at the field. ‘I haven’t told Fran yet. I was waiting for you to get back. I thought she might need you.’
‘I’ll tell her,’ I say, ‘I don’t mind. No offence, but it might be better coming from me than from you. She knows me. She trusts me.’ When it suits her. Kelly wavers for a second before she gives a small nod.
‘OK.’ She stubs out her cigarette and throws the butt into the black bin. ‘Let’s head back in.’
I don’t have any choice but to agree, and my heart feels as though it’s lodged in my throat as I slide the door handle down and step into the front hallway. The house is cool, chilly almost, and I realise that the heating timer has probably switched off, and Fran hasn’t noticed. I peer into the living room, expecting to see her tucked into the huge grey Conran sofa, the plush corded material etching lines into the skin of her bare feet as she sits with them tucked up beneath her, her pose of the last twelve hours, the light from the Tiffany lamp casting a yellow glow across her face. But the living room is empty, with only the faint scent of Fran’s perfume on the air. I step along the hall into the kitchen, thinking that maybe she’s making a cup of tea, but the light airy room is also empty.
‘Shall I?’ Kelly nods her head towards the sink and I shrug. I don’t want any more tea – it feels as though all we’ve done since we got home last night is drink tea.
‘Fran must be upstairs. I’ll go and get her.’ Lightly I make my way up the wide staircase to my little box room, a tiny bubble of hope blooming inside me at the thought that Laurel might be back home with us soon. Fran must have finally gone up to get some sleep, I think to myself, before muffled voices come from the room above me, the attic room that Fran and Dominic converted into their huge, spacious bedroom before Laurel was even born. Stealthily, I creep up the tiny staircase, telling myself that I’m going to knock and make sure that Fran doesn’t need anything. But my hand doesn’t tap on the door. Instead, I find myself pressing my ear to the wooden panel, holding my breath in order to be as silent as possible.
‘No. No, honestly, it’s all going to be fine,’ I hear Fran say, as her footsteps pace across the wooden floorboards. ‘I don’t know why . . . look, it will be OK. I promise. I can deal with this. I’m OK on my own.’ More pacing, her voice becoming indistinct as she steps away from the door, presumably towards the windows that face the back garden. I lift a hand and tap the door lightly before she discovers me.
‘Fran?’ I push the door open, seeing her hand slide her phone into her pocket. ‘Is everything OK? I thought I heard voices?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t say I’m OK.’ She gives me a tight smile. She still looks terrible – her skin washed out and grey, and her eyes puffy – but she has given her lashes a lick of mascara, and her lips shimmer with a faint, rosy glow, achieved from a tube of lip gloss. ‘I was just . . . I was talking to my mother.’
‘Oh?’ I don’t know what else to say. Fran very rarely mentions her mother. She told me once, rolling in after a late-night boozy wrap party, that she didn’t get along too well with her mum. That it was her mother’s fault that her father had left them, taking his generous bank balance with him.
‘She offered to fly over here. Although what she can do to help I don’t know.’ Fran shakes her head, sadly. ‘I don’t want her fussing over me. It’ll simply be easier if she stays where she is. And anyway, Dominic won’t want her here.’
I don’t know where to look, so I stare at my feet as I shift them uncomfortably on the spot. Although Fran and I have lived in the same house for three years, and Fran entrusts her daughter to my care every day, we are not friends. Although I share this house with Dominic, Fran and Laurel, this house isn’t my home and I am not really a part of the family. Fran is prickly, aloof, and quite clear where the boundaries lie between us. She is my employer, and I am her employee. This Fran, the Fran that speaks openly, that shrieks at Dominic in fear, that exposes her emotions is a stranger to me.
‘Well,’ I say, for lack of any other response, ‘shall we go downstairs? Kelly is making some tea . . .’
‘More tea.’ Fran tries to muster a smile and fails miserably, before heading for the door, her movements sluggish and slow as if she is weighed down with exhaustion. I follow after her, my socked feet slipping on the polished oak staircase. Kelly is placing three mugs of tea on the table as we enter the kitchen. Fran slides into the nearest chair and wraps her hands around a mug as if to soak up the warmth.
‘Fran,’ I say, my stomach full of butterflies. Please let Laurel be coming home. ‘I went to the field this morning . . .’
‘Yes, I know.’ For a second I catch a glimpse of the old Fran – brittle, impatient Fran – before her shoulders round and she almost seems to shrink in her chair. ‘I assumed . . . wait. Did something happen?’ Her eyes flick between me and Kelly and all of a sudden, I can’t tell her. I look at Kelly, and she takes the hint.
‘Fran, there’s something I should let you know. Something was found in the meadow behind the field.’
‘What?’ Fran’s voice has a tremor to it that almost sounds false and I feel a tiny bubble of inappropriate nervous laughter prick in my chest. ‘What did they find?’
‘I saw something,’ I step in, the chill of the house settling into my bones, and I wish I’d thought to flick the heating back on. ‘In the meadow . . . there are caravans parked up there. I saw a blonde girl sitting in the window of one. I told Dove and he’s gone there now, I mean, the men I saw were dark, all black hair and tanned skin, so why would there be a blonde girl with . . .’ I trail off, as the blood drains from Fran’s face.
‘So, she could be there? She’s in the meadow?’
‘We don’t know.’ Kelly lays a hand on Fran’s arm, who pulls away as though burnt. ‘Officers have gone to the scene and as soon as they know something, they’ll tell us.’
Fran nods, but stays silent, her fingers creeping to her mouth as she starts to nibble at the skin around her cuticles. ‘Where is Dominic?’
‘He’s there,’ I say, ‘I left him there, with the police.’
Fran lets out a long sigh. ‘I’m sure he’ll find somewhere more important to be on his way home.’
I look away, not knowing what to say, as Kelly also turns and reaches for the mugs, even though no one has touched the tea. Fran slides a hand towards her pocket, before catching herself and raising her fingers to her mouth again. I wonder if she is thinking about calling her mother back, about telling her she’s changed her mind and she does want her to come.
The next half hour drags as we wait for news, Fran’s eyes closing as she sits at the kitchen table, a puddle of sunlight highlighting the reds in her dark hair, the skin round her nails now ragged and sore. The crash of the front door opening jolts all of us back to life, and Fran and I both jump to our feet as DS Wright and Dominic enter the kitchen.
‘Where is she? Where is she, Dom?’ Fran looks frantically past him, trying to edge away and head towards the front door, but he grips her tightly by the upper arms.
‘Fran,’ he says, his voice breaking, ‘stop for a moment. It wasn’t her. It wasn’t Laurel.’ She sags against him, and he pulls her into a tight embrace before he raises his eyes to mine. ‘Someone made a mistake. It wasn’t our girl.’
There is a crushing sense of disappointment at Dominic’s words, heightened when Fran shoves Dominic from her and rushes from the room.
‘I’ll go after her,’ Kelly says, a grim look on her face, as Dominic sinks into the nearest kitchen chair.
‘I’m so sorry.’ I feel the mistake as if it were an actual physical pain, a shaft of hurt piercing my skin. And not just mine – it seems I got everyone else’s hopes up for no reason. ‘I really thought . . . the hair,