The vanishing of class 3.., p.1
The Vanishing of Class 3B, page 1
THE VANISHING OF CLASS 3B
JACKIE KABLER
One More Chapter
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2023
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Copyright © Jackie Kabler 2023
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Cover design by Lucy Bennett © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2023
Cover photograph: Shutterstock.com
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Jackie Kabler asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
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A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library
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This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
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Source ISBN: 9780008544553
Ebook Edition © May 2023 ISBN: 9780008544546
Version: 2023-03-06
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Acknowledgments
Thank you for reading…
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Chapter One
REYNOLD
Day 1: Friday, 9.45 a.m.
It’s sunny the day the children vanish. It’s been sunny for a week, one of those warm, dry spells you don’t really expect in early April in the Cotswolds. The minibus is black, a sixteen-seater Mercedes with reclining leather seats, tinted windows and air conditioning; far too fancy, some might say, to take a group of over-excited seven- and eight-year-olds on a school day trip. Some might say, elsewhere, but nobody would say it here, because this is Littleford Primary, and here they do things differently. This bus hasn’t been hired for the day, for a start; the school recently bought it, brand new, at a cost of over £70,000. Fundraising isn’t an issue at Littleford. Not every parent is wealthy, but those with cash to spare are more than generous, and Reynold Lyon, who’s leaning against the playground wall, pretending to be engrossed in a phone call, is probably the wealthiest and most generous of them all. Even today, off work and doing the school run, he’s dressed head to toe in designer sportswear, classic black aviators hiding his tired eyes. His most recent donation of £30,000 paid for nearly half of the new minibus, but unfortunately even the fanciest of buses isn’t immune from mechanical problems.
‘Damn. There’s a bloody red warning light!’
Year 2 teacher Erica Lindsay had spluttered the words and then immediately clapped her hand over her mouth, looking around guiltily to check if any of the children were within earshot. This had been forty-five minutes ago, Erica hopping into the driver’s seat to start the engine while the three other staff members accompanying Class 3B on their day out attempted to round up their charges.
‘What? Are you serious?’
Her teaching assistant, Dominic Moore, scurried over, peered at the dashboard and groaned.
‘I’m no expert, but that’s the coolant warning. That might mean a leak. How the hell did that happen?’
He swore softly under his breath, like Erica, glancing around as he did so. Reynold, who’d been listening with mild amusement, glad of the distraction, smiled to himself. He didn’t mind swearing at all, but there was a little cluster of other parents in the playground waiting to wave their offspring goodbye, and he, like the teachers, knew not all of them would be as tolerant. He wondered, briefly, if he should go and offer to help, to see if he could work out what the problem with the bus was, and then immediately decided against it. He might have three expensive motors parked in the driveway of his home just down the road, but he really didn’t have a clue about engines. He had people to worry about that sort of thing for him. He had people to worry about almost everything for him.
Almost.
‘Right. It’ll need to go into the garage for a check, and we don’t have time. Plan B,’ he heard Dominic say decisively.
And so it is that three-quarters of an hour later, Reynold’s seven-year-old twins, Luca and Lola, and their classmates, who’ve been burning off their excess energy rampaging around the playground, are finally climbing not into the black Mercedes but into a rather battered-looking white Ford Transit bus, complete with rusting wheel arches and an air-freshener in the shape of an Arsenal jersey swinging gently from the rear-view mirror. The replacement bus has been hired at short notice from village taxi driver Arnie – everyone knows Arnie, although nobody seems to know his last name – who drove it into the school playground a few minutes ago with a beep of his horn and a wide grin, clambering out of the driver’s seat and greeting the stressed-looking teachers with a deep bow.
‘Emergency bus ready to depart,’ he said, handing over the keys.
‘You’re a life-saver, Arnie,’ Erica replied, and Arnie dipped his head modestly, waved at the children and ambled off.
