Trafficked
The Missing Children Case Files
M. A. Hunter

One More Chapter

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2021

Copyright © M. A. Hunter 2021

Cover design by Lucy Bennett © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021

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: 9780008443320

Ebook Edition © January 2021 ISBN: 9780008443313

Version: 2020-12-14

Content notices: suicide, domestic violence, paedophilia, sexual assault, drug abuse, child abuse.

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

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 who have

struggled during the lockdown.

We’re all in this together.

I shall choose the target

His arrow deserves;

I shall trace and mark it

In scarlet curves.

Small and bloody

As a fallen sparrow

My own dead body

Shall receive his arrow.

— Lucifer Sings in Secret, Elinor Wylie

Chapter One
Then

Poole, Dorset

The concrete burned her feet, even though the sun was already starting to disappear behind the hills in the distance. She couldn’t say how long she’d been moving in this direction, and somewhere in the back of her mind she knew sticking to a straight line was not the best method of keeping out of sight. But the quickest distance between two points is a straight line, and her need to find help was stronger than the panic of what he would do if he caught up with her.

She wanted to scream, as another sharp stone dug into the rough skin of her heel, but any momentary stop to check whether it had drawn blood would have meant slowing her escape.

Escape.

It had been merely a pipe dream for so long; so much so that she couldn’t even be sure she was out in the open now. For all she knew, she was still in that dingy hole, and this was just another cruel dream from which she’d be painfully woken at any moment. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

Regardless, she had to keep striving onwards. To fail now would be to waste the best chance she’d ever had to flee that musty, windowless room beneath the ground. With no watch, she had no frame of reference for how long she’d been stumbling along the road, though her grumbling stomach told her she would be gobbling up the scraps right now if she hadn’t made for the unlocked door.

What if this was all part of his plan? Just another torturous trick for which she’d be forced to pay a heavy price. Promise freedom, only to snatch it away. How many times had he told her he loved her one day, only to violate her the next?

She tried to shake the thought from her exhausted mind, and just focus on putting one foot in front of the next. She had to come into contact with somebody – anybody – soon, if she could just keep going; but this was the most exercise she’d had in years. She couldn’t even say for certain that she wasn’t walking around in circles now. She’d tried to keep the dying sun’s glow ahead of her the whole time, using it as a fixed point to aim towards; through the forest, low branches scratching at her cheeks and bare arms as she’d torn through it.

That part had been a surprise. With no clue where they’d been living for all these years, she hadn’t expected to come out of the hole into such a wild and unyielding monster of trees and undergrowth. The few occasions he’d brought her up, he’d kept her blindfolded; less trouble if she was disorientated. She’d fallen at one point, a thicket of thorns drawing blood from her right palm, and she’d been certain that’s where he’d catch up to her, and drag her back by the ankles. She hadn’t allowed herself to wait for that; tearing off even faster, ignoring every bite, scratch and sting as her barely clothed body bore the brunt of the forest’s clutches.

The nightdress was practically glued to her skin, such was the expulsion of sweat as she persevered, vowing to take just one more step. Cars had passed, but she hadn’t allowed any of them to stop and check if she was okay. Every time a set of headlights neared, she’d try and cower out of sight, uncertain whether it would be him out hunting for her. Again, for all she knew, he had friends out here who would also be only too willing to watch him take her back as his prisoner. She’d come too far now to allow him to catch up with her.

Another stomach grumble, and she was consciously cursing herself for trying to get away on an empty stomach. The scraps he gave her each day were barely enough to satisfy the smallest of appetites, but it had to have been at least twelve hours since she’d devoured the stale crust for her breakfast. It had been enough for then, but had she known how the day would play out, she would have saved some for this journey. Last night he had promised her chance would come, but she hadn’t wanted to believe it when he’d told her he loved her. How could something so forced be love? Even as she’d found the door ajar, and had felt the cool breeze filtering through the gap, she’d been sure he would appear and force her back down the narrow tunnel to her cell.

She’d moved unsteadily forward, unwilling to believe the possibility, her heart racing, as she tugged on the tiny edge, and felt it move beneath her broken fingernails. She’d pulled it open just wide enough so she could peer out, half-expecting him to be there, ready to kick it in and send her stumbling, but all she’d seen was the darkness of the wooden boards lining the dirt floor. Opening the door wider, she’d dared to step out, again expecting to feel the pain of his anger that she’d dared to defy him, but he didn’t emerge from a secret hiding place to punish her.

Keeping her foot in the gap between the door and the entrance to her makeshift room, she’d reached into the darkness, feeling the cool air blowing from above, but then she’d rushed back into the room. It was too good to be true, and she’d learned from her mistakes. She’d been about to push the door closed and allow it to lock when something had stopped her. Was it possible that he had been telling the truth? That he would grant her the freedom she’d so desperately craved?

Taking one final look at the room she’d called home for so many years, she’d taken a deep breath, and headed out of the door, crawling on hands and knees, certain the wooden boards would whine and groan beneath her frame and reveal that she was revolting against her captors. Yet she’d made it to the top of the tunnel without hearing him coming for her, and as she’d leaned into the door at the top, expecting to find it closed, it had swung open, and she’d felt the gust of fresh air wash over her. She hadn’t waited a second longer, tearing out, refusing to look over her shoulder in case he was there waiting to pick her off with his hunting rifle.

When she’d made it to the edge of the forest, where a grey strip of road divided the woods in two, she’d turned onto it, and tried to keep her feet and legs moving in tandem, despite the agony it caused. That felt like hours ago now, but with the terrifyingly slow pace it probably was less than an hour. He could still be on her trail; watching and waiting.

The dark of the bordering forest swallowed up the route she’d come by, and the road continued to twist and wind. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t come across any kind of habitation where she could seek shelter.

Another set of headlights appeared in the distance, hurtling towards her at some speed. Looking around, she could see nowhere to duck and cover. She’d yet to come across a property, but there was now a barbed-wire fence along the line of trees, and she didn’t have the strength to get over it without inflicting further injury. If this was him, she had no means of escape.

Stumbling forwards, she crashed to her knees, yelping as her right wrist buckled beneath her weight, breaking her fall. Exhaustion had set in, and no amount of will power and fear could get her back to her feet. All she could do now was wait for him to come and find her, and take her home.

Lying perfectly still, save for the deep lungfuls of breath she willed into her body, she waited for the headlights to pull over, but as they neared, and her pulse quickened to breaking point, they continued past.

It wasn’t him; or at least, if it was, he hadn’t seen her.

Rolling onto her back, she stared up at the ever-darkening sky. She had a simple choice: lie here and wait for death to take her, or continue the journey; the former felt like the easier option, but she was too resilient to give up. He’d told her as much last night.

When the time is right, you’ll know it. You can do this!

Rolling over, she pressed her left hand against the ground, and forced her legs to lift her back up. Over her shoulder, she could see the tail lights of the car that had passed, now long gone, and too far for the driver to see the lurching figure now continuing along the potholed road.

Another five minutes passed before she came across a sign on the edge of the road, but whilst she recognised the words, she couldn’t say for sure what they meant. She’d always been good at reading at school, but her eyes were too tired to focus properly. The fading sun was to her right, such was the nature of the bends in the road. The only way to right the course of her journey would be to scale the wire fence, and head back through the trees, but the path of the road could easily correct itself if she just continued along it. Breathless, she strode onwards, leaving it up to fate to determine her future. If her escape was to be completed, then the road wouldn’t lead her straight back into his waiting arms.

I love you. Let me prove it to you.

She just had to keep believing.

And that’s when she saw it. A large building, at least four storeys high, and with a mismatch of lights glowing from windows in its sides. It reminded her of one of the crossword puzzles he’d once allowed her to attempt. He’d offered to set her free if she could complete it, but she hadn’t come close. Another of his sick games.

Rubbing her eyes, as her legs threatened to give way once more, she again questioned whether what she was witnessing was real or the final embers of the dream. This side of the building burst into flashes of blue as she neared, and her heart raced harder at the prospect of what she’d finally stumbled upon. She had to get inside; that much she knew. It would be just like him to be parked up somewhere, revelling in the glee in her face suddenly being torn away when her eyes fell on him. It would be the cruellest of tricks, but if she could just get inside, she would be safe; of that she had no doubt.

Gripping the handrail of the staircase directly in front of her, her toes scraped across the hardened concrete steps as she dragged her feet up them, until she arrived at the set of automatic double doors. Nobody seemed to notice her at first as she stepped through and was immediately struck by a wave of cool, conditioned air. So bright inside too that she could barely keep her eyes open and focused on finding that one person who might tell her she was safe after all these years.

A man’s face appeared in her immediate vision, and for the briefest of seconds she thought it was him, dressed in some kind of brown shirt and sweater, but as the spirit left her body, and she collapsed into the man’s arms, relief washed over her. The man was now shouting to others, calling for help as far as she could tell, but she didn’t care. In that moment, she would have happily allowed death to take her in his embrace.

She was out.

She was free.

Chapter Two
Now

Uxbridge, London

Is there anything worse than being trapped inside when you can see how warm and clement the sunshine looks through the poky window, which doesn’t even open wide enough to allow a draft in? The whirring electric fan on top of the filing cabinet is doing little to cool the stuffy atmosphere inside the box room where Jack and I have been sitting for the best part of two hours; me with my eyes buried in a typed report, and Jack hunched over his laptop.

‘You’re doing it again,’ he says now, bringing my attention back to the desk.

‘Doing what?’ I ask, frowning.

‘Staring out of that tiny window. You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re secretly working on the plot of your next novel, rather than concentrating on Jemima Hooper.’

His tone is playful; teasing; he isn’t criticising, and yet I still invoke a stern face for my reply.

‘Plotting is for fiction writers, Jack. We both know that my work is stranger than fiction.’

He smiles thinly, nodding as he does. ‘You can say that again. If I hadn’t been with you when you found Cassie Hilliard, I never would have believed the story in Ransomed. And as for where Natalie Sullivan’s suicide led you six months ago…’ He pauses. ‘You have a talent for reading between the lines, Emma, a real talent; you see things that others don’t.’

I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks, but rather than arguing against the compliment as is my default setting, I hold my breath and count to five. ‘Thank you, Jack, but we never would have found Cassie if it weren’t for your help too.’

He pulls a wounded face. ‘You came so close to just accepting a compliment there, and then at the last second, you rejected it. I wish you could see just how brilliant you are.’

I have to look away this time, because I can see in my periphery that he knows he’s said too much, as his five o’clock shadow has taken on a beetroot hue.

‘I should get us both a fresh drink,’ he says, quickly standing, and avoiding eye contact. ‘You want tea? Coffee?’

I know that tea is supposed to be able to help regulate body temperature, but I’m certain that a hot beverage is only going to crank up the temperature in the already stuffy box room. ‘Water, please.’

‘I’ll run the tap to get it as cold as I can,’ he says with a nod, leaving the room without another word.

I push myself back in the hardened plastic chair, picking up the typed page I was failing to read, and wafting it near my chin like a fan. After a fairly soggy spring, they are predicting one of the hottest summers on record, and even though it’s early June, it already feels like we are more or less breaking records. The thin cotton dress I’m wearing is clinging to my front and back, and with Jack out of the room, I take the opportunity to peel it away, and give my skin a breather. Jack will have wandered to the small kitchen near what was once Uxbridge police station’s canteen, and, knowing him, he’ll stop for a natter with any of his colleagues floating about, meaning I have at least two minutes until he will be back, though more likely closer to five. I don’t blame him for wanting a different view, as it almost feels like these four walls are moving steadily closer to the table.

