Lost Child: A Gripping Psychological Thriller Page 8

  I walked until I reached the roundabout leading to Bladon and decided I’d gone far enough. I turned to walk back the way I’d come, keeping my pace up. Rather than go straight back home along Rectory Road, I decided to take a detour and walk up by the older houses in old Woodstock.

  There was a house there that was said to have belonged to Geoffrey Chaucer’s son. Several stone steps led up to the other end of the High Street. An archway of green shrubs enclosed the steps and gave it an otherworldly feel.

  I walked up the steps past the higgledy-piggledy houses full of charm and character and then paused beside the odd one out. Robin Vaughan’s house. It was now hidden behind an imposing Cotswold stone wall. There had been an outcry in the community when he’d arrived because he had wanted to do all sorts of modifications to the old building, and many in the area thought the building should be listed.

  At least, the wall he built around the house was made of Cotswold stone, and in a few decades, it would blend in and look like all the other stone built structures in the vicinity.

  I think that one of the reasons Jenna’s case had so much press attention was because Robin Vaughan had been there when it happened. I thought of him as a B-list celebrity, but it seemed even B-list celebrities sold papers. At first, we had held out hope that the press attention would help us find Jenna faster, but we were soon disillusioned. All they cared about were sales and digging up dirt. Neighbours and friends we’d trusted sold stories to the press, and we ended up losing much-needed support and not knowing who we could trust.

  I was almost at the top of the steps when I noticed someone in front of me. The green branches overhead blocked out most of the sunlight. The stone steps were narrow, so I stepped to the side to let the woman coming towards me pass. When she was two steps away, I recognised her. It was the lady with the deep plum lipstick who’d been manning the balloon stall the day Jenna had gone missing. The sight of her stole the breath from my lungs. It shouldn’t have. She lived in Woodstock. It shouldn’t have been a surprise to see her again, but I gave an involuntary shudder as a prickle spread over my skin.

  She seemed equally dumbstruck when she recognised me.

  A hesitant smile played on her lips, and she raised a hand and then lowered it again as though she didn’t quite know how to react.

  “Hello, how are you?” She managed to smile.

  It was a normal, polite question, very British and reserved.

  I nodded. “Fine, thank you. Nice to see you.”

  We passed a few seconds with the usual small talk: I haven’t seen you around lately. I’ve been away. Typical weather for spring. Neither of us mentioned Jenna or Kate.

  After our conversation had lapsed into an uncomfortable silence, I said I had better be going and said goodbye. I wanted to get home.

  I walked briskly along Rectory Lane, and I was just passing the old thatched cottages again when I could have sworn a curtain moved in one of the upstairs windows in Dawn Parson’s house.

  I stopped dead, staring up at the window. There was no discernible movement. No sign there was anyone there, at all.

  I realised I was holding my breath. I was so sure I’d seen the curtain move. Was I seeing things? Or was Dawn up there watching me?

  I shivered.

  I could go and hammer on the front door, demand she let me in and explain why she was spying on me. But that was overreacting. It was the sort of thing I would have done two years ago. Now, I was supposed to be in control and acting logically. I had no proof anyone was even in the house. Perhaps a window was open in another room and a breeze had shifted the curtain.

  I looked away and carried on walking, only to turn back when I was a few feet away just to make sure. The window was dark and empty.

  Even though my own eyes told me there was no one there, I felt a tingle along the back of my neck as though I were being watched as I headed back to Mum’s house.

  Chapter Twelve

  When I got back to Mum’s house and stepped through the front door, I realised how ridiculously I was behaving. It was just a house. The police had investigated Dawn Parsons at the time and ruled her out as a suspect. I couldn’t let my old fears take hold of me now. What I needed was a clear head. At least, I hadn’t been stupid enough to go up to the front door and confront her.

  When I’d first seen my counsellor, which I’d only agreed to under protest to keep my prescription for sleeping tablets from my GP, she’d told me to use the tried and trusted technique of counting to ten before I acted. It was trite, but sensible advice. Unfortunately, I was never able to follow it.

