about this far too much. Look at how you live; it’s not like you’re high-rolling at their expense. You’re still holed up in the same one-bedroom apartment in Weymouth; still using the same tatty Oyster card to travel up here when required, rather than investing in a car of your own; and still wearing moth-eaten clothes. In fact, on that note, you and I seriously need to go and expand your wardrobe! I can’t have my number-one bestselling author turning up for interviews and events looking like an impostor.’

What an appropriate word; an impostor is exactly what I am.

‘You’re appearing at the Harrogate Literary Festival and Crimefest in Bristol next year, and we definitely need you looking your best at those.’

‘Those are festivals for fiction writers, Maddie. I’m just a journalist who wrote a piece of non-fiction. Nobody in their right mind wants to hear from me.’

‘That’s what you think. What if I told you tickets for your panels are already fully subscribed? Face it, lady, your star is on the rise and it’s about time you got used to it.’

Oh great, I don’t add, rooms full of people hanging on my every word is just what I need.

The door to Maddie’s office opens and one of the in-house editorial assistants at my publisher pokes her head out. ‘I think it’s about to come on.’

There’s a twinkle in Maddie’s eyes as she beams and claps her hands together. Grabbing my hand, she practically yanks me back into the room, just as the picture on the screen cuts to a grey-haired reporter standing outside the High Court only a few miles from where we’re standing now.

‘It took just three hours for today’s verdict to be reached. Lord Eagleton chose to speak directly to the victims and their families, telling them how sorry he was that this miscarriage of justice was allowed to continue for as long as it did. He thanked them for their bravery, and advised that the verdicts and sentences would reflect the severity of the offences under review. He then turned and addressed the three defendants directly, speaking of his utter disdain for their nefarious activities. Arthur Turgood, who had overall oversight of the home, was not present at court today, owing to a deterioration in his health overnight, but the sentence was passed in his absence. Turgood will serve three fifteen-year custodial sentences concurrently and, owing to his recent medical diagnosis, is unlikely to live past that term. His two co-defendants – Geoffrey Arnsgill and Timothy MacDonald – will each serve concurrent six-year sentences for their part in a scandal which has shocked the nation. Today’s verdict follows a rigorous investigation by officers in the Metropolitan Police’s specialist Yewtree team, and as a result of Monsters Under the Bed, the bestselling exposé written by investigative journalist Emma Hunter.’

Maddie whoops at the mention of my name and book, while I simply cringe and hunch my shoulders. The phone ringing on Maddie’s desk couldn’t have come at a better time.

Maddie grabs it while downing the rest of her champagne, but her neck muscles tighten and her eyes widen in shock as she stares directly at me. ‘There are police in reception, Emma, and they want to speak to you.’

Chapter Three
Now

Blackfriars, London

There are butterflies in my stomach as the lift doors close and the carriage begins its descent to the ground floor. I rack my brains for what might have happened to warrant the police turning up at my agent’s office demanding to speak to me. Is it as a result of today’s verdict? Are they angry that my book exposed their lack of investigation years earlier? Has a relative been fatally injured, and they’re here to break the news? I’m a law-abiding citizen so there is no reason for me to feel this tense at the prospect of meeting with the police. I left that past behind me a long time ago. But the look of shock in Maddie’s eyes has me on edge now.

I’ve never so much as pinched a bag of sweets, let alone anything to cause the police to come looking for me. Not for me. It has to be related to today’s verdict. It has to be.

Another woman gets in on the floor below wearing a blue tabard and wielding a trolley filled with two mops, a vacuum cleaner, and a variety of disinfectant sprays dangling from the rim. Her hair is the bright black of the sea at night, a frown creasing her brow in seemingly deep thought as she fiddles with the impression of a thin band on the ring finger of her left hand.

I shift to the right to further accommodate the trolley and her eyes flicker up, before narrowing in suspicion. I try to look away but I can feel the burn of her stare as it burrows into the back of my head. I can see her reflection in the shiny brass plate on the wall in front of me, and for the briefest of moments our eyes meet, until I bend my gaze away.

Then her hand is on my arm and the tension in my shoulders cranks up another notch. ‘Excuse me,’ she says, her accent unfamiliar. ‘You’re her, aren’t you?’

The knot in my stomach tightens as I turn and try to offer a smile to placate her. I’m not yet used to strangers recognising me when I’m out and about, let alone being so willing to strike up conversation. That’s one of the bugbears of having your book selling so many copies. Suddenly you become a commodity for anyone to use however they see fit. I was against putting my picture on the website Maddie insisted I create to advertise the book. That same picture has now been replicated countless times in the press as word of my book and investigation spread like wildfire. Not that I’m ungrateful that the book – the victims’ stories – are now common knowledge; a wrong was done that required fixing, and thankfully today’s verdict is a giant stride towards that. The punishments handed out by the judge will do little to redress the years of torment and nightmares suffered by Freddie Mitchell and the others, but hopefully when they seek civil remuneration, their pain will be somewhat alleviated.

I extend my hand to the woman. ‘I’m Emma Hunter.’

She wipes both sides of her hand on the already stained tabard, before shaking mine. ‘You wrote that book. Um… what’s it called… um…?’

‘Monsters Under the Bed,’ I confirm for her.

‘Yes, that’s it. I can’t believe what those poor boys went through. It is criminal to forget there are people out there capable of such… perversion.’

Her grasp of English belies her thick accent, and I can feel my cheeks starting to warm. ‘If you’d like me to sign your copy of the book, I’d be happy to. My agent, Maddie Travers, has an office on the sixth floor. If you drop your copy by, she can get me to sign it next time I’m here.’

I feel quite pleased with myself that I haven’t hidden my light behind my usual bushel, and have made an extroverted gesture – though why anyone would want my autograph is beyond me. Still, Maddie tells me it’s all part of the marketing game these days.

‘Oh, I haven’t read your book,’ she says matter-of-factly, as if my mere suggestion that she has is offensive. ‘My daughter has, and told me all about it.’

An awkward silence descends, as I’ve no idea how to rescue us both from the faux pas.

‘Oh well,’ I eventually say, conscious that the lift is slowing as it reaches the ground floor, ‘if you want me to sign your daughter’s copy, just drop it off with Maddie.’ The lift doors open with a ping, and I’m relieved. ‘It was nice to have met you,’ I offer as I dart out as quickly as I can without running.

At least the exchange distracted me from the purpose of my lift journey. Maddie’s agency occupies half of floor six in this ten-storey building; the other floors are occupied by a variety of other small businesses – including two other literary agencies – who can’t afford to let an entire building in London without support. I’ve been here enough times now but the lobby always takes my breath away, the overhead lights reflecting off the shiny marble walls, the floor buffed to within an inch of its life. Strangers hustle about either side of me, all here for one purpose or another, their faces gone in the blink of an eye. I’ve often thought that working in the heart of London must be quite isolating. Millions of people commute through this city every day; how many ever actually stop to acknowledge their shared experience? It makes me glad I get to work out of my tiny flat in Weymouth, although I do occasionally pack up my laptop and head to the local café or library when I’m bored of staring at the same four walls.

As I approach the front desk, there is no obvious sign of a police officer. I’m about to interrogate the handsome hulk of a receptionist when I spot my best friend, Rachel Leeming, chuckling mischievously and waving at me just beyond the security barrier.

‘I should have known it would be you.’ I smile as I swipe through the barrier and hug her. ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask, pleased by the surprise visit.

‘I was at the High Court when the verdict was read out and wanted to congratulate you. I remembered you saying you’d be watching from your agent’s office, so here I am.’

This is so typical of Rachel; anyone else would have phoned or sent a message, but despite her reliance on technology for her job, she prefers the personal touch in her private life. It’s why I love her to bits, and am thankful we got lumped together in halls of residence at university.

‘You could have come up, you know,’ I say, nodding back towards the bank of elevators.

Rachel pulls a face. ‘Thanks, but I know what Maddie really thinks of me, and I’m not her biggest fan either. That’s why I couldn’t tell that gorgeous receptionist who I really was, or Maddie wouldn’t have let you come down.’

‘You make her sound like a monster! She’s really sweet.’

‘You only think that because she mothers you. I know people who knew her before she became a literary agent, and some of their stories would put your hair on end.’

She must see I’m hurt that the two most important women in my life are in adversity.

‘I’m sorry,’ Rachel offers, ‘I know people can change, and I’m glad she’s clearly taking such good care of you. If that ever changes though, you can tell her from me that I’ll be coming for her. Nobody takes advantage of my best friend. Not on my watch.’

I’ve never been able to stay angry with Rachel; she’s always had my back, and I don’t doubt that she’d make a beeline for Maddie if she ever crossed a line.

‘Here, you should have seen how those rotters squirmed when the judge read out their sentences; pity the worst one wasn’t there too, but they’ve put an armed guard outside Turgood’s room, ready to escort him to a Cat-B facility as soon as he’s fit enough. You must be thrilled!’

‘I’m pleased those men have finally got the justice they deserve,’ I say, choosing my words carefully.

‘Well that probably wouldn’t have happened if it wasn’t for you. You should be proud of yourself! I’m proud of you. It’s okay to be happy with the verdict.’

I close my eyes and nod my head, allowing a short sigh to escape. I know she’s right; I know Maddie is right too. I need to get this chip off my shoulder and accept the repercussions of my investigation. I wrote that book because I felt compelled to tell their story in the most factually accurate way possible. Better that than allowing some tabloid to sensationalise a tragedy.

‘My editor was asking me about you again today,’ Rachel says, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. ‘Wants to know how much it would cost to convince you to join our paper. I told him he’d have to pay top dollar, but he said he didn’t care and asked me to bring you in for a chat.’

I back away slightly, no longer enjoying this surprise visit.

‘We’ve talked about this before, Rachel,’ I begin, as calmly as I can. I don’t want to upset her. ‘You know it just isn’t practical.’

She closes the gap. ‘Why not? Think about it: you could dust the sand from your shoes once and for all and move to London. You could move in with me if you wanted and it would be just like the good old days of university: Rach and Em putting the world to rights and breaking the biggest news stories.’

The thought of moving to London fills me with dread; I’m not ready to turn my back on the only town where I’ve ever felt comfortable in my own skin. Too many memories – good and bad – to simply move away. She doesn’t understand what really keeps me in Weymouth, and how I don’t ever see myself leaving.

‘Your flat is tiny,’ I say, opting for logic over honesty.

Rachel reluctantly nods. ‘Fine, we’d get a new place for the two of us to share. You must be making a fortune in royalties anyway, which would supplement any money the newspaper would pay. We’d make a formidable team.’

Of that I have no doubt, and if the job was in Weymouth or any of the neighbouring towns within Dorset, I’d genuinely consider it, but London is too noisy, too polluted, and too crowded for my liking.

‘I’ll think about it,’ I lie, but she looks crestfallen.

‘Of course you will,’ she says despondently, before brightening. ‘What are you doing to celebrate tonight? How about I see if that gorgeous receptionist fancies taking out two of the UK’s deadliest bachelorettes?’

I glance back over my shoulder at the blonde man, but I can’t see why he’d have any interest in someone like me, and the last thing I want is to be at the mercy of Rachel’s matchmaking.

