Frankie’s name in a perpetual anguished loop.
The terror of someone harming the perfect flesh of her only child was unendurable. What would she do, if that was the case? What if the next tiny body found dumped like rubbish, like Isabel Hartley’s had been, was Frankie’s?
She missed Frankie so much that she thought her head would explode. And now the terrible news about Isabel made everything twenty – no, a hundred times – worse.
The woman with the frizzy greyish hair had told them. Sandra? Sarah? Helen just thought of her as the FLO, the Family Liaison Officer, a faceless but well-meaning police woman who apparently now had to hang around them, getting in the way and making sur e – what? Making sure they weren’t keeping Frankie captive in the garden shed? Making sure they weren’t sneaking out under cover of darkness to bury her stiff body?
‘Just to make sure you’re OK,’ the woman had said when she first moved into the Jamesons’ place with them. As if they could be OK, with Frankie missing, and their own house a taped-off crime scene.
So now Sean and Helen spent their nights clinging miserably to opposite sides of the Jamesons’ strange, slippery spare bed. Sally and Pete Jameson had diplomatically gone to stay with other friends. Alice was in the second spare room, and the FLO squeezed into a single bed between a home office shelf and desk unit and an old exercise bike, in the room that, on the other side of the party wall, was Frankie’s bedroom. It was strange, thought Helen, being in a house the mirror image of their own, but without any of its comfort and familiar possessions.
And worst of all, without Frankie.
She’d had so many calls and messages from friends, which she should have found comforting, but she didn’t want to hear from anyone except the police, telling her they’d found Frankie. Earlier that morning she’d taken a call from Liz Wilkins, a former colleague who Helen always got on well with, and who she was sure Sean had a bit of a thing for. Liz wanted to double-check her address because everyone at work had clubbed together to buy a bunch of flowers. Helen thought that was weird, because Liz knew their address very well – she’d been round for a dinner party at which she and Sean had flirted so outrageously that Helen had made him sleep on the sofa that night. As Liz told her how everyone was thinking about her ‘and poor Sean’, Helen had felt her anger heating up and had hung up on her.
Helen increased her pace, pushing against the wall of pain, staring at her increasing heart rate on the screen. Earlier, after hearing the news about Izzy, she had locked herself in the bathroom and sobbed for what felt like hours. When she came out the FLO was hovering.
‘Let me make you a cup of tea,’ she’d said briskly. ‘It’s been another shock, I know.’
‘I want to watch our press conference,’ Helen said. ‘It must be on the BBC news website or something.’ She hadn’t been able to face watching it earlier, when it went out live, hearing her own words read out in a flat respectful monotone by DI Lennon.
‘I’m not sure that’s a great idea,’ said the FLO. ‘It will only upset you more.’
Helen stared at her. ‘I couldn’t be any more upset than I am right now,’ she said, knowing even as she spoke the words that they weren’t true. If DI Lennon came round to tell them that it was Frankie who’d been found on the travellers’ site instead of Izzy Hartley, then yes – she would be a lot more upset.
‘I’ll watch it later,’ she conceded abruptly.
They went back down to the kitchen where Sean and Alice sat at the table, Sean staring blindly at the sports pages of The Guardian , a can of beer beside him, even though it was only lunchtime . Alice’s fingers pecked listlessly at her mobile. She looked wan and unhappy, but somehow that realization only made Helen feel even angrier with her.
‘Alice,’ she began, ignoring the alarmed warning
The terror of someone harming the perfect flesh of her only child was unendurable. What would she do, if that was the case? What if the next tiny body found dumped like rubbish, like Isabel Hartley’s had been, was Frankie’s?
She missed Frankie so much that she thought her head would explode. And now the terrible news about Isabel made everything twenty – no, a hundred times – worse.
The woman with the frizzy greyish hair had told them. Sandra? Sarah? Helen just thought of her as the FLO, the Family Liaison Officer, a faceless but well-meaning police woman who apparently now had to hang around them, getting in the way and making sur e – what? Making sure they weren’t keeping Frankie captive in the garden shed? Making sure they weren’t sneaking out under cover of darkness to bury her stiff body?
‘Just to make sure you’re OK,’ the woman had said when she first moved into the Jamesons’ place with them. As if they could be OK, with Frankie missing, and their own house a taped-off crime scene.
So now Sean and Helen spent their nights clinging miserably to opposite sides of the Jamesons’ strange, slippery spare bed. Sally and Pete Jameson had diplomatically gone to stay with other friends. Alice was in the second spare room, and the FLO squeezed into a single bed between a home office shelf and desk unit and an old exercise bike, in the room that, on the other side of the party wall, was Frankie’s bedroom. It was strange, thought Helen, being in a house the mirror image of their own, but without any of its comfort and familiar possessions.
And worst of all, without Frankie.
She’d had so many calls and messages from friends, which she should have found comforting, but she didn’t want to hear from anyone except the police, telling her they’d found Frankie. Earlier that morning she’d taken a call from Liz Wilkins, a former colleague who Helen always got on well with, and who she was sure Sean had a bit of a thing for. Liz wanted to double-check her address because everyone at work had clubbed together to buy a bunch of flowers. Helen thought that was weird, because Liz knew their address very well – she’d been round for a dinner party at which she and Sean had flirted so outrageously that Helen had made him sleep on the sofa that night. As Liz told her how everyone was thinking about her ‘and poor Sean’, Helen had felt her anger heating up and had hung up on her.
Helen increased her pace, pushing against the wall of pain, staring at her increasing heart rate on the screen. Earlier, after hearing the news about Izzy, she had locked herself in the bathroom and sobbed for what felt like hours. When she came out the FLO was hovering.
‘Let me make you a cup of tea,’ she’d said briskly. ‘It’s been another shock, I know.’
‘I want to watch our press conference,’ Helen said. ‘It must be on the BBC news website or something.’ She hadn’t been able to face watching it earlier, when it went out live, hearing her own words read out in a flat respectful monotone by DI Lennon.
‘I’m not sure that’s a great idea,’ said the FLO. ‘It will only upset you more.’
Helen stared at her. ‘I couldn’t be any more upset than I am right now,’ she said, knowing even as she spoke the words that they weren’t true. If DI Lennon came round to tell them that it was Frankie who’d been found on the travellers’ site instead of Izzy Hartley, then yes – she would be a lot more upset.
‘I’ll watch it later,’ she conceded abruptly.
They went back down to the kitchen where Sean and Alice sat at the table, Sean staring blindly at the sports pages of The Guardian , a can of beer beside him, even though it was only lunchtime . Alice’s fingers pecked listlessly at her mobile. She looked wan and unhappy, but somehow that realization only made Helen feel even angrier with her.
‘Alice,’ she began, ignoring the alarmed warning
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