  I walked quickly towards the kitchen, ready to ask Mum if there’d been any news while I was out, but before I could say anything, she looked up and shook her head. She was sitting at the kitchen table, and I wondered whether she’d been sat there since I’d left.

  “Nice walk?” she asked, trying to smile and show some interest for my sake.

  “It was good to get some fresh air. But it didn’t take my mind off things. Everything keeps going around and around in my mind, but I can’t make sense of it. I don’t understand why the message came to me. Daniel doesn’t trust me, and neither do the police, it seems. It would have been better if whoever sent the message had sent it to Daniel instead.”

  I shrugged off my jacket and sank into the chair opposite Mum. “It’s going to be tough on all of us over the next few days as we wait for answers. But I don’t want you to worry about me, Mum.”

  Mum’s eyes crinkled around the edges as she smiled. “You’re right, it is going to be difficult, but if we get Jenna back, this agonising wait will be worth it.”

  Putting my palms flat against the scrubbed pine table, I pushed myself up and asked, “Shall I make us a cup of tea?”

  Before Mum could answer, there was a knock at the door.

  As she went to answer it, I filled the kettle at the sink. I flicked the switch on the kettle and grabbed a couple of mugs. Hearing voices, I walked towards the edge of the kitchen so I could see through the archway and across the living area. I’d recognised the visitor’s voice but couldn’t place it.

  Gasping when I saw who it was, the mug I was holding slipped through my fingers and smashed on the floor.

  Mum and her visitor both turned at the noise.

  “Crap. I’m sorry.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ve got plenty more,” Mum said, forcing a cheerful tone into her voice.

  The visitor followed her towards the kitchen. I took a step back. Marjorie Parsons. It had been two years since I’d last seen Dawn’s mother, but she hadn’t changed a bit.

  She was wearing a beige raincoat that ended mid-thigh and didn’t suit her dumpy figure. Her hair was curled close to her head in an old-fashioned style.

  She smiled at me. “I heard you were back, Beth. It’s lovely to see you. How long are you staying?”

  “Um, I’m not sure yet.”

  I shot a glance at Mum. I was waiting for her direction on how much we should say. We didn’t want to let the cat out of the bag too early. If we weren’t careful, the news about Jenna’s photograph would be all around the town. Mum had a smile fixed on her face, and she didn’t act as if this was anything but a normal social call.

  “I was just about to make a cup of tea. Would you like one?” I forced myself to make eye contact. I’d put Dawn’s mother through hell with my accusations against her daughter. More than once I’d seen her in tears over the things I’d said, and I felt horrendously guilty. She must have been a good friend to Mum while I’d been in Dubai.

  “I don’t want to intrude,” she said. “I heard you were back and wanted to say hello.”

  “You wouldn’t be intruding, Marjorie,” Mum said firmly. “Stay for a cup of tea.”

  Although I would have preferred to be alone to brood, I didn’t want to appear rude. I carefully knelt down to pick up the shards of porcelain that had scattered over the floor.

  As Mum made a start on making the tea, Marjori
e smiled down at me.

  “So, tell me how you’ve been getting on in Dubai? Your mother says you’re doing ever so well. She is very proud of you.”

  I wished Marjorie wouldn’t be so nice to me. If she were more like her daughter, it would be easy to despise her. But there was nothing in this motherly, kindly woman that I could hate. That didn’t mean I was comfortable in her presence, though. Her being here reminded me of my bad behaviour two years ago and made me feel like I was drowning in guilt.

  “It’s been a lot of fun,” I said, plastering on a smile. “You can’t beat the sunshine.”

  Marjorie gave a chuckle. “I think the heat would be too much for me! I prefer a nice English summer.”

  I smiled again politely and looked around for the dustpan and brush to dispose of the remaining tiny fragments of the shattered cup. “It’s not so bad,” I said. “Everywhere is air-conditioned nowadays.”

