Dead petals, p.12
Dead Petals, page 12
“I can give you a moment, but we really need to get through this, it’s very important.”
“Important to you maybe,” Gary muttered, and walked away.
He couldn’t face the crowded rooms, the looks and the questions, so he took himself upstairs, to the study where it was dark and quiet.
That look Audrey had given him. Did she blame him too? Of course, she did. It was his fault. More than any of them even knew.
It was all his fault.
He sat at the desk and thought briefly about the bottle of Old Pulteney in the second drawer. He wasn’t a praying man, he wasn’t even a believer, but he leaned his elbows on the desk and clasped his hands together, whispering tearfully against them. “Please, God, if you’re real and you’re listening, please let her come back safely. I’ll take care of her better, I promise. Just…just don’t let anything happen to her, please.”
Someone knocked on the study door. Gary unclasped his hands and quickly wiped his face. “Yeah?”
Lance came in and quietly closed the door behind him. “Hey. You keeping it together, Buddy?”
“It’s all my fault, Lance,” Gary said.
“Take no notice of what Frank says. He doesn’t mean it. He’s just angry and scared and needs someone to blame. He’ll be fine when he calms down.”
Gary shook his head. “I shouldn’t have left her. There was this one moment when I almost didn’t. But it was such a nice day. There were kids playing in the sand. I thought about this one time we went to the park when Charley was little. I pushed her on the swings…” His fists clenched on the desk. “Why did I leave her, Lance, why?”
“You weren’t to know. You need to stop beating yourself up. You aren’t the bad guy.”
Gary wiped his eyes.
“Let’s go out again. It’s got to be better than sitting around here doing nothing.”
Gary gazed at him. “Thanks, Lance.”
Lance nodded. “Come on then. Let’s go.” He turned to leave.
“Lance?”
He looked back. Gary’s mouth and lips quivered but he couldn’t speak the words of gratitude he wanted to say.
Lance went around the desk and placed a comforting hand on Gary’s shoulder. “I know, Buddy,” he said. “I know.”
Gary clasped his friend’s hand and the tears flowed.
Chloe was busy speaking to Fiona as they made their way out, so he was able to avoid another confrontation about the pointless questions.
The sun was swimming on the horizon when they set out to look for Charley again, orange spears of light spiking through the treetops. As darkness fell, and the cold of night descended, they searched sheds and out-houses, peered into the windows of empty houses, checked the backs of properties, and called out her name across dark misty fields.
In the dead hours, as they drove the streets around and around, neither of them willing to admit the search was fruitless, Gary grew silent and sullen, his insides churning with fear. Charley was out there somewhere. He didn’t know where. He didn’t know who with. He didn’t know what was happening to her. He clenched his fists and gritted his teeth, trying to block out the mind torturing possibilities.
With the red glow of dawn tinting the belly of the clouds, they returned to the house, tired and dejected. Lance got out of the car to come in, but Gary told him to go home and get some rest. In the daylight they could go out searching again.
The house was still packed, but much quieter than before. Bleary eyes rose expectantly when he walked into the house, but he could only shake his head, and they went back to waiting.
He didn’t see Fiona and didn’t feel he could face her. What could he say? He went to the bathroom and washed his face. Charley was everywhere, from her toothbrush, to her bathrobe, to her plastic Snow White shampoo bottle.
He walked down the landing to her room, pausing at the door to run his finger lightly over her name on the ceramic plaque, the swirls of his fingerprint sensing the tiny ridges in the artist’s deft brush strokes.
When he opened the door, he was instantly consumed by her presence. The bed covers thrown back as she had left them, her shape still imprinted on the sheet. Her iPod discarded on the dresser, the earphone cable tangled with her hairbrush. The faces of Deville and the rest of the boyband cast their pretentiously sultry looks down on him from the poster on the wall.
A shroud of absolute misery covered him. Tears wanted to come, but he refused to give in to them this time. He sat on the edge of her bed, careful not to disturb where she had lain, and looked around at all her things.