Reynold, still standing apart from the other parents, and still speaking animatedly to nobody on his phone, watches now as the children scramble for seats inside the bus, their delighted faces clearly showing they couldn’t care less what vehicle they’re being driven in, as long as it gets them to their destination. Lola, who’s nabbed a window seat, taps urgently on the glass, trying to get his attention, and he smiles and blows her a kiss.
‘Bye, baby,’ he mouths, and she grins and waves. Reynold waits until he sees Luca safely seated too, in the row behind his sister, then glances over at the little knot of other adults swarming around the open side door of the bus. He knows them all of course, some better than others, but he’s not in the mood for small talk right now, hence the ongoing fake phone call. He’s the only dad here today; the others are all mums and a couple of female nannies, and he’s been trying not to look over at them, trying not to catch her eye, but he can’t help himself. He can’t go over and speak to her, not when there are so many people here. But he needs… something. A look? A nod? Something so he knows everything is OK.
He stares at her from behind his dark glasses, still holding the silent phone to his ear, willing her to turn around. And moments later, as if she can read his thoughts, she does. Her head swivels, and she looks straight at him, for a second, two, three. She’s wearing sunglasses too, so he can’t see her expression, and his chest tightens. But then, almost imperceptibly, she nods, and a ghost of a smile plays across her lips. Reynold feels a wave of relief. He nods back, and she looks at him for another moment then turns away, resuming the conversation she’s having with one of the other mothers.
He takes a deep breath.
Good. All is well, he thinks.
The teachers are climbing onto the bus, Erica Lindsay in the driving seat, and now the doors are being slammed shut, and the children are whooping and waving, and the adults in the playground are waving too.
‘Have fun!’ calls one.
‘Behave yourselves!’ shouts another. ‘See you this evening!’
Reynold smiles again as Lola presses her nose to the window, squashing it against the glass and eyeing him comically. He gives her a thumbs-up sign as the bus begins to move slowly towards the school gates, then glances at the Rolex on his wrist. The trip had been due to commence at nine, but it’s now nine forty-five, and he needs to get home, a little knot of anxiety twisting in his stomach as he thinks about how much he has to do
Chapter Two
REYNOLD
Day 1: Friday, 9.50 a.m.
Reynold walks briskly down the street, phone tucked back into his pocket, the morning sun already warm on his face. He’s lived in Littleford for three years now, but even in his current state of mind the picture-postcard beauty of the place still amazes him. Honey-coloured Cotswold stone houses, thatched roofs, mullioned windows, and even a gently babbling river with a bridge; when Reynold and his wife, Petra, decided they wanted to leave London for a quieter life in the Cotswolds before the twins started school, the house search had begun and very quickly ended right here.
‘It’s like something out of a fairy tale,’ Petra had whispered, as the estate agent walked them through the gates of the £2.5 million house they now call home. ‘And this house! It’s perfect, Reynold.’
He had to agree. It was spectacular, all of it, and they made an offer on the property that same day. Littleford is small and quiet, but it’s just six miles north of the pretty, bustling market town of Cirencester, and London is a mere two-hour drive away, the location perfect for their needs. While most of the ivy and wisteria-covered cottages date back to the sixteenth or seventeenth centuries, The Granary is only ten years old, a stunning, architect-designed three-storey home built around the shell of a former grain storage barn. Set a little back from the road at the southern end of the High Street, the house has a sweeping driveway lined with silver birch trees, a beautifully tended garden with a home gym and a swimming pool, and an interior like a glossy magazine spread come to life. Reynold’s plan is to head straight to his study on the top floor but, as he closes the front door behind him and walks quickly across the flagstone-floored hall, he abruptly changes course, deciding to have a coffee first. He hasn’t been sleeping well for the past week or so, and he needs the caffeine. In the kitchen, which looks out onto the terrace, he makes himself a double espresso and drinks it slowly, standing at the French windows and watching blue tits pecking at the bird feeder hanging from the old beech tree. It was Luca who insisted they start putting seed out, and Reynold quickly became glad he’d followed his animal-loving son’s orders, finding it strangely therapeutic to stand and watch the birds coming and going. There are normally a couple of squirrels scampering around too, but the only creature on the lawn today is Brandon, the young local handyman who also helps out with a spot of gardening. He’s an annoyingly handsome lad, and a bit of a DIY genius – Reynold’s talents don’t really stretch to using paint brushes or hammers – but today he’s doing his bit to keep the outside space in perfect manicured order, kneeling on the grass next to a flower bed, a blue trug beside him. As Reynold watches, he turns, raises a hand and smiles, flashing even white teeth. Reynold waves back, then downs the last of his coffee and heads for his office.