‘I have plans already,’ I lie. ‘Sorry.’

Rachel raises her eyebrow questioningly. ‘Just tell me you’re not planning to spend all night sitting at your laptop on that missing people site again? I don’t mean to be insensitive, but I’m your best friend, and I can see how much it takes out of you.’

If she knew the real reason I hunch over the screen at night, she wouldn’t think to question it. But I can’t tell her; not now, after all these years. I don’t want it to muddy her view of me.

‘Actually, I’m giving a talk at the library tonight for the WI,’ I say, as assertively as the deceit will allow. ‘It’s been planned for months.’

Her eyes don’t leave mine as she attempts to smoke out the lie, but eventually she gives up, her gaze dropping. ‘Okay, well if you do find yourself at a loose end in the next few weeks, you really ought to come and stay with me. It would do you some good to get away from the coast, and they do say that change is as good as a rest. Why don’t you come for a long weekend? Then I can show you what it’s really like to live in our nation’s capital, and you’ll see it’s not as scary as you think.’

I’m about to argue that it isn’t fear keeping me from moving when a gravelly voice calls out over my shoulder. ‘Excuse me, excuse me!’

We both turn to look, coming face to face with an older gentleman I feel like I vaguely recognise.

‘Ah, good, it is you,’ he says, with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. ‘I thought it was. May I have a moment of your time, Miss Hunter?’

He has the whitest head of hair I think I’ve ever seen and beneath the thick beard is a weathered face, yet there’s a glint in his bespectacled eyes. The cane hanging from his arm is gilded and well-cared for, and the tweed suit has been tailored to fit his ample body shape. Later in the year and dressed in red, I’d almost think I was speaking to a Lapland local. Something tells me he hasn’t interrupted us for an autograph.

Rachel opens her mouth to speak but the older man bangs the end of his cane on the hard floor. ‘It’s about my granddaughter, you see,’ he says firmly, evidently not a man used to being ignored. ‘One year ago today, she was abducted, and I want you to find out what happened to her.’

Chapter Four
Then

Rickmansworth, Hertfordshire

Penny Connors stepped back from the table and watched as small hands on spindly arms shot out and quickly emptied the bowls of crisps, pizzas, and sausage rolls. The plate of crustless sandwiches remained untouched, but she wasn’t surprised Sean’s class had all opted for the less healthy snacks first. That was precisely why she had yet to bring the large platter of cakes to the free-for-all, and why it was hidden in a draw of pans in the kitchen.

‘If anyone needs anything, Mr Connors and I will be just outside in the garden. Sean, can I borrow you for a minute?’

Sean pulled a face as he met his mother’s gaze, but didn’t challenge her request, sliding off his chair, and sullenly following her out of the room and into the kitchen.

‘Cheer up, sweetheart,’ Penny said warmly, keen not to spoil his day, but desperate to know the answer to her next question. ‘I just need to ask you something, and I wanted to do it away from all the others. When is the last time you remember seeing Cassie Hilliard? Only, your dad and I have checked the house and the garden, and we can’t seem to find her.’

Sean didn’t seem concerned by her absence. ‘I don’t know. Are you sure she’s even here?’

The image of Elizabeth Hilliard with that parasol filled Penny’s vision again. ‘Yes, she was definitely here. Do you remember? She was dressed as Ariel from The Little Mermaid, and gave you a present wrapped in silver and gold glitter paper.’

She knew this last detail would refresh his memory as he’d told her it looked really girly, whereas all the gifts from the rest of his class had come in wrapping paper adorned with superheroes and footballers.

‘Oh yeah,’ he said, twisting his mouth awkwardly, as he tried to recall any other details about the missing girl. ‘She was on the bouncy castle with the others. I remember that because she bashed into Jason, and they both fell over. They banged their heads I think.’

Penny widened her eyes. ‘Was she hurt?’

‘She didn’t cry,’ Sean confirmed, ‘but I don’t know where she went after that. Sorry, Mum. Can I go back to the food now?’ He began to move away.

‘Just a second,’ she said, reaching for his arm and gently pulling him back. ‘Did she say anything after she bumped her head? Was there any blood? Did she seem in pain?’

Sean shrugged, as he always did when he didn’t know how to answer a question. ‘No idea. We were all bouncing and laughing, and I don’t know what happened after. I don’t think she was bleeding.’

Penny nodded, knowing there was little further detail she’d be able to extract from her son’s fragile memory. ‘Okay, thank you. Listen, I’m going to go and join your dad searching in the garden. If anything happens in there,’ she indicated towards the dining room, ‘I want you to come and get one of us. Okay? If anything gets spilled, anyone needs anything else to eat or drink, or there are any arguments, come and get one of us.’

‘Sure,’ Sean replied, his mind already back on the plate of food waiting for him.

He hurried away and Penny took one final look in the dining room. She spotted Jason Knightwood at the end of the table, head low, nibbling on a sausage roll much like a squirrel might. Despite the raucous chatter from everyone else, he was sitting in silence. Odd boy, Penny thought again. Satisfied that all nineteen children seemed happy enough, and not in need of her attention, she made her way back through the kitchen and out onto the patio. Gerry was halfway up the garden, raising each side of the castle systematically, before stooping and looking beneath it.

‘Find anything?’ Penny asked as she joined him.

‘No,’ he sighed gruffly. ‘I just wondered whether she might have wandered behind the castle, and somehow got sucked under it.’ He shrugged his shoulders in the same way his son did. ‘Silly, but I just can’t work out where else she could be. I’ve tried looking at the rough end of the garden again, but there’s no obvious sign that any of them have been up there. You did tell them they weren’t to go beyond the castle or they’d get no cake, so I’d be surprised if any of them had.’

‘Was there anything on the security camera?’

‘No,’ he bristled. ‘She definitely didn’t leave via the front door.’

‘Sean said she bumped heads with one of the other children. What if she’s got a concussion, or is unconscious somewhere?’

‘I’d have found her by now if she was passed out somewhere in the garden. I’m telling you, Pen, she’s not out here. She must be inside.’

Penny could see the concern growing in her husband’s mocha-coloured eyes, and his thick, dark, bushy beard glistened with sweat. ‘I think we need to phone the police,’ Penny repeated. ‘I know it sounds ridiculous, but we don’t know where she is. There’s no way she could have got out, but what if someone did come in when we weren’t looking and took her? Can you, hand on heart, say you were watching all of the children the entire time? I can’t. I was so busy preparing the food and answering the door as new children arrived that I couldn’t tell you when she was even last seen by any of the children. For all we know, she could have been missing for nearly an hour.’

‘But who would want to abduct a six-year-old child from a classmate’s birthday party?’

‘You know as well as I do that the Hilliards are from good money. Her dad made the Forbes rich list two years ago. People with that kind of wealth attract enemies.’

‘But who even knew she was here apart from her parents? And who would have the audacity to snatch her from a stranger’s house? It’s too risky if you ask me. They’d have to know the whole layout of the building, all the entry and exit points, and that there wouldn’t be a houseful of parents watching. Even we thought there’d be at least another two adults here until this morning.’

Penny couldn’t answer. She felt sick to her stomach that they now found themselves in a situation where they might have to phone the authorities.

Gerry pivoted to scan the top end of the garden again before sighing heavily. ‘Okay, okay. Listen, we’ll do another check of the house, and if we still can’t find her, then we’ll phone the police.’

Penny followed him back to the house and they were about to head upstairs when Sean called out to them. ‘I’ll go,’ Penny said, as Gerry’s foot landed on the first step. ‘What is it?’ she asked Sean as he emerged from the dining room.

He was grinning like a Cheshire cat. ‘Look who I found.’ He turned back towards the dining room and as he did, Penny’s gaze immediately focused on a girl in a luminescent green dress with a wave of flowing cherry-red hair.

‘Cassie!’ Penny gasped.

Cassie Hilliard looked up at the call of her name and smiled as she pushed a Pringle into her mouth.

‘Gerry,’ Penny shouted over her shoulder as relief flooded her body. ‘It’s okay, she’s here. You can come back down.’

‘Do I get a reward for finding her?’ Sean asked, a cheeky glint in his eye.

Penny found herself chuckling and pulled her son into her arms, smothering the top of his head in kisses until he squirmed away, embarrassed in front of his friends, none of whom seemed to have noticed the onslaught of affection.

‘Cassie, can you come and speak to me in the kitchen please? It won’t take a minute,’ Penny asked.

Cassie lowered the next Pringle to her plate and made her way around the table, following Penny into the kitchen and waiting patiently until she was spoken to.

‘You gave us quite a scare there, young lady,’ Penny said, not wanting to chastise someone else’s child, but also keen to stress the worry that had built up almost to breaking point in the last fifteen minutes. ‘We thought you’d gone missing. Where have you been?’

Cassie lowered her eyes but didn’t respond.

‘It’s all right, sweetheart, you’re not in any trouble. I just want to understand where you went and what made you disappear.’

Her head remained bowed. ‘I got scared.’

Penny crouched, forcing eye contact. ‘What scared you? Was it because you bumped into Jason?’

The little girl shook her head. ‘I-I-I thought I heard a gun.’

Penny blinked several times as she tried to process this statement. ‘A gun?’

Cassie raised her head slightly. ‘Daddy told me that if I ever hear a gun I’m to run and hide, so that’s what I did.’

Gerry entered the kitchen, hanging back to allow the conversation to continue, but Penny couldn’t conceal her alarm at what Cassie had just told her. What kind of parent warned their child about what to do in a gun-related situation? Why would there ever be such a need? Although Sean had probably seen guns in use in some of the superhero films he’d watched, as far as he was concerned – based on the consistent message she and Gerry had delivered – that was just something that happened in the movies; people didn’t carry guns in the real world.

‘There are no guns here, sweetheart,’ Penny resumed. ‘Okay? Guns are what you see in films.’

Cassie pulled a disbelieving face. ‘No, Daddy said that there are bad men in the world who might want to hurt us, and they have guns. So, if I ever hear or see one, I’m to run and hide.’

Penny looked up at her husband, exasperated.

‘What made you think you’d heard a gun?’ Gerry asked from where he was leaning against the counter top.

‘There was a loud bang,’ she protested. ‘Didn’t you hear it?’

Gerry thought back before snapping his fingers. ‘A car backfired,’ he said, glancing at Penny. ‘I remember now. One of the neighbours’ cars I presume. Around twenty to thirty minutes ago. That must have been what you heard, Cassie. Just a car backfiring. Mrs Connors is right; there are no guns here.’

Penny couldn’t recall hearing any car backfiring, but the radio had been on in the kitchen when she’d been cutting the crusts off the sandwiches. ‘Where did you go when you heard the bang, sweetheart?’

‘I was in the toilet when I heard it so I hid in your bedroom, under the bed.’

Penny frowned. ‘Our bedroom? But the door was locked.’ She turned back to Gerry. ‘I never checked that room because I remember locking it this morning before the first children arrived. There was no way she could have been in there.’

Gerry pulled a face. ‘Shoot! That may be my fault. I went up to change my shirt and I don’t remember locking the door again. I’m sorry.’

Penny turned back to Cassie. ‘Well, there’s no harm done. I’m sorry that the backfiring car scared you, Cassie. I wish you’d come and spoken to me or Mr Connors and we would have assured you that it wasn’t the sound of a gun.’

