Finally, the call comes from the police, on Monday – a voicemail left on my mobile while I’m in the shower. Could I come into the station? It’s a name I don’t know. DI Ben something. I play it again. Is it bad news, good news? I can’t tell. Good, I decide, let it be good. It has to be.
I’m there within the hour, my hair still drying. And then I wait.
Half an hour passes in the small windowless room they’ve put me in. Definitely more than that – but then I only started counting when the clock was at three. I make up my mind. I’m out of my plastic seat, hand on the door handle, when it pushes open and I’m forced to quickly step back.
‘Somewhere to go, Mrs Harlow? I’m so sorry to have kept you. Shall we sit down?’ I haven’t met this one before: dark hair, sleepy eyes, about my age, maybe. ‘DI Ben Nicholls,’ he says, pulling out the chair opposite mine. He doesn’t hold out a hand to shake.
‘I’m Kate,’ I say. ‘We used to deal with Kirstie,’ I carry on, suddenly nervous. There’s not a flicker of recognition. ‘Kirstie Waller? Curly blonde hair? She’d told me a few months ago that she was going on mat leave, so she was passing on her responsibilities.’
Neither of us had punctured the pretence that the investigation was going anywhere, even recently. I was grateful to her for that. ‘None of the officers I used to speak to are around,’ I say now. ‘Everyone seems to have retired, or be on leave.’
He nods, unsmiling. ‘I’m up to speed on the case, I’ve read through the files.’
‘OK.’ So the small talk’s clearly over.
‘And I understand you’re keen for us to get hold of some phone records from the charity where you work—’
‘Yes, you’ve got to,’ I say, launching in. ‘My daughter phoned me, she’s missing, she’s been missing for years, she phoned me, and I need to know where she is, I need to talk to her—’
‘Mrs Harlow, can I interrupt?’
I lean back.
‘I want to manage your expectations,’ he says. ‘A helpline has privacy procedures in place for a reason. And we can’t necessarily overturn them to trace the call, even if you are concerned about your daughter.’
‘Well, why not?’
‘Police officers have to follow rules, too. We’d have to have a very strong reason to break those protocols. The helpline’s got a commitment to protect its clients’ anonymity—’
‘But I’m her mother!’
‘And that’s why she might not want you tracing her, isn’t it? If it was her.’ I flinch. ‘She could have phoned home. But she called the helpline, you say, to let you know that you shouldn’t expect contact any more.’
I’m not used to the police being this direct. So he’s not so sleepy, after all.
‘But I just know. Something’s wrong.’ I’ve got to make them take this seriously. I catch myself: of course something was wrong if your daughter ran away. How can I make them understand?
‘Mrs Harlow, when someone goes missing – I know how very hard this is—’
‘No, you don’t know,’ I say simply.
‘OK, maybe I don’t. And the fact is that yes, in certain circumstances, different things are … possible. But, to be blunt, there’s no immediate risk I can see here, or any other factors that would prompt us to get authorisation to access the phone records, and try to trace the call in question. She’s made it very clear, since she left, that it was what she wanted—’
‘All right!’ I say, too loud. ‘I remember.’ I don’t want to think about all that, not yet.
He carries on. ‘So, frankly, we’d be acting with very little expectation that there’d be anything to show for it, or that there was any need. You may not like this, Mrs Harlow, but everything about Sophie’s actions so far have told one consistent story: she’s a teenager – an adult now, at eighteen – who doesn’t want to come home. But’ – as I open my mouth to protest – ‘but, what I can say is that I’ll make enquiries. See if there are any circumstances in which the charity might help, for a start.’
‘Well, OK,’ I say, uncertain of what he’s promising me. ‘Should I ask them, too? Would that help? I work there, after all.’
‘Do you think that would help?’
‘Well … no.’ I can feel my face flushing. I, more than anyone, know how much the charity prizes callers’ confidentiality, how it would never pass on information to loved ones without their consent. It’s the fundamental rule. ‘So, when do you think you might have something to tell me?’ I can feel the situation slipping out of my control.
‘I couldn’t say. But here’s my card’ – he pushes it across the table to me – ‘and there’s my mobile number on it, too. Anything particularly pressing you’ve to tell us, you can let me know that way.’
He stands up, ready to go, and for the first time there’s a hint of something other than brisk professionalism. ‘Mrs Harlow – can I suggest: try not to get your hopes up too much. When someone’s been missing this long, well, the outcomes aren’t always … what we’d like to see. People don’t always want to come home. The longer they stay away …’ He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. ‘If your daughter called you, that might have to be enough for now. You might need to accept that she’s not coming home.’
‘You might need to accept that she’s not coming home.’ The words keep playing in my mind as I drive back, joining the beginnings of the rush-hour traffic out of town, the low sun flashing in my eyes.
So that’s what the police say. That’s what Mark said too, at the end, what my family now don’t dare to say – but I could read it in their eyes, every time we talked.
Are they right? I make myself consider the question, seriously, just for a moment. Is it time finally to let her go – at least, as my stomach convulses at the thought, for now, until she’s ready for more. I don’t seem to have much choice in the matter, anyway. Perhaps it’d be best.
At the thought, I feel a strange sort of calm, lighter almost. Acceptance?
The feeling carries me home, as I let myself in, dump my keys on the hall table. What would it be like, if I could accept it … as I pad up the landing I realise where I’m already going, unthinkingly. I continue up the stairs to the top of the house, my steps slower now, and push open the door to Sophie’s room. As I flick on the bright overhead light, the curtains pulled open as usual, the duvet forever untouched, the room looks oddly staged. This time I can’t pretend Sophie’s just stepped out.
Perhaps this is what Sophie was trying to give me, with that call, it occurs to me now. The chance to say goodbye, just for a while. To let her go.
Suddenly I’m overwhelmed with longing. I fight the urge to go into her wardrobe, try to catch the scent of her on her clothes. Instead I walk over to the dresser and rest my hands on the old pine. For a second I’m lost – what was I looking for? Of course, Panda. So beloved when she was little that his ears are long gone, the stuffing exposed at the seams. Only Teddy was more battered.
But Panda’s on top of the wardrobe with the rest of Sophie’s stuffed animals, tucked between the donkey and the tired-looking rabbit.
Silvia must have moved him, I think, when she was still coming here to clean, before it was just me. She must have knocked him and put him up there, forgetting where he lives. I need everything to stay the same, so I carefully pull the toy down and put him back on the dresser, as he always is.
He tips over. But I know what it is – Panda’s always propped on his blanket, Sophie’s old fuzzy pink blankie from when she was very little. It must have slipped off the dresser’s glass surface.
I slide an arm in to pat blindly between its side and the wardrobe. It’s not there. I put my hands around the top of the dresser and shuffle the heavy wood out a couple of inches, so I can look behind it.