Her Missing Daughter: A Gripping Psychological Thriller Page 3

  I draped the clean top over my arm and put the holdall on the luggage belt. “Yes, please,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest to hide the worst of the smears.

  As soon as I’d checked in, I used the ladies’ toilets to change into the clean T-shirt and threw away my muddy shirt. Then I called the Foundation and explained I would need a leave of absence. The woman I spoke to was understanding and promised to send someone to cover my position as soon as possible.

  I still had a while to wait for boarding and decided to kill some time by grabbing a cup of tea.

  Everywhere was crowded. As I stood in a line between a tiny lady who couldn’t have been more than four foot ten and a strapping teenage boy who towered over me, I used the airport’s Wi-Fi and logged into Facebook on my phone.

  After, navigating to Sienna’s page, I scanned her posts. I saw that she hadn’t posted anything in the last week, but her wall was filled with posts from her friends telling her how sorry they were to hear about her mother’s death.

  It triggered a wave of grief that seemed to come out of nowhere. It brought it home to me. This was real. Nicole was really gone. My eyes flooded with tears and the back of my throat ached.

  I blinked and rubbed my eyes. I would never see her again. My best friend. The person I could always rely on for anything.

  It was so hot, and as the line lurched forward, I stumbled and braced my hand on the glass front of the display cabinet.

  The tiny woman in front of me reached out, concern in her eyes.

  I apologised and told her I was fine in broken Malayalam and then decided I didn’t want tea after all. I left the small tea shop and headed back to the main concourse. There were seats but not enough because men were lying across them, sleeping. I decided to stand near the large windows that looked out onto the drop-off point.

  Tears trickled down my cheeks as I stood with my back to the crowds. My mini breakdown drew a few strange looks. Passers-by probably saw me as a crazy tourist lady. Nobody stopped to try to talk to me, and I was thankful for that.

  How could Nicole really be gone? Grief is selfish, and all I could think about in those moments was what was I going to do without my best friend.

  I opened Facebook on my phone again and looked at Sienna’s personal profile. She usually posted regularly. She had a passion for the environment and anything to do with campaigning against animal cruelty. I admired that about her, and I’d always liked her posts, but she hadn’t put anything on social media for over a week.

  Her timeline was littered with comments from her friends and this time I scanned through them.

  Hey babe, let us know how you’re doing.

  Hi, I just heard the news. How awful. Call me if you need anything, hun.

  Many more messages followed. But one thing stood out.

  Sienna had not replied to any of them.

  Chapter Five

  The flight to Heathrow wasn’t much fun. I had a two-hour stopover in Abu Dhabi and spent the time pacing the small waiting area. As I’d checked in my holdall and forgotten to grab a jumper, I spent most of the flight shivering. I used the thin, scratchy blanket the airline provided, but I was still too cold.

  My mind was a jumble of thoughts. Even if I had been able to sleep, the four-year-old constantly kicking the back of my seat made sure I didn’t.

  Organising the handover with Rich and the journey to the airport had kept me busy, but now sitting in the cramped seat, I had nothing to do but think and the pain of Nicole’s loss began to build. I would never see my friend again.

  For the entire journey, I was close to tears. The sadness was tinged with unease because I was still on edge after the strange conversation with Angie. That plus Sienna’s absence from social media over the past week had unnerved me. It was understandable after her mother’s death, but why before?

  I was reading too much into things. It was probably just a coincidence and nothing to worry about.

  When I finally arrived in Heathrow and collected my holdall, I headed for the section of cubicles dedicated to hiring cars. Charity work didn’t pay a great deal, but I did have some savings as my outgoings hadn’t been expensive while I’d been working in India. I suspected hire cars were more expensive when they were rented directly from the airport, but I didn’t have time to investigate other options.

  I yawned for the second time in a minute as I followed the bright yellow signs. Passing a coffee shop, I inhaled the scent of hot coffee, and it was too tempting to ignore. I hadn’t been able to get any sleep on the flight, and a caffeine pick-me-up was just what I needed. Heading inside, I decided grabbing a takeaway would be the best option. The coffee shop was practically empty, quite a contrast to the tea shop in Kochi.