‘Can I go and eat now, please?’

Penny nodded, offering a reassuring smile. ‘Of course you can. Run along.’

The cherry-red wig swished as she skipped back to the dining room, leaving Penny searching her husband’s eyes for reassurance before he looked away.

‘Come along, Cassie,’ Elizabeth Hilliard said as she waited impatiently by the front door, not wishing to enter in case any of the other children caught her new cashmere coat with their grubby fingers. The sun was close to setting, and she was bloody freezing.

‘Can I have a word?’ Penny asked, as she handed Cassie a cheap-looking party bag. ‘There was an incident earlier when Cassie got scared by a neighbour’s car backfiring.’

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow, feigning interest, but hoping not to be held up much longer. They were already running late for her next appointment and she didn’t have time to pander to some woman’s irrational concerns.

‘Anyway, I told her that guns aren’t something a six-year-old should be worrying about in this country,’ Penny continued, with no obvious let-up in sight.

‘Thank you,’ Elizabeth interrupted, ‘but we really must be on our way. Come along, Cassie. And say thank you to Mrs Connors.’

Cassie did as she was told and soon fell in step behind her mother, climbing up into the Range Rover and fastening her seatbelt. Elizabeth signalled to the driver they were ready, the engine started, and they pulled away.

‘Did you have fun at the party?’ Elizabeth asked her daughter.

‘Yes, thank you. They had a bouncy castle, and we ate pizza and crisps and cake for supper. It was fab!’

Elizabeth tried not to turn up her nose, instead reaching for her phone, unlocking the screen, and opening her emails. ‘Well, at least you enjoyed yourself, I suppose. I’ll have Rosa draw you a bath when we get in and get you cleaned up.’

The Range Rover picked up speed as they joined the narrow A-road that would eventually return them to more clement surroundings. In Elizabeth’s periphery, the large hedgerows streamed by the window in a blur and the air conditioning hummed as it maintained the cool climate.

An explosion shattered the silence.

The rear end of the car swung round as the driver lost control and Elizabeth’s world slowed as it rose and dipped, her beaded necklace flying past her eyes, fragments of the shattered window floating through the air like powder in a snow globe, the phone falling from her grip.

The ringing in her ears wouldn’t stop as the Range Rover landed on its side.

Cassie was suspended just above her by her seatbelt. It felt like a dream. No, a nightmare. She was paralysed by fear, unable to comprehend what had just happened.

Had they hit something? Was that it? But what on earth could have been large enough to flip a car this size?

A muffled scream wrenched her attention back to the vehicle, and she looked up in horror as a gloved hand reached in through the broken window and hoisted Cassie back out through it in one seamless movement, the seatbelt hanging uselessly in her wake.

Elizabeth reached up in desperation but barely brushed the edge of her daughter’s cherry-red wig before she disappeared into the darkness.

Chapter Five
Now

Blackfriars, London

‘My name is Templeton, Lord Fitzhume,’ the man with the cane begins once we’re seated in the lobby. ‘Forgive me for intruding on your day, but you are a difficult woman to get hold of.’

I never used to be. Rachel has gone, excusing herself with traitorous mutterings of deadlines, so I try to fix an earnest and encouraging expression on my face.

Fitzhume removes a red silk handkerchief from inside his tweed jacket and wipes his forehead, pausing to regain his composure. I’d probably place him in his mid-seventies on account of how much he’s panting from just the movement to the seat. Something tells me that despite the polished exterior, things are not quite right beneath the surface; his reliance on that cane is further evidence of a man in pain.

‘Have we met before?’ I ask, unable to quite place the familiarity of his face.

He smiles and returns the handkerchief to his jacket pocket. ‘I, like you, am not immune to having my picture captured for one periodical or another. Alas for me, mine is more to do with my family’s wealth rather than noble deeds such as bringing a ring of monsters to justice.’

‘I was just an instrument; the victims are the real heroes for coming forward. You said you’ve been trying to contact me. What is it exactly that you think I can do for you?’

‘Cassie Hilliard is my granddaughter. Does that name mean anything to you?’

I can’t say I recognise the name but the way he’s looking at me, his eyes glowing with expectant hope, his lips slightly parted, as if he is willing me to say I know exactly who his granddaughter is, makes me want to tell him I do.

‘I’m sorry, it doesn’t,’ I tell him as gently as I can, expecting to see the despondency return, but he bangs his cane on the floor once again, the sound echoing off the marbled wall closest to the leather bench we’re propped up on.

‘The car carrying Cassie and her mother – my daughter, Elizabeth – was driven off the road twelve months ago, and that was the last time any of us saw six-year-old Cassie. She was extracted from the car by a pair of masked invaders, leaving my barely conscious daughter in a state of shock. The family chauffeur was able to confirm to police that he witnessed two masked bandits in dark jeans and leather jackets, but they were gone before he could release himself from the upturned vehicle. It’s a story which would have made all of the newspapers had I not paid to have it kept out of the public eye. It doesn’t surprise me that you are not aware of what happened because only a dozen or so people in the entire world know that my granddaughter was so cruelly taken from us.’

As he speaks, I’m desperately trying to recall any stories from the past year that match any of the detail he has provided, but I soon draw a blank. He could have just as easily invented the whole thing and I would be none the wiser. But the way he speaks, with such authority and more than a hint of remorse, I find myself believing every word.

‘I’m so sorry to hear about your loss,’ I offer, but I know better than anyone that my words mean nothing to someone who has lived through those events. ‘I don’t wish to be blunt, Lord Fitzhume, but why is it you’re telling me about this?’

The twinkle is back in his eyes and he straightens slightly, taking in the vast lobby. ‘Do you have children, Miss Hunter?’

I shake my head.

‘Any brothers or sisters?’

‘A sister,’ I say, picturing her sweet face. ‘Well, I did… I mean…’ I can’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to hear about the baggage I carry with me every day.

‘They say having children changes you as a person,’ he continues. ‘It changes your priorities and expectations in life. Most will learn to settle for what they have and wave goodbye to any long-term dreams they had. Don’t misunderstand me, Miss Hunter; becoming a parent doesn’t force you to give up on hope and ambition – if anything, it focuses that hope towards your infant – but we all make a conscious choice to put the best interests of our child ahead of our own. Granted, that’s not true for every parent, but most do experience some kind of shift in their moral compass.’

He wipes his forehead again and sighs. ‘I wasn’t as involved in Elizabeth’s life as I wish I had been. My own stupid fault chasing after one foreign adventure or another and I didn’t realise the error of my ways until it was too late. And that is why, you see, when Cassie was born, I was determined to make amends. She became my reason for living. If becoming a parent changes you as a person, then becoming a grandparent changes you even more. Every day since that angel arrived in our lives has been a blessing, and when she was taken it was the saddest day I can ever recall.’

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ I offer, still uncertain why he has approached me… and today of all days.

‘My granddaughter hasn’t been seen since the day she was abducted, Miss Hunter, but I am certain she is still alive out there somewhere and I want your help to find her.’

I don’t speak for what feels like an eternity. ‘With respect, Lord Fitzhume, I’m not sure I’m the right person for this. I’m a journalist, not a private investigator. Presumably, you’ve made the police aware that your granddaughter was abducted?’

The bang of the cane echoes off the wall again. ‘Of course we did!’ The relaxed smile has gone, and he is once again leaning heavily on the handle of the cane, as if he might crumple if it were swiped away. ‘They were the first people we called, and they did what they could – even caught up with one of the abductors – but they never brought Cassie home. As far as they’re concerned, she died in their company and so the case is closed.’

My phone is buzzing in my pocket and, as I look at the screen, I can see it is Maddie, probably wondering how much longer I plan to be away from her small office party.

I reject the call and fix Fitzhume with my sincerest smile. ‘If the police have reason to believe that Cassie died after she was taken, what makes you think they are wrong?’

He reaches for the handkerchief again, this time wiping the small pool of spit gathered at the corner of his mouth. ‘It is too easy a conclusion to assume that they killed her. With everything that happened after that awful day, it is the easy way out. It’s more convenient to say she died than continue to search. I offered them a king’s ransom to continue searching but they refused. That’s why I need you, Miss Hunter. I need the help of someone who doesn’t take no for an answer, someone who knows what it takes to separate the lies from the half-truths. Without your help, Arthur Turgood and that ring of monsters would never have faced justice. I’m willing to pay whatever it takes to secure your time, Miss Hunter. I need your investigative skills.’

I can just picture the pound signs in Maddie’s eyes, but he really has approached the wrong person. ‘I’m sorry, Lord Fitzhume, but I think you have the wrong idea about me. I am not some investigator for hire. My role in the St Francis Home case came about because I felt passionately about helping those in need of a voice. With all due respect, I’m not what you need. I appreciate that my name is being bandied about because of the High Court case, but I’m not a resource that you can add to your payroll. There must be hundreds of qualified, professional investigators who’d be prepared to take on your case. I’m just a writer. I’m sorry, but the last thing I want to do is lead you down the garden path. You need more than I can offer.’

I’m half expecting to hear the sound of the cane reverberating again but instead he sticks a hand back into his jacket and withdraws a card, handing it towards me. ‘I appreciate your honesty, Miss Hunter, and thank you for your time. Please take my number in case you change your mind.’

I accept the card out of politeness but have no intention of ever using the contact details on it. We both stand and I wish him good luck with finding his missing granddaughter. I’ll admit I feel guilty as hell as I watch him struggle through the revolving door and out into the warm, late-summer sunshine.

Swiping my pass at the security barrier, I head back towards the bank of lifts and wait to board and return to the sixth floor. Only Maddie remains in her office as I enter.

‘Oh, there you are,’ she coos from behind her desk, four half-empty champagne flutes standing on the periphery of the mess. ‘I was beginning to think they’d carted you off for some devious offence I had no idea about. I told the others you’re probably some top-secret agent needed to defuse a diplomatic incident or secretly leading a double life as a porn star.’

I raise my eyebrows at this last remark but she waves away my concern.

‘Only kidding. Shall I get the others back? I didn’t know how long you’d be so I told them to go back to work, but if you’re ready to get the celebration going again, I can—’

‘Do you mind if we don’t?’ I interrupt, realising I’m once again chewing the sleeve of my cardigan.

She fixes me with a sympathetic look, but doesn’t oppose. ‘I had a phone call from Freddie Mitchell. He wanted you to know how grateful he is and said they’ll be throwing a small wake in honour of those voices silenced before today’s verdict, if you wanted to go along. He says they’ll be holding it in The Black Horse on the waterfront but that you’d know where that was.’

The place where Freddie first opened up about his history; I know it well. I don’t think I really want to intrude on what is sure to be an emotional night for all involved. I’ll give Freddie a call later and make my excuses.

‘Thanks for letting me know,’ I tell Maddie.

‘We should probably book some time in to discuss your next project. Have you had any thoughts yet on how you want to follow up on Monsters Under the Bed?’

I’m glad she’s raised this question as we’ve been skirting around it for the last couple of weeks, but with all the hoo-ha of the trial, neither of us has been brave enough to take the first step.

