Last Seen: A gripping psychological thriller, full of secrets and twists. Lucy Clarke
to make those practised movements. I almost laugh at the thought of Jacob walking in now to find me smoking a joint. At least it’d be an icebreaker.
I put the weed back in its bag, and return the tin to Jacob’s drawer. I’m surprised he didn’t take it with him to the party. I commend myself for being relaxed: there are condoms and drugs in his drawer. It’s not a parenting dream, but it could be worse.
I have a final rummage to see if I’ve missed anything, and my hand meets a white envelope. I pull it out, turning it over in my hands. There is no writing anywhere on it. The envelope is not sealed, so I simply lift the flap.
Inside is a wad of cash.
I count out the money. There’s exactly five hundred pounds in a mixture of denominations, the notes dirty and used.
Over summer Jacob’s been working part-time on the harbour ferry. He does three afternoon shifts a week and makes £70 at the end of it, but I know he’s recently spent much of that on a new skateboard. I wonder why he’d need this amount of cash at the beach, when there’s nothing to spend it on.
I look again at this envelope of money, wondering what he’s doing with it – and why it’s in a blank envelope.
I put everything back into his drawer and get to my feet, standing in the centre of the hut. My heart is beating harder now as the facts hit me, one after another: Jacob has not been seen in almost twenty-four hours; his phone isn’t connecting; he doesn’t appear to have taken any belongings with him. He has condoms, weed, and an envelope filled with money.
I don’t commend myself about being relaxed any more.
The moment Nick returns, I show him what I’ve found.
It’s the money that concerns him most. ‘Is there anything he’d talked about buying? I don’t know, like a new music system? A bike, maybe? Or something he knew we wouldn’t want him to get – like a moped?’
‘No, nothing.’ I’ve already been through this in my mind, and I can’t think of anything Jacob particularly wanted. I’ve even wondered whether the money was for Caz – to buy her a piece of jewellery, perhaps. She’s a girl of expensive tastes, used to being indulged by her father.
‘Maybe my parents gave him the money?’ Nick suggests.
‘No, they gave him twenty pounds,’ I say, showing him the birthday card propped on the shelf, a cheque fastened inside. I feel impatient with Nick as he tries to catch up. I hurry him through my thoughts: ‘It doesn’t make sense that Jacob would have that amount of money here. There’s nothing to buy at the beach. Anyway, most people make big purchases by card. Plus the money was in an envelope. Doesn’t that strike you as odd? It’s as if … I don’t know … as if he was going to give it to someone.’
‘Or,’ Nick says, ‘someone gave it to him.’
I press my lips together. I’ve told Nick about the weed, but neither of us have verbalized the possibility that the money could be linked to Jacob selling drugs – although the thought hovers in the back of my mind.
It’s past nine o’clock when we finally ring the police. Nick makes the call on speakerphone at my request.
I stand with my back pressed against the kitchen side, my hands clasped as I listen to Nick answering their questions. As soon as he utters the words, ‘male, seventeen’, I can practically hear the sense of urgency slipping from the officer’s tone.
If Jacob were a girl, I can’t help but think the officer would be sitting up straighter, listening harder.
Then I have to ask myself, if Jacob had been a girl, maybe I would have called the police sooner, too. Maybe I’d have called first thing in the morning when Jacob didn’t come home – rather than waiting all day.
Why the hell have we waited? I wouldn’t forgive myself if Jacob has had an accident and Nick and I delayed until now before doing anything about it. My mind fires with images of Jacob trapped between the rocks, with his ankle bent at an unnatural angle, or crumpled at the base of the headland, tonnes of earth and sand heaped on top of him.
The officer tells Nick that they’ll send someone out tonight, so Nick has to explain for a second time that he’s phoning from a beach hut on Longstone Sandbank. ‘The earliest you can reach us is first thing in the morning when the ferry starts running at eight o’clock.’ It always seems strange to me that many local people don’t visit the sandbank – often don’t even know where it is.
When the call is over, Nick places his mobile on the kitchen counter. We look at each other – but neither of us speaks.
So now a missing person’s file will be opened. There will be a case number. Officers at the beach. It feels as if I’ve been swimming away from the shore, being pulled unknowingly by a current, and now that I’ve turned to look back, I can see how very far away I am.
DAY TWO, 7.15 A.M.
I sleep fitfully, listening for the sound of the beach hut doors opening, Jacob’s feet moving across the floor – but the footsteps never arrive. I wake unrested, my heart heavy.
Nick is already out of bed, looping a beach towel around his neck and slipping outside, disappearing into a shaft of light. He’ll swim out to the yellow buoy and back, then rinse the salt from his skin at the shower block. Usually he’d catch the first ferry to the quay at eight, and be in the office before the rest of his employees. Today, though, he won’t be going into the office. He’ll return to the hut and wait for the police to arrive.
I climb out of bed and set the kettle on the hob, in need of a hit of coffee. When I pull up the blinds, dust motes dance in the spill of sunlight. Outside, I can see the wind is up, the sea choppy. The patch of blue sky hovering above us will soon be swallowed by the thickening clouds.
I fold the sofa bed away, going through the motions of plumping the cushions and positioning them the way I like them. When Nick puts the bed away, the cushions are slung on to the sofa in any order – his silent protest that there are too many. Cushions. Did I really care about the positioning of cushions?
I hook back the beach hut doors so that the breeze can wash in and out. The sandbank is slowly yawning awake; two young girls from a few huts away are already playing by the rocks in their pyjamas, hair tangled over their shoulders. I try not to envy their parents: Your children are there. Right there!
Once I’ve made myself a coffee, I set the steaming mug beside the notebook I’ve dug out. The police will be here soon and I want to use the time I have productively. I fetch a pen and begin writing a list of all the people who could have seen Jacob on the day he disappeared.
Disappeared. Is that even the right word?
I start by listing the people who were at the family barbecue. There were only six of us: Me, Nick, Jacob, Isla, and Nick’s parents, David and Stella.
Next, I think about his friends at the party at Luke’s hut. I sip at the scalding coffee, realizing I only know the names of four or five of them, so I add a note to speak to both Luke and Caz again today. There are now eleven names on my sheet of paper, and I like looking at the neat structure of it – it gives me something practical I can work through. I want to speak to each of these people and find out if they noticed anything unusual about Jacob’s behaviour that evening, whether he gave any clue as to where he was going.
I will need to spread the net wider than the sandbank, as he could have hidden out for the night, then taken the first ferry off the sandbank in the morning. I must ask the ferryman, Ross Wayman, if he remembers seeing Jacob, I think as an aside, adding his name to the list.
It’s also possible that Jacob left the sandbank in the middle of the night without using the ferry; if you know the route through