The Girl in the Red Coat

52

FIVE YEARS, 209 DAYS

Are all mysteries finally solved or do some last forever? What happens when we die. What became of my little girl. Do they end? Or can unknowing go on for always?

The night shift has just finished; I’m at home, the winter dawn breaking outside. I’m wearing the white cotton uniform and white clogs from work.

I’m sitting on the sofa when I hear something upstairs. This is an old house, it has its own repertoire of noises but this one I haven’t heard before — it sounds like someone running across bare boards. I try not to be alarmed; the house leads a life of its own.

There’s a loud rap at the door.

I open it to see a man and woman on the step. They are both turned away, looking at the breaking orange on the horizon. When they face me I don’t recognise either of them. But they’re police, I know that.

The woman is introducing them. ‘Detective Inspector Ian Carling … Annie Wallace …’

They have come unannounced: they have news. I don’t know yet if it’s bad or good. But unannounced, something’s happened. I’m sick, suddenly, and light-headed. There’s a buzzing in my ears.

‘May we come in? We need to talk …’

They have news. They have news.

Then — I didn’t know it could happen in real life — my legs turn to water beneath me and I fall forward.

The man catches me deftly, managing not to drop the file that is tucked beneath his arm. I look up at his freshly shaven jaw, and see the plugs of dark hair he can never quite get rid of. He helps me inside, back onto the sofa. He fetches me a glass of water and I drink, my teeth chattering on the glass.

‘May we sit?’ asks Annie. I notice she’s wearing a poppy on her black coat — it must be November already.

I nod, my teeth still chattering on the glass. They sit in formal fashion. The man is broad and tall, dark with pale skin. The woman — Annie — is slim in her black coat, her blond hair in a neat ponytail.

‘Are you OK?’ she asks.

‘Yes,’ I mumble. ‘I need to go to the bathroom.’ I stumble upstairs. I’m delaying things. In the bathroom I jackknife over the basin and deposit a burning spurt of sick on the white porcelain. I turn on the tap to wash it away and dab cold water round my mouth. I have the sudden urge to escape out of the bathroom window, and never have to know.

Downstairs, they’re waiting, in the same positions. The woman starts to speak.

‘Beth, we know it would have been better for someone you’re familiar with to come. But Maria is away on holiday and we can’t wait with this information. I’ll tell you quickly — a girl has been found and …’

‘Is she … is she alive?’ I burst out.

‘Yes, yes.’ She joins me on the sofa and puts a hand on my arm. An engagement ring glitters there. ‘Yes, Beth. She’s alive and we can’t be sure …’

‘Is she alive?’ I already asked that.

‘Yes, alive, but …’

I can’t think. I focus on the glowing red spot of the poppy.

Ian clears his throat, interrupts. ‘A girl has been found. We have reasons to believe it may be your daughter.’

‘Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God …’

‘We’re not sure yet. But we have to tell you. A girl has been found alive and well in the States. We have reason to believe, to be confirmed, it might be Carmel.’

‘Where is she?’

‘The States. A man was arrested the same day …’

‘The States! Is she alright? Is she alright?’

‘Apparently well. Though alone …’

‘So she’s well and the man …’

‘He was arrested for another offence. He confessed to another offence …’

‘Where is she?’

‘The States, I said …’

‘No. I mean now, right now.’

‘She’s being prepared to fly back …’

‘And a man confessed to taking her …’

‘No. He confessed to another, previous, offence. But it transpired …’

‘She’s coming home …?’

Annie is nodding and smiling next to me. Her eyes are filling with tears. I focus on her poppy and try to breathe.

‘But … how do you know? How do you know it’s her?’

The policeman opens the file and begins reading from it. ‘My name is Carmel Summer Wakeford. I used to live in Norfolk, England. My mum’s name was Beth and my dad’s name is Paul. He has a girlfriend called Lucy. I lived in a house with a tree by the side. My mum had a glass cat she kept by her bed. There was a picture up that said THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE HOME. The curtains downstairs are orange …’