  “Can I help you?” the barista asked.

  “I’ll have an Americano with a splash of milk to take away, please.”

  “Coming right up,” he said, jerking his head and flicking his fringe out of his eyes.

  I pulled a jumper from my holdall and shrugged it on as he busied himself making my coffee. I ran my hands through my hair and noticed a large flat screen high on the wall in front of me. It was running BBC News on a loop. The sound was off, but the picture caught my attention.

  I froze.

  There was a face I recognised on the screen.

  Nicole.

  “Oh, my God,” I whispered.

  I hadn’t realised I’d spoken aloud until the barista said, “I know. Isn’t it awful? It gives me shivers just thinking about it.”

  I was too busy reading the scrolling text on the screen to reply.

  A thirty-five-year-old woman was murdered yesterday in Finchampstead, Berkshire.

  My hands curled into fists, and my nails dug into my palm as I waited for more of the story, but the image of Nicole was replaced by a newsreader, who smoothly moved onto the next news story. As details on Brexit scrolled across the screen, I pulled at the neck of my jumper, suddenly feeling shaky and too hot.

  “Is everything all right?” the barista asked, pushing the paper cup along the counter towards me.

  With a shaking hand, I reached for the cup and managed to nod. “Thanks.”

  I needed to know what had happened. Nicole was murdered!

  Carrying my Americano, I left the coffee shop quickly, dropped my bag on the floor and pulled out my mobile. I scrolled through the contacts until I got to Nicole’s mother’s number.

  The call rang and rang, and just when I thought she wasn’t going to answer, she picked up.

  “Hello,” she said. She only said one word, but I could hear her voice was thick with grief.

  “Marilyn? It’s Abbie Morris. I’ve just heard the news about Nicole, and I am so sorry.”

  There was a slight pause and then Marilyn said, “Oh, Abbie, it’s just awful. Where are you? Still in India?”

  “No, I’m at Heathrow. I just landed. Nicole’s housekeeper, Angie Macgregor, called me yesterday. I just can’t believe it.”

  “It’s horrendous. I don’t know whether to feel angry or just…” She broke off with a sob.

  “I was just in a coffee shop and saw Nicole’s picture on the television… Angie didn’t tell me how she died and…”

  “Can you come here now? We are all at Nicole and Steve’s house. Janet is here too. I’m so grateful. I can’t imagine coping with this without her.”

  Janet was Nicole’s sister. We’d never been close, but my heart went out to her as I imagined how she must be feeling.

  “I’ll get there as soon as I can,” I promised. “Is Sienna…?” I was about to ask if Sienna was all right and then realised what a ridiculous question that was. Of course, she wasn’t all right. Her mother had just died. “How is Sienna coping?”

  I was greeted by silence on the other end of the line, and I wondered whether she was crying. Then finally Marilyn said, “Abbie I’ll tell you everything when you get here. I don’t want to talk about this over the phone.”

  “Of course, I under
stand. I’m going to hire a car and then come straight there.”

  After I hung up, I took a moment to try and catch my breath. I was shaking. If this was how Nicole’s death was affecting me, I couldn’t imagine how Marilyn was feeling or poor Sienna.

  I’d seen the word murdered on BBC News. Marilyn said she’d tell me everything when I got there, but I couldn’t wait that long. I visited the news websites but found no more information. According to BBC News, Nicole’s death was a developing story. I walked down the concourse and sipped the hot coffee, barely noticing as it burned my tongue.

  It seemed to take forever to fill out the paperwork in order to hire the car, and it was almost an hour before I was in the car and on the road.

  It had been a long journey, but I was finally heading for home and getting closer to finding out what had happened to my best friend.

  Chapter Six

  It took a little while to get used to driving the Honda Civic hire car, it certainly made a change from the large truck I was used to driving, but at least the roads had no potholes.

  Before long I was on the motorway heading towards Finchampstead. It felt strange to be going back. Five years had passed since I’d returned for Nicole and Steve’s wedding.