At one end of the room sat piles of old toys, that were too young for her now, but she wasn’t quite ready to give up yet. A chalkboard easel with a little multi-coloured clock in the corner. A stack of games in battered boxes: Hungry Hippo and Operation.
He covered his face with his hands and asked how this could be happening? How could one simple stupid thing lead to all this?
The door creaked. For a moment Gary thought Fiona had come looking for him, but it was only Mister Whiskers sliding his lithe body through the small gap. He saw Gary and froze, just staring at him as if wondering what he was doing there instead of Charley.
Gary leaned forward, rubbing his fingers together and making that soft ch-ch-ch sound that cats seem to like so much. “Come on, Whiskers, come on then.”
The cat regarded him for a few more moments, then padded into the room as if it was his own personal space. He came over to the bed and rubbed himself against Gary’s legs, his tail straight up in the air with a little curl at the end.
Gary scooped him off the floor and onto his lap. “Hey fella,” he whispered. “You looking for Charley?” Mister Whiskers purred. “Me too. But don’t worry, she’ll be back soon, you’ll see.”
Gary laid back across the bed with Mister Whiskers in his arms, his head and shoulders propped against the wall. A heavy blanket of exhaustion descended on him all at once. He closed his eyes, his fingers stroking the soft fur on the nape of Mr Whisker’s neck. In seconds he drifted into a fitful sleep.
At some point he dreamed of that day he and Fiona took Charley to the park. She was just a toddler and he was pushing her on the swings. She was laughing, and there was no more beautiful sound in the world than his daughter’s laugh.
Higher, Daddy! Higher!
He awoke to someone shaking him gently. He opened his eyes and saw it was Fiona. With the dream fresh in his mind, he glanced about him, confused, and then the reality came crashing in. He sat up, his neck cricked and stiff.
“What is it? Has something happened? What time is it?” As he glanced at his watch, Fiona told him it was eight o’clock.
“Nothing’s happened,” she said. “The police are putting out another appeal this morning. They’re going to arrange a media conference for two o’clock this afternoon. They want to go over what’s going to happen.”
“Who’s here?” he asked.
“My mum and dad are still here. I told everyone to go home and get some rest, but Trixie and a few others refused to leave”
“Lance?”
“Not yet.”
Gary rubbed his face with his hands and ran them through his hair. “Okay, just let me wash my face and brush my teeth. My mouth tastes like shit.”
Lance arrived an hour later, looking tired and disappointed when he heard there had been no developments.
The appeal went out midmorning. They all gathered in the sitting room to watch it. When Charley’s photo appeared, there were small moans and sighs from everyone present.
Gary wasn’t happy with it. The police were still making it sound like Charley might have run away, rather than had been abducted. Everyone who knew Charley didn’t believe she had run away.
After the broadcast, he and Lance went out again. The sun poured from the sky and everything appeared different than it had yesterday. How could a new day dawn and the world just carry on while Charley was still missing?
This time, they walked the route from the house to the park instead of taking the car. They showed the photo to everyone they met and asked if they had seen her. Always the same vacant look and a ‘no sorry’ reply.
When they reached the park, Gary cast his gaze across the houses that curved around the length of the boulevard. He could see ten or fifteen almost identical dwellings right there in front of him. She could be held in any one of them, or in any one of the tens of thousands of houses in Gableton. And what if she’d been taken out of town? She could be anywhere.
The near-impossible odds of finding her by wandering the streets crushed his hopes. They were searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack. The only way she was going to be found was either through someone who knew she had been abducted, or through the person responsible for abducting her.
Or, perhaps, someone who had noticed something unusual.
He decided that he urgently wanted to get to that press conference and appeal directly to whoever had her, to release her unharmed.
He looked at his watch. Eleven-thirty-five. The conference was arranged for two in the afternoon. It seemed like an age away. Everything was outside of his control and he didn’t like it. He felt as if it was all slipping through his fingers and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.