‘I want to write about my sister,’ I say in the same voice in which I’ve rehearsed it in front of the mirror. ‘I think, given my personal interest in the story, I can give it a unique spin. I still think there are people out there who know more about what happened than they’ve previously shared with—’

‘I know how passionate you are,’ she interrupts, ‘but I just don’t think there’s a market for it now. If you had a fresh source who could shed some light on the story then fine, but all you’ve got is hearsay based on your hours of research when the rest of us are receiving a healthy dose of sleep. I admire your determination to discover the truth about what happened, but I just don’t think it has the legs to get the green light from the publisher. They loved what you did with the St Francis Home for Wayward Boys story, and how you managed to get close enough to the victims to earn their trust and uncover the gruesome details. That’s the sort of story they want to see for your second book of the contract.’

This is exactly what I was afraid she would say.

‘Monsters has been a bigger success than any of us predicted,’ she continues, ‘and there’s an opportunity to locate similar cases and deliver the same kind of success as you did for Freddie Mitchell and the others. See what you can dig up and I’ll book some time in for us to discuss it early next week.’

I thank Maddie for her time, as I always do, leave what remains in my plastic flute, grab my bag and head back out. I know I’m lucky to have an agent who only cares for my interests and I don’t like feeling down about the fact she has dismissed the project I’ve set my heart on. Catching the lift back to the lobby, I can’t stop thinking about the look of raw anguish in Fitzhume’s eyes, and although I’m certain I did the right thing in turning him down, it weighs heavy on my heart.

Chapter Six
Now

Blackfriars, London

The warm breeze smacks my cheeks as I emerge from the revolving doors and, with my head down, I allow my feet to take control. I don’t respond to the gasp of someone recognising me and quickly snapping a photograph on his phone. I’m not sure what he plans to do with an image of a woman with far too much on her mind and I’m not even bothered that I probably look haggard and distressed. When did it become okay for strangers to just take photographs of others without asking permission? The advance of mobile-phone technology has turned everyone into a potential paparazzo.

Bestselling Author Spotted in London, is hardly the stuff of sensationalist headlines. Maybe that image will appear on the front cover of one of those airbrushed glossy gossip magazines in the weeks to come, and then a panel of people whose opinion means nothing to me will dissect the lack of colour in my cheeks, the dowdy cardigan that has seen better days, and the messy hair clearly in need of a good brush and trim. None of this is anywhere close to my mind as I continue to pound the pavement, replaying the meeting with Fitzhume in my memory.

I know it’s guilt that’s forcing me to relive every sentence, but why should I be feeling guilty? I hadn’t even heard about his granddaughter’s disappearance until he mentioned it. In fact, it’s his fault that I remained oblivious to the news after he paid to have it kept out of the public eye. But even if he hadn’t, and the story had made every front page across the country, it’s not my fault that she was never found; yet the contrition remains.

I stop suddenly as my mind comes into alignment and the truth pokes me like a stick in the eye.

Looking around, I’m suddenly conscious of my surroundings. I’ve been so buried in my own thoughts that I have no idea where I am or even if I’m anywhere near where I should be. To my left and right, traffic chugs slowly in both directions, beyond which the python-like Thames stretches as far as the eye can see. Like used dishwater, it is the heartbeat of the city, growing more polluted with every passing second – a damning indictment of the capitalists looking to profit from the downfall of others.

Stepping to the side of Millennium Bridge, I grip the railing as my knees threaten to buckle under the exertion of the journey here. There is a man leaning a few feet away and the scent of his vape smoke threatens the contents of my stomach. I’m about to shuffle further down when he ends the call he’s making and pulls away, giving me a secondary glance as he does. I can see that look of recognition in his eyes but at least he has the decency to simply gawp rather than framing the scene for eternity on Instagram.

‘Whoa, Emma, are you okay?’ a welcome voice pants from behind me.

Turning, I can’t even bring myself to smile at Rachel whose face is mostly hidden behind a large pair of black designer frames.

‘You’re white as a sheet!’ she exclaims, and despite the warmth of the weather, my face feels like ice.

‘I just need a minute,’ I tell her, turning back to stare out to the river which could tell a million tales about those who pass and cross it each day.

‘You didn’t look a hundred per cent when I left you in the lobby,’ Rachel explains, ‘so I came back to check on you. We must have just missed each other in the lifts because I saw you exiting and had to run to catch up. What did the old man have to say for himself?’

I’m surprised she hadn’t recognised Lord Fitzhume but I don’t share his name. ‘He wanted to hire me to write a story,’ I say instead.

‘That’s a good thing, surely? Why the long face?’

Why am I feeling so guilty about turning down a man who’s asked me to help find his missing granddaughter? I can’t tell Rachel. It’s been too long. Too many bricks have been laid in creating our friendship-bridge to tear them all down with a wrecking ball.

‘I told him he’d be better off hiring a private detective.’

Rachel frowns at me. ‘What aren’t you telling me?’

Her eyes are searching for answers my mouth isn’t prepared to give, but my body language isn’t so discreet.

‘What’s going on, Emma? Don’t tell me you’re okay because right now you look as likely to jump from this bridge as you do to walk from it. What’s put you so on edge? I’m a journalist for The Telegraph; you know I’ll find out eventually. If there’s something troubling you then I want – no, I demand – to know what it is.’

A flash of the day we first met suddenly appears before my eyes: me dressed in faded dungarees carrying my dad’s old, battered brown suitcase; Rachel in a mini-dress, exuding confidence I could only dream of. She wasn’t the sort of girl I was used to speaking to – no chess club on her résumé. But she had been eager to find out all about her new roommate, opening a bottle of cheap supermarket wine and a bag of Doritos, and refusing to let me collect the rest of my things until we’d finished both. I could have told her everything then; no, I should have told her everything then, but somewhere in the back of my head I’d allowed my paranoia to keep quiet about the reality of my history.

She’d accepted me for who I was – at least, the version of myself I’d shared – and on that uneven foundation we’d built a friendship: her the beautiful and sassy princess, me the lady-in-waiting dragged along for the ride. I wouldn’t have had it any other way. So, as she continues to burrow that inquisitive stare into my temples, I’m fighting with all my willpower not to undo history.

‘Does it have something to do with what the old man said to you?’ Rachel tries again, her intuition set to spot any tell or facial tick my body might divulge against my will.

I don’t respond, but she was there when he said his granddaughter had been abducted.

Suddenly, all I can see is Anna.

At the time, Mum said I wasn’t to blame, but I’ll never forgive myself for the argument that led to my sister stomping away in a huff. I still remember the scene as if it was yesterday. I’m sure my imagination has filled some of the holes in the memory, re-painting the background of the day, but that scowl on her face, those tears threatening to spill, are permanently etched on my mind.

I nod involuntarily as Rachel continues to await my response.

‘What did he say to you?’ she tries again.

I close my eyes, willing Anna’s tear-stained face to dissipate.

‘Does this have anything to do with the vigil you hold on that missing people website every night?’

My eyes snap open despite the sting of tears threatening to reveal all my secrets.

‘You think I didn’t know what you were doing in the early hours when we were in halls of residence? I would sense you some nights, coming over to check I was asleep before logging on. At first I thought you were one of those World of Warcraft nerds, but when I checked your browser history all I saw was that site. I figured you were deleting your internet search history, covering something much worse, but you weren’t, were you? What is it you don’t want me to know, Emma? I mean… I know what it is to keep secrets from those closest to you, and something tells me I’m getting close.’

I have to blink away the tears but I’m already past the point of no return. ‘Twenty years ago, my sister Anna was abducted and never found.’

The weight lifted from my shoulders makes me feel as though I might even take flight from this bridge and I have to grip the railing tighter just in case.

Rachel’s eyes narrow as the cogs behind them turn. ‘Oh my God, Emma, I’m so sorry.’

I was bracing myself for a verbal assault that I very much deserve, but Rachel’s reaction brings the tears closer to the precipice.

‘I don’t really remember what the argument was about. We were in the front yard, and I was on the skateboard Dad had bought me in the charity shop. I think Anna was saying I was doing it wrong, but I thought I knew better. She kept trying to get me off the stupid contraption but I didn’t want to listen. If only I had let her show me… then she wouldn’t have become upset and shouted that she was going to Grandma’s house. If I’d known that would be the last time I’d see her… I would have stopped her going, or I would have gone with her, or even told my parents that’s where she was going. But as a selfish and naïve seven-year-old I did none of those things; I was just happy to have the skateboard and yard to myself, without her interfering.’

Rachel hasn’t moved, I’m not even sure if she’s blinked in the last two minutes. I have to close my eyes to continue, as I don’t want to see the hurt and disappointment in her eyes.

‘I learned later that eighteen minutes elapsed before Dad came out of the front door and asked me where Anna was. I told him she’d walked to our grandma’s house, which was only four minutes away. It wasn’t uncommon for us to walk to her house, though I wasn’t allowed to do it on my own, but Anna was two years older than me, and she was trusted. There were no main roads to cross, and the alleyway between our road and my grandma’s road was surprisingly well-lit at night-time.’

I can still hear the piercing scream Mum let out when the police officer shook his head and said there was still no sign of her.

The tears are falling even though my eyes remain firmly clamped shut. ‘Apparently, another five minutes passed before Dad told Mum that Anna had gone to Grandma’s house, at which point Mum phoned Grandma to tell Anna to be home by five for dinner. That was the moment the alarm was raised, the moment both my parents lost years off their lifespans.’

I’m not even sure if Rachel is still here. I can’t hear her breathing and I wouldn’t blame her for hightailing it away. I’m not the person she thought I was and it feels somehow fitting that the only other sister I have in the world would abandon me here and now.

Only, she doesn’t. Instead, my best friend for the last eight years does something I don’t deserve: she wraps her arms around me and pulls me into the warmth of her embrace. ‘I am so sorry you’ve had to live with this on your own for so long. I don’t blame you for not telling me, but I wish you had so I could have been a better friend.’

My sister never made it to Grandma’s house and, despite an intense police investigation that seemed to last for months, she was never found. Nobody witnessed her journey; not a single nosey neighbour happened to be looking out of their window as she walked by; not a single dog walker happened to be in that alleyway when she was. Actresses were hired to play the two of us in the televised reconstruction and I remember thinking at the time that the actress playing Anna looked nothing like her, but I must have watched that reconstruction hundreds of times down the years and I now see that facially they were very similar. I met the two actresses before filming started and I think it’s my memory of that conversation that made me believe that she was nothing like Anna. The actress wanted to play with my doll’s house and she had such a pretty smile.

She wasn’t my Anna.

Things were never the same at home after that. My parents seemed to argue more. Mum gave up her job so she could continue searching for Anna and Dad spent more and more time at work. Then one day, when I was twelve, they sat me down and explained that they were going to get a divorce. I cried myself to sleep that night knowing that, had I just let Anna use my bloody skateboard, they would have stayed together. Dad moved out to a grubby flat not much bigger than our old living room but it was two bus rides away. Even though I was a trustworthy child, Mum never allowed me to travel there on my own. That was the other thing that changed after my sister’s disappearance: Mum’s paranoia spiked. She wouldn’t let me go anywhere on my own. Even when I turned fifteen, and all my friends would go out to the shops at the weekend, I was forbidden from going. I wasn’t allowed to date anyone and I nearly didn’t make it to university because she was so scared she’d never see me again. I had to promise I would phone or send her a text message every day so she knew I was safe.

