sister. I would do it discreetly, away from her parents. Karen smiled out of the picture at me, reminding me of the way she had looked across at Ahmed. I couldn't help wishing that one day she would find a way to be close to her family once again.
In every picture, Trudy Bilbardie was with someone else. I had looked for a good picture of her by torchlight the previous night and settled for the one with her standing between friends because it was a clear image of her. It wouldn't have mattered, though. Trudy was always the centre of attention, hugging those about her close, a big smile for the camera. She looked bright, sparkly and full of life.
For the first time I wondered whether there were other photos of these women. How much had the choice of pictures been governed by the people searching for them? Were there pictures in a drawer somewhere of Trudy on her own looking nervous? Were there photos of Helen in glamorous dresses and Debbie in jeans and no make-up? If there were, the people searching for them had not chosen to show them.
That left me with Gillian, her hair framing her face like a halo as she leant forward. It must have been a recent picture, or perhaps she was older than the others, since there were drinks on the table behind her and the photo had been taken with flash so that the shot faded out into a vignette of darkness – a nightclub, perhaps?
What had she been leaning forward to do? Was someone offering her something, or repeating something not quite heard? Of all the pictures, this one was the least posed. It captured an unconscious moment. There were a couple of other photos, but they looked like mobile phone pictures or shots taken of someone else that Gillian had happened to be with. I could imagine her holding up a hand when the camera was raised, or stepping aside, but for this one shot she'd just been Gillian.
Replacing the photo, I stepped back. Greg had been right. It wasn't just about finding the girls. It was about knowing what became of them, where they went and why they'd made whatever choice they'd made. And for two of them it was about closure. I would never know if Gillian and Trudy were like their photographs. It was too late for that question. I knew that now.
Greg said that you had to find out what people needed before you tried to help them. I knew what it was like to lose a daughter. I knew the emptiness and the nagging thought that there was something more I could have done. The parents of these girls needed to know, good news or bad. This wasn't news I could carry, though. I needed Greg.
When he arrived I was sitting in a pew at the back of the church, listening to the rain and the wind and thinking about the girls, about what to say, and how to say it.
'Was the door open when you got here?' he asked me.
'No.'
'You borrowed a key?'
'Not that either. I let myself in. I hope you don't mind. I'm not here to steal the silver or make off with the collection.'
He closed the heavy door behind him, shutting out the weather, and walked into the centre of the church and genuflected towards the altar. He was silent for a moment.
'You saw Karen?'
'Yes.'
'How is she?' He came and sat beside me in the pew, looking down the church towards the big east window.
'She's well. Ahmed is very protective of her. He looks after her.'
'A good man.'
'A protective man. He took exception to me asking around for her.'
'There was a fight?'
I shook my head. 'It didn't come to that. Karen intervened. We had mint tea together.'
'Quite refreshing, isn't it? Not with sugar, though. That spoils it.'
'She asked about her family. She misses them.'
'It's difficult. Tony, Karen's father, isn't a racist. He just can't deal with the fact that his daughter loves a man whose culture, upbringing, religion and way of life are so very different from his own. He doesn't know how to speak to Ahmed; doesn't know what to say. It comes out as aggression. He doesn't mean it.'
'Karen thinks he does.'
'And that's why they live apart. It's better. At least for now.'
'But why the photos? They know where she is. They could ring her up if they wanted to. Why make a show of it?'
'When Karen first vanished, they thought Ahmed had kidnapped her. They made a huge fuss. The police were involved, everything. Then they found out where she was and what she was doing. They'd already joined the group, posted photos, made a public statement. I think they thought she'd realise what a mistake she'd made and come back. They could say she'd run away and then decided to come home.'
I shook my head. 'She's not coming home.'
'I know. So do they. The fiction remains, though.'
'I spoke to Debbie, too.'
'Debbie? You found her?'
'Not exactly. I spoke to her. I don't know where she is, but she's alive and well, mostly.'
'How did you find her?'
'She found me. I don't think she's coming home either.'
'Can you get in touch with her?'
'Maybe, I'm not sure. It's not easy to talk to her.'
Greg steepled his hands in front of him. He thought for a long moment before speaking. 'Debbie's mum isn't part of the church community. Comes to the meetings on a Friday. Makes tea when its her turn. Talks about her daughter, mostly. Never met the dad. Not even sure there is one. A series of boyfriends, maybe. What we used to call uncles.'
'Stepfather?'
'Not that involved, or that reliable. They come and go. I don't know, but it's possible that one of them took a shine to Debbie.'
'You think that's why she left?'
'Maybe. You'd have to ask her that question. Her mother doesn't know, I can tell you that. She'd kill them if they touched Debbie.'
'She might not know, though.'
'D'you think you could get her to phone home? It doesn't have to be from her own number. A call box would do it.'
'I don't know whether I'll speak to her again.'
'If you do. She'll know the number, I'm sure. Just a call. It would mean a lot.'
'I found the others too, Greg. Some of them.'
He looked directly at me for the first time. 'What do you mean, some of them?'
I stared resolutely at the east window, avoiding his gaze. I was reminded of a technique I'd learned professionally, on a course on presentations. It's called a shit sandwich. If you have bad news then you wrap it between two pieces of good news. It helps to make it more palatable. There was no way of making this any easier.
'Gillian and Trudy… they're not coming back.'
I sat under his unwavering stare. It was a little while before he looked away.
He cleared his throat. 'You only started looking yesterday. You could give it a little more time.'
'When people say things to you, Greg, you can hear whether they're lying, can't you?'
He became still beside me.
'And when they tell the truth, you can hear that too.'
He might as well have been carved from the same stone as the church.
'So you'll be able to hear in my voice whether I'm telling the truth. Trudy and Gillian can't be found. I think they're dead.'
'How do you know?' His voice was close to a whisper.
'I told you yesterday. I have different ways of finding people. If they're alive, I can find them.'
