99 Red Balloons. Elisabeth Carpenter
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that Matt usually sits in. Instead, Matt’s standing up with his hands going crazy – in his pockets, out of his pockets, through his hair. He looks out of the window, but the house lamps inside are too bright against the darkening sky outside. All I can see is the room reflected back at us.
The sound of the police helicopter gets louder as it flies over the house. Police officers traipse in and out, up and down the stairs. They open and shut cupboard doors, look under the stairs, in the bath, behind the shower curtain. Others are opening the upstairs hatch, pulling down the ladder. Their heavy footsteps are loud on the loft floorboards, even from down here.
Emma stops rocking.
‘Chat online? Of course she doesn’t. She’s only eight. She wouldn’t know how to do things like that.’
‘Does she have a laptop? A computer in her bedroom?’
‘No,’ she says. ‘She uses the family laptop for homework.’
Everyone turns to the machine on the desk in the corner of the room as though it might tell us where she is. The two detectives look at each other. I know what they’re thinking: surely this kid will have gone onto chat sites, Facebook, Twitter. But Grace would rather talk to her friends face to face; she’s too young for social media. The police don’t know she’s not the kind to want a mobile phone. I wish now that she were.
Matt walks over to the desk and turns his back on it.
‘I don’t know why you’re asking questions like this. She’s out there.’ His eyes are wide as he points to the window. He’s trembling; there are beads of sweat around his hairline. ‘It’s getting late, for fuck’s sake, and we’re just going over the same fucking things.’
I wince, and hope Jamie doesn’t hear from the kitchen – that he’s too distracted with his homework, but I doubt it – he’s probably listening to every word. He’ll be worried. Jamie and Grace are so close; he treats her like a little sister – they spend hours playing Minecraft together.
Emma’s cry pierces the room. Her shoulders are shaking as she buries her face in her hands. I grab her closer to me and put my arms around her. Her hair is in my face and it blots my tears. Grace is their only child. I can’t believe she’s not here. She should be at home, having her tea with us, talking about school, doing her homework.
DI Hines shifts in his chair and glances at DS Berry.
‘We have everyone we can spare looking for Grace.’ He writes something in his notepad. ‘Can we just go over it one more time?’
Matt runs his hands through his hair. He’s done it so many times his hair’s stringy with sweat. He looks up to the ceiling. If you didn’t know him, you’d think him religious, looking for guidance, but he’s not.
‘She walks home from school,’ says Emma, her voice barely audible. ‘Sometimes with Hannah, sometimes with Amelia – there are three of them usually, but I’ve spoken to their mums. Amelia’s said Grace and another friend decided to stop at the shop for sweets. She’s usually home by quarter to four at the very latest.’
‘So Amelia didn’t wait for Grace?’ says Hines, narrowing his eyes. ‘She just walked away? Does Grace often walk to the shop on her own?’
‘Grace is eight; she’s not a baby. The school’s only down the road. We’ve been through this three times,’ says Matt. ‘We’re repeating ourselves.’
The detective scratches his forehead with his pen. Perhaps he’s thinking that a few minutes ago Grace was too young for a computer, and now she’s old enough to walk home by herself. It feels as though Emma and Matt will be judged on the decisions they made for her.
‘Sometimes it’s the tiny details that are the most important.’
‘Why did we start letting her walk home from school?’ Emma says to Matt. She turns to the detective, wiping her face with the sleeve of her cardigan. ‘They only started coming back by themselves last week – she’d been begging me for ages to let her – they’ve only been in Year 4 for three weeks. We … the other mums and I … told them they had to stick together no matter what. Every day last week I waited across the street from the school gates, followed them until they got to the newsagent’s. Then I’d run home so I could be there when she got back. I should’ve done that today – I thought they’d be fine, like they were last week.’
A thought runs through my mind that plants a heavy feeling in my stomach: what if someone else was watching Grace walk home today?
She went into the newsagent’s and never came out. How is that even possible? The image of Mr Anderson’s face comes into my head. He might have owned the shop for a few years, but how well does anyone know him?
‘Have you questioned Mr Anderson?’ Everyone looks at me and my face burns. ‘The newsagent, I mean.’
Hines gives a brief nod. Did he just roll his eyes?
‘Yes, yes.’
He doesn’t elaborate – they don’t give much away. He makes me feel stupid – guilty even – just by looking at me.
‘Is there anyone you can think of who might have taken her?’ he says. ‘A relative? Someone with a grudge?’
‘No, of course not,’ says Matt. ‘This is real life, not some bloody soap opera. We’re normal people. We don’t go around making enemies.’
My ears tingle as he says it. No.
There is someone, I want to say. But it shouldn’t be me saying that. Has Emma forgotten?
‘Did she argue with you before she left this morning? About something mundane, trivial even?’
‘Grace isn’t like that,’ says Matt. ‘We don’t argue in the morning.’
‘What time did you leave for work today?’
‘Just before eight.’
‘Mrs Harper – Emma.’
She looks up.
‘Did you and Grace argue before she left for school this morning?’
She frowns and shakes her head. She looks to the mantelpiece at the many photos of Grace. One of them is the obligatory school picture. By the time Jamie has left school I’ll have twelve – one for every year. I can’t breathe when I think that photo of Grace might be her last.
Hines writes in his notepad again and looks to me.
‘So just to get everyone’s name right. You’re Stephanie Palmer – Grace’s aunt?’
‘Yes,’ I say, too loud probably.
No one reacts. And why should they?
But it feels like a lie when I say it to a stranger.
My stomach is churning. I stand, swaying slightly, and squeeze past DS Berry in the doorway before rushing up the stairs. I get to the bathroom just in time to empty the contents of my stomach into the toilet.
I don’t feel old enough for a shopping trolley, but I am. The handles on carrier bags these days cut my hands; they’re much too thin, too cheap. Monday means it’s meat and potato pie for tea, which means calling into the butcher’s, then the vegetable shop.
Everything aches, especially my knees. I’d spend all afternoon in the bath if I could, but I’m not sure I could get myself out of it. Besides, it’s my routine that keeps me from staring at the walls, the television, the photographs.
It’s raining