They walked back to the house in silence. Lance stopped to talk to one or two people and show the photo, but Gary didn’t even slow down.
At the house Lance tried to talk to him but he just excused himself and went upstairs, intending to go to the study, but ending up in Charley’s bedroom again instead.
He thought about the night of her birthday, finding her still playing with Mister Whiskers. She’d counted her money and had already decided she was going to buy him the pen he’d liked so much.
He put his finger on the copy of Sleeping Beauty, taking it down from the shelf but not looking at it. He sat on the bed and just glanced despairingly around him. Would she ever see this room again?
Fiona came in.
“Lance said you’d come up here.”
He couldn’t look at her.
Fiona tilted her head to read the title of the book he held on his knee. “Sleeping Beauty,” she said. “Charley’s favourite.”
Gary glanced at it. “Yeah.” He turned the book over to look at the colourfully illustrated cover. “One time, when she was little, she asked me to read it to her at bedtime. I was busy as usual. I didn’t want to have to read it and tried to talk her out of it. But she looked at me with those big brown eyes and I couldn’t disappoint her.”
Fiona tried to smile a little.
“So, I read it and did all the voices the way she liked it. She always loved the part where the prince rides his horse to save Beauty and chops through the thorn bushes to get to her. The second I read, ‘the end’, she wanted me to read it again, but I had other stuff I had to do. I told her I’d read it again the next night.” He hung his head. “Obviously I didn’t. I tucked her in and she asked: if she was ever locked away in a secret castle, would I come and save her like the prince did?’ I told her I’d find her no matter where she was.”
“Gary...”
“It’s funny how you just make promises like that without even thinking about them. You just never believe something like this could happen to you.” His voice broke and the tears came fast. “And now she’s out there somewhere, Fee, and I can’t find her. I can’t be her prince and find her like I promised I would. I don’t even know where to start looking.”
Fiona knelt in front of him, hooking her hands behind his neck and pulling his forehead to hers.
“Come on,” she said softly. “This isn’t you. You’re the fighter, the one who never gives up.”
It was true, but right now he was in despair.
“The police said the press conference will bring in information, some clues.”
Gary turned his head against hers, unable to look into her eyes. “Fiona...I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t,” Fiona whispered. “We’re going to find her, okay?”
She held his face in her hands and lifted it to look into his eyes. “Okay?”
He nodded and wiped away the hot tears, and then together, they went to face the music.
The press conference had been set up in the assembly hall of Charley’s junior school, Saint Maria Gorettis. The police drove them over, with Chloe, who gave them some final preparation of what would happen starting with the lead detective who would read a statement and appeal for information. Then Gary and Fiona would say something. The conference would not be open to questions.
Not all stories of missing children are big news, but Charley’s was that much bigger since the link between the three blonde girls had been established. The Goldilocks Kidnappings. People were obviously thinking Charley might be a fourth victim, but Gary couldn’t understand why. She was the right age, but she didn’t have curly blonde hair like the others. Why would the proclaimed Goldilocks Kidnapper take a girl without blonde hair?
Photographers jostled each other across the street from the school as they were ushered in through the main entrance. Police officers manned the doors and a low murmur drifted from the school’s main hall.
While they waited outside the assembly hall doors, Gary clasped Fiona’s hand. It was ice cold and trembling. He squeezed it and tried to give her a look of solidarity. She smiled, but it was tight and strained.
Chloe gave them a nod, and the doors opened to the staring eye of the media. The room exploded with clicking cameras and flashing bulbs that threw crazy lurching shadows in every direction.
A backdrop had been set up behind the conference tables hung with Lancashire Constabulary posters and Charley’s school photo printed on boards with MISSING PERSON in large, red text.
They took chairs behind tables bristling with microphones. In the semicircle of reporters, photographers and cameramen before them, he saw signs for BBC and ITV, Channel 4, Channel 5 and Sky News. Everything had a surreal dream-like quality to it. Despite his experience, Gary felt uncomfortable and exposed.