It was quite a surprise when Detective Chief Superintendent Jagtar Rawani reached out and invited me to come and work with Jack in the capacity of Public Liaison. Jack’s role as cold case review officer has evolved in light of the files discovered on Arthur Turgood’s hard drive, and Jack has been tasked with identifying every child’s face on the images and videos Turgood had produced or downloaded during his years running the St Francis Home for Wayward Boys. In prison, but in poor health, Turgood will likely be dead long before his sentence expires, which is why the Crown Prosecution Service has decided against bringing further charges for being in possession of indecent images of children. ‘Not in the public interest’ is how they officially described it. Jack told me off the record that prosecuting Turgood further would be a waste of taxpayers’ money, which I can understand, even if I don’t like the thought that he is getting away with more crimes. It is bad enough he wasn’t captured and tried for the abuse he inflicted on Freddie Mitchell and the others until he was eighty years old. After a long life evading prosecution, he will likely serve less than a quarter of his sentence for his crimes.

It still rankles; especially as my missing sister Anna was one of the victims in the footage. That is why I accepted DCS Rawani’s invitation to support Jack. Not only will identifying these victims help in some way to bring closure for their families, deep down my motivation for helping is far more selfish: I hope that somehow we’ll find the pattern that tells me what became of my sister. It’s twenty-one years now since she walked from our family home in Weymouth to visit our maternal grandmother, never to be seen again. If it takes me the rest of my life and every resource at my disposal, I will learn the truth about what happened to Anna and why she never made it to her destination less than five minutes up the road.

For now, though, my attention must remain focused on Jemima Hooper, the eleven-year-old girl who wandered off while waiting with the family Beagle outside Greggs six years ago. This was in Gateshead, so I wasn’t overly familiar with the story until Jack presented me with the file yesterday morning. Since then, I must have read nearly every report filed by the investigative team in Northumberland. As far as they’re concerned the case was closed the moment Jemima’s body was found dumped just inside the gates of a public park on the outskirts of Tamworth eighteen months later. The image of her blue and broken body – covered in fresh welts, and left tangled in nettles – is permanently engraved on my long-term memory.

The Jemima in that final picture looked nothing like the innocent freckled-faced girl with ginger plaits who stares back at me now from the desk. It is this image that facial recognition software estimates as a seventy-six per cent match to the girl in the still captured from the horrific video footage. I’m grateful that I don’t have clearance to see the video in full, as I don’t think there’d be any way back for my subconscious if I was subjected to it. Jack has seen it, and the haunted look he wears whenever he has to reference the footage tells me everything I need to know.

That is why we are determined to find out as much about Jemima Hooper as we can, to confirm whether the software match is correct. There is a part of me that really hopes it isn’t, as I don’t want to think of her being tortured in such a disgusting manner for other people’s gratification. Security camera footage taken from the Greggs shop shows Jemima through the shop window, standing patiently, talking to the Beagle, when something catches her eye off camera. The lens is trained to take in as much of the shop as possible in an effort to capture potential thieves, and so when Jemima wanders out of shot while her mum is paying for the two sausage rolls and bag of doughnuts, it is impossible to know where she goes next. The Greggs is next to a jeweller’s which had its shutters down following a break-in the week before, so we don’t see Jemima again until she and the Beagle wander past the front of the butcher’s, only this time she is holding the hand of a figure in a baseball cap and denim jacket. He or she is approximately five feet ten, slim build, but the face is never captured on camera. A team of trained detectives watched every frame of every security camera feed and dash cam for the hour before and after Jemima wandered off, and the footage at the butcher’s is the only one where the figure is seen.

Who this person is, is anyone’s guess. For some reason, Jemima walked away with him or her willingly, and even released her grip on the Beagle’s lead somewhere before the railway track, where he was found tied up, whining. That strip of track isn’t even five minutes from Greggs, and yet the Beagle wasn’t found for nearly an hour, by which point there was no trace of Jemima. In those fifty-five minutes that sweet eleven-year-old girl became just another statistic.

Frantic with worry, Jemima’s parents made a television appeal for the return of their daughter, and despite an initial onslaught of online abuse (aimed at Mrs Hooper for taking her eyes off Jemima for the three minutes it took for her to order and pay for the sausage rolls and doughnuts), neither parent was ever in the frame for being involved in the abduction.

Fast forward eighteen months, and a jogger training for The Great North Run spotted what she thought was a distressed animal trapped in the nettles beside the park gates. It was only on closer inspection that she realised just how wrong her initial impression had been. A hurried DNA test confirmed Jemima’s identity, and the Hoopers – who had still believed they would find their daughter – were dealt the cruellest heartbreak.

Post mortem examination of the body confirmed she had been the victim of sexual assault, kicking, scratching and whipping. I can’t even begin to imagine how terrified she must have been throughout such a painful experience, and in many ways death was probably the kindest fate that could have befallen her in those circumstances. I’ve met with victims of abuse and the mental scars never heal. At least Jemima is at peace now, even if she probably experienced more cruelty than any one of us will ever have to face.

I won’t allow my mind to consider how Anna would have coped with such terror. No body has ever been found, and I’m in two minds about which fate I’d rather have come her way. Surviving such abuse feels almost as cruel as having to go through it in the first place; and yet I desperately long for the day when I might be reunited with Anna.

A knock at the door is followed by Jack entering and resting a mug of water on the desk beside the file. There are light brown stains inside the mug where years of tea and coffee have left their mark. I don’t doubt that the water will provide the refreshment my overheated body is craving, but it’s less than appetising.

‘Sorry,’ Jack offers, ‘best I could find. Say, do you fancy getting out of here? Maybe grabbing a drink or a bite to eat somewhere? I know we have the video call with Jemima’s parents in a bit, but how is it going to look if they see us melting in here? There’s a café up the road, and I’m sure we’d both benefit from a breath of fresh air.’

He doesn’t have to ask me twice. Peeling myself off the plastic chair, I grab my satchel and follow him out of the door, before he locks it behind him.

Chapter Three
Now

Uxbridge, London

The fresh air has done wonders to wake my flagging mind, though I really wish we could just stay outside in the glorious sunshine. There is a slight breeze here in Uxbridge, and sitting outside the café has brought back memories of being a carefree student, and skipping lectures with my best friend Rachel so that we could head to the Student Union and spend our student loans on bottled drinks. Hardly appropriate for a writer with a mortgage, but the memory brings a much-needed dose of endorphins.

When we are buzzed back through the police station, even the corridor feels like an oven, and any refreshment the outside breeze had brought is swiftly swallowed up. At least for the duration of the video call with Jemima Hooper’s parents we won’t be trapped in the box room. Instead we’re in a purpose-built suite usually used for reviewing security camera footage during a live investigation. Jack has reserved the room, as it is soundproof and will enable the two of us to perch in front of the laptop’s digital camera.

We have to tread very carefully with Mr and Mrs Hooper, as they don’t know the reason for our call. Their local contact at Northumberland Constabulary has notified them that Jemima’s case notes have been requested by the Metropolitan Police as part of a wider investigation, but they know little more than that. They don’t know that we believe Jemima to be one of the victims in the footage found on Turgood’s hard drive; and I don’t know how they will react to such news.

‘Are you ready?’ Jack asks, straightening the tie he’s just put on to create more of a professional look. I do feel for him; I’m melting in this thin cotton dress, but he must be baking in the wool-blend trousers and buttoned polyester shirt.

I give him a muted nod. The truth is, I’m worried about what conclusions the Hoopers will jump to if they happen to recognise my face. Since the publication of Monsters Under the Bed – the non-fiction book that finally exposed Arthur Turgood, Geoffrey Arnsgill and Timothy MacDonald, as well as catapulting my writing career – I’ve struggled with being recognised by total strangers who assume they know who I am just because they’ve read and empathised with my words; but that isn’t who I am.

I’ve spent the last twenty-seven years of my life trying to find my place in the world, and understand who I am, but I don’t feel any closer to the answer. I wish I could be the confident and sophisticated extrovert my agent Maddie expects me to be. If the Hoopers do recognise me, their first thought is bound to be that I’m planning to write about their daughter’s situation, which couldn’t be further from the truth. At the same time, I don’t want to admit to them that my interest in their daughter is for my own selfish gain.

Jack logs onto the laptop, and fishes in his pocket for his notebook, in which he has scribbled Dave Hooper’s email address. I take the seat furthest from the screen, hoping that their focus remains more on Jack than me. He then sits and types in the address; the computer whirs, and beeps as the call is connected.

‘Good morning, Mr and Mrs Hooper,’ Jack begins, offering a sincere but dispassionate smile. ‘I trust you are both still comfortable with us talking this afternoon?’

‘Aye,’ Dave Hooper replies.

He’s much older than I was anticipating, given Jemima’s relatively young age when she disappeared. The man before us with strawberry blond hair that has all but faded to grey has tired eyes. Even though it’s been years since Jemima’s discovery in Tamworth, it’s clear grief still has a firm hold of him, as it does his wife. She looks a few years younger than her husband, her hair much darker, though it’s possibly dyed, and difficult to tell from the grainy image being projected onto the screen. Despite the obvious pained expression, I instantly see where Jemima inherited her freckles from.

‘Firstly, please accept my condolences on what I’m sure is still a very difficult series of events to process. My name is Police Constable Jack Serrovitz, and I’m the officer who requested access to your daughter’s case file. This is Miss Em—’

‘Have yous found the bastard who killed her at last?’ Dave Hooper interrupts, exhaling a sigh of pent-up frustration.

‘Not exactly, Mr Hooper. Our interest in Jemima’s case isn’t to directly investigate how she died, but to—’

‘So the bastard is still out there then, free to abduct and rape and murder other tots.’

I don’t like to assume that I can understand what they are going through. Every family that experiences a disappearance or an abduction deals with it in different ways, and just because the pain of Anna’s disappearance is still fresh in my mind, I cannot begin to imagine what the Hoopers have been through. But I can see how frustrated Dave Hooper is with the system he feels has failed him in the worst possible way. Not only did the authorities not manage to bring Jemima back, they have also failed to prosecute the person responsible for all their devastating pain.

Jack doesn’t respond to the challenge, instead allowing Dave Hooper to fill the silence with the anger and rebukes he’s kept bottled up. Jack doesn’t flinch once, accepting full responsibility even though he played no part in the failings the Hoopers experienced. Carol Hooper remains silent, but her lips tremble as she grinds her teeth, feeling every word her husband spits.

‘Ah, wha’s the point in any of it, like?’ Dave Hooper exclaims, waving a hand dismissively at the camera, before standing and disappearing off screen.

This certainly wasn’t how either of us had thought the call would go, and we haven’t even broached the topic of what was found on Turgood’s hard drive.

Carol Hooper has remained where she is, and has made no effort to end the call.

‘I am truly sorry for your loss, Mrs Hooper,’ Jack tries again. ‘Please know that nobody here takes your feelings for granted, nor feels anything but the purest sympathy for your loss. I have a young daughter myself, and I cannot even begin to imagine how I would deal with things if anything bad ever happened to her. I truly am sorry.’

She nods for him to continue, but lights a cigarette in the process.

Jack takes a deep breath. ‘There’s no easy way for me to say this, Mrs Hooper. We believe we have found a video of Jemima produced while she was missing. The video is of a sordid nature, and would perhaps account for some of the injuries Jemima sustained prior to her death.’ He takes a deliberate pause to allow the gravity of the statement to sink in.

