His eyes widened. ‘You said a swear and the c-word.’
‘And it was very naughty of me. But sometimes, in extreme circumstances, grown-ups are allowed to say the odd swear.’
‘Daddy’s been naughty, too.’
My ears pricked up. ‘Why, what’s he done?’
‘He’s been swearing at that nice police lady, the one that likes making tea.’
‘Sam? When was Daddy swearing at her?’
‘Just now. He said,’ Nate screwed up his eyes as he tried to remember. ‘He said there was no way he was doing an effing press conference. What’s a press conference?’
‘It’s where the police ask the newspapers and television to help us find Immy.’
He frowned. ‘Then why doesn’t Daddy want to do one?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said, standing and straightening my T-shirt. ‘But I’m going to find out.’
I was halfway down the stairs when I heard Stuart’s raised voice. I stopped to listen, feeling as though I was seven again, eavesdropping on my parents’ arguments.
‘… I am not taking part in a media fucking circus. The press are leeches. They’ll suck our family dry.’
Sam’s voice, calm, measured. ‘I understand your concerns, but DI Jones is keen to raise awareness of Immy’s disappearance. At least a press conference remains within our control and we get to decide what information we do and don’t release.’
I marched into the kitchen. ‘What’s going on?’
‘We’d like to hold a press conference tomorrow morning,’ Sam said. ‘The DI thinks it could be beneficial. That’s if Immy’s not found in the meantime, of course.’
I turned to Stuart. ‘But you clearly don’t want to. Surely the more people looking for Immy the better?’
‘What if it backfires? What if the papers turn on us? I can see the headlines now: “Toddler disappears while parents hold boozy barbecue.” They’ll crucify us.’
‘Is that all you’re worried about?’
‘What if they find out Immy’s not ours?’
‘We wouldn’t divulge information like that,’ Sam said.
‘That’s my point. You wouldn’t need to tell them. They’ll dig up the dirt themselves.’
‘But our families and friends already know Immy’s not ours. Who gives a toss what the rest of the world thinks?’
‘Can’t you see?’ Stuart thumped a fist on the countertop. ‘They don’t give a fuck about Immy, they’ll want a scoop. You know what they’re like, poking their noses into other people’s business so they can get their hands on an exclusive.’
I adopted a guileless expression. ‘Anyone would think you had a secret to hide.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he blustered. ‘Of course I don’t.’
Sam and I both watched, expressionless, as a dark flush crept up his neck.
And in that moment, I had my proof, if I’d needed it, that my husband was lying to me. I only hoped it was about his affair, and not our daughter.
Chapter Fourteen
TUESDAY 15 JUNE
A buzz of voices drifted in from the corridor outside the police conference room. DI Jones took a sip of water and straightened his tie. Stuart sat up in his chair and I picked up the sheet of paper in front of me and scanned it quickly. On my right, Sam Bennett muttered something under her breath. It sounded like, ‘Showtime.’
I kept my expression neutral as reporters, photographers and cameramen shuffled in. There were eleven of them altogether. I had no idea if this was a good turnout or not. They set up tripods and adjusted cameras and opened notebooks and all the time their eyes never left us. My skin crawled under the heat of their gaze.
I’d taken time choosing my outfit. Navy tailored trousers, small heels and a crisp white shirt. A silver locket necklace and a single silver bangle. No earrings. Women with missing children didn’t have time to fiddle with earrings. Stuart wore chinos and a blue short-sleeved chambray shirt. I’d made sure he’d shaved and washed his hair. He was twisting his wedding band round and round his ring finger. I nudged his elbow, shook my head, and he stopped.
He was here under duress. I’d heaped on the pressure after Sam left our house the previous afternoon, practically bullying him into agreeing to take part.
‘I’m doing it, even if you won’t. So, it’s going to look pretty bloody strange if you’re not there,’ I told him. And before long he’d agreed, as I knew he would, because he was spineless.
It was a relief when DI Jones started speaking, and the reporters’ attention turned to him. He began by thanking everyone for coming. ‘As you are aware, we’re appealing for the public’s help in finding three-year-old Imogen Cooper, known as Immy, who went missing from her home in King Street, Fordwich, on Sunday afternoon…’
I stared at my hands as DI Jones described Immy and the clothes she’d been wearing. He detailed the efforts of the search teams, who had scoured the river between Fordwich and Plucks Gutter some eight miles downstream. He talked about the helicopter and the volunteers from Kent Search and Rescue. The calls from the public and the trawl through CCTV footage. He finished by saying, ‘Our priority is to find Immy safe and well.’ He turned to me and smiled. ‘And now I will hand over to Immy’s mother, Mrs Cleo Cooper, who is going to read a statement.’
I gazed resolutely ahead, trying to ignore the cameras and the expectant faces of the press pack. Underneath the table, my knees trembled and my stomach was in knots. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. Stuart’s hand came from nowhere and clasped mine. I felt his warmth flow through me, and I cleared my throat and spoke.
‘On Sunday afternoon our lives were shattered when our beautiful daughter Immy disappeared from the garden of our home. The last couple of days have been every parent’s worst nightmare as we’ve waited for news that hasn’t come. We ask anyone who may have seen Immy
