second time. As she drives along I write a note to myself: Elizabeth not at church . The woman sees me writing it and reaches over to pat my hand.
“I shouldn’t worry if I were you, dear,” she says as she helps me out of the car. “God looks after his flock. You must look after yourself.”
She offers to collect me for church next Sunday, but I tell her I’m not really up to it. She nods in understanding and there is a touch of relief in her smile.
CHAPTER 6
T he police station is still in its original building. The stone front, with “1887” carved above the door, and the big glass hallway lantern, are somehow reassuring, but the floor inside looks as though it’s wet and I’m not sure about stepping on it. I stand for a moment at the threshold, wondering how “drunk and disorderlies” manage on the slippery surface, and I put a hand against the wall when I go in, keeping to it as I walk round.
After a few steps I find I am leaning on a noticeboard. I stop and read out the words of a poster pinned in the middle: “Cash-machine criminals operate twenty-four hours a day.” I wonder what a cash-machine criminal is and how they manage to stay awake for so long. The thought makes me feel tired. There’s a wooden thing for sitting, a long wooden seat, next to me, but I can’t sit down, I must keep on. I must do the thing I came to do. For a moment I can’t think what it is. My mind is blank. My arm starts to shake and my heart beats in my stomach. I take a deep breath and put a hand into the pocket of my cardigan, looking for a note. I must have written it down, whatever it was. There must be a reminder somewhere.
I pull out lots of coloured squares of paper, the edges curling against the skin between my thumb and forefinger. I don’t like having to take my other hand away from the wall to shuffle through them. I don’t feel I can trust my balance. I find a pink square with today’s date—if it is today’s date; I’m not sure. And a yellow square with my daughter’s telephone number on it, in case of emergencies. There’s a recipe for vegetable soup, though most of it seems to be missing, and the ingredients list stops at “onions.” But I can’t see anything to tell me why I’m here.
“Hello, Mrs. Horsham,” a voice says.
I look up. There’s a desk on the other side of the room with a sign saying POLICE RECEPTION . I read it aloud. A man is behind the desk, but I can only just see him through the shine on the glass divide. I push the notes back into my pocket and walk past a bench, worn and wooden. Is that where they put the newly arrested people, I wonder? Is this place full of drunks and prostitutes and street thieves at night? Doesn’t seem possible. Now, in the middle of the day, it’s all quiet, and I can hear the echo of my footsteps as I walk towards the desk.
When I get closer I can make out the dark epaulettes, like tiny wings, on the man’s white shirt. He smiles up from his computer screen and I find myself smiling back, the way I used to with Frank, the muscles around my lips automatically obeying his. I can’t think how he knows my name.
“Same as usual?” he says, his voice sounding metallic through the speakers.
“Usual?” I say.
“Elizabeth, is it?” He nods, as if encouraging me to say a line in a play.
“Elizabeth, yes,” I say, amazed. Of course, that’s what I’ve come for. I’ve come for her. “Do you know about Elizabeth?” I ask, feeling a rush of relief. Perhaps someone is investigating after all. Someone is looking for her. Someone knows about her disappearance. A weight lifts from my shoulders. How long have I been struggling to make anyone listen?
“Oh, yes, I know all about Elizabeth,” he says.
Tears of relief come into my eyes and I smile through them.
“Missing, right?”
I nod.
“Probably that no-good son of hers, don’t you think?”
I move my shoulders in helpless agreement.
“And no one else seems to think she’s
“I shouldn’t worry if I were you, dear,” she says as she helps me out of the car. “God looks after his flock. You must look after yourself.”
She offers to collect me for church next Sunday, but I tell her I’m not really up to it. She nods in understanding and there is a touch of relief in her smile.
CHAPTER 6
T he police station is still in its original building. The stone front, with “1887” carved above the door, and the big glass hallway lantern, are somehow reassuring, but the floor inside looks as though it’s wet and I’m not sure about stepping on it. I stand for a moment at the threshold, wondering how “drunk and disorderlies” manage on the slippery surface, and I put a hand against the wall when I go in, keeping to it as I walk round.
After a few steps I find I am leaning on a noticeboard. I stop and read out the words of a poster pinned in the middle: “Cash-machine criminals operate twenty-four hours a day.” I wonder what a cash-machine criminal is and how they manage to stay awake for so long. The thought makes me feel tired. There’s a wooden thing for sitting, a long wooden seat, next to me, but I can’t sit down, I must keep on. I must do the thing I came to do. For a moment I can’t think what it is. My mind is blank. My arm starts to shake and my heart beats in my stomach. I take a deep breath and put a hand into the pocket of my cardigan, looking for a note. I must have written it down, whatever it was. There must be a reminder somewhere.
I pull out lots of coloured squares of paper, the edges curling against the skin between my thumb and forefinger. I don’t like having to take my other hand away from the wall to shuffle through them. I don’t feel I can trust my balance. I find a pink square with today’s date—if it is today’s date; I’m not sure. And a yellow square with my daughter’s telephone number on it, in case of emergencies. There’s a recipe for vegetable soup, though most of it seems to be missing, and the ingredients list stops at “onions.” But I can’t see anything to tell me why I’m here.
“Hello, Mrs. Horsham,” a voice says.
I look up. There’s a desk on the other side of the room with a sign saying POLICE RECEPTION . I read it aloud. A man is behind the desk, but I can only just see him through the shine on the glass divide. I push the notes back into my pocket and walk past a bench, worn and wooden. Is that where they put the newly arrested people, I wonder? Is this place full of drunks and prostitutes and street thieves at night? Doesn’t seem possible. Now, in the middle of the day, it’s all quiet, and I can hear the echo of my footsteps as I walk towards the desk.
When I get closer I can make out the dark epaulettes, like tiny wings, on the man’s white shirt. He smiles up from his computer screen and I find myself smiling back, the way I used to with Frank, the muscles around my lips automatically obeying his. I can’t think how he knows my name.
“Same as usual?” he says, his voice sounding metallic through the speakers.
“Usual?” I say.
“Elizabeth, is it?” He nods, as if encouraging me to say a line in a play.
“Elizabeth, yes,” I say, amazed. Of course, that’s what I’ve come for. I’ve come for her. “Do you know about Elizabeth?” I ask, feeling a rush of relief. Perhaps someone is investigating after all. Someone is looking for her. Someone knows about her disappearance. A weight lifts from my shoulders. How long have I been struggling to make anyone listen?
“Oh, yes, I know all about Elizabeth,” he says.
Tears of relief come into my eyes and I smile through them.
“Missing, right?”
I nod.
“Probably that no-good son of hers, don’t you think?”
I move my shoulders in helpless agreement.
“And no one else seems to think she’s
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