What She Left Read online

  For my sons.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Part Two

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Part Three

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Part Four

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  Helen brushed her hair and smoothed it away from her face, then used a hair tie to secure it. She combed the length of the ponytail until it lay smooth and shiny over her shoulder, split the hair into sections and plaited it neatly. She checked her reflection: light eye make-up and a becoming, pale pink lip-gloss. She went into the bedroom, where she had laid her dress out on the bed, a cotton maxi-dress, covered in big blue flowers. She slipped it over her head and slid her feet into flat white pumps. A spritz of her citrusy perfume and she was ready to go.

  She went down to the kitchen. She’d cleaned up after breakfast, before she’d taken the girls to school. To an outsider, the kitchen would have appeared spotless, but Helen picked up a cloth and wiped quickly at a tiny smear on the otherwise pristine worktop. The washing machine hummed quietly, but other than that, the house was silent.

  In the living room, her handbag, a large, soft leather one which matched the blue of the flowers of her dress, sat on the coffee table. She’d packed it carefully, as usual, but she checked through its contents one more time. Looking out of the window, she saw their next-door neighbour, Mrs Goode, leaving her house, Sainsbury’s Bags for Life in hand.

  Helen glanced around the living room, then took a quick tour round the downstairs to check that all the doors and windows were securely fastened before picking up her handbag and stepping out of her own front door. As she locked it, she called a cheery greeting to Mrs Goode, who was standing in her driveway, clearly waiting for a lift. Mrs Goode waved back, and Helen, dropping her key into her bag, headed off up the road on foot.

  As was her habit, she set off at a brisk, focused pace. She imagined Mrs Goode watching her. She didn’t look back. She walked quickly to the end of their quiet road, turned the corner, and disappeared.

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Lara

  Every middle-class London school has a Helen. Perhaps the Helen at your school has shining blonde hair or twinkling dark eyes. Perhaps she’s called Sarah, or Rebecca or Shariza. The principle is the same. Our Helen had a clear, bell-like voice, and you had to speak to her for a little while before you picked up the slight twang and upward inflection that told of her Australian origins. She had a smooth, chestnut-brown ponytail, clear, pale skin and wide blue eyes. You would often see the ponytail swinging as she ran briskly through the park, half an hour before pick-up time. But more often than not, you’d see it swinging as she laughed among a bustling group of parents in the playground. She’d be there before school, after school, at every school event, at the school gate collecting for the summer fete that she’d organized. She’d be at the open day, merrily guiding a group of prospective parents from classroom to classroom. She’d wink kindly at the harried mothers rushing in late, as her own demure girls, their smooth ponytails equally perfectly brushed, waited by her side. She produced perfect cakes for the cake sale, perfect costumes for the class assembly and perfect financial records after the astonishingly successful Christmas fayre. She was perfect.

  And then she vanished.

  It turned out that I was the first person at school to know she’d gone missing. Ella Barker did an interview with the Daily Mail and said she was the first ‘because Helen was always at the school gates, so I noticed immediately when she wasn’t there’. But that wasn’t true. Ella was long gone when we realized, and so were all the other Year Three mothers. Ella didn’t care if what she said wasn’t true. The Mail sent a stylist and took a picture of her in her neat front garden, and said how much her house was worth, so she was thrilled.

  Ella was gone, and the playground was all but deserted when I ran in, rattling the pushchair ahead of me, sweaty and out of breath. It’s a long story, but not a very interesting one – any parent who has a toddler and a child at school knows it well. The toddler runs around like a lunatic, then spends some hours screaming blue murder, resisting their nap. Then they finally fall asleep fifteen minutes before school pick-up time. You end up stuffing them clumsily into the pushchair and running to school with a dozy, wailing, hot and miserable child. And, of course, you’re late, and your eight-year-old is the last child left at the classroom door, next to the tight-lipped teacher who has several hours of planning ahead of her, delayed because of your poor time-keeping.

