Page 7

CHAPTER 7

SALLY – D AY O NE

Sally is lying on the sofa near the sliding doors looking out from the kitchen on to the empty swing in the garden. She’s clutching Bunny, Amelie’s precious pink rabbit, and puts it up to her nose.

It’s not a good smell and in the past she teased Amelie about this. Begged her to let her pop Bunny in the washing machine again. But in this moment the stale smell of dust and old dirt brings a new wave of guilt.

Sally feels tears coming again. What was she thinking, worrying about how a toy smelled? What did it even matter? She breathes it in again and pictures her daughter holding it tight in bed at story time.

‘Do you want a cup of tea? Or coffee?’ The voice is from across the kitchen. The FLO – family liaison officer. Milly or Molly, Sally can’t remember.

‘I washed this rabbit once. I shouldn’t have done that.’

‘I’m sorry?’ Milly or Molly frowns and Sally wishes she could ask her to leave. Wants to be alone. But Matthew said he’s not allowed to liaise with Mel unless Sally has someone with her. In case there’s news. A phone call. An update.

Or maybe they think she might harm herself if she’s left alone? Is that what they think?

‘This rabbit. Amelie’s rabbit. I washed it once and she was furious.’

Sally remembers Amelie’s face at breakfast. She was about three, maybe four, and Sally had secretly washed Bunny overnight, expecting her daughter to be pleased to see the pink fur all bright and fluffy again. She wasn’t. It smells like the washing machine now. I hate you.

‘Mine’s like that over his whale. He has a large, blue, furry whale. Stinks.’ Milly or Molly has tilted her head, the kettle whirring into action behind her. ‘I put it in the freezer sometimes. That’s supposed to help with germs apparently.’

Sally feels a small smile deep inside – she hadn’t realised the policewoman was a mother – but the smile doesn’t reach her face, her muscles frozen somehow. She looks up to take in the FLO’s expression. Soft. Sad.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name properly. Is it Milly?’

‘Molly. Don’t worry. It’s the shock. Brain fog. I’ll make more tea. Yes?’

‘Thank you. So you have a son?’

‘Two boys. Six and eight.’

‘Right.’ Sally feels her lip quivering, fighting the jealousy. A rage that this woman’s sons are home safe, one of them tucked up in bed with a blue, furry whale while Amelie ...

She felt the same jealousy when she messaged all the mothers taking children to the birthday party Amelie was supposed to attend. She was grasping at straws, hoping there might be someone who knew something. Had Amelie mentioned anything to any of her friends? It drew a blank. The mothers were in shock. Sally told them to go ahead with the party. Not to frighten the children. But in truth, it broke her to think of it. The games. The balloons and the cake. Amelie’s party bag unclaimed.

The kettle clicks. Molly puts a tea bag in each of two mugs and pours water in both. Sally can almost hear Matthew saying the milk should go in first . They used to argue about that but not anymore. He always drinks coffee these days.

‘My husband’s a bit of a coffee snob. Not fond of tea.’

‘Yes. I noticed the machine. Very impressive.’ Molly glances at the espresso machine in the corner. Gleaming chrome. Sally remembers Amelie watching her father frothing milk for a cappuccino.

When will I be allowed coffee?

‘I can’t imagine what you’re going through, Sally, but I promise you we have the best team doing everything they can. We’re going to find her.’

Sally finds herself nodding. ‘It’s the not knowing,’ she says finally.

Tiredness overwhelms her and she lies back down along the couch. She closes her eyes, suddenly aware of wetness on her cheeks. She hadn’t realised she was crying again but finds that she doesn’t care. She hears Molly’s footsteps and the click of a mug being placed on the small table in front of her, but she does not open her eyes. She has no energy left to be polite or brave; to be anything at all. In her mind she can hear Amelie’s voice and the words she cannot bear: Where are you, Mummy?