  It was a sunny day, and the cars reflected the sunlight. I wished I’d grabbed my sunglasses out of my bag before I started driving, but it was too late to worry about that now. I didn’t even want to stop at the services. I just wanted to get to Nicole’s and find out what had happened to her.

  I turned the radio on, but there was no news about Nicole on any of the main stations, and I was still too far away to get anything local.

  I selected radio two, and the opening to “You’re My Best Friend” by Queen began to play, I put my foot down, and flicked the indicator as I moved into the fast lane.

  What had happened to her? Was it a random attack? A break-in?

  I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. There was no point running through all the possibilities now. I was driving myself mad. Soon, I would get the truth from Nicole’s family.

  I wondered whether Angie would still be at the house. Would I get a chance to speak to her? I heard the cheerful ringtone from my mobile phone blaring out of my bag, but I wouldn’t answer it while I was driving. Besides, it was my Indian phone, and the calls cost me a fortune over here.

  I needed to get some cash and let my UK bank know I was back in the country and would be using my card. I’d need to book a hotel. It was only a slight detour to call in at Lloyds on my way to Nicole’s. As I drove through the town centre, I saw there was some sort of renovation work going on. There were signs up everywhere and diversions. I started to wish I’d gone the long way around. I’d assumed this way would be quicker.

  As I got closer to Finchampstead, the knots in my stomach grew tighter. Memories hit me from all angles as I got closer to the place I’d grown up. I passed the Chinese restaurant by the station in Wokingham – China Garden. I remembered they used to add something special to their chips, some kind of flavouring, and after a night out in Wokingham, Nicole and I would often head there for a bag of piping hot chips and then walk home, or walk to the taxi rank if we were feeling flush.

  I could picture us as giddy seventeen-year-olds, lurching around on our heels like a pair of young deer that hadn’t yet quite found their footing.

  I pulled to a stop by the traffic lights and then looked across in the rearview mirror at the station behind me. That had changed. It was all new and modern now. I remembered taking a shortcut from school to the station, running through the cemetery and climbing over the wall at the back of the station car park. It looked like that way was blocked off now.

  As the lights turned green, I accelerated and then saw someone I recognised walking along the pavement. Mr Farrow, one of my old teachers. I hadn’t seen him for almost twenty years, and yet I recognised him.

  I drove past glancing again in my rearview mirror. He’d hardly changed. I remember when I was at school I’d thought he looked old, but I guessed he was probably only fifteen years or so older than me.

  He was the boy’s PE teacher, so I’d never had any lessons with him, but he was a regular at the Queen’s Head. As I drove along, I passed The Hope and Anchor and wondered if there was another town in England with more pubs than Wokingham. When I’d been growing up here, it seemed to me that Wokingham consisted almost entirely of pubs and Estate Agents. There were far more restaurants and shops here these days. As I drove past my old dentist, I wondered if I would see anyone else from my past.

  There was one person I really wanted to avoid, but I doubted I’d be here long enough to run into my ex-fiancé and his new family. I turned down the radio and drummed my fingers on the steering wheel as I waited to turn right at the junction.

  Finally, I managed to edge the car out into a line of traffic and sat stationary for a couple of minutes before the line of cars began to move.

  All about me, everything was going on as normal. Everyone was going about their everyday lives as though nothing had happened. It was so unfair.

  It took less than ten minutes for me to park and run to the bank. Luckily, the woman leaving the carpark offered me her pay and display ticket, which still had thirty minutes remaining.

  Once I had withdrawn some cash and spoken to one of the clerks, I was ready to head to Finchampstead.

  Nicole, Steve and Sienna lived in Yew Tree House on Fleet Hill in Finchampstead. The house and others in the area weren’t cheap. A little further down the hill was Finchampstead House. When I’d been in primary school, there had been some speculation that the Duke and Duchess of York might be buying the property. It came to nothing, but it was a source of thrilling gossip for a few months, and the mothers at the school gates loved to talk about the possibility of having royal neighbours.