A day off is never really a day off for him; today, if he can force himself to concentrate, he’ll be working on the format for a new television game show. His main job for the past five years has been hosting the award-winning Netflix chat show Wednesday With…, an hour-long programme on which he interviews politicians, celebrities, or anyone else who’s made the news that week. Reynold is fifty-five now, and this show is the biggest of his career to date, although he’s been a household name on TV in the UK for years. But he’s not just a front man; Reynold’s also devised some of British television’s biggest game shows, selling the formats to production companies and seeing a very nice return for his efforts. And this new one… he’s got a feeling about it. There’s nothing else out there quite like it, and he needs to focus today, needs to get it absolutely right before he starts thinking about pitching it. Friday is always his day for locking himself away in his office; Monday to Wednesday he’s in London, planning and filming the show; Thursday is de-brief and re-group day; and he tries to keep Saturday and Sunday as family time. His wife, Petra, is twenty years his junior and a model, taking on fewer jobs now that’s she’s a mum but still in demand; she tends to work most Fridays, knowing that Reynold will be at home to do the school runs. They decided from the beginning to do parenthood without any full-time help; Reynold sometimes looks at his life with awe, astounded that in his fifties he’s a father, a husband, happy. Happy most of the time anyway. Now, though, as he sits down at his desk and turns his laptop on, he feels a twinge of guilt. More than a twinge; a wave, that crashes over him, making him feel nauseous.
If Petra knew…
He swallows hard, thinking back to the looks that were exchanged in the playground earlier as the children boarded the bus.
If only I could go back in time, change things…
He shakes his head, trying to banish the thoughts. It’s too late now. What’s done is done.
I’m sorry, Petra, he thinks. I’m so, so sorry.
There’s a photo of her on his desk, one of his favourites from a campaign she fronted for a high-end jewellery range a few years back. She looks beautiful, auburn hair piled high on her head, her green eyes a perfect match to the emerald earrings she’s wearing, her skin milky white against the chartreuse velvet of her dress. He looks at the picture sadly for a moment, then his gaze moves to the framed photograph next to it, a shot of the twins he took himself in the garden just after Christmas, when they’d all built a snowman together. Luca is standing, looping his arm around its shoulders, while Lola kneels beside it, both of them beaming, cheeks pink from the cold and the excitement. He runs a finger gently across the glass and feels a lump in his throat. He’s only just dropped them off at school, and he misses them already.
‘OK, stop it. You have things to do. Forget everything else for now,’ he says out loud.
He stares at the photo for a few moments longer, then resolutely opens his laptop and gets to work.
Chapter Three
LITTLEFORD PRIMARY SCHOOL
Day 1: Friday, 12.05 p.m.
‘I’m so annoyed about the bus. It’s virtually brand new. I mean, honestly…’
Headteacher Olivia Chamberlain glares out of her office window at the offending vehicle, then turns back to school business manager Richard Cunningham who’s hovering anxiously next to her desk.
‘I know,’ he says. ‘And the garage is chock-a-block until Wednesday at the earliest, I’m afraid. Although I suppose we don’t need it until after half-term now, do we? It’ll probably be something minor anyway, considering the thing’s barely been driven. And it’s still under warranty of course, so it won’t cost us anything to fix. I agree, most annoying though.’