Carol Hooper’s expression doesn’t change. I had expected shock, anger or for her to lash out at the cruel world, but she remains silent, the only sound coming through the tinny speakers on the laptop that of her inhaling and exhaling the cigarette smoke. For a moment I’m wondering whether she even heard what Jack said, or whether her mind has refused to hear any more negative news about her daughter.

‘Figures,’ she finally says, when Jack isn’t forthcoming.

‘The video is one of several recovered from the hard drive of a suspect in a different case, but we do not believe that that suspect was responsible for the production of the video, or involved in any aspect of Jemima’s abduction or murder.’

‘What d’you wanna know from us, like?’ Carol asks, blowing smoke at the camera.

‘I know you were probably asked lots of different questions at the time Jemima was taken, and I promise you we have reviewed every report linked to the original investigation, but what we are trying to establish is whether Jemima was targeted by the people responsible for the video.’

I desperately wish we’d made the journey to Gateshead to visit the Hoopers in person. Conducting such a sensitive and personal interview by video call feels so intrusive and clinical. I want to reach out and hug Carol Hooper and assure her that we will do whatever we can to bring her daughter’s abusers to justice, but those kinds of platitudes sound so false when delivered via digital means.

‘Yous think she was chosen.’ It’s a statement rather than a question, but the truth is Jack and I have no idea; it’s a theory we’re developing.

‘Can you remember anyone at the time taking a particular interest in Jemima?’ Jack continues. ‘Anyone you can now remember watching you when you’d collect Jemima from school; maybe someone who didn’t look quite right when you took her to the park?’

Carol Hooper shakes her head, stubbing out the cigarette in an ashtray off screen. ‘We went through all that at the time. I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, like; but we was so busy back then – so stressed out with the business folding – that it was always like we was chasing our tails.’

The Hoopers’ local IT company was in financial straits at the time of Jemima’s abduction, and at one point questions were raised about whether the abduction had been staged for monetary gain. The accusations were levelled during the onslaught of abuse that the Hoopers experienced on social media, but it soon became apparent to the Senior Investigating Officer and his team that the parents weren’t involved.

‘What about clubs and things, Mrs Hooper? Did Jemima attend any after-school activities?’

‘She had swimming lessons at the local pool every Wednesday at five, but that was it, like.’

Swimming pools are notorious for perverts looking to cop an eyeful of barely clothed children, but swimming lessons are generally delivered when pools are closed to the public; at least they are where I’m from. I haven’t seen any mention in the case file of security footage at the swimming pool being viewed to see if anyone matched the description of the person in the baseball cap, but I’d be surprised if that angle wasn’t covered. I make a mental note to speak to Jack about it after the call; at the very least we should follow up with someone on the original investigation team to double-check they considered the possibility.

‘This video with our Jem on it,’ Mrs Hooper begins, lighting a second cigarette, ‘you’re certain it’s her?’

‘Honestly, not one hundred per cent, but there is a strong possibility. We are in the process of trying to identify as many of the victims as we can in order to establish if any kind of pattern exists that might help lead us to those involved. It’s going to take time to piece together, but I do appreciate you making the time to speak to us this morning.’

I don’t know whether it’s Jack’s reference to us, but Carol Hooper is suddenly staring at me. ‘You look really familiar. Did we meet when our Jem was taken?’

I shake my head. ‘My name is Emma Hunter; I’m providing civilian support and oversight to the investigation,’ I say evenly.

Her expression remains blank; either her mind hasn’t made the connection with my name, or the world of celebrity has no place in her life.

‘Have you got kids?’ she asks.

‘No,’ I say with another shake of my head.

‘Aye, yous probably too young yet. Don’t let our misery put you off though. In spite of all that happened, I wouldn’t hesitate to do it all again; I think I’d just make more of an effort to appreciate what we had before it was snatched away.’

I doubt there’s a single person alive who wouldn’t echo that sentiment in some way. None of us realise what we have until it’s gone.

Chapter Four
Then

Poole, Dorset

Waking to the sound of beeping and whirring, she couldn’t believe she’d managed to sleep through such a cacophony until that point. She hadn’t woken to anything but silence for as long as she could remember, and that was the first indication that something wasn’t right. Her entire body ached, as she tried to shuffle her legs in bed, and as her other senses started to sharpen, she suddenly became aware of the strong chemical aroma of cleaning products, but not the fruit-scented varieties she had become accustomed to. These lacked any kind of sweetness.

Her throat felt so dry, and as her memory tried to kick into gear and recall whatever her last action was, she suddenly felt a bubble of bile building in the back of her throat, and before she could prevent it, she knew what was coming. With no time to push the sheets back and race to the toilet, she leaned as far out of the bed as she could and retched; only with nothing in her stomach, it was dry and painful.

‘Whoa, whoa, whoa,’ a voice said from somewhere in the darkness, and was followed by a pair of cool, smooth hands supporting her arms.

Her shoulders tensed with the contact and, fearing a backhanded strike, she promptly finished retching and shuffled back into her pillow, her throat raw from the exertion.

‘There, there,’ the voice said again, but the tones were softer than she was expecting. It wasn’t him.

Her eyelids felt as though they were glued shut, and she had to strain to get them to part even slightly, and when she did, the explosion of light forced her to clamp them shut again. Why was it so bright in her room? And who was this woman with soft hands and kind words?

Finally, her short-term memory engaged, and was suddenly filled with recollections of her finding the door unlocked, and making a break for it through the dark forest, until she found that road, and eventually, just when she’d thought she couldn’t go any further, she’d stumbled into the hospital, and collapsed into a janitor’s arms.

That had to be where she was now: hospital. And that would, therefore, make this woman a nurse of some kind.

The woman’s voice spoke again, but the unfamiliar words flowed too quickly for her to interpret what they meant, so she remained silent, and tried to open her eyes for a second time. Lifting her right hand, she tried to shield her eyes from the light, but as the arm came out from beneath the sheet, it felt heavy, as if weighed down.

‘Easy, easy,’ the nurse’s voice came again, as she took control of the right arm, and rested it back on the bed.

She tried to lift her left arm instead, but something pulled at it, as she did.

‘Easy, easy,’ the nurse said again, followed by the words, ‘hospital… broken… doctor.’

It was no good, she would have to open her eyes, and so bowing her head slightly she focused all of her energy on opening just her left eye, blinking several times to allow it to adjust to the large white light coming from somewhere to the right side of whatever room she was in.

Her vision blurred and focused as fluid filled and cleaned her eye, and there was a slight crackle as her sleep-covered eyelashes fluttered open and closed. She was in some kind of private, very white room. She was lying in a bed, with a metal frame around the sides, and as her eye fell on her right arm, where the nurse’s gloved hands held it in place, she realised it was the thick plaster-cast bandage that had been weighing it down. A flash of her falling to the ground as the car had sped towards her filled her mind.

Focusing her attention on her left arm, she saw a thin plastic tube poking out of the crook in her arm, behind her elbow. The tube led off the bed to a metallic stand and into a blue box, which was whirring and occasionally beeping with bright LED numbers.

Finally, she looked into the face of the nurse; such a pretty and angelic face that for a moment she questioned whether she’d actually died in that janitor’s arms, and this was some form of purgatory she’d been thrown into until she could justify her life to St Peter. Not much hope of being able to justify anything, she silently chastised herself.

The nurse tilted her head, and said something else, ending with, ‘…feeling?’

She tried to say she was thirsty, but the words wouldn’t make it past the burning in her throat, and so she pointed at her neck, and mimed drinking from a glass.

The nurse nodded, and moved around to the other side of the bed, reaching for a transparent plastic jug on the stand just behind it, and proceeded to fill a beaker of water, before dropping a paper straw into it. The nurse held it out for her to drink from, but it was difficult to swallow the lukewarm liquid.

‘Sip,’ the nurse instructed, but it was lost on her.

She eventually spat out the straw, and waved for the nurse to return the beaker to the stand. Looking back at the tube in her arm, she tried to determine what cool and clear liquid was being pumped into her arm, but as she tried to move it closer to her eyes, the nurse prevented her from doing so, shaking her head, and saying something else she couldn’t understand.

The woman in the bed pointed at the large square window off to the right and then at her eyes, grateful when the nurse seemed to pick up on the subtlety of the mime, moving across to the window and drawing the blinds, casting a shadow where the brilliant light had once been. With the room suitably dim, the woman prised her right eye open, the dried goop crackling as it broke apart.

The room was larger than the space she was used to sleeping in. Back at home, the inflatable mattress she slept on was built into a narrow coffin-like recess in the wall, and she felt overwhelmed by all the space around her now. Her room beneath the ground had comprised little more than the bed and a distance of twenty heel-to-toe steps by fifteen heel-to-toe steps. She could no longer recall the sheer panic she’d felt the first day he’d forced her into the room; in fact she could remember little of any life prior to the hole. The occasional shard of memory would penetrate – usually while she slept: images of wide, open beaches; of the sea; of a long boat crossing the sea; of a mother’s hand holding hers. Yet whenever she tried to recall anything about her parents, her mind’s eye would lose focus, and the memory would fracture into a thousand shards.

The nurse was speaking again, but the woman didn’t even attempt to decipher what was being instructed or asked. It was clear she must have broken her arm or wrist, and that was why the plaster cast had been fitted around her right arm; but she had no idea why there was a tube in her arm.

Holding out her hand, the woman cut off the nurse mid-sentence and lifted her left hand, flattening it palm up against the sheet over her legs, before using the fingers of her right hand to mime a pen, and the action of writing. The nurse reached into a pocket at the front of her tabard, pulled out a small notebook and biro, and passed them over. The woman dropped the notebook to the bed, and tried to hold the pen in her right hand, but the plaster between her thumb and index finger made gripping the pen impossible.

The nurse proffered a hand, but the woman shook her head, instead picking up the pen with her left hand and attempting to write, but the letters were jumbled in her mind, and she quickly tore up her first attempt, opting to draw what she wanted to say. The pen was unwieldy, and slipped from her grasp several times, but she finally finished, and handed the notebook back.

The nurse’s eyes widened as they focused on the picture, and she hurried from the room, returning with a tall, thin bespectacled man in a white coat.

‘Bonjour,’ he said, the words echoing in her mind.

She tried to return the greeting, but her throat was still too scratchy.

‘Comment vous-appellez vous?’ the man asked.

Her name? Why was that important? Hadn’t the nurse shown him the drawing? Didn’t he realise why she needed to speak with him?

The man in the white coat continued to consider her, exchanging silent glances with the nurse.

Pressing a hand to his chest, he spoke again. ‘Je m’appelle Monsieur Truffaut. Je suis médecin.’

So, he was a doctor; that made sense given his white coat and presence in the hospital. His eyes were still waiting for her to answer his initial question, and she tried to speak, but her throat was so hoarse. She coughed before raising the four fingers of her left hand.

He frowned as he studied the gesture. ‘Quatre? Four? No, what is your name?’

She extended her hand further, gently waggling the four fingers. ‘Four,’ she croaked.

‘Four what?’ the nurse tried.

‘Four,’ she croaked again.

‘Wait, your name is Four?’ the doctor tried. ‘Vous appelez vous Quatre? Four?’

The woman nodded.

That was what he had called her for as long as she could remember; whenever he wanted something, he would call her ‘Four’; whenever he was angry he would shout ‘Four’; whenever he was sorry, he’d whimper ‘Four’. Why were they struggling to understand?

