Chapter 70 Gone
‘She’s not in her bed?’ I ask.
‘There are two pillows under the duvet,’ says Aimée, as if it’s not her entire fault.
I rush upstairs to confirm that my six-year-old daughter has run away.
I’ve all but secured her place at Adams. All she needs to do is turn up.
She doesn’t have to write a word. Her lack of marks will be attributed to Hero.
I told her it was all in the bag, and she does this to me, to her own mother.
‘Nelly’s run away,’ I say to Stephen as I arrive back in the kitchen.
Stephen’s face indicates in that tiny moment, not concern or fear for his firstborn but censure.
‘Oh, I see,’ I say. ‘You think it’s my fault.’
‘No. Not at all.’
‘I can see what you think, Stephen, and if you think that I’m to blame, say it.’
‘No one’s to blame. I just don’t think Nelly responds well to pressure.’
‘No one likes pressure, Stephen, but without pressure we can’t breathe. We’d be in a vacuum; we’d lose consciousness and die. Is that what you want for Nelly? To be starved of oxygen in the state sector while you continue to breathe the air of undeserved privilege?’
‘We should look for her,’ he says.
Argument won, I think.
We search the house, top to bottom. Nelly has won every single game of hide-and-seek she’s ever played and has an ability to enclose herself in the most extraordinary places.
An hour into our search and we’re all frantic.
Stephen has called the police, who are keen that we update them in the next half hour if she’s not found.
Aimée searches like you’d expect her to, by pretending to look, and not pretending very well at all. She glances into each room and sighs, which doesn’t amount to looking, as I tell her on more than one occasion.
We extend our search into the garden, including the shed, but to no avail, and regroup in the kitchen.
Nelly will miss her exam if we don’t find her, and her place will be lost. Stephen is shaking his head.
I’m not sure why. I send him to check the cellar but he’s afraid I’ll lock him in again and refuses.
We start phoning friends. If Nelly left the house by the back door, to avoid triggering the Ring doorbell, where else could she go? One by one, we tell our friends the news, and they respond with shock and fear. No one can do enough for us, which is nice, but no Nelly anywhere.
Nathan sleeps through the whole affair, even when we lift his bed off the floor to look underneath. He finally appears, looking like he’s still half in the land of dreams, his pyjamas all wrinkled, clutching his toy bunny.
‘Nelly’s missing,’ I say.
‘She’s in bed,’ he says, yawning.
‘No, darling, that’s just pillows.’
He shakes his head, opens the cupboard in search of cereal, and says, ‘She’s in the pillow.’
As Stephen tries to question Nathan, I run up the stairs and open the bedroom door.
‘Nelly!’ I shout.
I hear giggling from the two pillows lying together on her mattress. Nelly has carefully concealed herself by pushing her legs in one pillow case, and her body in the other, and flipping herself upside down.
‘You are . . . annoyingly good at hiding,’ I say, and she appears with a smile. She likes winning. If she’d have shown anything like this level of application to her non-verbal reasoning, I might not have had to blackmail my good friend’s daughter out of a school place.
We arrive at Adams with minutes to spare, but the school has yet to open its gates.
This is presumably to assert their power and create an impression of market demand.
I’m not impressed as it’s freezing, and we pass hordes of parents and children shivering in the cold.
Parking is impossible, so I double park and put my hazards on.
I drag Nelly from the car and stand near the back of the queue until the gate finally opens.
We shuffle forward, observing the ballet of parental expectation and ambition being metamorphosed into affection and love as they say goodbye to their darlings, most of whom are trembling as they have prioritized fashion over comfort and are not wearing coats.
I see Tor ahead in the queue and wave. She sees me but doesn’t wave back.
I don’t even get a smile, which is quite rude considering I saved her from ruin.
Admittedly, she must feel aggrieved that I’ve leveraged her mistake, but if friends don’t pounce on your errors, then others will, and what would you prefer, a headline in the tabloids or a place on the waiting list?
Objectively speaking, she’s a winner here.
As they dispatch their dear daughters into the first phase of a long and expensive premium sausage factory, the relatively few fathers give manly bear-hugs and the mothers engage in face-touching, forehead kissing and shoulder squeezing.
Calls of ‘Good luck!’ tumble through the cast iron railings as the hopefuls disappear inside.
Sophie arrives even later than we did, which is impressive. She is breathless and Ellie is bright-faced and steely-eyed, a picture of determination and desire.
‘Good luck,’ I say. ‘She looks the part.’
‘She’s so desperate for this,’ says Sophie. ‘Been practising non-stop. I don’t even have to ask.’
‘Same with Nelly,’ I say, remembering the practice papers that I found clogging up the toilet.
‘Why is she wearing an Adams uniform?’ asks Sophie.
‘Positive psychology,’ I say. Sophie nods without a further word. Jealous, I imagine.
As we reach the gate, Nelly tells me triumphantly that she’s not got any pens.
I open my handbag and produce her transparent pencil case, which I found hidden in the Rice Krispies box.
Nelly scowls, takes the pencil case and heads for the school.
No hugs, no tearful goodbyes, no kissing of cheeks.
Feet stomping on cold paving stones is our poignant farewell.
‘Remember not to write your name anywhere on the paper, darling,’ I call out as she disappears inside the glossy black door.
I head off feeling satisfied, but only for half a second as I see DS Birch and DC Mattoo on the other side of the road.
This feels like a vendetta against the innocent.
I try ignoring them and walk directly to my car.
By the time they catch up with me, I’m sitting in the driver’s seat, and they tap on the window.
‘What now?’ I say. ‘Or are you lost?’
‘It’s good news, actually,’ says Birch.
‘I find that hard to believe,’ I say.
‘We’ve found the origin of the ￡150,000 payments made to you. It came from a Bitcoin account and it’s not linked to Jason Mercer.’
‘I thought cryptocurrency was untraceable,’ I say.
‘Not if they use an exchange. That requires a verified identity. This payment was linked to the name David Bunting. Do you know this name?’
‘He’s an old friend,’ I say as I presume this is Zac Estall’s not quite as glamorous or sexy real name.
‘And he just gave you the money?’
‘We were good friends,’ I say. ‘And, as it has nothing to do with your case, it’s none of your business either.’
‘We did find several payments to Jason Mercer, however, in another name.’
‘Not my husband’s presumably.’
‘No. They came from an account under the name Matthew Hollis. It’s an offshore account so we can’t access any more info. Do you know that name?’ says DS Birch.
I shake my head. I’m disappointed that Hollis didn’t hide his connection with Mercer at all effectively, and I feel goosebumps on my arm as I realize that Hollis has to disappear before the police get to him, or he’ll tell them what Mercer was doing.
‘No, I thought not.’
‘As your mystery doesn’t involve me, can you stop harassing me now?’
‘Just doing our job, Mrs Rook,’ says DS Birch.
‘And so invasively too,’ I say, and click the window button. The glass rises, until Birch’s fingers suddenly intervene, and stop the window halfway.
‘One more thing,’ she says.
I should be used to this by now, but I still sigh.
‘Does your husband know that you received ￡150,000 from David Bunting?’
‘No, but if you want to tell him, go ahead. You can’t make anything worse.’