‘Ok.’
‘What was their voice like? Was it male or female?’
Linda sniffled and wiped her nose as she thought. ‘I’m not sure. He didn’t say much.’
‘Are you certain it was a man you spoke to?’
‘I think so,’ she frowned.
‘What about any accent? Did he sound local?’
‘No. It was sort of … flat, monotone.’
Ellen thought for a moment. ‘Did he seem anxious or scared?’
‘No. He was very calm, neutral, almost like …’
‘Go on.’
‘Like it was a recording.’
‘A recording?’
‘Yes, as if, the words had been typed into something and a computer was reading it out. Like, if you ask Siri a question and it gives you a reply, it was like that, but not.’
‘Would you say it was like the caller was speaking through a voice changer?’
‘Yes,’ she said, animatedly. ‘I’d say exactly that.’
‘Right.’ Ellen took a notebook out of her pocket and made a note.
‘Is that helpful?’
‘Yes. I think it might be.’
‘Why would the kidnapper do that, though? It’s not like calls are recorded, is it?’
‘No.’
‘So why go to all that bother?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe they thought you might recognise them.’
‘Do you think it’s someone we know?’
Ellen hesitated. She took a deep breath before answering. ‘Personally? Yes, I do.’
***
Matilda was sitting in front of Valerie’s desk while she explained the scant details from the British Embassy in Paris. Matilda looked drawn. Every time she thought of Carl, she thought of the nightmare she had lived through at the time with her husband dying. All the dark memories came flooding back and she realised how much she missed him. If Carl could be found, maybe she would finally be able to close a door on that whole period and move on.
‘I’m afraid the French police don’t seem to see this case as urgently as we do,’ Valerie said. ‘You’d think a simple task of emailing a photograph over wouldn’t take long, but I’m still waiting.’
‘What do we know of the people who took him?’
‘Nothing.’
‘How can that be?’
‘Police Nationale in Marseille are dealing with it. I’ve no idea if any arrests have been made or who they’re talking to.’
‘Bloody hell! Where is this boy now?’
‘He’s in police protection but I don’t know where.’
‘How long is all this going to take?’ Matilda asked, getting flustered.
Valerie shrugged. ‘Matilda, are you all right?’
‘I’m fine.’ Liar.
‘Would you like to take the rest of the day off?’
Matilda frowned. ‘How is that even possible with a kidnapped girl on our hands?’
‘Christian can take over.’
‘No,’ she took a deep breath and composed herself. ‘Look, if this boy is Carl, then that’s amazing. It’s the best news in the world. Why should I want to take time off? We can’t do anything until it’s confirmed.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Shit. I should be getting back to Stannington.’
‘How are the family doing?’ Valerie said, standing up.
‘Not good.’ Matilda headed for the door. She turned back to look at her boss. ‘Will you call me the minute you hear anything from France, or when they send you the photo?’
‘I will.’
‘Any news on Arthur?’
‘No change,’ she said, looking down.
‘We seem to spend most of our lives waiting around for things to happen, don’t we? We’re not as in control of things as we’d like to believe.’
‘You can say that again. Go on, get back to Stannington,’ she said, rushing her out of the office.
Valerie turned her back on Matilda and looked out of the window.
Matilda stood in the hallway, her back pressed firmly against Valerie’s closed door. She felt a prickle of heat creep up her back and her vision began to blur. She looked ahead and the corridor appeared to be closing in. It seemed like her panic attacks were returning.
‘Walpole, Compton, Pelham,’ she said under her breath.
When Matilda first went off work following her husband’s death and Carl going missing, she had. been assigned a therapist to talk through her issues with. A coping strategy for the panic attacks was to control her breathing by concentrating on a single topic. For Matilda, that was reciting the names of the British Prime Ministers. It worked, too. It had been a good couple of years since she’d had to manage her focus. She’d thought she was back in control, able to face anything life threw at her. She was wrong.
‘Pelham-Holles, Cavendish, Pelham-Holles, Stuart, Grenville. Oh for fuck’s sake,’ she chastised herself as she stormed off down the corridor.
***
One girl missing and one boy possibly found. Such a cruel twist of fate that one family’s suffering might be coming to an end while another’s was just beginning. And in the middle of it all was Matilda Darke.
Matilda thought she had her emotions under control; that she was a strong and independent woman. However, all it took was one piece of bad news to bring her back down to the wreck she was in the early days following James’s death. She was reminded of this fragility as she made her way back to Acorn Drive.
Carl’s return would be headline news across the world, but the flip side of the coin would see the story of Keeley’s disappearance. Two missing children. One found. One lost. Matilda vilified by the press once again. At the time it had happened with Carl Meagan, she had been numb to the onslaught, away from work on an enforced sabbatical. This time … it didn’t bear thinking about.
There were more cars parked on Acorn Drive than last time. As soon as Matilda pulled up, she knew why. Out of the Skoda in front stepped Danny Hanson. Matilda rolled her eyes. She wished that man would fall down a hole somewhere.
‘What are you doing here?’ She barked at him, harsher than she expected.
‘Don’t panic!’ He held up his hands in surrender. ‘I haven’t been knocking and upsetting anyone. What can you tell me?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Oh, come on. A missing girl. A ransom demand. Sound familiar?’
‘You’re a parasite, do you know that?’
‘I’ve been called worse.’
‘Look, Danny, you really need to piss off. The kidnappers could be watching. If they see press outside the house they might panic and not call.’
‘Whereas seeing the famous DCI Darke pull up isn’t conspicuous at all,’ he said flippantly.
Matilda stopped halfway up the pavement, turned and leaned in close to him. She had no idea how old Danny was but his smooth skin, lack of stubble and large puppy eyes made him look as if he was barely out of his teens. She imagined him using his smiling eyes, his little-boy-lost act on interviewees to extract any kind of information for a story. ‘Danny,’ she said calmly. ‘I don’t like you and you don’t like me. Now, I don’t give a shit what you write about me in that printed toilet paper you call a newspaper, but in that house is a family going through hell. Give them some consideration.’