  Except, on that muggy day in late May, Frances wasn’t alone. Miranda was there too, her socks still spotlessly white and neatly pulled up and her hair tidy. Mrs Sinclair had a sharp crease between her eyebrows. She expected me to be late – it happened at least twice a week. But Helen was never late.

  ‘Did you see Helen on your way in?’ she asked as I hung Frances’ rucksack on the handles of the pushchair and handed my daughter a brioche as an after-school snack. ‘She’s very late, it’s most unlike her. Perhaps there were problems with parking.’

  ‘The road’s clear outside,’ I said. ‘And anyway, I think Helen walks. Did she leave a message with the office? Maybe Miranda was supposed to go on a play date with someone and forgot.’

  Miranda regarded me with all the contempt an eight-year-old girl can summon.

  ‘I didn’t forget,’ she said coldly. ‘And anyway, my dad was supposed to pick us up today. He’s supposed to come to my ballet class to see us perform, and now I’m going to be late.’

  Mrs Sinclair looked at her, surprised. ‘Your dad? Your dad never picks you up.’

  ‘I know,’ said Miranda. ‘But he was supposed to do it today.’

  At that moment, Marguerite’s class teacher walked up, holding Marguerite’s hand. Marguerite is six and in Year One, rounder and softer than Miranda, shy, but just as immaculately turned out. She had clearly been crying and her soft cheeks were puffy and wet. The teachers exchanged a glance and a quick word.

  ‘She wants to be with her sister,’ said the Year One teacher. ‘Can I leave her with you, and I’ll go to the office and see if they can’t get hold of Helen or her husband?’

  ‘I have Helen’s number on my mobile,’ I said quickly. Jonah, my two-year-old, had stopped wailing but was grizzling and twisting against the straps in the pushchair. I should just have taken Frances and left, but I wanted to help, if only to show Mrs Sinclair I wasn’t a total dead loss as a parent. I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialled. Helen’s phone went immediately to voicemail, so I left a message with my number. The two teachers and four children looked at me expectantly.

  ‘Voicemail,’ I said unnecessarily. ‘Maybe she’s stuck on the Tube or something. Or her battery’s flat. Or she’s lost her phone.’

  None of these were likely. Helen’s efficiency, forward planning and organization were legendary. Even I could hear how lame it sounded.

  ‘I could take the girls home with me,’ I heard myself saying.

  Frances and Miranda weren’t espe
cially good friends. Helen had had Frances over for a play date, but only because she always conscientiously invited every little girl at least once during the course of each year. I’d meant to return the favour but never had. I’d been intimidated by the prospect of having those spotless little girls in my chaotic house, and I’d have had to clean for a week if Helen were coming to collect them and stay for a cup of tea. But now it was a case of needs must. I couldn’t leave them at school.

  ‘We can’t release them to you without their guardian’s authorization. I’ll keep them in my classroom,’ said Mrs Sinclair. ‘Perhaps, Miss Jones, you could go to the office and get the family contact details? You might be able to get hold of the dad, if he’s the one who’s supposed to be picking them up.’

  Miss Jones, a plump, self-satisfied woman, nodded. ‘I’ll go and call from the office.’

  I would have left then, but as soon as Miss Jones walked away, Marguerite began to cry. My Frances went into full mummy mode and bustled over, taking Marguerite by the hand and leading her to the book corner in the Year Three classroom. Frances settled on a cushion and drew Marguerite on to her lap. She pulled a book out of the stack and began reading in a high, babyish voice, which she clearly thought was the way one spoke to six-year-olds. Miranda stood by coolly and watched as Frances cared for her sister. Jonah let out a roar of frustration. He’d tried to wriggle downwards out of his pushchair straps and had got himself stuck. I unstrapped him and straightened the straps, but when I tried to do them up again, he arched his back and let out a wail of pure fury. He shoved my hands away and climbed out, toddling over to Frances and Marguerite.