‘Your name is Four?’ the nurse asked.

She nodded.

Another silent exchange between nurse and doctor, followed by mumbled words that they needn’t have spoken so quietly, as Four could not have understood anyway.

‘Ou habitez-vous, Four? Where do you live?’

Another pointless question! Even if she’d wanted to tell him where he’d kept her, she had no way of providing an address, and her memory of last night’s trawl through the forest and along the road was quickly fading into the recesses of her mind. She had to have been walking for at least an hour but that was merely an estimate. It could have been less than an hour, but certainly felt far longer.

They weren’t getting the message. Four pointed at the notepad that was still being clutched by the anxious-looking nurse.

‘This?’ the nurse asked, passing the pad back.

Four snatched the pad, and gesticulated at the picture of the monster she’d drawn. It was a crude sketch of a large figure chasing a stick version of herself, but surely they could see what she was trying to tell them?

‘Man,’ she croaked. ‘Bad man… coming.’

Chapter Five
Now

Ealing, London

‘Did you see her face when you mentioned the video?’ I ask Jack when the call is over, and he’s driving me back to Rachel’s flat in Ealing where I’m currently sleeping on her sofa bed.

‘She didn’t look surprised,’ he comments, pulling out at the roundabout.

‘I know, right? I swear there was no change in her expression at all. Not shock, not anger, not even denial. Just acceptance. Can you imagine what they must have been through to reach such a place devoid of emotion?’

‘It’s every parent’s worst nightmare,’ Jack concludes. ‘I meant what I said to Carol Hooper on the phone: I don’t know what I’d do if anything ever happened to Mila. I never expected I could ever feel so strongly about another human being, but I swear I would literally lay down my life for that girl.’

I try to meet his gaze, but he’s too focused on the road ahead. Traffic from Uxbridge to the entrance of the A40 is nose-to-tail, as mums and dads and nannies battle through rush-hour traffic to collect and return children to the safety of their homes; most probably oblivious to the pain the likes of Carol and Dave Hooper are going through every second of every day. There’s no school pick-up for them; not any more. I bet they never thought they’d see the day when they would miss this daily circus. So many take it all for granted.

Not that I have any right to comment on the thoughts, feelings and motivations of parents, as I’m not one, and because of that I probably will never truly know what it feels like to lose a child. I can listen, I can question, I can understand and I can sympathise; but I’ll never truly know until I have a child of my own to be thankful for.

It’s funny: until now I’ve never really thought about having a child of my own. It’s not that I’d be against the idea – not if the circumstances were right. With my twenty-eighth birthday only a couple of months away, I suppose I’m reaching that age where I’m questioning where I want my life to go next. With Monsters Under the Bed and Ransomed both selling well in the charts, and Isolated out for pre-order, I’ve never been in a better position financially. Maddie arranged for the mortgage on my flat in Weymouth to be paid off with the advance of Isolated, and apart from everyday bills, my outward expenditure is very small. I suppose all that’s missing now really is the certainty that I do want a child of my own one day.

At university, Rachel and I would talk about a future where her son or daughter would happily play in the park with my offspring; how we’d take them to pre-school and then head off for brunch somewhere fancy. I know that’s not really how mums behave, but we were naïve twenty-somethings who still believed life would be as easy as it had been until that point. Neither of us considered exactly how much work would be involved in just getting a child ready for school.

‘You’ve gone all quiet,’ Jack says, leaning over. ‘Is it because I mentioned Mila?’

The question throws me. ‘No, why would you think that?’

Jack shrugs nonchalantly. ‘Forget I said anything. What are you thinking about?’

‘Just about how dark a place a mind would have to go to not to react to the news that your daughter had been filmed for graphic entertainment before she was murdered.’

‘Yeah, but in light of the scars and injuries identified during the post mortem, I suppose it was fairly obvious she’d been mistreated during her disappearance. For the Hoopers, it’s probably been two years of their imaginations picturing the worst possible scenarios. I’m sure that’s why Dave Hooper was so angry at the start of the call. He wants someone to blame for the injustice, and we’ve failed to deliver the guilty parties.’

There he goes again, shouldering the responsibility for his colleagues up north, even though he had no involvement in how things turned out.

‘Why do you do that?’ I ask now, my nose scrunching involuntarily.

‘Do what?’

‘Say that you’ve failed them. There is nothing you could have personally done to change the circumstances surrounding Jemima Hooper’s abduction and death.’

‘Because I have absolutely no doubt that the men and women who worked that case gave it their all to find her. I’ve worked on missing child cases before and those in the job go above and beyond what is humanly possible to get the right result. It’s not just the hours and hours of overtime, the lack of sleep, the lack of regular breaks; it’s everything. It devours the human soul, and on those occasions when the missing child is discovered alive and well, it feels like we’ve done our job.’ He pauses, eyes focused back on the road. ‘But when it does end badly… that’s when the real torture kicks in. Every second of every passing day is spent thinking what more could I have done? As a profession, we take the wins when they come, but boy, do we also take the blows; harder than you can begin to think.’

Jack and I have never really talked about his career prior to taking on the cold case review project that saw him voluntarily relinquish his detective’s grade, just so he could play a more active role in Mila’s upbringing. I sense now that there is a lot more going on behind those soft brown eyes than I’ll ever know about; not that I’m not curious, but because Jack isn’t the sort to unburden. His experiences are his cross to bear, and he will do everything in his power not to show the strain of the weight.

‘So, are we to conclude that the girl in the video is definitely Jemima Hooper?’ I ask glumly.

‘The software said it’s a seventy-six per cent match, which is pretty strong given we never see a full frontal shot of the girl’s face. I don’t know. What do you think?’

‘I must have looked at the still shot from that video a hundred times in the last few days, as well as the image the Hoopers shared with the press during the appeal for information, but I still can’t say for certain. I don’t want it to be her, because that family have already been through so much without having to now accept more. Let’s say it is confirmed that Jemima was the girl in the video, what does that mean for the Hoopers?’

‘We’re not at that stage yet. You and I need to continue to review the case file, and speak to the original investigative teams. The tech boffins are doing what they can to sharpen the image from the video to see if there’s any way to get a greater or weaker match percentage.’

‘Okay, but after that? What happens if we conclude that it is more likely Jemima than not?’

‘Then we will pass our findings up the line, and probably I will have to go up and visit the Hoopers and share the findings and ask them whether they can positively ID their daughter from the still. This might all take weeks or months, and the purpose of today’s call was just to notify them of the work you and I are doing. If their daughter is a part of something much wider, then they have the right to know.’

The truth is, as much as I don’t want the girl in the video to be Jemima, at the same time, I don’t want it to be any other girl either. Today’s call was hard enough without having to repeat it with some other family who have no clue what their child has been put through.

‘Right now,’ Jack continues, ‘I think there’s a strong likelihood that we have identified our first girl. I didn’t think we’d do that so quickly, but there are so many other victims in similar videos from that hard drive. This is only the beginning, Emma, and I would totally understand if you’ve had second thoughts about being civilian liaison on this project.’

I know he doesn’t mean to suggest that he doesn’t think I have the stomach for such work, but I can’t say I’m not a little offended about his tone.

‘Do you know why I accepted DCS Rawani’s invitation?’ I challenge, feeling tears pricking at my eyes.

‘Because of my sparkling personality?’ he says sardonically, maybe aware of how his last statement might have come across.

I can’t mirror his smirk. ‘It’s because I want to do something to help. That’s why I wrote Monsters under the Bed; it’s why I accepted Lord Templeton Fitzhume’s request for me to find his granddaughter; it’s why I couldn’t ignore Natalie Sullivan’s request before she jumped from that building… In twenty years I have been helpless in my quest to locate Anna, and for all I know I’ll never get any closer to discovering what really happened to her all those years ago. But right now – in this moment – there are others I can help, and I would be selfish not to try.’

‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he says, resting a hand on mine. It seems weird feeling his warmth against my skin, but I don’t reject it. ‘You are a brilliant investigator, Emma, you really are. I only wish there were more selfless detectives like you in the force today.’

I’m blushing, and forced to look away.

‘I’m not blowing smoke up your arse, here, okay? I mean it. When the DCS told me you’d agreed to help, I was over the moon; not just because it allows me the opportunity to watch you in action, but it means the victims in those videos have a better chance at being identified.’

Silence descends, and I can’t bring myself to meet his stare. ‘Are you seeing Mila tonight?’ I ask, keen to lighten the mood.

‘No, not tonight,’ he sighs in resignation. ‘She’s at a schoolfriend’s birthday party, so her mum suggested I have her tomorrow night instead. That suits me fine, to be honest, as I’m not sure I’d be very good company after today. What about you? What are your plans for tonight?’

I shake my head. ‘Nothing planned as far as I’m aware. Need a good night’s sleep as my agent Maddie is taking me to meet with my publishers in the morning, so want to make sure I’m together and don’t make a bad impression.’

I look out of the window, as traffic begins to flow as we exit the A40. I miss home. I’ve been in West London for four days straight, and I long for the sound of the waves crashing against the sand, the seagulls squawking and waking me in the morning, the taste of sea salt in the air. London, with all its culture and modernisations, isn’t even in the same league as Weymouth. Life never seems to stop in the capital, and I don’t know how anyone manages to get a break from the stress and toil of a city that never sleeps. I’m supposed to be here until Friday night, and then I’m booked to board the late afternoon train from Waterloo, back along the south coast, and I can’t wait!

Jack is silent until we pull up outside Rachel’s flat, but in the window’s reflection he keeps glancing at me. I don’t know why he looks so nervous.

‘If you don’t have any plans, do you maybe think we could…’ he begins. ‘What I mean is, I know it’s still early, but neither of us ate much when we went to the café… Are you hungry?’

I’ve had no appetite since the call with the Hoopers. ‘Not really. Sorry.’

‘Okay, no worries,’ he says with forced casualness. ‘Listen, I’m sorry if I offended you by what I said. I know you’re braver than maybe I gave you credit for, but I wouldn’t think any less of you if you didn’t want to continue. It’s no easy job.’

I finally rest my eyes on his face, and press my hand to his cheek to show there’s no lasting damage. ‘I want to help you, Jack. You’re my friend – I think – and you shouldn’t have to do this work on your own. As you said earlier, it’ll eat your soul.’

He presses his hand against mine, and then pushes a kiss into the palm of my hand. ‘We are friends,’ he confirms.

I turn my head to look for the door handle, and as I turn back to say goodbye, his lips are suddenly heading towards me, and I freeze in panic, meaning his kiss ends up on the bridge of my nose.

‘Um, sorry, I meant that to be—’

I don’t allow him to finish the sentence, pulling on the door handle, grabbing my satchel and darting from the car, racing up the stairs to the communal entrance of the converted townhouse, in through the door, and only daring to breathe again when I am inside Rachel’s flat, with my back against her closed door.

What the hell was that? Jack just tried to kiss me, I think, but why? I didn’t think he felt that way. We’re just friends, aren’t we? I know that Maddie and Rachel have said they thought Jack was interested, but until now he hasn’t let on that he sees me as anything more than a friend or co-worker.

‘Everything okay?’ Rachel calls out from the sofa, hunched over her laptop.

‘Fine,’ I lie, taking several breaths to compose myself.

‘The kettle’s just boiled if you fancy a brew,’ she adds, without looking up.

