I hang up when Jesse picks up on another handset and starts nonsense-talking down the line. I’ve got what I can from Vicky.
Back online, I’m methodical, searching for combinations of Jay with ‘Nancy Corrigan’ and ‘Amberton Grammar’ and whatever I can think of that might lead me to his full name; where he is now. I just want to know what happened: I want to know that he had nothing to do with Nancy’s disappearance, that he ended up living a predictably normal, respectable existence in some semi somewhere, his school girlfriend’s disappearance now just a mournful episode from the past. Something that he thinks about at Christmas, or on her birthday. Just sad. Nothing more.
And that’s as far as I’ll let myself think about why I need to know this, now.
I spend a while looking at the updates they send to alumni, saved as PDFs online, to see if there’s any mention of a Jay. There’s not.
When the phone call comes I’m still in the kitchen, the sun lower now through the windows, making myself a cup of tea. Out of habit, I let the landline ring out. It’s bound to be some cold caller, or Charlotte again. The man’s voice breaks in on my thoughts, making me start.
‘Mrs Harlow, this is DI Nicholls. Please could you give me a call back—’
I’m across the room and seize the handset before he can finish. ‘Hello? I’m here.’
He tells me he’s got some news that would be better explained in person.
‘Have you found her?’ I hear myself saying, pitched too high.
‘No. No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get your hopes up. Are you free now? I tried your mobile.’ I glance at it on the table – I’ve let it run out of battery once more.
‘Yes, of course. Should I come to the station again?’
‘No need for that. I’m in the area now and I’ll explain face to face.’
After I hang up, I bend to pick up the cat, burying my face in his fur. He mews in protest.
‘Another visitor. It’s quite the social whirl in here,’ I tell Tom.
But I’m nervous. Doubly so. Because sleeping on it hasn’t offered any flash of inspiration to getting into Sophie’s other email. I’m going to turn it over to the police.
Yet first I’ve got to make them understand how important this could be.
‘Turns out we’re not the only ones who’ve been interested in the charity’s phone records. The Message in a Bottle helpline has had a bit of a pest problem. One caller in particular had been very nasty. Sexual stuff, whenever he got a woman on the phone. Threats. And he was persistent.’
‘Oh, right. You mean a pest caller.’ Nicholls has turned up, refused a cup of tea – ‘water, please’ – and started talking. For a moment, I let myself feel the oddness of my life now: the suited detective sitting opposite me at my kitchen table, as I wait for him to get to the point. He’s very calm, unhurried.
And what he’s saying is true. Heavy breathers are the secret bane of helplines, but they don’t like to publicise it – it might encourage more of them. But annoy the volunteers too often and the powers that be can, after a lot of soul-searching, block you. I just don’t yet see what this has to do with me.
‘So,’ he begins, ‘it turns out that the charity had actually made a police complaint about one caller in particular, via its headquarters in London. And they’d agreed police could access the helpline’s caller records for the last couple of months, to find him. They were prepared for him to be charged.’
I feel a little leap of hope. Could this be good news? He’s got Sophie’s call details this way?
He continues: ‘My colleagues in the Met started looking at the phone numbers that had been used to make repeated calls to the helpline. It wasn’t hard to find their guy: he didn’t understand that the confidentiality policy wouldn’t cover a telecommunications offence. This guy was making hundreds of calls from his house landline – somewhere in the West Midlands – when his wife went to work in the daytime.’
So that’s why I wouldn’t have heard from this creep: I only do nights.
‘And we don’t get a lot of repeat callers,’ I add. Not legitimate ones. We get messages to loved ones, and we’re supposed to refer people elsewhere for longer-term support. ‘But I’m sorry, how’s this going to help in my situation? Sophie only rang me once.’
‘I do have a point,’ he says mildly. ‘Now, the charity wouldn’t agree to release the details of Sophie’s call.’ So he did ask. ‘And there wasn’t any reason for us to try to force it.’ I nod. I don’t agree with it, but I understand. ‘So when I heard about this other investigation, I took a look at the info they’d collected on the repeat caller numbers – call it professional curiosity – and I found something a little unusual.’
For a second I feel like he’s waiting for me to say something, then he goes on: ‘There were dozens of calls made to the helpline from a number local to this area.’
I’m confused. ‘Well, it’s a national helpline – but anyone can ring in.’
‘Yes, anyone can ring in. And with this one phone number, there wasn’t any abuse, nothing like that. There was just a pattern: the caller rings, then hangs up a few moments after connection. We could see from the length of the call. My colleagues had already traced it, to a telephone box.’ He looks at me expectantly. ‘It’s the telephone box at the end of Park Road. This road.’
The one near the crossroads, not a hundred metres from my house, if that.
He rubs his chin. ‘Could you tell me why that might be, Mrs Harlow?’
‘No,’ I say, bewildered.
‘Have you seen anyone hanging around that phone box, perhaps?’
‘I can’t see it from here.’ That’s obvious. ‘You could try the people on the other side of the road, they’re slightly nearer.’
‘Right.’ He’s frowning slightly.
‘I might have a mobile number for them if you want, there’s an old neighbourhood list somewhere that we were given when we moved in—’ I start to get up.
‘No, no, don’t worry about that.’ But he’s not moving from the table. ‘You must’ve been under an enormous amount of strain since she ran away,’ he says carefully.
‘I’m fine.’ I’m not. But I can feel this going somewhere I don’t like.
He rubs the back of his head, a small gesture of discomfort. ‘I understand that there was an episode in your past. Mental health issues.’ I stare at him, my mouth a hard line. ‘An overdose. Benzodiazepines,’ he says it carefully, ‘and alcohol.’