I’ve never felt safer than I do right now, pressed up against Rachel’s T-shirt. ‘Anna’s case file remains open and unsolved with the police,’ I tell her. ‘I receive a phone call once a year when someone draws a short straw and is instructed to review the file for updates, and inevitably lets me know there are no fresh leads.’

I allow myself to look up as I feel a drop of water splash against my forehead, followed by another and another. The sun is still shining brightly in the distance, but a passing cloud has decided to drop its payload in this time and place. Neither Rachel nor I move from our position.

‘No wonder that guy’s story upset you so much,’ Rachel says tenderly. ‘You poor, poor thing. I’m amazed you managed to keep such a secret so quiet for so long.’

‘This year marks the twentieth anniversary of her disappearance,’ I say, staring back out at the murky river. ‘Twenty years of not knowing where she is, nor what happened to her, nor whether she’s still alive.’

‘That’s one hell of a burden to carry on your own.’

I meet her stare. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before.’

Her lips flatten into a thin and strained smile. ‘I understand it’s a precious part of you, and I don’t blame you for not sharing.’

In that moment, I decide I’m not going to bow to Maddie’s pressure. I’ve spent the last three years fighting for Freddie and now, having to set aside Anna’s disappearance, enough is enough. To hell with what my publisher wants, what Maddie thinks will sell, and to hell with Fitzhume for thinking I’m for sale. I know where my future lies, and that’s moving heaven and earth to find out where my sister is.

I wrap my arm around Rachel’s waist, not wanting this moment of revelation to end, but aware that it is beyond my control. A small tugboat emerges from beneath our feet, the sound of its wake crashing against the shoreline, reminding me of the sound of Weymouth Bay and all the promise of home.

‘What time does your train go?’ Rachel asks.

‘Soon,’ I tell her, checking my watch, the sound of home calling me to Waterloo.

Chapter Seven
Then

Chalfont St Giles, Buckinghamshire

The sound of an engine revving was followed by the groaning of the driver as the tinnitus slowly began to fade.

‘They’ve taken Cassie!’ Elizabeth Hilliard yelled, though it sounded muffled.

Her whole body ached and as she tried to take in her immediate surroundings, she could feel shards of broken window pressing into her right shoulder. The seat belt had her fully restrained but, fumbling with the catch, she was able to wrestle the strap away, and move herself into an upright position.

Hobbs, the driver, was still groggy, his head lolling from side to side as his brain tried to make sense of what had happened. He was no use to her in that condition. Pressing her heeled shoe into his headrest, she delicately gripped the edges of Cassie’s broken window, jagged edges breaking her soft skin. Driving her left foot into the middle headrest of the rear seat, she managed to poke her head through the window frame, and scanned the road for any sign of her daughter’s abductors.

To her right she just caught sight of the dark van with blacked-out windows as it broke around the bend ahead in the road. There was no way of seeing the registration number and she screamed out in agony as a hundred thoughts raced across her battered mind.

Where are they taking her? Who has taken her? Will I ever see her again?

Screeching tyres to her left were followed by slammed doors as the two occupants, a black couple dressed in white polo shirts and colourful tracksuit bottoms, exited and rushed over to the car.

‘Jesus Christ!’ the man exclaimed. ‘Are you all right? What happened?’

Elizabeth turned to face the two of them, her mind still a blur. She knew she needed to act fast but she wasn’t sure how to.

‘I’ll call for an ambulance,’ the woman said, putting a phone to her ear and moving away from them so she could relay what had happened.

Her partner, with a crisp white sweatband wrapped around his forehead, looked as though he had just stepped onto the courts at Wimbledon. He was tall enough that he didn’t need to stretch to see her.

‘Let me help you get out,’ he suggested, moving closer to the car, but hesitantly, as if he couldn’t quite determine whether it was safe to be so close to a potential fire hazard. ‘Can you move okay? Are there any broken bones?’

She didn’t respond. Shock had settled in, her mind little more than clouds as grey as those overhead.

‘Whoa, whoa there,’ the man said, taking her hand in his, warmth radiating from it. ‘You nearly passed out there. Here, let me help you out; I think there’s something leaking beneath the car, and it smells like diesel.’

She allowed him to put his warm hands beneath her arms and he began to lift her before stopping.

‘Hold on, all this broken glass could cut you up. I have a picnic blanket in the boot. Give me a second.’

He released his grip, and she nearly crumpled back into the belly of the car as her knees threatened to give way, but she just about managed to hang on to the jagged frame, watching the stranger race to the back of his car, open the boot, and return carrying a tartan woollen blanket that he then pushed in through the window, using it to bash out more shards. Flattening the blanket so that it covered the lower half of the window, he placed his hands beneath her arms again and almost effortlessly pulled her through.

‘An ambulance is on its way,’ his partner said, joining them. He helped Elizabeth to the edge of the road, several metres away from the upturned Range Rover.

Elizabeth looked back at the wreck, only now seeing that the entire rear passenger-side wheel was missing… but not just the tyre; it was as if something had bitten a chunk out of that section of the car. A thin trail of smoke rose from where she’d emerged.

‘How are you feeling?’ the woman asked.

Elizabeth was about to respond when a roaring burn in the back of her throat forced her head between her legs and she retched painfully. The image of Cassie disappearing with the gloved hand fired back to the front of her mind.

‘Police,’ she said, looking from the man to the woman. ‘They took my daughter. Phone the police.’

With the narrow road now cordoned off to prevent further traffic, a team of men and women dressed in protective overalls swarmed around the car. Still groggy, Hobbs had been cut from the vehicle and transported to hospital for further observation but Elizabeth remained at the scene. Wrapped in a protective foil blanket for warmth, and with her knees tucked beneath her chin, she tried her best to answer the questions being thrown at her by the woman in uniform who had identified herself as PS Zoe Parsons.

‘It looks as if some kind of propelled rocket was used to disable your car,’ the young officer said, reading from her notebook. ‘The fact that they stopped to take Cassie on this particular stretch of road suggests that this was a targeted attack as opposed to a chance encounter.’

Elizabeth wiped her eyes which hadn’t stopped running since she’d demanded the couple who’d stopped to aid her call the police.

‘Where is my daughter?’ she asked again.

PS Parsons stepped further into the ambulance, closing the door behind her. ‘You did the right thing in calling us. We’ve put an alert out to our colleagues across London. They’re searching for Cassie based on the picture you forwarded to me and for the van based on the description you provided. We also have a team of officers scouring for CCTV to track the van’s movements. We will narrow the search and do our best to get her back.’

Elizabeth didn’t share her optimism. ‘What kind of sick bastards would do something like that?’

‘Mrs Hilliard, given the equipment used by the perpetrators, and the speed with which they were able to get away, I believe we are dealing with professionals. Now, either these men were hired by someone to cripple the car and take Cassie, or they’re acting under their own volition. Either way, these are not just a couple of crooks who acted on the spur of the moment; this operation took time and planning. You said you were travelling back from a children’s birthday party? Who knew that you would be there?’

Elizabeth frowned at the question. ‘You think the parents of that child did this?’

Parsons shook her head. ‘Not necessarily, but we need to establish the identities of anyone who knew you would be on this particular stretch of road at this particular time. Is this a road you travel along often?’

Elizabeth winced as the pain in her head erupted from where she’d bashed it during the crash. ‘My driver chose the route. I think it’s the direct way from their house in Rickmansworth to our home in Chalfont St Giles. I don’t know. I don’t drive.’

A knock on the side of the van was followed by a male officer opening the rear door and Elizabeth’s husband Richard jumped into the ambulance and joined his wife on the edge of the mattress. He didn’t embrace her; he never embraced her anymore. Reaching for her hand, he squeezed it limply.

‘I’ll give you two a moment to talk,’ Parsons said, excusing herself and closing the door.

The formality of their relationship was as painful now as it had been when he’d first told her he was gay. Their tragedy was a marriage neither of them could leave because of the lies that held their entire world together. But right now, she just wanted him to hold her and tell her that everything would be okay.

Richard spoke first. ‘I phoned your father and he’s going to catch the next flight back from Geneva. He should be here in a few hours.’

Elizabeth wiped her eyes again. ‘Who took her?’

He didn’t respond, staring at his feet as if the answer might be found on his handmade moccasins.

‘Richard, I swear to God, if this has got anything to do with you, I’ll—’

The ambulance shook as he leapt to his feet and glared at her. ‘What do you take me for? How could you think I would…?’ But his words trailed off as his eyes filled with tears.

Elizabeth swallowed down her own sob. ‘I didn’t mean that you had taken her, but I know your line of work attracts enemies, Richard. You may not tell me about the day-to-day running of things, but I’m not deaf and blind. Not taking an interest is not the same as being ignorant.’

He was still glaring at her but anger was swiftly turning into shock. ‘Tell me what you saw. Did they say anything?’

‘I saw a glove. That’s it. A single gloved hand that reached in and took our daughter.’ She paused, watching the muscles twisting in his face and the way his eyes darted left and right, searching for answers. ‘Oh my God… You know who took her, don’t you?’

His head snapped up and, despite its shaking, his eyes betrayed the truth.

Elizabeth jumped down from the trolley, swallowing the space between them until her face was almost touching his. ‘Who are they? What do they want with Cassie?’

Richard stepped backwards, almost bumping into the door. ‘I don’t know who’s taken her; I’m as dumbfounded by this unfolding situation as you.’

But she didn’t buy it. ‘Either you tell me the truth or I’m calling in that police officer and you can explain to her what you know. So help me, Richard, I don’t care who I have to throw under the bus to get my child back!’

He took her hand and pulled her to the opposite end of the cabin. ‘Shush. I swear to you, I don’t know who took her,’ he whispered. ‘Do you really think I’d be standing here if I did? You’re right that my work does attract enemies, and I will kick over every stone until I find who is responsible, but I really am in the dark here too. There must be something else you remember about what happened. Are you sure they didn’t say anything? Anything at all?’

Elizabeth closed her eyes, replaying the moment in her memory again. ‘No, I told you, no words were spoken. Or if they were, I didn’t hear them over the ringing in my ears. All I saw was that…’ She didn’t finish the sentence. She couldn’t finish the sentence as the image in her head sharpened and for the first time she realised exactly what she had seen, something she hadn’t noticed until that moment.

‘Four fingers. The hand I saw was missing a digit!’

Chapter Eight
Now

Weymouth, Dorset

I’m somewhere between sleep and waking when a loud banging at the door cuts through the haze. Opening my eyes, I’m surprised to see the ceiling fan overhead… until the temporary amnesia wanes and I realise I must have fallen asleep at my desk last night. My laptop is still displaying the homepage of the site I created to further the search for Anna. Having arrived home late, I’d made a coffee and headed straight for the desk, desperate to see if anyone had messaged with any news since I’d posted the new images. I had paid a specialist company to mock up some images of what Anna might look like now. It wasn’t cheap, but what’s the point of sharing a picture of Anna from when she was taken? If she’s still alive she will no longer look like that same clumsy nine-year-old who preferred football to dolls, and trains to unicorns.