I feel like I need something a lot stronger than tea to settle my nerves, but I resist. Pushing myself away from the door, I move into the open-plan kitchen and find my mug on the draining board, the adrenaline finally starting to dissipate, leaving me with a sense of regret; not because Jack just tried to kiss me, but because I didn’t kiss him back.

Chapter Six
Now

Ealing, London

‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ Rachel asks, finally sitting back from the laptop when I’ve joined her in the living room-cum-bedroom for the night.

I can still see Jack leaning in towards me, puckering up, his eyes closed. If he’d offered even a hint of what he was going to do, at least I would have been prepared, but the lurch caught me totally off-guard. How long has he been harbouring these feelings?

‘I’m fine,’ I lie, trying to mask how flustered I really feel. ‘What are you working on? Big story?’

She tilts her head. ‘Kind of; it’s about these two women who agreed to act as trustees for a charitable foundation, funded by an eccentric billionaire. Only, one of the women seems to be spearheading the bulk of the work.’

My cheeks redden instantly. For Rachel to confront me directly about my lack of effort with the foundation’s recent workload means that she’s unhappy, and probably has been for some time.

The Anna Hunter Foundation, a charitable organisation we set up to support the families of runaways, has been in place since Lord Templeton Fitzhume offered to fund it in an effort to buy my silence about what really happened with his missing granddaughter. By the time he realised I was going to share the truth with the world, it was too late for him to wind up the foundation’s activities. The purpose of the foundation is to provide support and guidance to those families suffering the sudden disappearance of a loved one. We have a website which contains links to a variety of sources of useful information about police protocols, dealing with social media trolls, and coping strategies. But in addition to that, families who are struggling financially – for example, a mother unable to work because of the effort required to keep searching, and keeping the home ticking – can submit a request for financial support. There isn’t an unlimited pot of money to accept every request – and we’ve had a few chancers too – so we can’t agree all requests, but we try where we can.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say quickly, wracking my mind for any kind of justification for why I haven’t been pulling my weight, but the truth is I have no excuse. ‘I know,’ I say in surrender, ‘and you’re right.’

Rachel looks away. ‘Oh look, I’m sorry too. That wasn’t fair; I know you’re busy with work too, but I’m worried that the two of us running things part-time just isn’t working. Maintenance of the website alone is taking the best part of a day per week. My IT skills are pretty average, and maybe if one of us understood html it would be swifter, but I haven’t the time to learn a new language. Then there’s the emails received through the website. Some are sweet messages of thanks, but even they need to be acknowledged. This week we’ve received forty emails; maybe a quarter of those were in gratitude, half were requests for funding and the rest a combination of requests for information already on the site.

‘The thing is, Emma, I have a full-time job too, and whilst I really do believe in the work of the foundation, I can’t give any more of myself, and the part I can give just isn’t enough.’

I can see she’s struggling to talk about her true feelings, and it wouldn’t surprise me if things are a lot worse than she’s letting on. When Fitzhume first mooted the idea of the foundation, I thought it was a brilliant idea: a resource that I wish had been around when Anna first went missing. I wish I’d known how the police would respond, what tactics they would deploy, and that there are other people experiencing a similar situation. Naively, I hadn’t realised exactly how much work would be required to make the foundation work.

It isn’t that I’ve been avoiding my share of the responsibility, but between writing, supporting Jack in an effort to find connections to Anna, and dealing with my own mother’s rapidly deteriorating Alzheimer’s, there just hasn’t been the time to do more than refresh the inbox occasionally. It doesn’t help that every request we receive for financial support sounds more believable than the last, and had Rachel not suggested we retain a private investigator to scrutinise each requestor, I probably would have agreed to all of them, and the foundation would be close to wrapping up.

‘You’re right,’ I tell her, reaching out and taking her hand in mine. ‘I need to do more, and I will, I promise.’

She turns her head to meet my gaze. ‘I don’t think even that is enough.’ Her other hand wraps around mine. ‘I’ve been thinking long and hard about this all day, and what I think we need to do is hire an administrative assistant. I know the money will have to come out of the foundation’s coffers, but I think it would be an investment in the future.’

Rachel knows how I feel about using the foundation’s money on anything but the families it was set up to support. Initially, I was reluctant to pay an annual subscription for web hosting, until she convinced me that we needed a place where people could find us. Neither Rachel nor I have taken a penny for the work we’ve done in the last six months, but we would have to pay an administrative assistant, and I can already feel myself squirming at the prospect.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Rachel says reassuringly, ‘and that’s why I did some research before pitching the idea to you. Realistically, hiring someone is likely to cost between twenty-five and thirty thousand per year—’

My eyes widen at the figure.

‘—but it will be money very well spent,’ she concludes, her voice rising to counter any argument I might offer. ‘At the moment, it’s impossible to see the wood for the trees. Let me ask you a question: when the foundation started, what was your priority?’

I open my mouth to speak, before stopping and allowing the time to truly consider the question. ‘To help those families most in need.’

‘Exactly! If I told you the foundation currently has forty-three requests for financial support, which of those would you say is the priority?’

She knows I can’t answer, so I shrug. ‘That’s why we hired Derek – to investigate each of them.’

‘Derek is just one man, and what if I told you he has only managed to file reports on eight of the forty-three, but that all eight came back as legitimate enquiries? Which of the eight should be the priority?’

‘I don’t know without reviewing them.’

‘Exactly! Have you really got the free time to review those eight? Maybe you would over the next three to four days, but their need is only going to worsen in that time. If we had someone who could handle the emails, liaise with Derek and only bring high-priority situations to our attention, think how much smoother things would run. He or she would act as a filter to all the noise, allowing us as trustees to focus on the important decisions.’ She pauses, reaches for a printed sheet on the coffee table and slides it across to me. ‘I drafted this, this afternoon. It’s a job advert, detailing the skills I think we’d be looking for. Give me the nod, and I’ll upload it to a recruitment website.’

I read the sheet of paper, but I can’t escape the feeling that I’m losing control. Rachel has every right to make such a suggestion, and I know that as co-trustee – and my best friend – she has the best interests of the foundation at heart. Even with the best will in the world, I know I can’t commit to any more than a couple of days a week, and even those would be snatched moments between publicising Isolated, meeting with Pam Ratchett at Mum’s home and continuing to investigate Jemima Hooper’s possible appearance in that video.

‘You really think this will help?’ I ask, handing the page back to her.

Her anxiety breaks into a wide smile. ‘I really do. You shouldn’t feel bad about it either. When we agreed to act as trustees, we never had any idea just how wide an audience it would reach; we couldn’t have predicted we’d be inundated with this level of contact, but what it means is that the foundation is doing what you intended. Hiring some support is the natural next step in the evolution of the foundation.’

I don’t want to argue, and if hiring an administrator will improve the support that can be offered to those families, then who am I to stand in the way of progress?

‘Okay,’ I say, returning her smile. ‘Do it, but I will help you with interviewing prospective clients; you shouldn’t have to do all of this on your own.’

She thrusts out her hand. ‘Deal! And I am sorry about snapping at you when you got in; I was frustrated at my editor, and shouldn’t have taken it out on you.’

I reach for my tea. ‘What’s your editor done now?’

‘He wanted me to go down to Poole to follow up on that woman who appeared at one of the hospitals down there.’

My brow furrows.

‘Haven’t you seen? It was trending on Twitter briefly overnight. They reckon she stumbled in, bruised and beaten, with no identification, and not speaking a word of English.’

‘Who is she?’

Rachel shrugs. ‘Nobody knows, but with the next round of trade agreement talks with the EU imminent, I don’t need to be following up on a human interest story. I told him to send one of the junior reporters.’

Rachel looks tired, and I don’t want to point out the dark circles beneath her eyes. Although she might be blaming her frustration on her editor, I know there is something else on her mind she’s not so keen to talk about.

‘Have you heard from Daniella?’ I ask as casually as I can.

Rachel glowers silently on the sofa. ‘No.’

Daniella broke up with Rachel right before Christmas, and although Rachel vowed she would do her best to move on with her life, I’ve seen the alerts pop up on her phone whenever Daniella tweets, or her name is mentioned in the news. It worries me that Rachel is getting dangerously close to cyber-stalking her ex, but what’s worse is that we both saw the tweet that Daniella would be back in the UK for a few weeks in the run-up to London Fashion Week in September.

‘Oh, well, I’m sure she’s just been busy catching up with family and friends… It doesn’t mean she won’t ask to see you.’

I’m reaching, but I’m really not sure what else to say.

Chapter Seven
Then

Poole, Dorset

Four belched as she swallowed the last of the cheese sandwich, and washed it down with more warm water from the straw and beaker. She had been propped up in the bed now, and the tube in her arm had been removed, which had meant she could now feel the weight of the plaster cast around her right wrist. The sensation was uncomfortable rather than unpleasant; certainly not as painful as other trauma she’d experienced beneath the ground.

The French doctor – Mr Truffaut – had spoken to her in her mother tongue, and she’d managed to understand most of what he’d said, but it had been difficult to respond to several of his questions; as if someone had reached in and cut out her tongue. He’d disappeared, promising to return and assuring her that no bad men would be allowed access to the hospital, let alone to her room.

It wasn’t men she was afraid of; just one man who would be out looking for her now.

He’d warned her what would happen if she ever got out, that she wouldn’t understand the world she’d been away from for so long, and for the first time she could understand what he meant. This room alone was so alien to her. So bright. Was the whole world this infused with light? Despite longing to be free for so long, she now missed the darkness.

It hadn’t all been bad; there had been splintered moments of enjoyment. He’d patiently taught her to understand his language; had given her the benefit of language tapes; he’d read to her from magazines with shiny pictures. But then the darkness would swell in his eyes, and that’s when it was at its worst.

She rested the plate of breadcrumbs on the weird table on wheels that they had slid over her, and pushed it away. A small television screen blinked and flashed numbers beside her, but despite her best efforts she couldn’t make it actually play anything resembling a show. Either it was broken or the technology was beyond her. And that just left her alone with her thoughts.

She didn’t want to be alone; not any more.

Pushing back the bed sheet, she swung her legs over the side and daintily pressed her toes onto the ice-cold floor, keeping a tight grip of the mattress with her left hand. She lowered her weight onto one leg at a time, desperately hoping they would be able to support her, and relieved when they didn’t turn to jelly. The nurse had showed her a small toilet and basin just beyond the door beside the bed, and as she opened it, she gasped at the figure staring back at her.

From her position in the bed, she hadn’t been able to look into the small bathroom, and hadn’t realised the far wall was a floor-to-ceiling mirror. Yet the painfully slight reflection was a complete stranger. Her hair was darker than she’d realised, straggled and greasy, cut to her neckline.

A flash of memory fired behind her eyes. He’d told her it was getting too long, and he didn’t like it when it fell on his face. He’d pulled out a pair of shears, grabbed a handful of her hair and cut straight through it. She’d begged him to stop, but he’d lifted the shears towards her eye, and the fight had left her. She’d allowed him to continue chopping without protest, and when he was done she’d thanked him as he’d demanded. Once he’d left, she’d wept as she’d scooped up the discarded locks and thrown them into the bucket in the corner. After that she didn’t dare complain when he came at her with the shears; not a battle worth picking.

This was the first time she’d seen what it looked like, as her hole hadn’t included a single mirror, yet it was the rest of her appearance that she now found so startling. Where was the ten-year-old girl with freckles either side of her nose? Who was this taller woman staring back at her?

She emptied her bladder and tried to wash her one free hand, before shuffling back to the bed, not daring to look back at the woman who had taken over her life.