  ‘I can’t begin to think where she might be,’ said Mrs Sinclair.

  ‘Has something bad happened?’ Miranda asked flatly.

  ‘Of course not,’ Mrs Sinclair and I said in unison.

  ‘Miranda, love,’ I said as sweetly as I could, ‘are you sure your dad was supposed to pick you up today? Has there been some kind of a mix-up?’

  Miranda looked at me coolly. ‘Of course there’s no mix-up. Dad wanted to come and see my dance show.’

  ‘But wouldn’t Helen—’ I began, but Miranda cut me off.

  ‘She’s doing a course today. She said she would come along later,’ she said.

  That made sense and explained why Helen’s phone was off.

  ‘Do you know what sort of course? Or where?’ Mrs Sinclair asked, but Miranda shook her head.

  ‘It’s just one of those things,’ I said. ‘I’m sure Helen or Sam will be along any minute.’

  Miranda stared at me like I was some sort of idiot.

  ‘I’ll make some calls,’ I said. ‘Maybe she told one of the other mums where she was going.’

  I ran through all the local families in my mind and decided to call Linda. She always asks a lot of questions and generally seems to know everything about everyone. She listened to my garbled account of what had happened. ‘She didn’t say anything this morning at drop-off,’ she said, ‘but I’ll start a phone chain to see if anyone has heard from her.’

  I felt better knowing someone as practical as Linda had taken charge. I glanced over to the children. Marguerite had stopped crying and was sitting happily on Frances’ lap, sucking her two middle fingers as Frances read to her from a book of ancient Greek legends. It struck me that Marguerite was quite babyish for a child nearly in Year Two. But perhaps it wasn’t fair to judge her in that rather stressful situation. Miranda stayed where she was, close by Mrs Sinclair’s side, looking up into our faces. She’s one of those wide-eyed, quiet children who listens intently to whatever adults say. ‘Little bat ears,’ Helen would often say when Miranda was nearby and we were chatting. ‘Be careful what you say. She misses nothing.’

  Miss Jones came back into the classroom. ‘I spoke to Marguerite’s dad, she said. ‘He was supposed to pick up the girls, but then he was called away unexpectedly to Manchester on a business trip. He sent a message to his wife and asked her to collect them, but clearly she somehow never got it. He’s on his way back now, but it’s going to take him some hours to get here. Lara, he asks if you could kindly take the girls with you. He has no idea why Helen isn’t receiving his messages, but he says he’ll keep trying to get hold of her. I left a message on her mobile saying that the girls would be going home with you. Perhaps you might send them both a text message with your address, if they don’t have it?’

  I nodded and did so, although I was sure Helen had the address of every child in the class in a perfectly annotated spreadsheet somewhere.

  ‘Girls,’ I said brightly, ‘it looks like Helen’s busy somewhere, and your dad’s on his way. I’ve let him know you’re coming home to my house.’

  Marguerite managed a watery smile, and Miranda didn’t say anything. I gathered their things and piled them into the pushchair. Jonah wouldn’t get back into it without a fight anyway, so he’d have to walk, or rather be shepherded, home.

  It took us twice as long as usual. Jonah was so excited to be free of the pushchair and to have two extra girls to show off to that he ran amok. Frances and Marguerite dawdled beside me, chatting, and Miranda walked slowly and reluctantly a few paces behind. She didn’t say anything for a long time, and then, out of nowhere, she spoke. ‘It’s our ballet performance for the parents today,’ she said. ‘I was supposed to be a firefly. I’ve got a costume and everything. And now I’m going to miss it.’

  I know how seriously Miranda takes her dancing – she and Frances were in the same class initially, but Miranda progressed much more quickly and is now in an advanced group. Even as a chubby five-year-old, she used to approach the class with fierce concentration. While the other girls were busy swinging their little pink skirts and giggling together, Miranda was focused on the teacher, pointing her toes and making pretty arms. I felt angry with Sam and Helen for letting her down so badly on this important day. I gave her narrow shoulder a pat. She stiffened slightly, and I took my hand away.