‘It wasn’t an overdose. Not how you mean, anyway. It was a mistake.’
‘Whoever made these calls from the phone box made them dozens and dozens of times …’
Suddenly I understand. ‘Oh. You think I know something.’
‘Mrs Harlow, no one’s accusing you of anything, all I asked was—’
‘You think I’m making prank calls,’ I say flatly. It’s not a question.
‘I didn’t say that.’ He didn’t need to. ‘And I wouldn’t call them prank calls. Maybe’ – he lifts his eyebrows, questioning – ‘calls for help, perhaps?’ His eyes are kind. I can’t stand it.
‘Well, I’m not,’ I say. ‘Yes, I had some obsessive thoughts, over-anxious thought patterns.’ I won’t shy away from this. ‘I couldn’t move on from my daughter’s – Sophie leaving. I didn’t cope very well. And I couldn’t sleep, so I took pills to help me. But I didn’t make those calls.
‘There are a lot of kids round here, they could be messing around.’ It sounds weak even to my ears. Who on earth would be calling from there? A thought crosses my mind: ‘And Sophie’s call, you’re not saying that was from that phone box, too, are you?’
‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘There was nothing from the phone box on the evening in question. Of course, you were working at the helpline then. Your colleague Alma Seddon, she’s confirmed that.’
Now I realise: in his eyes, I might well have just incriminated myself. Of course there wasn’t a call made from near my house that evening. I was busy at the helpline. But the other times …
‘Look, it’s not a criminal matter to call a helpline and hang up,’ he says quietly, pulling something out of his jacket. ‘Regardless of whether … I just wanted you to know: there are some excellent resources available for families of the missing.’ He hands me a leaflet, one that I’ve seen before, and I keep my eyes on it as he starts talking about post-traumatic stress disorder, counselling, the various charities that specialise in these issues. He manages not to mention the one I volunteer for, I’ll give him that.
‘Thank you,’ I force it out. Be polite. Keep control. ‘I’m glad you’re here, anyway. I wanted to talk to you about Sophie’s diary, the email address in it. I’ve noticed some similarities with another case that I wanted to bring to your attention—’ I look up, catch the expression on his face: I’m still not getting it.
My heart starts to pound. ‘What is happening with the investigation? After the diary – what Sophie wrote about Danny? You were speaking to him. And Holly Dixon, right? Is nothing happening with that?’
He speaks slowly, like he’s working out how to put this. ‘Yes, we’ve spoken to both Danny and Holly. They don’t necessarily quite agree with your version of things: of your conversations. Which is perhaps not surprising.’ I can imagine: I picture Holly in tears outside the police station, begging me to tell them the pregnancy test was hers. Danny insisting he didn’t sleep with Sophie.
Nicholls leans forward, getting my attention. ‘And they say there was some tension between you and them. Before Sophie went away.’
I can’t deny it – I wasn’t the biggest fan of either of them.
‘When someone goes missing, it can be tempting to find someone to blame.’
‘That’s not it,’ I insist. ‘I’m not saying that they … did anything, but I just know something’s not right. Something’s keeping her away. You’ve got the diary, you showed it to me!’
‘The diary explains that she got pregnant, and her boyfriend wasn’t happy about it. It doesn’t change anything, not materially.’
‘But why didn’t you say any of this before? You let me think …’ But did he? I thought they were taking this seriously, that things were moving again. I try to remember what they’ve told me.
‘I said that when I’ve information I can share with you, I would of course do that.’
And with a sick plunge of my stomach, I realise that he just has: but it’s information that suggests I might be unreliable, a little unbalanced. I feel the panic rising in me. ‘But Sophie was scared, on the phone.’ Oh God. ‘You do still believe that she called me. Don’t you?’
He’s as measured as ever, utterly professional. ‘You said the voice was a whisper. That the line was bad. Then you heard your and your ex-husband’s names – your first names. And …’
‘And I heard what I wanted to hear,’ I finish for him, dully.
‘I’m not saying that, not at all, not necessarily.’ He doesn’t say: it doesn’t really matter. Not to the police.
I’ve had enough now. ‘I’m not losing it. I’m not.’ I stand up. ‘Thanks for coming, DI Nicholls.’
‘Mrs Harlow—’
‘Thanks for coming. I’ll see you out.’
I keep it together until I’ve shut the door after him and I hear his car engine start up.
I’ve still got the leaflet he gave me in my hand. I scrunch it up deliberately and drop it on the floor. I lean against the front door, shaking with anger. It feels better than despair, at least. How dare he suggest I’ve been making calls?
I push down the wobble of uncertainty, like my world’s twisting around me. It couldn’t have been me, could it? Fear clutches at my gut. Of course it wasn’t me. I know that.
But if my family hear about this, what the police think. Mark. They’ll think it’s happening again, that I’m losing it …
I go back into the kitchen and pour myself a large glass of water, then drink it down. I look at the computer and the closed jotter beside it. I need to face the facts.
I’m back where I started. No closer to finding my daughter. The police are not investigating.
No. I correct myself. It’s worse. They don’t trust me.
The email from the helpline is inevitable, I suppose. That’s what I tell myself, when I read it that night.
‘Dear Kate,’ it begins. ‘We’d like to take the opportunity to thank you for all you’ve done for Message in a Bottle.’
That’s the nice bit, obviously. The rest is not so pleasant.
My services will no longer be required. They phrase it differently of course, stressing that the work of the charity can put high demands on its volunteers, and suggest that I might like to take some time out to reflect on how I might best put my skills to use.
I don’t bother replying.