Tom fixed his eyes on the ground and concentrated on staying on his feet. Harry was going too fast and Tom wanted to yell at him to stop, that he was making a terrible mistake and that-
‘Tom,’ called the horrible voice, from right behind them. Tom pulled away from Harry and sprang round, ready to fight as hard as he could, because he’d had enough, absolutely enough this time and-
It was Joe. Real Joe. Half walking, half running across the grass towards them. Stepping forward, Harry had scooped Joe up off the ground and was hugging him tight, muttering, ‘Thank God, thank God.’ Tom was saying it too, in his head, Thank God, thank God. And then, suddenly, he wasn’t. Because Joe was on his own.
19
‘YOU’RE OBSESSING, YOU SILLY COW,’ MUTTERED EVI TO herself. ‘Shut it down and go to bed.’ She looked at the JL clock in the bottom left-hand corner of her computer screen: 9.25 p.m. She couldn’t go to bed at half past nine.
Would there be anything on TV? She spun herself round in the chair and glanced across the room at the set. Was she kidding? It was Saturday night. And there was nothing on her bookshelves she hadn’t read at least four times.
She looked back at the screen, at the picture of Harry that she’d found on the Lancashire Telegraph’s website. He was wearing a black shirt, clerical collar and black jacket. The photograph was perhaps a year or two old. His hair was a little longer and in the lobe of his left ear he wore a tiny metal cross. The accompanying story told her that the Reverend Harry Laycock had been appointed to the living of the recently united benefice of Goodshaw Bridge, Loveclough and Heptonclough, and that in his previous post he’d been a special assistant to the archdeacon in the Diocese of Durham. Earlier in his career, he had spent several years working at an Anglican ministry in Namibia. He was unmarried and gave his hobbies as football (playing and watching), rock-climbing and long-distance running.
She could print the photograph off.
Except that she was absolutely, positively, not going to do anything that pathetic. She scrolled up the page and typed ‘Heptonclough’ into the search engine, pressing Return before she had time to think about what she was doing. The site found several entries. This wasn’t obsessing, this was legitimate research. She had a patient in the town.
Heptonclough didn’t make the news too often. The most recent story was the reference to Harry’s appointment. She passed over it quickly before she was tempted to open it up again. Heptonclough man fined for poaching, New bus service linking Heptonclough with nearby Goodshaw Bridge. He lived in Goodshaw Bridge – oh, get a grip, woman. She found the story about the fire in Gillian’s house, and then a follow-up article reporting that Barry Robinson had been discharged from hospital but remembered nothing about the fire. Search continues for missing Megan; Heptonclough pub’s warning to under-age drinkers…
Evi scrolled back up the list. Search continues for missing Megan. Why did that ring a bell? The story was six years old. And – she scrolled down the list – there were several follow-up stories and one that preceded it: Child missing on moors.
She opened the link and read the first few lines. She’d been working in Shropshire when the story first made the news, but she remembered a young girl going missing on the Pennine moors. The search had gone on for days. The child, or the child’s body, had never been found. Evi had even mentioned it in a lecture she’d given at the university – the particular stages of grief people suffer when their loss is unquantified and unconfirmed, and the difficulties of closure when hope – however unrealistic – lives on.
Dozens of local people joined the police search for missing four-year-old Megan Connor. Megan, who wandered away from her family during a picnic, has blonde, shoulder-length hair and blue eyes. She was wearing a red raincoat and red wellington boots. Photographs are being distributed throughout the north-west, and in the meantime, Megan’s family have asked the public to remain vigilant and pray for their daughter’s safe return.
The picture accompanying the story showed a girl in a Snow White costume, no longer a toddler but still with the plump, soft features of the very young. If Gillian had taken part in the public search for Megan, it might explain why, three years later, she’d become obsessed with the idea that her own daughter might be similarly lost.
It was no good, she couldn’t sit still any longer. For some reason the pain in her leg seemed worse tonight. She had Tramadol in her bathroom cabinet. She hadn’t taken one, hadn’t needed to take one, for nearly six months. Did she really want to start using them again?
20
‘WHERE’S MILLIE?’ SAID HARRY, PUTTING JOE BACK ON his feet. ‘Joe, where’s your sister?’
‘I think they went up there,’ said Joe, giving his brother a nervous look and pointing uphill towards the church. ‘Who?’ said Harry. ‘Who went up there?’
‘I didn’t see,’ said Joe, again looking sideways at Tom. ‘I saw Tom go under the table and then Millie was gone.’
‘Did she go outside? Did she leave the party?’
‘I looked outside,’ said Joe. ‘I thought I saw someone coming in here, but they went too fast.’
Harry took his eyes off Joe for a second and looked towards the older boy. He really didn’t like the look on Tom’s face.
‘Do you know anything about this?’ he asked. ‘Do you know who took Millie?’
Tom wouldn’t make eye-contact with Harry, wouldn’t take his eyes off his brother. Slowly, he shook his head.
Harry pushed himself upright. ‘Hello!’ he yelled into the night. ‘Can anyone hear me?’ They waited. ‘Where the hell is everyone?’ he muttered, when no one answered him. ‘OK, are you two all right to come with me?’
Joe nodded immediately, followed – a second later – by Tom. Harry bent down again and picked up Joe. Leaving the lantern behind and holding tight on to Tom’s hand, he set off.
‘Millie!’ yelled Harry, stopping every few seconds. They reached the top of the hill and stopped in the shadow of the ruined abbey, ten yards or so from the church door. Joe, tiny though he was, had become heavy. Harry lowered him to the ground.
‘Millie,’ he yelled and heard his own voice bounce back from a dozen different directions. ‘Millie, Millie, Millie,’ called the echo.
‘Millie,’ called a voice that was loud and clear. Definitely not an echo.
‘Who said that?’ asked Harry, spinning on the spot.
Joe and Tom looked only at each other. ‘Has she taken her, Joe?’ said Tom, in a low voice. ‘This is serious. Where are they?’
‘And who are they?’ said Harry, who was walking backwards away from the boys towards the church. ‘What’s going on here? Millie!’
‘Tommy,’ called a high, thin voice and Tom sprang to Harry’s side.
‘OK, this has gone far enough, guys.’ Harry made sure he wasn’t yelling, but it was difficult to keep the anger from his voice. ‘There is a child missing and the police will be called, if they haven’t been already. Come on out now.’
They waited. In the distance a dog barked. They could hear a car engine start up. Then suddenly a high-pitched wailing broke through the night.
‘That’s Millie,’ said Tom. ‘That’s really her. She’s somewhere close. Millie! Where are you?’
‘She’s in the church,’ said Joe. ‘The door’s open.’
Harry saw that Joe was right. The door to the church was open just a few inches. Which it shouldn’t have been at this time of night. He sprinted across, aware of the boys following close behind. In through the doors he ran, pressing the light switches as he went. He ran into the nave and stopped dead. Above his head, someone was whimpering.