Her eyes are the same, but I don’t recognise the rest of the face staring back at me on the screen. I supplied the company with some digital copies of pictures of Anna, her face captured at as many different angles as possible, in order for them to create a 3D composite of her face, which they subsequently aged with skin tone manipulation and various hairstyles. The Anna on the screen now is a virtual stranger to me, and if I walked past her on the street, there would be no way of knowing she was my big sister. It drives me crazy to think I could have walked past her in the last twenty years and not realised. I can’t imagine what type of clothes she would be wearing these days. Would her obsession with dungarees and parkas have evolved into jumpsuits and trench coats or would she have found a completely different style?

I showed Mum the older versions of Anna but she didn’t think they were an accurate portrayal of the daughter she’s been mourning for twenty years. We don’t often talk about that time anymore. It’s too painful for Mum and I don’t want to make her relive the nightmare. I remember the media attention that followed the police appeal for information. I remember my parents both being accused of negligence. I remember the police investigating them both in case they were somehow involved. Despite my witness account that both my parents were in the house when Anna stomped away from our front garden, the police weren’t prepared to take the word of a vulnerable seven-year-old who would naturally jump to the defence of her parents.

I dare myself to sip the half-drunk coffee and wince at the error as the cold liquid washes over my tongue. Beside the mug lies the battered, old edition of Elinor Wylie poems that Anna would never be without… until that day. It’s face down at Anna’s favourite poem, ‘Full Moon’; back then it was all just garbled nonsense to me, but now I understand why she loved it so.

Sitting upright, curious to know who could be disturbing me so early, I wipe the damp from the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand, pull the glasses down from the top of my head, and make my way to the front door, stifling a yawn as I unfasten the chain and stare through the gap.

‘Morning, sunshine,’ Freddie Mitchell trills from just outside, grinning. He lifts two takeaway cups and a small paper bag. ‘I brought you breakfast. Can I come in?’

My mind is still half asleep, but I pull the door open and the five-foot-tall Freddie enters my flat, the smell of fresh pastry wafting after him as he heads through to the kitchen and places his treasures on the table. He immediately opens the blind, allowing bright sunshine to flow in through the window, and I won’t deny feeling guilty at the state of the kitchen. Half a dozen plates, bowls, and mugs – which I’d meant to wash-up yesterday – are lined up beside the sink, but my eyes have barely left the screen of my laptop since I returned from London.

I’ll admit it: I’m a slob when I become enveloped by a story. It isn’t something I’m proud of, and I certainly wouldn’t choose to invite people to my flat when it’s in this state, but in my defence, I didn’t invite Freddie over. Besides, he’s not just people. Not anymore.

He’s watching me as I rub sleep from my eyes. ‘Heavy night?’ he asks, without judgement. ‘God knows, I’ve had a few of those.’

‘Not what you think,’ I say, stifling another yawn. ‘I was working.’

Freddie nods. ‘Well, it’s just as well your fairy godmother has come to your rescue. Sit down and I’ll find you a plate.’

He’s emphasising his naturally effeminate voice, which is something he does when he’s nervous of his surroundings, a defence mechanism he’s been employing since he was a child. Even though he’s rapidly approaching his fortieth birthday, it’s still his go-to setting. I know that if I ask him what’s wrong he’ll pretend everything is okay, but if I can keep him here and talking for long enough, he’ll eventually settle and tell me whatever is on his mind. I do wonder in hindsight whether others would have listened to his story sooner had they realised this about his psychological makeup.

He’s finished searching through my cupboards and places a clean plate in the only clear spot on the table. ‘Sit yourself down,’ he encourages and I obey, pulling out a chair.

Opening the lids of the two cups – I know that Freddie only drinks green tea these days – I extract the latte from the cardboard cup-holder and take a sip. ‘Thanks for this, Freddie. You really are an angel sent from above!’

He’s started filling the sink with soapy water and has rolled up the sleeves of his flannel shirt. I’m not in the habit of allowing people to come into my house and start cleaning up, but this is another of Freddie’s ticks, and I know better than to interrupt. He’s wearing the same sleeveless faded denim jacket he had on the first time I met him in the soup kitchen. Back then, his hair was longer, and the baldness stretching from his fringe line to the crown of his head was slightly less wide. Amazingly, he now looks ten years younger than he did three years ago; it’s amazing the rejuvenating effects of consistency. A healthier diet, a warm bed, and a decent shower have given Freddie Mitchell a new lease of life.

Of course, I know it isn’t just the roof over his head that has re-energised him.

‘Are you going to join me for breakfast?’ I ask casually, opening the white paper bag and inhaling the sweet scent of pastry.

‘No, I’ve already scoffed a sandwich on my way over. They’re both for you. Call it a thank-you present.’

In the three years since we met, Freddie has gone out of his way to shower me with presents, and no matter how many times I tell him that there really isn’t any need, he still insists. After that first night at the soup kitchen where I just sat and talked to him, he returned the next night with a bunch of daisies he’d picked while he’d been out and about. They were half-dead and covered in soil and cigarette ash, but the gesture had warmed my heart.

You wouldn’t know it to see Freddie now, but he was close to death when he arrived in that soup kitchen. I was volunteering there on a break from university during my final year and I’ll never forget the feeling of hopelessness that would come home with me each night, not because of who we were helping but simply because it never felt like enough. I wanted to put a roof over all of our visitors’ heads but was powerless to do much more than serve them soup and offer a friendly and encouraging smile.

Freddie was outrageously flirtatious, even though it soon became pretty evident that he had no interest in anyone not of his gender. No, correction: he had no interest in anyone – at least, not in that way, or so he had expressed to me in the past. There are still so many scars in Freddie’s life that he has yet to share with me but each has carved him into the man he is today, and I love him all the more for them. He’s told me about those dark nights when, desperate for food, he was embroiled in schemes outside of his control and how, during one cold winter in 2010, he lost four months of his life due to the volume of drugs he was consuming.

‘The HIV diagnosis was inevitable,’ he told me the first time I properly sat down to interview him at The Black Horse, along Weymouth’s seafront, ‘but it doesn’t define me, nor diminish me.’

Freddie is many things, but bitter isn’t one of them. He is warm, caring, and one of the funniest men I’ve ever met. In many ways, he feels like a distant brother or cousin, but I know there are more sides to him than he will ever share.

‘You didn’t make it to The Black Horse last night,’ he says now, his back to me as he rinses one of the plates with water from the tap.

Something tells me this is the real reason he’s stopped by this morning. ‘Yeah, I know,’ I say apologetically. ‘I was going to come, but then…’ I pause, trying to rack my brain for an acceptable excuse for not joining in the celebration of the court’s verdict. He’ll see through any reference to deadlines with my writing. Eventually I settle for honesty. ‘I didn’t want to intrude.’

His shoulders tense as he spins to face me, the soap suds dripping from his rough hands to the linoleum at his feet. ‘You will always be welcome among us, you know that. If anything, you’re more welcome than any of the others.’

I was anticipating he’d say that and I don’t doubt that he means every word, but I’m merely the portal through which their story has now been told.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t come. I meant to send you a message but I got waylaid. Was it a good turnout?’

There is a sadness in his eyes before he turns back to the dishes. ‘We were all there. The three of us who… what did they call us in court? The plaintiffs. It’s odd seeing Mike and Steve together like that again. All of us have gone off at tangents to one another and, to look at us, you’d never know we all started off in that place.’

Two things to know about Freddie Mitchell: he will never refer to himself as a victim and he will never mention the St Francis Home for Wayward Boys by name.

‘You’ve all come a long way, Freddie. Just look at you. How many days sober now?’

The tension eases a fraction in his shoulders. ‘1,283 days without so much as a cigarette or bottle of Babycham.’

He doesn’t mention the crack pipes, heroin needles, and wrappers of cocaine for which he used to beg, steal, and borrow.

‘And now you’re helping out at the shelter too. You should be so proud of how far you’ve come in such a short time, Freddie.’

An uneasy cloud of tension falls as two plates collide beneath the soapy water and I see Freddie’s shoulders gently rocking. Dropping the pastry to the plate, I stand and slowly move in behind him, placing my arms around his shoulders and I just hold him. A warm soapy hand shoots out of the water and rests on my forearm.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whimpers.

‘You’ve nothing to be sorry for, Freddie,’ I say quietly.

We remain standing there for several minutes until the crying subsides and he has composed himself once again.

‘Fifteen years,’ Freddie eventually sighs. ‘They gave him fifteen years for what he did to us. They were all abusers, but he was the worst. He was the one who started it. He was the one who got the others involved, and changed them. Fifteen years and he’ll probably be dead before he’s served any of it.’

When the police first interviewed the three accused, both Geoffrey Arnsgill and Timothy MacDonald – the co-defendants – pointed the finger at Arthur Turgood; both accepted responsibility for their crimes but said it was Turgood who forced them to conspire. Both should have been stronger, both should have said no, should have spoken out, and both would regret their choices for the rest of their lives.

‘He’s what, eighty now?’ Freddie continues. ‘He’s already lived the best part of his life. What punishment is fifteen years after the life he’s led? Getting away with unthinkable crimes against vulnerable children who didn’t know better?’

There is nothing I can say. Any attempt to suggest that justice has been served – albeit shockingly late – will sound trite. Too little, too late. And whilst there are those of us who have fought and battled to deliver justice for Freddie and the others, the sentencing passed down by the judge is not enough for their victims. Nothing ever will be.

Freddie sniffs loudly and shakes my arms from his shoulders. ‘What a cry baby I’m being. I don’t know how you put up with me!’

And there it is: Freddie only lowers his guard for the briefest of moments and then it’s back to business. His mask is back in place now and there will be no more display of emotion from him. Not today anyway.

‘I only let you in so you can clean up after me,’ I joke, returning to the table and finishing off the pastry.

He laughs with just the slightest echo of the recent upset. ‘And I only come in and clean up because you’re such a slob.’

It’s my turn to chuckle as the face he is pulling is possibly the sweetest, most innocent look I’ve ever seen from him. He even flutters his eyelashes for effect, as if butter wouldn’t melt.

‘What’s with all the papers on the table then? You got your next big mystery to solve?’

I look at the aged picture of Anna on the screen, along with the information I printed about Lord Fitzhume last night. ‘Not exactly. It’s hard to know where to go next.’

Freddie dries his hands on the towel hanging from the radiator. ‘If you ask me, Turgood was just the tip of the iceberg. I reckon if you looked hard enough you’d unfortunately find others like me who suffered at the hands of monsters charged with protecting them. I wish our story was unique but the world is a sadder place than that.’

‘Maybe I should quit while I’m ahead,’ I muse, reminded of Maddie’s dismissive tone about my proposal to focus my next book on Anna.

Freddie is directly in front of me now, waving a finger of caution. ‘Don’t ever say that!’

I’m almost laughing as I look into his eyes until I realise they are suddenly very serious.

‘All joking aside,’ he begins, ‘you don’t realise just how fine a writer you are, Emma. I have read your book three times since it was released and every time I find nuance and detail that I missed the previous time. Even though it’s my life being laid bare, it often feels like I’m reading about someone else, and for the first time in forever, I feel like I finally understand who I am. It’s like therapy for the untreatable! There must be a million other stories out there – people who are in a similar or even worse position than I was – and you need to find them and bring them back from the edge, as you did me. That is your purpose in this world. Where Jessica Fletcher saved the souls of the people of Cabot Cove, so you will save the rest of the world.’