A knock at the door was followed by the white-coated Mr Truffaut entering with a short woman dressed in black trousers and a short-sleeved black polo shirt; the radio hanging from her sleeveless jacket indicated she was someone of authority.

‘Hello again, Four.’ Truffaut spoke in partially accented French. ‘I would like to introduce Detective Sergeant Zoe Cavendish. She is a police officer, and would like to ask you some questions. Is that okay?’

Four considered Cavendish: fixed shoulders, legs apart; her petite size belied her obvious upper body strength. This was certainly not a woman you’d want to take on in a fight. And yet her face was soft, probably not much older than Four herself, and as their eyes met, Cavendish offered a simple professional smile.

‘Bonjour,’ Cavendish said with no attempt at proper enunciation.

‘Bonjour,’ Four echoed, nodding for the two of them to approach the bed.

‘Detective Cavendish does not speak French,’ Truffaut explained, ‘so I have offered to translate on her behalf. Is that okay?’

Four nodded again, relieved that they seemed to finally be taking her drawing seriously.

Cavendish began speaking in rapid English, and Four could only blink, picking up fewer than one of every six words. She was grateful when Truffaut translated the question.

‘She wants to know who did this to you.’

Four frowned. Who did what exactly?

Truffaut looked away for a moment, before fishing into his pocket, pulling out the drawing Four had sketched on the nurse’s pad. ‘Is this you?’ he asked, pointing at the stick figure.

Four pointed at the stick figure and then back at herself with an affirmatory nod.

‘And who is this?’ Truffaut asked, pointing at the round mass of squiggles.

She stared at the ball of blue scratched hard into the paper. What did a name matter? He was her captor; her master; her everything.

‘Bad man,’ she tried in English.

‘Bad man? He is a person then?’

Four’s eyes widened in panic, as she felt the lash of his belt against the still raw welts on her lower back.

The detective was speaking again, asking Truffaut to translate.

‘Did you know this man?’

It was such a difficult question to answer. She’d learned what she needed to about him: he came to her at night; he smelt of B.O. and cigarettes; he liked to restrain her; he liked to choke her; he didn’t speak much; he preferred the lights off; he said he loved her.

‘This man attacked you?’ Truffaut tried again.

The way the question was phrased it sounded like a one-off occasion, but not a day had passed when he hadn’t tormented her in some way. She couldn’t remember ever not living in fear.

Cavendish led the doctor away to the back of the room so they could talk quietly, not that it would have mattered; even if they’d shouted their hushed conversation, she wouldn’t have been able to properly understand. He’d brought her books and a candle once, but had then taken them away when she’d displeased him.

Cavendish had removed an envelope from a side pocket in her trousers, and was now showing the contents to Truffaut, explaining what she wanted him to do. He didn’t speak, didn’t argue, just moved his head up and down.

The pair of them agreed their course of action before returning. This time, though, they parted, Truffaut moving to the left side of the bed and Cavendish to the right. It was the detective who spoke first, pausing to allow the doctor to translate.

‘We are going to show you some photographs now; these were taken when you arrived at the hospital. They are pictures of you, and some of the scars and injuries we discovered on your body. Do you understand?’

She took a deep breath, as Cavendish lowered the first photograph to the sheet covering her legs. At first it wasn’t obvious what she was staring at, but as Four tilted her head, she could now see it was the back of one of her legs, though she couldn’t be sure which. Small, round darker rings pocked the length of the leg. Though all now healed, the burn of the teaspoon had left its mark. That’s how he’d coerced her obedience in the early days; she had learned to be obedient.

‘Who did this to you?’ Truffaut asked. ‘Was it the bad man?’

Four closed her eyes and nodded. What if he found out that she’d told the police about him? She couldn’t even begin to envisage the pain she would feel for her betrayal.

When she opened her eyes again, another photograph had been rested on top of the first. This time, it was obvious she was looking at her own neckline, though it was larger than she would have imagined. The bruising here was fresher; more recent.

A second flash of memory, this time of him behind her while she was kneeling on the bed. She hadn’t understood why he was so angry, and she’d tried to please him, but that had only made the squeezing harder, to the point where the dimly lit room had seemed to spin, and she’d seen a ghostly-white figure beckoning to her.

‘Did the bad man cause these injuries too?’ Truffaut asked, bringing her back to the private room in the hospital.

A tear escaped as she nodded bravely.

‘Is the bad man your boyfriend?’

He’d said he loved her, but what he’d done wasn’t love, was it? Certainly not the love she’d read about in fairy tales. Where in Cinderella did the handsome prince beat and threaten his new bride in the glass slippers? Had he thought that was love though? Did he consider himself her boyfriend? She’d never asked, and hoped never to find out.

Four shook her head. ‘No. He is… my keeper.’

Truffaut and Cavendish exchanged a silent glance, before the detective returned the remaining images to the envelope and secured them back in her side pocket. She said something to Truffaut, and after a moment of consideration he nodded. The detective reached into another pocket and pulled out a small screen, no bigger than a large matchbox. She tapped on it with her finger before lowering it to the bed.

Four instantly recognised the face she’d expected to see in the bathroom mirror. The freckles either side of her nose, her fair hair plaited in pigtails, and a red and white ruffled dress that stirred a distant memory somewhere in her head. She had no doubt she was staring at a picture of herself, and for the briefest moment all the pain of the recent past evaporated.

‘Do you recognise this girl?’ Truffaut asked.

Four couldn’t take her eyes off the screen; it was as if they had reached into the darkest recesses of her mind and found the one glimmer of hope she’d dared to hold onto for so long.

‘We believe this is you,’ Truffaut continued. ‘We took some blood from you when you arrived to check for drugs and viruses, and when we shared the sample with the police they found you. Your name is Aurélie.’

That sound stirred something else in her head; it was a sound she’d been so familiar with once.

‘Do you remember what happened to you thirteen years ago, Aurélie? Your parents reported you missing when you were ten years old and staying in Worthing along the south coast of England. You were here on holiday; do you remember?’

She continued to stare at the image of the girl in the ruffled dress, not daring to believe any of this was more than a cruel dream from which she’d be forcibly woken at any minute.

Chapter Eight
Now

Ealing, London

I’m not one of those who necessarily buys into the theory that dreams are the subconscious’ way of telling us what our conscious mind refuses to accept. However, it wouldn’t take a trained psychologist to see that the dreams of Jack that plagued my sleep last night were a direct consequence of his attempted kiss. The more I think about it, the more I cringe. But what makes me want to cringe more is the prospect of how he will react when we next see one another. A sensible man would immediately bow out with an apology and quickly sweep the incident under the carpet. Alas, I fear Jack is the second type of man, who won’t even mention it, and will just assume that nothing has changed, as if it never really happened. At least that would be better than the third type of man – the one I secretly think Jack is – who will want to discuss at length what happened, dissecting every minor detail until he is certain he knows why I didn’t lean back in and meet his lips.

Oh my God! Is this really what I’ve become? It feels like I’m fourteen all over again, all padded bras and gloopy makeup residue where I’ve used too much because I don’t know that less is more. I’m a professional writer; no, I’m an award-winning professional writer. Why should I care what some guy thinks? I am a strong, independent woman who needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle. I need to get my head out of the clouds and focus on my own priorities, rather than worrying about Jack or his lecherous intentions towards me.

Yet, if I was back in that moment in his car, and I saw him leaning in again, would my reaction still be the same?

I think that’s the bit that bothers me most: I can’t see past what would have happened had I kissed him back. Would we have given in to passion and been unable to keep our hands off one another? It doesn’t sound like me, and I don’t think Jack has that level of passion coursing through his veins either.

He’s a nice guy, that much I know after the nine or so months I’ve known him – the multiple conversations we’ve had, the way he dotes on his daughter Mila, those moments when I catch him looking away and daydreaming about a life that doesn’t involve hunting down criminals who have thus far evaded the law. And yes, although I’ve denied it to Rachel, Maddie and Freddie Mitchell, there is a part of me that thinks Jack is a handsome man – a bit goofy and nerdy at times – but handsome nevertheless. Could I really see myself in a relationship with him though?

‘You’re doing it again,’ Rachel says from the kitchen countertop, removing her glasses and chewing on one of the arms.

‘Doing what?’ I ask, my mind coming back into the present.

‘You’re staring into space, eyes are glazed over, and so I’d assume you’re daydreaming, but the question is: about what?’

‘I was just thinking about the launch party for Isolated,’ I reply offhand.

Rachel cocks an eyebrow, clearly seeing through the lie, but doesn’t verbally question it. We both know I’m fibbing, but we’re close enough to both know I’m not ready to come clean yet.

‘Aren’t you supposed to be going to the police station to meet Jack today?’

When my alarm woke me, and I began picturing that moment I walk into the makeshift office we’ve set up, and I see Jack, I decided I’m not mentally ready for that confrontation, and was going to message and say I’m not well. So, when Maddie’s text message came through, inviting me to brunch with the editing team from my publishers, it was the perfect excuse.

‘I’m meeting Maddie at eleven,’ I explain to Rachel. ‘Agent and publisher brunch apparently.’

‘But you hate those things,’ she says, her brow furrowing ever so slightly.

‘Maddie insisted,’ I say, avoiding her gaze. ‘Unfortunately just one of those things I can’t get out of.’

I can sense Rachel watching me, but she doesn’t say anything else, returning the glasses to her face and focusing back on whatever she’s reading on her phone.

‘What are you reading?’ I ask, keen to change the subject to anything but me.

‘Oh, it’s nothing important,’ she says, quickly locking the phone’s screen, even though there’s no way I can see what was on it.

I don’t want to judge my best friend, but the speed with which she locked her screen suggests it was anything but nothing.

‘What are your plans for today?’ I ask.

‘I’m going to upload that job advert for an administrative assistant, and then head into the office to check on the latest Brexit negotiations updates. In fact, I’ll jump in the shower now, unless you want to use it?’

‘No, you go ahead, I’d better be on my way to meet Maddie.’

Rachel nods, pocketing her phone, and heads towards the bedroom. As soon as the door closes, I pull out my own phone and perform an internet search for Rachel’s ex’s name. The first hit is a picture of Daniella Vitruvia, looking glam at a movie premiere in Leicester Square last night. She is one of dozens of famous faces who attended the event, but what is most alarming is the flash-looking footballer with his arm looped through hers.

Given the alerts I know Rachel has set up on her phone, I’ve no doubt she’s seen this image and associated story. It is bad enough Daniella looking so cosy with this guy, but the fact that she must have stayed in London last night and didn’t reach out to Rachel speaks volumes. I just want to go in and give her a hug, but then she’ll know that I know what she’s been reading, and it’ll cause unnecessary awkwardness. Tackling this problem needs a more sensitive touch.

With this thought in mind, I reach for my satchel and anorak, and head out of the flat in the direction of Ealing Broadway tube station, which is a ten-minute walk away at most. I know this route now, as I’ve ventured to and from Rachel’s flat more times than I can remember in the last year. Although it’s cramped when I stay – me crashing on the sofa bed – I think Rachel appreciates the company, though she does also keep mentioning the prospect of the two of us getting something bigger to share. Although I want to remain based in Weymouth, the requirement to be closer to London – for my writing career, as well as hunting the likes of Jemima Hooper from those videos – is becoming greater, and it may soon be time to put some tentative roots down here. It’s not like I would give up my flat in Weymouth; that will always be home.