  “It does sound exciting. Your mother showed me some photographs of her last trip and said you had a very important job, so I’m glad they could spare you for a trip home.”

  I glanced at Mum, who had her back to me and was pouring hot water into the teapot. She had always liked to brag about Kate and me. Even after I’d fallen off the rails, despite everything, she was still proud of me. I swallowed the lump in my throat.

  After I brushed up the last of the remains of the mug and deposited them in the bin, Mum set the teapot on the table. I sat down and joined them for tea.

  The atmosphere was awkward, and it was obvious an apology was needed to clear the air. I didn’t relish that idea, but I couldn’t bury my head in the sand and pretend I’d never made the allegations against Dawn. It was my bad behaviour that had caused so much upset, and I needed to take responsibility for it.

  “I owe you an apology, Mrs Parsons. I made some accusations, unfounded accusations, and I know they were very hurtful. I wasn’t thinking straight at the time. I hope you can forgive me.”

  “Of course, Beth. It’s all water under the bridge now. It was a horrible time, and I do understand. Actually…”

  She smiled as Mum passed her a cup of tea and then bit down on her lower lip before continuing, “I wondered if you might have time to have a word with Dawn at some point.”

  My physical response must have been answer enough. I gritted my teeth and my body tensed. Seeing Dawn Parsons again was the last thing I wanted to do. The police may have cleared her, but she still gave me the creeps.

  “Sorry,” Marjorie said, her cheeks colouring with embarrassment. “Forget I mentioned it. You’re probably far too busy. I imagine you’ve got a lot to fit in before you go back to Dubai.”

  Mum said nothing. She didn’t need to. She expected me to extend the olive branch by agreeing to talk to Dawn.

  “It’s just that Dawn is terribly shy. You know what she was like at school, and she hasn’t got any better. In fact, for the last two years, she’s cut herself off from anyone her own age. She doesn’t even try to apply for jobs anymore.” It was like the floodgates had opened as Marjorie Parsons told us all about her worries over her daughter.

  I sympathised. It couldn’t be easy living with someone like Dawn, but I didn’t see what it had to do with me. I couldn’t spare any energy worrying about someone like Dawn. I was too busy worrying about Jenna.

  “I don’t think I’m the best person to talk to Dawn,” I said, intending to let Marjorie down gently. “We were never really very close.”

  The look of disappointment on Mrs Parsons’s face made me feel like a heartless cow. But why should I feel bad? Dawn had always been horrible to me. She’d had a disappointing life, and I felt sorry for her, but it wasn’t my problem. It wasn’t down to me to solve her problems.

  Even though Mum did nothing but politely pass a plate of biscuits to Mrs Parsons, I could feel her judgement.

  “Maybe I’ll try and find some time,” I muttered.

  “That really would be very kind of you,” Mrs Parsons said. “Dawn’s always looked up to you.”

  I almost choked on my tea. That was a ridiculous statement for two reasons. One, Dawn was nearly a foot taller than me, and two, she had made her disdain for me very clear by shoving me into the brook. But I didn’t say any of that to Mrs Parsons. Instead, I smiled and nodded and then took a large bite out of a ginger nut biscuit.

  I sat quietly drinking my tea as Mum and Mrs Parsons discussed church business. I prayed for the telephone to ring with news on Jenna, but we didn’t hear anything from the police for the rest of the afternoon.

  Chapter Thirteen

  After Mrs Parsons had left us, Mum picked up her Kindle and went to sit in the sunroom to read. I asked to use her computer and went online.

  Mum had embraced technology in the last two years. She had a desktop Mac computer in the wide entrance hall as well as a laptop. I opted to use the Mac and sat in the small swivel chair in front of it.

  I wanted to buy a new phone. I didn’t want to get tied into a contract, so I ordered a pay-as-you-go sim card, opting for next day delivery.