He checked on Fiona, taking her hand again. The gesture prompted a frenzy of picture taking as the photographers tried to capture the moment.
The detective prepared to read the statement and the large hall filled with a strange hush, interrupted only by the odd click of a camera and flash of a bulb.
The police statement outlined the approximate time Charley went missing, where she was last seen and what she was wearing. The detective asked that if she was watching this, she should come home, or even call to let them know she was safe. There was no reason for her to be afraid. He also stressed concern for her safety and appealed for anyone who might have any information, no matter how small, to come forward.
Then it was Gary’s turn to speak and the media attention focused on him. He tried to moisten his lips, but his mouth was dry as a moth’s wing. He hadn’t really prepared what he was going to say, just speaking from the heart and hoping someone heard him and felt their pain.
“Our daughter’s name is Charlotte, but we call her Charley. She’s just twelve years old. At home she has a cat she called Mister Whiskers. She’s a loving, caring child who wouldn’t hurt anyone for the world. She...” He paused and swallowed, glancing at the lead detective as he did so. “The police think she’s run away, but I firmly believe she’s been kidnapped and is being held against her will.”
The camera flashes almost blinded him. Reporters, ignoring the ‘no questions’ instruction started shouting his name, trying to draw his attention, while others simply threw questions at him, one asking clearly if Gary thought Charley was a victim of the Goldilocks Kidnapper.
The detective stood up and attempted to calm everyone down. “There will be no questions at this time,” he insisted. When it all quietened down again, he continued. “Mr Wright obviously has strong feelings about what has happened to his daughter, but we must follow all lines of enquiry.”
Gary stood up too. “And while you’re wasting time doing that, someone is holding Charley against her will!”
“Mr Wright…” the lead detective said, but Gary ignored him to look directly into the nearest TV camera.
“To the person who’s holding my daughter…,” he said, then corrected himself. “To the man who has my daughter...please don’t hurt her...you can let her go. You have that power. You can just take her somewhere and drop her off. You can let our daughter come home to us where she belongs. Please, just stop and let her come home.”
Fiona was weeping freely.
He leaned across the table, his face strained and desperate.
“I’m asking for everyone’s help here. He’s holding her somewhere. In a house, or a flat, or an outbuilding. Please look to your neighbours, look to your families, no matter how unlikely that might seem. This man is someone’s son, someone’s uncle, maybe even someone’s husband or father. Just take a look and see if there’s anything unusual happening. Are curtains closed all day and night? Have windows suddenly been boarded up? Have you noticed any unusual behaviour? If you’ve seen anything suspicious, anything at all, please call the police and let them know about it.”
He scanned the faces of the reporters and the photographers. He didn’t feel he had said enough; didn’t feel that his plea had gone deep enough. He wanted to say more, yet there was nothing more he could say.
The detective took over again, inviting everyone to raise and leave the conference. Gary took Fiona’s hand and helped her to her feet. She was so pale and weak. As she stood, her legs gave way and she fainted back into her seat. The room exploded again.
Gary held his wife tightly while the cameras clicked and flashed and clicked and flashed.
After the broadcast had finished, and in such spectacular fashion too, the man the media called the Goldilocks Kidnapper stopped the video recorder from capturing to the hard disk and sat staring at the screen. Later he’d transfer the recording to DVD for permanency.
He crawled from his spot in front of the TV, to the cupboard in the alcove. The rectangle of threadbare carpet wasn’t fitted all the way to the edges of the room, the bare boards grinding at his bony kneecaps. He opened the door and dragged a cardboard box into the open and onto the floor. The box contained a collection of clothes and belongings. They weren’t in any kind of order, or neatly folded, just a jumble-sale-like box of shirts and skirts and socks and underwear. He ran his hand over the folds, his fingertips caressing the fabrics lightly. Touching their clothes thrilled him, as it always did.