  I got the kids back to my house and settled them at the table with cups of squash and a snack. I briefly considered taking Miranda to ballet myself, but her costume was at home, and as I don’t drive, there was no way we could get to the ballet school in time, not with me wrangling four children on the bus. Someone had to let them know she wasn’t coming though, and I was pretty sure Sam wouldn’t think to do it. I managed to find the ballet teacher’s number online and went into my bedroom to make the call. She was clipped and rude, as if it were my fault. When I turned round after I had hung up Miranda was standing in the door of my bedroom.

  ‘I just remembered, Helen said she’d be back in time to watch the show,’ Miranda said. ‘She said she’d meet us at the dance school at four-thirty. It’s four-thirty now. So where is she?’

  Sam

  I’d only just arrived in Manchester to take a short-notice brief from a brand-new client – a massive, multinational health-food company – when the school rang. I phoned the client as soon as I realized I would have to go back to London and told them there was an emergency with one of my children. That seemed serious enough that they might consent to reschedule. I couldn’t say, ‘My wife didn’t get the message to pick the kids up from school and I don’t know where she is.’ What would they have thought?

  I could only get a first-class seat on the train back to London, which was screamingly expensive, but at least it meant I could sit in relative quiet. I wanted to keep my phone free in case Helen rang, so I used email to cancel all my meetings. It didn’t even bear thinking about what Chris, my boss, would say.

  I know it sounds heartless when I put it like that – worrying about the cost of train tickets, worrying about what people would think. But at that point I honestly wasn’t concerned about her. I was a little annoyed, actually. It just wasn’t like her to let me down. I know she’d said she was on a course till after school pickup time, and I had promised to leave work early and collect the kids, but then Chris told me I needed to go and take that brief. The account was wor
th a fortune and we’d been trying to get in with that company for ages.

  I left a voice message, explaining what had happened. I figured Helen would have her phone on silent and would see my call and then listen to the message on her lunch break. She’d have to leave her course early to pick up the girls, but I knew she wouldn’t mind.

  I’d anticipated arriving in Manchester for the meeting, then calling Helen to say I’d be staying over. She was used to that – I often took the opportunity to spend an evening with clients. There are certain deals that only get done when the sun has gone down, the booze has flowed and the client in question feels he’s got all the perks he deserves. I always kept a bag at work with a change of shirt and underwear and a toothbrush for days like that. Helen knew how unpredictable my work could be, and she always took the unexpected meetings and changes of plan in her stride. So this complete collapse of our arrangements really threw me.

  This was Helen. Calm, capable Helen. Something had happened, that was for sure, and I didn’t give much thought to what – a broken-down car, a lost phone. Something minor. I’d swallow my annoyance, because she was always so amazing, and it was actually slightly my fault for changing the plans at the last minute. By eight o’clock that evening, we’d all be sitting around the dinner table, laughing about it. She’d have sorted out whatever the problem was and smoothed things over. She’d even have dropped off a thank-you gift for Lara, the mum who’d taken Miranda and Marguerite home. I’d do my best to grovel to the man in Manchester and set everything up for another day.

  Nevertheless, my phone stayed ominously silent for the whole journey. Shortly before the train pulled into Euston, I rang Lara. It was just after six o’clock. She’d heard nothing. Apparently Jilly, who lives in our road, had popped past our house to have a look. There had been no answer when she rang the doorbell. I knew, as I had dialled it intermittently, that Helen’s mobile phone remained switched off. I think that was the moment I began to be concerned. Helen had said she’d be at the dance school by 4.30, and it was over an hour and a half past that now. She had a thing about 6 p.m. ‘I like to have the girls home by then,’ she’d say. ‘Wherever we’ve been, six o’clock is home time – time to get homework done and baths ready.’