I narrow my eyes at his mention of my personal literary hero and a small grin breaks across his otherwise determined face.

Reaching out, I stretch my hand around his. ‘Thank you, Freddie.’

He frowns. ‘What for?’

‘For being you. For not judging me for living like a slob. For being my shining light at the end of a tunnel. For not giving up.’

He raises my hand and kisses the back of it. ‘Don’t stop being you either. You have great instincts, Emma. You see through all the bullshit and you write from the heart. Whomever you choose to help next will be lucky to have you aboard.’

I can’t help but smile at my very own motivational coach. There’s more truth in what he’s said than I’d care to admit and I already know there is no cure for the writing bug once it has hold of your soul.

He straightens but doesn’t let go of my hand. ‘You know, if you’ve got any free time this week, we could do with all the help we can get at the shelter. I know you’re this big, important bestselling author now, but don’t forget us little people in your climb to the top, eh?’

The truth is, I will never forget Freddie, Mike, or Steve. Their stories have helped shape my author’s voice and without them I would still be a struggling journalist at a small, county newspaper. They have brought this success my way and I want to give them something back, but I know Freddie will never accept charity.

I take a moment to get the words clear in my head. ‘Freddie, I’ve been thinking about something for a while, and…’ Here goes. ‘I want to share the profits from the book with you and the others. After all, I wouldn’t have had a book if it wasn’t for—’

‘Please don’t do that,’ he interrupts, shaking his head. ‘I appreciate the gesture is coming from your heart but you’ve done enough for all of us and you deserve every success your book brings you. It was a necessary tool to kickstart the police investigation but it’s more than that. Any old Tom, Dick, or Harry could have written about our hell, but you did it in such a… an honest way. Nobody else could have told our story so elegantly and we can’t take any of the credit for that.’

‘But I feel like I’m profiting from… from what happened to you.’

Freddie’s eyes glisten but his smile remains. ‘That’s what makes you so special, Emma Hunter. I’m proud to tell people that I’m friends with this bestselling author with the world at her feet. You are the one positive light to come out of the darkness in my life, and I want to live vicariously through your success. So don’t ever think that you don’t deserve to be on the ride of your life, and don’t you dare stop riding it either. You won’t just be stifling your dreams, but ours as well. So, you cling on with all your strength, and we just might hang on with you.’

Chapter Nine
Now

Weymouth, Dorset

Maddie’s call comes just after Freddie has left. I’d promised I’d make an effort to get down to the shelter and soup kitchen tonight. In fairness, I could do with a break from staring at my screen, plotting out Anna’s final movements, and looking for new gaps that I haven’t previously considered.

‘I’m on my way down with some exciting news,’ Maddie shouts, still yet to get to grips with the hands-free phone kit in her old VW Beetle. I’ve tried explaining that she doesn’t need to shout with Bluetooth, but she perseveres.

I wanted to ask what news could be so exciting as to warrant her driving three hours to Weymouth to meet me in person but she cuts me off before I have the chance.

‘Can we meet somewhere nice for lunch? Not that dingy place we met last time. Somewhere that’s heard of haute cuisine preferably. Are there any five-star hotels in Weymouth? Pick one of those and text me the address.’

With that, the line disconnected. Maddie is nothing if not efficient in her business dealings.

After an internet search of hotels, I narrow it down to The Waterside Hotel and Spa which is a little way in from the sea front and not somewhere with which I’m particularly familiar. I can’t pronounce half the items on the menu so hopefully it will be adequate for Maddie’s tastes.

Closing the door to my flat, I stand on the step, listening to the waves crashing against the rocks. A shimmer of sea breeze coats my cheeks and lips, the fresh salt assailing my nostrils. There really is no place like it. So many of my classmates at school couldn’t wait to shake the sand from their shoes, as Rachel puts it, always talking about moving closer to London because, “Nothing ever happens in Weymouth.” They don’t realise how wrong they are.

Admittedly, the streets quieten as autumn draws nearer but if anything, that’s when nature comes alive and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful sunset than when I’ve walked along the shoreline.

Heading down the stairs to the main road, I notice there are more people on the beach than I’d anticipated. It’s a warm Friday for late September, but the schools are all back now so this is usually the time of year when numbers dwindle, and yet there must be close to a hundred people out there, as well as some splashing about in the water.

I wave as I pass old Giuseppe, who is still advertising donkey walks along the beach, even though all three of his donkeys are tied up. He’s been here for longer than I care to remember. He always had a soft spot for Mum and so, as a treat, she’d sometimes bring Anna and me down here for a ride; he never charged her. That all stopped after Anna disappeared. In fact, virtually all socialising stopped that day. Life became a monotonous stream of journeys from home to school and back again, and at the weekend, Mum would be out along the promenade of shops showing Anna’s picture to anyone who’d stop and listen. Mirth and frivolity became distant memories and even supposedly joyous occasions such as Christmases and birthdays became days to mourn Anna’s departure. I don’t blame Mum for shutting down but when I look back on my childhood, I can’t help thinking that I lost more than just a big sister that day.

Turning right as the shops come into view, I head up past the train station, past the retail park that was built in an effort to drum up visitors out of season, and on to the road that will eventually lead to Portland Bill. The same shudder that always greets me echoes along my spine when I spot the prison at the top of the hill. The same prison where my father hanged himself almost a decade ago.

‘And I’ll have the sea-bass risotto with the pomme frites,’ Maddie says, handing the menu back to the immaculately dressed waitress whose long black hair has been slicked into a bun on top of her head.

The waitress reaches for Maddie’s ribbon-folded serviette, shakes it out of shape, and gently lays it across her lap before repeating the exercise with mine. She can’t be much older than twenty-one. I thank her and she bows eloquently before disappearing off towards the kitchen.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite so out of my depth whereas Maddie looks to be in her element.

‘Try the elderflower cordial,’ she suggests, nodding at the fizzing flute she ordered for me.

I lift it and she clinks her glass against mine. The bubbles tickle my nose as I sip it. To her credit, it is delicious.

The room we’re in is adorned with white Romanesque statues, with carefully placed stone petals to maintain the dignity of their subjects. The high-vaulted ceiling is made up of triangular-shaped glass panels which form a peak at the join and provide so much light. The room is air conditioned yet warm enough that I don’t feel the need to pull my cardigan back on. I’ve chosen a blue cardigan today so Maddie won’t worry about my lacklustre wardrobe again. I picked this one up from a charity shop in the town but it is still new to me and doesn’t look worn. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost be willing to believe we were staying in some foreign country. This isn’t the Weymouth I call home.

‘I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve come all this way to speak to you,’ she says, her eyes twinkling with excitement. She’s clearly itching to tell me something as she hasn’t stopped fidgeting since she arrived ten minutes after me.

‘You mean it wasn’t just for my sparkling company and repartee?’ I tease.

She grins mischievously. ‘Apart from that, I meant. Well, there are two reasons really, no, three, but we’ll come to the last one in a minute. The first bit of news I received on the drive down here. I’ve been nodded the wink from a friendly source that Monsters Under the Bed will definitely be number one on the Sunday Times Bestseller list this weekend. It’s rare for books to reclaim the number one spot after publication, but to do it three times in six months is almost unheard of. You should be so proud of yourself.’

Remembering Freddie’s words earlier today, I don’t challenge her.

‘And,’ she pauses for effect, and I’m half expecting her to begin tapping her fingers on the table to generate a drumroll, ‘Reflex Media – who produced that serial-killer hit for Netflix last year – want to option Monsters for an eight-part television series!’

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Maddie smile so widely, and for the first time I can see a small pocket of wrinkles where her lips join.

I should be as excited as Maddie is right now. I know the company she’s referring to, and I know how hugely successful that serial-killer documentary was. It was a viral hit across the globe and it was a must-see even for someone as clueless as me. This is a big deal. No, correction, this is a really big deal.

‘Wow,’ I say, but I can feel the frown already forming. ‘That’s incredible news.’

‘You bet your life it is!’ Maddie replies, almost punching the air. ‘Do you know how long I’ve waited to have this kind of a hit on my hands? They’re sending over some numbers for the option later today but for once this is merely a formality. They’re pretty confident that, given the book’s success in the UK, and the trial verdict on Thursday, this will have TV executives bidding for the chance to distribute. I don’t want to pre-empt their figures but we are talking mega bucks!’

I take a moment to compose my thoughts. ‘What about Freddie, Mike, and Steve?’

Maddie’s smile shrinks a fraction. ‘What about them?’

‘It’s their story,’ I tell her, not in an attempt to irk her but just stating a fact. ‘They gave me permission to write Monsters… because they needed their story projected into the public eye, but we never discussed the prospect of their murky history being played out on the big screen for the world to witness in garish technicolour.’

She doesn’t respond, studying my face carefully.

‘Is it really my place to sell on their story to the highest bidder?’ I try again.

‘Darling, Monsters Under the Bed is your story now. The disclosure agreement they all signed included the rights for the story to be sold for feature production and they all signed up to it.’

I’m sure Maddie is probably right about the terms of the agreement they signed, as she’s usually pretty switched on when it comes to contracts and erroneous clauses – that’s what makes her such a good agent – but if I don’t remember such a clause then I’d bet they don’t either.

‘It’s great news,’ I say, forcing a positive tone I’m not feeling, ‘but can I talk to them about it before we agree to anything?’

Maddie looks like she wants to chastise me again but she closes her mouth and simply nods. ‘If that would make you happier then so be it.’ She raises her flute of elderflower cordial again. ‘Mark my words, this sort of opportunity doesn’t present itself very often and you’d be crazy not to take it.’

I thank her, and the flutter in my stomach reminds me that so many other writers would give their eyeteeth to be in my position.

‘You said there was a third bit of news?’ I ask, in a subtle attempt to change the subject.

Maddie almost spits out her drink as the memory comes rushing back. ‘Oh yes, of course, it’s to do with your next project—’

‘Oh great,’ I say, pulling out the printed pages I brought with me and was hiding in my bag until after the meal. ‘I’ve had some ideas on that too. I’ve put together an elevator pitch and rough outline of how to structure the story, starting with the moment Anna left the garden, but then flashing forwards to interviews with those who were involved in the early days of the investigation – the police, interviewed neighbours, and the like – and then…’ I stop as I realise Maddie is shaking her head and clearly not listening.

‘No, I’ve told you, your sister’s disappearance isn’t what the publisher is looking for. They want something new, something current, something to capture the nation’s imagination in the same way Monsters did.’

‘Yes, but you haven’t heard how we can make Anna’s disappearance more relevant,’ I try again, but this time she holds up her hand to cut me off.

‘I’ve got a story for you to work on. I’ve discussed it with the publisher and they think it’s fab.’

I already have a sinking feeling as I ask, ‘What idea?’

‘It was your publishing editor who phoned me about it actually. Does the name Lord Fitzhume mean anything to you?’

I nod grimly, biting the inside of my cheek to keep myself from shouting.