Maddie has messaged to say she will meet me at the restaurant instead of her office, but as always has included the restaurant’s full address so I can copy it into the navigation app on my phone; she knows me so well!

Alighting at Moorgate tube station, I find that the restaurant is a short walk away, and a stone’s throw from the Barbican Centre, but it isn’t what I was expecting. The large glass panels separating the restaurant from the space would have you thinking it was just another tower of office blocks, if it weren’t for the large neon sign hanging in the window, and the bar stools just the other side of the very reflective glass. Maddie is waiting for me by the entrance and hugs me as I arrive.

‘Great, you found it,’ she begins. ‘I was beginning to worry I’d get a phone call saying you were somewhere south of the river because you’d got lost.’

I know the dig is meant to be light-hearted, so I don’t allow myself to react to it; Maddie knows only too well how bad I am at following directions.

‘The publishers are already inside,’ Maddie continues, straightening the collar on the cotton dress I’ve opted for. ‘This is nice; is it new?’

Maddie is wearing her usual ensemble of straight skirt, hanging just below the knee, suit jacket and crisp white blouse. She is the consummate professional, and I’ve only ever once seen her looking less than pristine. Unfortunately we differ in our opinions of what looks good on me, which is why I deliberately opted to leave my usual array of thin cardigans at home today.

‘Yes, it is,’ I comment, brushing the pleats. ‘Do you like it? I’m not underdressed for today, am I?’

‘Relax, there’s no dress code, and yes, I think it really suits you. The autumnal colouring brings out your eyes beautifully.’

I try not to gush at the compliment, and as we head into the restaurant, I don’t tell her I picked it up in a charity shop in Weymouth. My editor Becky beams as we approach the table, and then it’s a flurry of introductions, and air kisses before we all sit.

‘I hope you don’t mind,’ Becky begins, her Dublin upbringing evident in her gentle tones, ‘but when I told the office I was meeting you for brunch today, this motley crew insisted on coming along so they could all tell you how much we loved Isolated! I have no doubt that by the time this meal is over, we’ll struggle to get you out of the restaurant because your head and ego will be so big!’ She laughs at her own joke, not realising that hearing virtual strangers enthusing over my work is not my idea of fun; quite the opposite in fact.

With no cardigan sleeve to absently chew on – Maddie always tells me off for that – I reach for the crusty bread roll beside me, and break a bit off to nibble.

The restaurant is packed, and it is difficult to hear what Becky is saying as she introduces the unfamiliar faces around the table. Despite the relaxed decor and Tex-Mex menu, I instinctively sense that this is the sort of place with a weeks-long waiting list, and even though I know Becky’s team will front the bill, my eyes are immediately drawn to the less expensive meal choices.

‘… and this is Greg,’ Becky continues, as I strain to hear, ‘who is our metadata guru; all hail Greg!’

Those at the table echo, ‘Hail Greg!’ He raises his hands and accepts their accolades. This is clearly some in-house joke that is lost on Maddie and me.

‘And then finally, next to you, is Lucy, who is the creative genius behind the amazing covers used on the series so far.’

I offer a friendly smile, whilst inside I’m cringing like mad.

‘I loved your book Ransomed,’ Lucy now tells me, leaning in, her arm brushing mine, ‘and I can’t wait to read whatever’s next! I find myself devouring your books in a single sitting, desperate to get to the end, and then devastated when it ends too soon.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, my throat suddenly dry, but there’s no sign of any water on the table.

‘Have you two started sketching out ideas for what you want to do next?’ Becky asks, though it is clear the question is aimed more at Maddie than me. In this relationship I am just the one who churns out the words; anything career-related is dealt with by the grownups.

‘We have one or two irons in the fire,’ Maddie tells her secretively, as if divulging anything could cost lives.

‘Well, that’s what we wanted to meet you about,’ Becky replies, her bright smile and wide eyes in contrast to Maddie’s. ‘We have an idea we’d like to pitch to you.’

My shoulders instantly tense at the memory of how it was Becky’s insistence that my second book be based on the abduction of Lord Templeton Fitzhume’s granddaughter. I didn’t like my subject matter being dictated to me, when I wanted to focus my next book on my own sister’s disappearance, and I don’t like the thought that my publishers are in the driving seat again. This trepidation is only tempered by the fact that I managed to reunite Fitzhume’s granddaughter with her mother.

‘Have either of you heard of Aurélie Lebrun?’ Becky asks, her lips trembling in anticipation.

I can see Maddie shaking her head in my periphery, but I do recognise the name. ‘She was the ten-year-old daughter of the French Minister for Trade, right? Disappeared in Worthing, if memory serves… what, twelve or so years ago?’

‘Thirteen years ago, to be precise,’ Becky says, now turning her attention to me, and clearly pleased that I know what she’s talking about. ‘What if I told you that Aurélie Lebrun has turned up alive and well?’

I drop the bread roll to the table. The reason I recall Aurélie’s story is because I saw so many comparisons between her situation and Anna’s.

‘She stumbled into a hospital in Poole on Tuesday evening and has been undergoing treatment for malnourishment and a broken wrist ever since.’

I now recall Rachel mentioning her editor wanting her to go and report on a story about a woman in Poole, and it can’t be a coincidence.

She stumbled in, bruised and beaten, with no identification, and not speaking a word of English.

‘She was identified through DNA, but her true identity has yet to be released to the public,’ Becky continues. ‘We were given the tip-off about it first thing, and I immediately thought of you, Emma. Her injuries would suggest exposure to significant trauma for several years, and could make for an interesting twist on a tried-and-tested format: you could interview the victim and tell her story in her words. What do you think?’

Our meals can’t come soon enough; if Aurélie was taken by the same people who snatched Anna, then she could be the breakthrough I’ve been waiting for.

Chapter Nine
Now

Moorgate, London

As soon as Becky said she would speak to her contact and try and get me some time to speak to Aurélie Lebrun, I rushed through my portion of the tacos, nachos and breakfast burritos ordered for the table. I’ve learned over the years that opportunities like this don’t come along very often, and so all my feelings of angst and reticence about allowing Becky and her team to choose the direction of my next case are gone.

‘It’s definitely her?’ I check, as I drain my glass of water to quell the thirst brought on by the chilli in what I’ve just eaten.

‘DNA confirmed it,’ Becky says, beaming. ‘And the best part is, nobody else knows about it. As far as every other media publication is aware, the girl in that hospital room is an unidentified Jane Doe.’

Becky is naïve if she thinks other media outlets won’t soon lay their hands on this juicy detail. I bet as soon as Rachel’s editor realises exactly who is recovering in Poole, he’ll insist Rachel travel down there. Part of me wants to give my best friend the heads-up to help her get ahead of the curve, but it isn’t my place to share Becky’s tip. Maybe I can just hint that there’s more to the story than Rachel realised, and see if she wants to tag along with me.

‘How much do you know about Aurélie’s story?’ Becky now asks.

In truth my recollection is limited, but I close my eyes and try to picture the notes I wrote at the time of researching it. I’m blessed with the ability to visualise memories. I don’t have a photographic memory, and I’m lousy in general knowledge quizzes, but if you asked me to recite the names of every missing-child case history I’ve reviewed since Anna went missing, I reckon I’d be able to give you better than ninety per cent of the names.

‘Aurélie’s father – Remy Lebrun – was the Minister for Trade; something of a controversial figure from what I’ve read. He was a self-made millionaire when he decided to enter politics in France, and was tipped by many to be the next French Prime Minister until all this happened.’ I pause, trying to recall any other salient details I’d sketched down. ‘Remy Lebrun had come to the UK for talks with our government on renegotiating trade matters that fell outside the EU’s capacity, but he brought his wife and daughter with him, so that they could spend a few days together as a mini holiday.

‘They were staying in a seafront hotel, and had taken Aurélie down to the beach on what was a particularly hot day. She was paddling at the water’s edge when her mother returned to their room to collect a new book to read, leaving her husband watching Aurélie. However, he received an urgent phone call, and looked away for what he claimed couldn’t have been more than two minutes, and she vanished. At first they panicked that she’d wandered further into the water and had been swept up in it. A frantic search was engaged, but she couldn’t be found. Given his prominence, an investigation was commenced immediately with detectives from the Met sent down to support local investigators.

‘A day later, checking of local security camera feeds captured the moment a kicking and screaming Aurélie was placed in the back of a Transit van and driven away. The time on the camera matched the moment Remy Lebrun was heading into the water to look for her.

‘It was assumed the abduction was targeted, because of the family’s notoriety. The beach that day was packed with holidaymakers making the most of the August sunshine, but despite the hundreds of beach-dwellers interviewed by police in the immediate aftermath, nobody could recall the moment Aurélie was taken, nor did anyone recall a ten-year-old girl being dragged from the beach.’

The table falls silent as we all reflect that there is more to this than just a thrilling story. As someone who has experienced the sudden disappearance of a loved one, I know full well that it is the quiet nights of contemplation that are the most painful to deal with; there is a natural human need to ask what we could and should have done differently, and I have no doubt that both Remy Lebrun and his wife Solange will have criticised their every move that day and in the days before.

If only Remy hadn’t taken that call; if only Solange hadn’t returned to their room to collect her book; if only they hadn’t gone to the beach that day; if only they’d stayed at a different hotel, or in a different town; if only Solange and Aurélie had remained in Paris.

I know because I’ve asked similar questions of myself every day since I saw Anna wander from our driveway twenty years ago.

‘We’ll have to move quickly,’ I say now. ‘If Aurélie is well enough to speak to me, then let’s get an interview arranged before anyone else gets wind of the story.’

I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Becky look as excited as she does right now. ‘I’m so thrilled that you’re as enthusiastic about this as us. Can you imagine getting to hear first-hand what it was like being taken against her will, and held for so long? There is such a human interest story here that it’s giving me tingles. I’ll phone my contact now, and get the wheels in motion.’

I nod my agreement, and watch as Becky excuses herself from the table with her phone to her ear. What I haven’t told her is that my interest in speaking with Aurélie is less about where she’s been held, or how she escaped; I want to know if she ever saw Anna.

Catching the tube back to Rachel’s flat in Ealing, I am focused on packing my bag and catching a train back to Weymouth from where I can base operations. I don’t see the point in commuting from London to Poole every day. Becky has managed to get me in to see Aurélie first thing in the morning, so there is no point in me sticking around in London when I could be back home listening to the crash of the waves and the seagulls gossiping while refreshing my memory of the events surrounding Aurélie’s abduction.

The last thing I’m expecting to find waiting on Rachel’s doorstep is Jack Serrovitz. I start when I see the forlorn look he’s wearing, and that he’s clutching a bunch of flowers surreptitiously behind his back.

‘Sorry to just turn up like this,’ he says, his usual goofy grin replaced by thin lips drawn into a tight grimace. ‘I wanted to apologise for last night.’

I don’t need a mirror to see that the heat has rushed to my cheeks. I hadn’t even thought about our awkward encounter since Aurélie’s name tumbled from Becky’s mouth. I just want to go inside, pack my things and catch the next train out of London, but I’m not cruel enough to ignore Jack’s effort.

‘It’s fine,’ I say, non-committally. ‘Forget it happened.’

He takes a step forward, the plastic veil around the flowers rustling. ‘No, it wasn’t acceptable. I misread the situation, and I want to apologise for my behaviour. I like you, Emma. You make me laugh, and you challenge me to be a better detective than I think I ever was. But the last thing I want is to mess up our friendship and put you off helping me with our investigation.’

