Chapter 10
SCARLETT
A knock at the front door interrupts our conversation. I pause from loading a bundle of my sister’s clothes into the suitcase. ‘I hope it’s not that dodgy landlord.’
George smirks, regaining his composure. ‘You met him, then?’
‘For my sins.’ I lay the clothes on top of a pile of others and leave him to it.
I open the door to a girl who looks no older than twelve. It’s only the ring in the side of her nose and a line of three matching ones climbing her eyebrow that tell me she’s older. She was at Daisy’s funeral, but I never spoke to her.
‘Hi. I’m from next door. I heard some noise, so I guessed someone was here. I’ve been collecting Daisy and Layla’s post but didn’t know what to do with it. I meant to bring it to the funeral but forgot.’ She hands me a wad of letters and a large, thick envelope.
‘Thanks.’ I’m unsure if it’s the vulnerability of this young girl, or her kindness, or just the bloody situation I’m in, but she makes me well up.
‘I hear you’re moving their stuff out. What do you want me to do with any more post that comes?’
‘I’ll contact the post office and arrange to have it redirected.’ I inwardly sigh at another chore to add to my list.
Bracelets jangle down her arm as she gives a quick wave. ‘Must dash. I have a lecture.’ It’s as if she can’t leave quickly enough.
I return to Daisy’s room and separate the post into two piles: one for Daisy and one for Layla. ‘You didn’t answer my question,’ I say to George. ‘Why didn’t the police tell me Daisy was on antidepressants?’
‘I really couldn’t tell you.’ He shakes his head. ‘Confidentiality, perhaps? Maybe, like me, they thought there was nothing to be gained from telling you. Until I opened my big mouth.’
‘George, you must tell me everything.’ I sigh.
‘We still haven’t got a definitive answer on her movements that night.
The convention she went to. The blackout on her phone on the way home, and the fact that it was never recovered.
The last time it was traced was to a train back from the convention. ’
‘Yeah. The convention. The police didn’t seem that interested.’ He scoffs. ‘I was away that weekend. A family meal in London. I wanted Daisy to come with me, but she said she had other plans.’
‘Go on.’
He points to the piles of post on the table.
‘See that large envelope. I bet it contains info about the conventions she and Layla went to.’ There’s more to this guy who my sister was madly in love with than I first thought.
I move the antidepressants revelation from the front of my mind to process later. It’s too much right now.
‘Conventions?’ I ask.
He peers around the room as if he’s looking for something. He steps over to the desk and picks up a leaflet from the top of the filing tray. ‘Here you go. Conventions. Festivals. Whatever you want to call them.’ He unfolds the leaflet and hands it to me.
I read aloud random words from the front. ‘Positive thinking. Guest speakers. Motivational, like-minded individuals who can turn your life around.’ I frown. ‘It doesn’t sound like Daisy’s sort of thing.’
‘Happy-clappy bullshit is what it is. I told the police she’d become obsessed with all this positive thinking, unlocking your success, crap. But they weren’t interested. You only have to look at her social media, especially her Instagram.’
I frown. Daisy hated all forms of social media. I’m not a social media person, either, unlike many people I know. I have a business page – MOVE WITH SCARLETT – but I only go on my personal pages now and again to catch up with what friends are up to.
‘I didn’t know she was on social media.’
‘Yeah. It wasn’t healthy. I tried to encourage her to back off, but she wouldn’t listen.’ Chucking the box aside, he starts taping another one but stops and places his hands on his hips.
‘But it doesn’t correlate with her taking a drug overdose.’ I grab one of the large envelopes and try to open it, but the tape is too strong. ‘What are you suggesting?’
George fixes his eyes on me with a steely glare. ‘Look, Scarlett. Let me be quite clear. I don’t for one minute buy that Daisy took an overdose, even if it were by accident. I want to find out what really happened to her as much as you.’
‘How do we do that?’ I ask, grateful for how vehement he is. He’s on my side.
He pulls his phone from his jeans and scrolls.
He turns the screen to me, revealing a TikTok page advertising another – what he would term – happy-clappy convention.
‘We start here. A Meeting of Minds. It has quite a following. They hold a convention every other month in different locations across the UK. Daisy went to two of them this year. She was on her way home from one when her phone went dead. Someone knows what happened to Daisy, and it starts right here.’
I shudder.
‘There’s one being held in Brighton this weekend.’ He’s way ahead of me.
I stare at the video showing a man speaking on a stage. ‘You think she met someone there?’
He clenches his jaw. ‘Who knows?’
‘What are you doing this Saturday?’ I ask.
‘Nothing planned.’
‘Let’s go to Brighton.’