He frowns. ‘No, I meant the police station in Portland.’
I mirror his frown. ‘Why would you need to take me there? I thought you’d been sent to escort me to my book signing.’
He shakes his head. ‘Oh, I’m well aware of your book signing today, Miss Hunter – I’ve asked my sister to queue and get my books signed for me – but that’s not the reason I’m here.’
I fold my arms, embarrassed by my own mistake and suddenly conscious that I haven’t a clue who Rick really is, nor whether he is the PCSO his lanyard suggested. ‘Then exactly why are you here?’
‘I’m not allowed to say; I just need to take you to the station. Please?’
I make no effort to move, making my stance clear.
‘Okay.’ He relents with a small sigh. ‘All I can tell you is a nine-year-old girl went missing from her home in Portland yesterday afternoon and the parents have insisted you be brought in to assist the investigation.’
Chapter Twelve Now
Portland, Dorset
Coming back to Portland after so many years away feels so odd, but even more so since Rick explained the reason my presence has been requested. Most people of my age probably associate the small island with the popular children’s show from the 80s, but for me it harbours such painful memories that have driven and shaped my future. Almost twenty-one years after my sister went missing from the island, the same fate has befallen another family. I can imagine exactly what they’re going through.
The island itself hasn’t changed a lot in the years since it was home. The prison where my father worked still dominates the landscape, cut into the hill as it is, and references to the prison can be found on virtually every street sign, as if nobody would come here for any other reason. Away from that though, there is still a real sense of community amongst residents, and whilst it isn’t an island accessible only by water, the feeling of ‘us versus the world’ remains. This isn’t my first time coming back here, but it’s the first time in two decades that I’ve been summoned.
The police station at Portland brings back too many unwanted memories as well. It still carries that tired mustiness in the air that instantly transports me back to that time: the smell of the unwashed criminals dragged through these very doors as the men and women in blue try to make charges stick; the smell of terrified victims being gently coaxed to reveal the truth of what happened to them; the smell of families alert to the possibility that they’re about to receive the most heart-breaking news.
The entrance and reception area have both been given a makeover since I was last here, but it does little to prevent the memories resurfacing. I still recall the social worker taking my hand and leading me to a tiny room filled with children’s toys and games. She’d encouraged me to play as I would at home, but they weren’t my toys, so how could I play with them as I would at home? I wanted to be with my mum and dad, but they were being interviewed in another room somewhere; out of sight, out of mind, the social worker had probably thought, when the opposite was true.
I’d wanted to know what all the fuss was about. I’d heard Anna’s name being screamed by my frantic parents; I’d been in the blue and yellow police car that turned up at home and drove us here; I needed my big sister with me to explain what was going on, as she always did. Since that day, Anna has never been out-of-sight-out-of-mind; if anything, I’ve spent more of my life thinking about her and that day than if nothing had happened. I wonder whether we would still be close now had she not disappeared twenty-one years ago.
Back then, the parents of the missing child were always the preliminary suspects, but at least the world has moved on somewhat now. It’s a hard enough time for parents to experience without feeling the need to be so defensive all the time.
PCSO Rick Underwood asks me to sit in the waiting room while he fetches one of the team to speak to me, but I’m too on edge to rest. In this day and age it appals me that the horror that tore my family apart can still continue unchecked. In a world of digital surveillance and curtain twitchers taking to social media to spread rumours and gossip, how is it possible for such heinous acts to continue? Although it’s anti-Orwell, maybe the idea of 100 per cent surveillance isn’t so bad if it can prevent tragedies like this unfolding; how many other crimes could have been discovered and prevented if we were all under the eye of Big Brother?
I’m grateful when Rick returns and distracts me from the dark place my mind was headed. ‘DS Robyn Meyers will be out in a moment,’ he informs me. ‘She’s the Family Liaison Officer and should be able to give a bit more detail about what’s going on and why you’re here. The SIO is actively rallying the troops; as I’m sure you know, the first twenty-four hours are key to finding out what happened to Jo-Jo.’
The hairs on the back of my arms stand involuntarily. ‘Jo-Jo? Is that the name of the girl?’
He nods grimly with what looks like a fraction of regret in his eyes. Was he not supposed to give me her name?
‘DS Meyers will fill you in on the rest. In the meantime, is there anything I can get you? Cup of tea or coffee?’
‘No, I’m fine,’ I say, not wanting the bitter taste of the tea to take my mind back to that time again.
‘Are you sure? You’re as pale as a sheet.’
I force