  Neither Nicole nor I had grown up in a house anywhere near as grand as Yew Tree House on Fleet Hill.

  Oak Trees towered above the road, blocking out most of the sun, and the dark leaves of rhododendrons reached out towards the road. Only a few vivid pink flowers bloomed this late in the year.

  I slowed the car as I neared the house. The ancient yew tree beside the driveway was dark and majestic. Yews were associated with graveyards and death. My anxiety increased as I passed beneath the wide boughs.

  Luckily the large wooden gates were already open. The gravel driveway sloped downwards, and I couldn’t see the house clearly from the road because of the trees and huge rhododendron bushes that lined the front of the property. But as I drove on, the house came into view.

  The house was imposing. There was no doubt it was beautiful, but I found it intimidating. Behind the property, there were tennis courts and a huge garden. Although they had neighbours on either side, the large trees blocked them from sight and made me feel like I was in a secluded spot in the depths of the countryside.

  There were four cars in the driveway already, none of which I recognised. I parked beneath a weeping willow, taking care to avoid blocking anyone in. Leaving my belongings in the car, I trudged across the gravel to knock on the door.

  Yew Tree House was an odd mix of old and new. It was at least a hundred years old, but modifications had been made over the years. A huge window in front of the galleried landing and the double width oak door were recent additions.

  When I’d first visited Nicole here, I’d assumed the house would have low beams, big open fireplaces and rough, lime-plastered walls, but instead, the interior was sleek and modern. Some of the floors were wood; others were high shine marble. The staircase was made of oak and glass, and above it, a huge chandelier dropped down from the ceiling.

  I pressed the doorbell and waited.

  The door was opened by a woman I judged to be in her mid-thirties, but I didn’t recognise her. That threw me. An awkward pause followed as I tried to place her. Was she a friend of Nicole’s I hadn’t met?

  I knew it definitely wasn’t Angie. Angie Macgregor was in her sixti
es, and I would have recognised her.

  In the end, I blurted out, “I’m Abbie, Abbie Morris, a friend of Nicole’s. I spoke to her mother a little while ago.”

  The woman gave me a quick smile. Her chestnut hair fell in a perfect bob around her pointed face. She opened the door wider and took a step back.

  “Come in. I’m DC Lizzie Camden, the family liaison officer.”

  I should have been expecting that. Of course, the police would be here. Nicole had been murdered. I took a deep breath and resisted the urge to get back in my hire car and drive away. Every cell in my body seemed to tell me not to enter this house.

  I was being ridiculous. I stepped inside the hall. Everything was just as I remembered. My shoes clicked against the tiled floor. I kicked them off and leaned down to put them in the cupboard containing the shoe rack. As I opened the door, I blanched. Hanging beside the cupboard was Nicole’s old wax jacket. She’d had it for years and only wore it for gardening and walking the dog… Charlie. I’d forgotten about Charlie.

  Where was he? He usually greeted visitors at the door exuberantly with a lot of tail wagging and barking.

  “Where’s Charlie?” I asked the family liaison officer.

  Her forehead puckered in a frown. “Charlie?”

  “He’s in the utility room,” said a low, raspy voice.

  I turned to see the grey, steely eyes and stern features of Angie Macgregor. “You came then,” she said as I faced her.

  “Of course.”

  I sensed she wanted to say something more, but she shot a quick glance at the family liaison officer.

  “Will you be wanting a cup of tea, Abbie?” she asked as she turned to walk away.

  “Yes, thanks. That would be great.”

  “While you’re here, Abbie, perhaps we could have a quick chat,” the officer said. She smiled at me. Lizzie didn’t look like a police officer. She seemed too meek and tentative. “We’re trying to talk to everyone who was involved in Nicole’s life.”

  I tried to pay attention but was distracted by the retreating figure of Angie Macgregor as she walked into the kitchen. I wished I could follow her and go into that warm kitchen with it’s cosy Aga and the old flagstones. I didn’t want to talk to a family liaison officer. I wanted to go into the kitchen with Angie and then find Charlie.