Have You Seen Her: The new psychological thriller from bestseller Lisa Hall. Lisa Hall
not, Dom? Don’t you want to find Laurel?’
‘Of course I do,’ Dominic snaps, ‘but you know what happens with a press conference?’ He turns to Kelly, who sits there calmly, waiting. ‘You know, don’t you? They’ll all be scrutinising us! They’ll be saying that we had something to do with it!’
‘Don’t be so ridiculous. No one would think that. We have to do it, Dom, if it means that we can get Laurel back.’ Fran taps her fingers on the table top, long nails scratching at the wooden surface, a noise that sets my teeth on edge.
‘Look at all the other times it’s happened!’ Dominic shouts. ‘All the other criminals who stood there on television, telling the world to please, just give their little princess back, and then all the time it was them!’ His voice breaks, and he slumps back down into the chair. ‘I don’t want that, Fran. I don’t want people thinking we’re guilty of something we’re not.’
‘Dominic,’ Kelly lays her hand gently on his, ‘I promise you, people don’t think like that. This is the best chance we have of keeping the press on side, and we’ll only reveal the things that we need to right now.’
The doorbell gives its piercing ring, making all of us jump. I pull away from where I lean against the kitchen counter. ‘I’ll get it.’ There is a dark silhouette in the glass as I approach the door, and when I pull it open I am stunned to hear a cacophony of voices, flashbulbs going off in my face, and more than one iPhone shoved under my nose as questions are shouted at me, relentlessly one after the other.
‘When was the last time you saw Laurel?’
‘Who are you to the family?’
‘Can we speak with Fran and Dominic?’
The press has arrived.
Pushing open the door to the school hall I slide my way in, grabbing the first available seat at a table tucked into the corner. It’s busy, the air buzzing with conversation as volunteers bustle about, some of them wearing T-shirts with Laurel’s face on, and obviously, the talk is all of the same topic. Laurel.
It was a complicated mission to get here this morning, one which involved creeping along the path that runs through the back garden and sliding through the battered wooden gate at the end, cap pulled down low over my forehead so that the press didn’t see me. My heart skips as I think about the potential fallout if a picture of me appears on the front page of a national newspaper. Thankfully none of the hurried snaps they took on Sunday evening as I opened the door made it to the pages of the newspapers. It’ll be OK. I’ve changed my hair, lost weight. I’m barely recognisable as the old me anymore. That’s what I tell myself anyway, but you can never be too careful.
Hence that’s why I am sitting on my own in the school hall, the hub of the volunteer search centre, instead of accompanying Dominic and Fran to the television appeal. Fran protested at first when I said I didn’t think I should be there. My mouth went dry with panic that she would demand an explanation as to why I didn’t want to go, but I was forgetting that the old Fran isn’t here anymore, that we’re dealing with this new, raw, broken Fran. She gave in almost immediately, too tired or too fragile to argue when Dominic agreed that I should stay home.
So, I watched them both leave this morning from the window, peering out from the between the blinds as Dominic chivalrously helped Fran into a waiting unmarked car, as DS Wright got into the driver’s seat, as they drove away towards the main road – the few greedy, grasping press who haven’t already left for the appeal chasing after them – before hiding myself away in here.
I keep my head down as I wait for the appeal to start, but it doesn’t stop someone hovering in the periphery of my vision, and I look up to see the woman from before. Ruth, I think she said her name was. She stands to one side of me, close enough that I can smell soap on her skin, a harsh carbolic scent.
‘Hello,’ she says in a hushed voice, ‘are you here to watch the appeal?’ She doesn’t wait for me to respond before she carries on talking. ‘Fran looks ever so frail, doesn’t she? I saw her getting in the car this morning. I hope she’s eating enough, I did send her a few text messages, but she hasn’t replied yet. But I’m cooking lasagne when I get home and I’ll bring it over. She needs to keep her strength up, you know. It’s a terrible feeling, losing someone like this. Losing a child.’ Her words tumble out one after the other, as if she is worried I’ll stop her from speaking before she’s said all she wants to say. Fran must know her from somewhere.
Someone makes a shushing noise, as Fran’s face fills the huge projector screen that has been wheeled into the hall, a nameless parent hooking up their laptop so we can all watch the appeal. Her eyes are bloodshot and her cheeks are pale, apart from two spots of colour that flare high on each. The woman is right, she does look frail. I turn to agree, but she has moved off, across to the other side of the hall. The man sat behind the laptop fiddles with the keys, turning up the volume, and the newscaster’s voice fills the hall.
‘. . . not seen since Saturday evening, at the annual fireworks event hosted by the Oxbury Primary School. Police are searching . . .’
Don’t they say the first twenty-four hours are the most important in a police investigation? That in the case of child abduction if the child isn’t found within three hours there’s a higher risk of harm? It’s Wednesday now, and over seventy-two hours since anyone last saw Laurel. I close my eyes and wish I’d waited at home to watch the appeal, instead of out here, but the thought of sitting alone in that chilly, too-bright house, with none of the warmth that usually fills it, had made me want to cry and I had to get out. There is an essence, a vibe, that is missing now Laurel isn’t there, something that only Laurel brings. Now, sweat prickles at the back of my neck, as the air in the hall feels thick and stifling, and I feel scrutinised by the people around me, even though I know it’s probably all in my head. But I’ve been here before, haven’t I? Watched by every member of the public, opinions forming before they even know the truth, making their decisions based on the lies printed by the media, guilt forming a hard ball in my stomach. I straighten up in my chair, as if trying to convince myself that this time it’s different.
‘Still managed to put her make-up on,’ a woman sitting behind me sniffs to her companion under her breath.
I bite my tongue hard, in order not to say anything – I should have known that some will only be here to find out what’s going on; after all, that’s only human nature, isn’t it? And, of course, people will be judging Fran and Dominic (and you, a spiteful voice whispers in the back of my mind) – look at how we all jumped on Kate and Gerry McCann – and the fact that Fran has managed to smear a slick of palest pink lipstick over her mouth and a smudge of concealer under each eye will only make people judge her even harder. If you knew her, I think viciously, internally, if you knew her then you’d see the black circles under her eyes that push through the thin layer of concealer, you’d see the new tiny lines at the corners of her eyes and alongside her mouth. The force with which I think these thoughts is a surprise to me, I never would have believed that I could have felt protective over Fran – sharp, spiky, demanding Fran.
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