  I took a quick look at a couple of websites advertising the latest phones, but in the end, decided to go to Oxford tomorrow and buy one, unless we got news from the police before then. It would get me out of the house and keep me busy, and that was exactly what I needed.

  After scrolling through my email inbox, I quickly typed a message to Sylvia, explaining I’d be staying in the UK longer than expected. In a few days, I’d probably have to call her and ask a big favour. She was the only person I’d feel comfortable asking to help ship my stuff back home.

  I replied to a curt email from my boss, apologising for my absence and explaining some of the simpler tasks that he would be expected to do without my help. He was probably already rushing around the office panicking.

  Once I’d finished with my emails, I started to shut down the computer but stopped as a thought occurred to me. Mum had saved the photograph of Jenna to the computer’s desktop. I opened it up. Seeing it there, on the big screen, took my breath away.

  I studied the image carefully, trying to see whether it had been doctored. Could somebody be that cruel? Why would they try to trick us after all this time? But nothing about the picture indicated it had been altered. It looked like a genuine photo to me, but then I was no expert.

  I looked at Jenna’s immediate surroundings, hoping to pick up a clue about the location. I didn’t recognise anything in the background. That was disappointing, but at least it suggested this was a new photograph.

  If it were an old photograph of Jenna, which had been altered to make her look older, I probably would have recognised where the photograph had been taken.

  Jenna was standing on a lawn beside a tall, dark green hedge and she wasn’t looking directly at the camera. Her legs were slightly apart as though she was walking and the camera had caught her in motion. Whoever had taken the picture was looking down on Jenna. Had the photograph been taken from higher ground? Was she in a park, a playground?

  I couldn’t tell much about the time of year from the photograph either. The grass looked reasonably healthy, and the sky was blue. Jenna was wearing a pink cardigan, but no coat. Did that mean it had been taken recently? A month ago, it would have even been too cold for a little girl to be out in the garden without a coat.

  I pushed away the thought that Jenna might be living with someone who didn’t care enough to ensure she stayed warm. I zoomed into the picture until the edges went fuzzy. The sides of Jenna’s trainer were damp from the wet grass. Blinking away tears, I remembered trying to fasten her shoes after she’d been on the bouncy castle on the day she went missing. I’d messed that up, too. I closed my eyes, trying to drive away the memory of the police officer handing Kate one of Jenna’s shoes they’d found in a nearby street.

  I refocused, turning my attention to the hedge. The amount I knew about plants could fit on the back of a postage stamp. No one could ever accuse me of being green-fingered.

  The leave
s were green, so that suggested the photograph was taken in spring or summer, but what if it was an evergreen hedge? Mum would probably know. She and my father had always been avid gardeners. Mum love to spend time pottering in her garden. I didn’t want to ask her, though. She might start to worry I was veering headlong into one of my wild goose chases. Instead, I searched the web until I found a forum where expert gardeners offered to identify plants. I stared at the screen and then shrugged. It was worth a try.

  Deciding that posting the image of Jenna was a bad idea, I took a screenshot of one section of the hedge and zoomed into the leaves. The edges were a little blurry, but it would have to do.

  I signed up to the forum, entering an email address and typing in a password, and then waited for the confirmation email, drumming my fingers on the desk. The wait gave me time to doubt myself. What did I really expect to achieve from this? Was I going too far again? The email appeared on the screen, and I clicked the link to confirm my address. Two minutes later, I had signed into my account and posted on the forum, asking for help to identify the dark green hedge. I sat there and refreshed the screen hoping for a reply. Of course, that was a ridiculous expectation. Nobody would respond that quickly.

  Taking a deep breath and ordering myself not to pin my hopes on something so unlikely to help, I switched off the computer, stood up and stretched.

  It was a long shot, but it felt good to be doing something positive. It was unlikely that the hedge would be a kind of rare plant only found in one area of the UK and would miraculously be able to tell us where Jenna had been when this photograph had been taken, but it felt better to do something proactive instead of sitting around, twiddling my thumbs, and waiting for the police to come back to us.