‘Well, it turns out he’s some distant relative of the royal family. His granddaughter was abducted a year ago and although he’s previously gagged every media outlet to keep the story off the front page, he’s now prepared to relent. His only stipulation is that you tell the story for him. He’s even used his influence to gain the support of the Metropolitan Police service, and a detective will be assigned to help you piece together the case history.’

‘No,’ I say calmly, but authoritatively. ‘You told me I could choose my next project and I want to tell my sister’s story.’

Maddie pulls a disappointed face. ‘I know how important your sister’s disappearance is to you, Emma, and if I could spend my remaining days helping you discover what really happened to her, I would. But – and don’t take this the wrong way – nobody has been able to shed any fresh light on what happened to her in two decades, and the publisher isn’t keen on the prospect of a story that doesn’t provide an outcome to what happened to her. They really like the story Fitzhume has promised to tell, and you are contracted to deliver a manuscript that will get the publisher’s sign-off. You signed a two-book contract with them, Emma, and they’re within their rights to see that you deliver on it.’

My cheeks are burning, part in frustration but more because I feel like I’ve disappointed a parent. I know Maddie has my best interests at heart. If she says I have no choice but to hear what Fitzhume has to say then there is little point in wasting energy on protesting.

Lunch arrives but the conversation that follows is stilted as neither of us knows how to move past the unspoken spectre lingering ever at my shoulder.

Chapter Ten
Then

Chalfont St Giles, Buckinghamshire

Detective Chief Superintendent Jagtar Rawani cut an unassuming figure as he moved between the rich crimson leather sofas, eyeing the large family portrait hanging above the unlit fireplace. He towered a good foot above Elizabeth Hilliard and, even though the doorways in the old manor were relatively high, the detective had felt the need to duck as he had been shown into the drawing room, declining Rosa’s offer of tea. Elizabeth had also declined but not because she wasn’t parched; she was already making light work of her father’s single malt.

‘It’s a beautiful painting,’ DCS Rawani commented, still transfixed by the enormous reminder of what had been taken from them only four hours earlier.

The detective was staring at Elizabeth as if expecting an answer. Had she missed his question?

‘Sorry, what?’ she said.

‘I said, is it recent? The painting. I was just trying to work out how old Cassie would have been when it was painted.’

‘It was completed five months ago,’ Elizabeth replied, squashing herself further into the armchair where her father had often allowed her to sit upon his lap while he had studied the markets in one broadsheet or another.

‘Will Mr Hilliard be joining us soon?’ the detective asked, turning and fixing his impatient stare on her.

Some other detective had arrived at the scene shortly after Richard had turned up, and had begun coordinating efforts. It was she who had told them it was best to return home and await news. Neither she nor Richard had disagreed; what more could they have done at the scene to get Cassie back? Neither had the kind of connections required to track down child abductors.

Elizabeth shuddered at the thought of what the abductors might be doing to poor Cassie, nearly slopping the glass of single malt across her lap.

As soon as they’d got in, Richard had said he had business calls to make and had headed through to his office, locking the door. In a state of numbness, Elizabeth had gone up to the main bathroom, switched on the shower and emptied a bottle of antidepressants over the counter beside the basin, scattering them, trying to calculate how many would be necessary to take away the pain. In the end, she’d scooped them into her hand and returned them to the bottle. Her father wouldn’t have been happy to see her so close to giving up.

He’d know what to do. He’d return and make sure the bad men faced justice for their crimes. He always knew what to do.

The door to the drawing room opened and Richard marched into the room, thrusting his hand out towards the detective, offering him a drink, and asking for the latest update in the case. Elizabeth didn’t need to think too long about what had perked him up and, knowing Richard, the trace of white powder would still be clinging to the tip of his nostril for all to see exactly what he’d gone into his office to do.

Traditionally handsome, Richard still had a full head of thick brown hair thanks to his little trip to East Asia for a discreet transplant last year. He wasn’t physically strong, yet he had a physique that most men his age would kill for. His secret wasn’t to watch what he ate – in fact, Elizabeth couldn’t recall the last time she’d actually seen him eat anything – but in the appetite-suppressing white powder. He didn’t hide his drug use from her just as she didn’t hide her ever-increasing reliance on alcohol and pills to encourage sleep.

‘Have you tracked the van yet? My wife said it was navy blue, but the road we were on only goes to one place and they must have traffic cameras and the like you can view. Where did the van go after leaving the main road? Surely if you find the van you’ll find Cassie.’

He didn’t realise he was talking too fast and Elizabeth made no effort to point it out. If he was stupid enough to snort a line of cocaine while there was an on-duty police officer in the house then he could face those consequences alone.

The detective was clearly sizing Richard up, and for a moment Elizabeth thought he might arrest her husband there and then. Instead, he steered Richard to one of the sofas and sat down beside him.

‘We are doing everything in our power to locate the vehicle used to take your daughter, Mr Hilliard. I have a team tracking down and viewing traffic and privately owned security camera feeds to monitor the van’s movements. We don’t have a registration number which makes the trace more challenging, but we are trained professionals and this is what we’re good at. We will pursue every avenue until we learn what happened and who is responsible. The reason I’m here now is to try and establish exactly who would want to take Cassie and what their motivation might be.’

Richard clapped his hands together excitedly. ‘Good. Good. Absolutely. Any way we can help, we’re happy to.’

It was as if Elizabeth was no longer there, sitting in the corner, observing the drama playing out like a scene on the stage.

‘Thank you, Mr Hilliard, and I appreciate my questions aren’t going to be easy to hear but I can assure you they are a necessary evil. I need to look at every angle in order to narrow down and eliminate possibilities.’

‘Just like Sherlock Holmes,’ Richard said, before erupting into unconstrained laughter that was inappropriate for the situation.

‘Tell me, Mr Hilliard, can you think of anyone – perhaps a business rival or an unhappy client – who may have wanted to cause you serious harm?’

Richard’s laughter stopped in an instant. ‘No. None at all.’

‘What is it you do for a living, Mr Hilliard?’

‘I run a company specialising in the tracing and purchase of rare antiquities on behalf of a very exclusive client list,’ he replied, more composed now.

‘Can you be more specific?’

‘My clients – customers – come to us when they want a specific piece of art or an antique. We have contacts across the globe and so if, let’s say for example, you could afford to, and wanted to, purchase a Monet, you would come to us and say what you’re looking for and what price you’d be prepared to pay. We will then reach out to our contacts and see what’s available in the market and place a bid on your behalf. If it’s accepted, we then carefully ship and deliver the painting to you, taking a commission for our efforts.’

DCS Rawani’s gaze took in the rest of the room: a Matisse, a Degas, and a Gauguin. ‘It must be a lucrative business judging by some of the pieces you have hanging here.’

‘This is my father’s house,’ Elizabeth spoke up, catching the pair of them off-guard.

‘Yes,’ Richard chimed in, ‘as my wife says, this is my father-in-law’s house. That said, most of our clients aren’t shy about the cost of artwork and when someone really wants a specific piece they’re often prepared to pay whatever it takes to get hold of it. It’s not uncommon for fees in the millions to be exchanged.’

‘And your commission is…?’ the detective asked.

‘Depends on the nature of the piece, but anywhere between ten and twenty per cent after delivery.’

The detective whistled through his teeth. ‘You probably make more in one deal than I earn in a year.’ He paused to let that sink in. ‘That sort of money might make you a target for criminals. Have you noticed anyone suspicious hanging around either here or at your work premises?’

Richard shook his head.

‘What about you, Mrs Hilliard? Have you noticed anyone or any suspicious vehicles hanging around? Maybe you’ve spotted a particular car or motorbike several times in different places at different times and thought it seemed a touch odd?’

Elizabeth shook her head too. ‘No, nothing. I’m sorry.’

‘Any threats received by either of you, even something so small it didn’t necessarily register as a threat? Maybe something on social media, or email, or in the street?’

‘Nothing that immediately springs to mind,’ Richard concluded. ‘Are you sure I can’t get you something to drink? I’m parched. Rosa! Rosa!’

The housekeeper entered the room, head bowed, shoulders stooped, awaiting instruction.

‘Ah, there you are. Be a dear and fix me a gin and tonic, would you? Lemon, but no ice. Thank you.’ He turned back to the detective. ‘Are you sure you don’t want a cup of tea? Glass of water?’

‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’

Rosa nodded and shuffled off back out of the room.

‘I would like to speak to your house staff tonight as well,’ the detective said. ‘Is Rosa your only member of staff?’

Elizabeth snorted but didn’t follow it up with a comment, choosing to drain her glass instead.

‘There’s also Teddy,’ Richard said. ‘He’s our gardener and general errand boy, but I don’t see how speaking to either of them is going to help track down the men responsible for snatching Cassie.’

Elizabeth snorted again, imagining exactly what Teddy would reveal about her husband’s proclivities if put under pressure.

The detective stood suddenly and moved back across to the fireplace, taking another long look at the canvas of the three of them. He kept his back to them as he spoke. ‘It is my belief that your vehicle was deliberately targeted in this afternoon’s attack. Whoever is behind it knew that the Range Rover would be on that section of road at that time, which is why they brought a rocket-propelled grenade launcher to disable the vehicle. They targeted it, but it’s not clear to me yet whether they intended to snatch Cassie from the outset, or whether they were targeting one of you. Given that they left Mrs Hilliard in the car unscathed, it’s likely she wasn’t part of their plan, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t after you, Mr Hilliard.’

The detective spun round on his heel, but neither Richard nor Elizabeth reacted. ‘Either way, these people knew the Range Rover would be there, which suggests they had insider information. Who’s to say your housekeeper, driver, or gardener didn’t slip that information to them, or to some intermediary, for a few quid extra in their pocket?’

Elizabeth could see her husband’s mind whirring with the possibility that his biggest secrets could come tumbling out of the mouth of his young lover, who really did have an eye for garden landscaping.

‘Then there’s the royal connection,’ the DCS said, turning his stare on Elizabeth. ‘It’s your father’s side that’s distantly related to the royal family. Is that correct, Mrs Hilliard?’

Elizabeth peeled herself out of the upright chair and stumbled towards the drinks trolley at the far end of the drawing room where Rosa had just filled Richard’s glass before returning to the kitchen via the second door. Filling her own glass once again, Elizabeth was light-headed as she struggled to retrace her steps back to the armchair.

‘Yes,’ she slurred, once she was re-seated.

‘If Cassie was the target, it could be a veiled attempt at striking out at the royals. It’s been done before. I will be liaising with the Specialist Royal Constabulary to pursue that angle.’ He turned back to Richard. ‘I’d like you to supply a full client list for your business, along with the names of anyone who petitioned for your services and for whom you were unable to deliver the item they sought, anyone who could be disgruntled. I’ll speak to your housekeeper now but would appreciate you giving me the gardener’s contact information tonight.’

Richard’s face paled but he nodded and excused himself from the room just as Rosa entered, handing him the gin and tonic as he passed. Elizabeth watched the detective ask her to sit and answer some questions, calculating whether to tell him the true nature of Richard’s import company. If it meant getting Cassie back then it was a price she was prepared to pay, but if it had nothing to do with the business, she didn’t want to call the wolves to their doors.

For now, she would wait.

Daddy would be home soon, and he’d know what to do.

Daddy always knew what to do.

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