I suppose it had been too much to hope he’d buy the excuse of the brunch meeting as a reason for me not to go to the police station today.

‘You’ve not put me off helping,’ I reassure him, ‘I had a business meeting with my publisher that I couldn’t blow off; that’s all.’

He studies my face, looking for those tell-tale signs of deceit that I know my body is showing despite my best efforts to hide them. ‘These are for you,’ he says, thrusting the bunch of flowers towards me. ‘I feel awful about what happened, and I want you to know that it won’t happen again.’

It’s at times like this I wish I lived in Jane Austen’s era, where such communication and discussion about feelings were reserved for written correspondence. I’m no good at speaking from the heart when talking about myself. I momentarily picture Jack as Mr Darcy emerging dripping wet from the lake, and it causes me to snicker, but that only deepens his frown.

‘What’s so funny?’ he asks.

‘Nothing,’ I say, quickly shaking the image from my mind. ‘Listen, Jack, you caught me off-guard last night, and had I known—’

‘I was out of order,’ he quickly interrupts, ‘and I promise it won’t happen again. You’ve made your feelings on the matter clear, and I just hope I haven’t screwed things up between us. Jemima Hooper and the others need you on this investigation.’

If he’d allowed me to finish, I would have told him that we should postpone discussions about romantic entanglements until after we’ve identified each of the children on those videos, but I don’t have the courage to come out with it now.

‘You’ve not messed anything up,’ I say, offering my most encouraging smile. ‘Okay? I do need to go back home for a few days though, as something has come up that I need to deal with. I promise it has nothing to do with last night, so don’t go reading anything into it. Okay?’

He doesn’t look convinced.

‘I have a potential lead on Anna that I need to plough my efforts into,’ I clarify.

‘Really? That’s incredible! What’s the lead? A location?’

‘Not exactly. It’s a long shot, but something I need to pursue.’

‘Do you need any help? I’m happy to chase anything down that might help; after all, Anna is one of the victims on the video, so it is technically related to our investigation anyway.’

Actually, a few days apart will probably be a good thing for us, I don’t tell him.

‘Thanks,’ I say, ‘but I need to check the source first. As soon as I have something more concrete I’ll let you know, okay?’

He is still dangling the bunch of white lilies at me, and I sense he won’t leave until I take them and formally accept his apology.

‘Thank you for the flowers,’ I say, accepting the bunch and breathing in the sweet perfume, ‘but they really weren’t necessary. Everything is fine between us, I promise.’

Jack returns to his car at the side of the road, and I wave as he pulls away, before heading into Rachel’s flat to gather my things. Seeing Jack has pushed another question to the forefront of my mind: is it possible that Aurélie Lebrun is another of the children in the videos recovered from Arthur Turgood’s hard drive?

Chapter Ten
Then

Poole, Dorset

She had a name. When Mr Truffaut had first said her real name was Aurélie, the name had sounded wrong, out of place somehow, yet there had been something familiar about the sound of the vowels that had triggered distant memories, memories locked so deep in her consciousness that she hardly dared to believe they were there. But the more he – and the petite firecracker DS Cavendish – said it, the more familiar it became. The sound reminded her of a time when fear wasn’t her preliminary response to every occasion; a time when she could play, and explore, and hope.

DS Cavendish had told her she was Aurélie Lebrun, and had been missing for some thirteen years, making her twenty-three now; an entire youth spent in trepidation and darkness, and for what? Now she was out, and lost in a world her fragile mind could hardly contemplate. For the first time, she allowed her mind to wonder what she would be doing now had she not escaped.

Aurélie shook the thought from her mind; it didn’t serve any purpose to allow such daydreaming. She had to believe that sometime the grass really could be greener on the other side. And as terrified as she was to be learning so much about a life that was long since forgotten, it didn’t compare to the terror she’d lived through. If there really was a Hell, then she’d survived it somehow, and at some point her mind would have to allow her to see that she really had escaped; there was no way he would be able to get her, now she was safe with the police.

‘I’ve just spoken to your parents,’ DS Cavendish exclaimed, bounding into the room, swallowing the distance between the door and the bed in a few elongated strides. ‘They couldn’t quite believe we’d found you, but they’ll be on the next flight out of Lille, and will probably be here first thing in the morning. Your mother was in tears.’

Aurélie looked down at the photograph of herself in the red and white ruffled dress that Cavendish had now printed out for her. Behind her stood a handsome man she recognised as her father, and a woman whose once youthful features weren’t dissimilar to the reflection Aurélie had caught in the bathroom mirror. Memories of these two figures had yet to filter through the fog in her mind, but she had no doubt that she was staring at the faces of her parents. How much they must have changed in the last thirteen years too; would she even recognise them when they arrived? Would they recognise her?

‘Listen, it’s getting late,’ Cavendish now said, nodding towards the dimming sunlight at the window closest to the door, ‘and my shift ended an hour ago. If it’s okay with you, I’m going to go now, unless there’s anything I can get for you in the meantime?’

Aurélie couldn’t understand every word, but managed to get the gist of the question, shaking her head at the offer of further support. She suddenly felt very tired, even though the furthest she’d ventured all day was the bathroom for toilet breaks. Truffaut had said something about shower facilities in another room, but she didn’t dare venture out alone. Stifling a yawn, Aurélie fixed her pillow and turned onto her side as Cavendish bowed out, closing the door behind her.

Aurélie closed her eyes, willing sleep to come, yet she also worried that this glorious dream was nearing its end, and that she would soon be woken by him, and the dream would be smashed.

She didn’t know how long she’d been asleep when a knock at the door disturbed her. In walked a woman with an unfamiliar face. She had to be at least six foot tall, but with a wiry frame that for a moment had Aurélie picturing an icicle. The woman closed the door behind her. Dressed in a khaki-coloured long coat, she didn’t look like a nurse or doctor.

Aurélie remained still in bed, squinting as the stranger picked up the medical file clipped to the foot of the bed and examined the contents. Aurélie was already fed up with being prodded and fussed over as various tests had been carried out on her over the course of the day. She hoped that if she remained still, this woman, whoever she was, would leave her be and go on her way. But then the woman in green pulled out what looked like a small camera or phone, and a flash of bright light suggested she’d taken a picture of the medical notes.

Aurélie sat up at this point, startling the woman in green.

‘Oh, you’re awake,’ the wiry woman gasped. ‘How are you, Aurélie?’

Aurélie remained silent, an alarm bell ringing somewhere in the back of her mind, instantly sensing danger. Was it possible this woman worked for him in some capacity?

‘I bet all of this,’ the woman continued, rolling her gaze around the room, ‘seems a bit mental, right? There’s no need to be scared; I’m a friend, and I mean you no harm.’

Aurélie tried to recall what the nurse had said about pressing a button to call for a nurse if she needed to, but she couldn’t recall which button to use. She was just reaching for the paddle hanging from the bed frame when the wiry woman moved to that side of the bed.

‘My name is Tessa Imbrock; I know your mother.’

Aurélie froze, studying the woman’s face, looking for any clue to another long lost memory, but drawing a blank.

‘Do you mind if I take a seat?’ Tessa Imbrock said, not waiting for an answer before pulling over the chair that Cavendish had left beside the wall, and promptly sitting in it. ‘How are you feeling, Aurélie?’

She adjusted her pillows, to allow her to sit up, and continued to look at the woman’s face. The skin beneath her eyes was dark and hung lifelessly, almost as if she’d just stepped out of a boxing ring, yet there was no pain or swelling; this was the face of someone who’d burned the candle at both ends for too long. Yet there was nothing threatening about the gentle smile or pixie-cut fair hair.

‘Heavens!’ Tessa exclaimed. ‘Can you even understand what I’m saying to you?’

Aurélie offered a small nod, even though she was barely following the questions.

‘Oh, what a relief! As I’m sure it is for your mum and dad. Have you spoken to them yet? Your parents?’

Aurélie shook her head, not trusting her own voice.

Tessa glanced at the watch hanging from her bony wrist. ‘Probably too late. Allowing for the time difference, it’s well after ten in Lille. I’m sure you’ll get to speak to them in the morning. I can just imagine how overwhelmed your mum will be at the news. Poor Solange; she took it the hardest, you know.’

Cavendish had confirmed her parents as Remy and Solange Lebrun, and although she couldn’t say how, Aurélie had felt those names were right. So this woman had to be a friend of her mum’s; at least that ruled out the possibility she was in cahoots with him.

‘Do you remember the day you were taken?’ Tessa asked next. ‘Do you remember being on the beach with your mum and dad?’

In truth, Aurélie couldn’t recall a beach, but she’d never forgotten the feeling of terror as her body had been flung into the back of the van, and how she’d rolled and bounced as the vehicle had picked up speed. She’d thought of herself as a sock in a washing machine, until eventually it had stopped, but from that moment, the memory faded until the relentless daily waking in the dark. Whatever had happened in the days and weeks that followed her abduction, those memories had been buried deep enough that they weren’t readily available.

‘Can you tell me anything about the man who took you? His name? What he looked like?’

Aurélie thought about the crude sketch of the monster she’d scribbled for Truffaut and Cavendish. It hadn’t been accurate. Her captor hadn’t been barrel-chested or covered in hair. Latterly, he’d been bereft of any kind of hair, as the scent of death had hovered nearby. At times he could be tender, almost allowing her to believe he cared, but those few occasions could never make up for the brutality of the rest. Whatever he’d felt for her, she didn’t want to believe it was anything resembling love.

‘Aurélie? Did you understand my question? Can you tell me anything about the man who took you?’

She shook her head again, knowing that Cavendish would want answers to similar questions, and feeling as though her unwillingness to provide answers was letting everyone down. She’d learned not to look, not to listen to anything not directed at her; it had taken time and pain, but she’d learned to be obedient.

‘What about where you’ve been for the last thirteen years? Can you tell me if you’ve been in a house, or a flat, or a basement? Where have you been, Aurélie? Were you in the UK?’

The directness of the questions was starting to grow tiresome, but these were just the tip of the iceberg, Aurélie knew; she would be questioned over and over until she could shed light on the truth of what had happened, of what had happened to her.

‘Je ne sais pas,’ she offered with a slight shrug. ‘Pardon, I not know the words.’

Tessa paused, and considered her. ‘Would you mind if I took your photograph? I’m sure your mum and dad would want to see that you’re safe and well.’

It seemed such an odd request, but Aurélie didn’t know how to let her down, and reluctantly nodded.

Tessa raised the small camera that she’d been clutching the entire time, and snapped two pictures of Aurélie in the bed, before joining her and taking an image of the two of them together. The flashing of the light hurt Aurélie’s eyes, and must have been visible through the closed door, as a moment later one of the nurses opened the door and peered in, instantly losing her temper.

‘You shouldn’t be in here,’ she challenged Tessa, marching into the room, and placing her hands on her hips.

Tessa didn’t seem the slightest bit concerned, pocketing the camera and walking nonchalantly towards the door. ‘I’ve got what I came for.’ She stopped, reaching into her pocket again, this time extracting something that she swiftly handed to Aurélie. ‘If you want to talk, or you want to sell your story, call me first. My editor will pay handsomely for an exclusive.’

Tessa didn’t wait for an answer, hurrying from the room under the watchful glare of the nurse.

Aurélie examined the business card, trying to decipher the language, but recognising the red lettering of the logo in the top corner. It seemed Tessa wasn’t a friend of her mother’s, but a journalist looking for a scoop. Aurélie sank back into her pillows as her eyes watered; maybe life had been easier underground.

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