45
Tom has warned me that after the press conference reporters will be all over us, digging into every aspect of our lives, trying to find some salacious story to demonstrate that we brought this on ourselves.
‘You know how it is these days,’ he says with a sigh. ‘They will dig and dig until they find something, and members of the public will chip in too – particularly on Twitter – with all kinds of theories. Some of them are bound to be unpleasant, so I suggest you ignore social media, if you can.’
That’s never been a problem for me, but I can’t believe Nousha will be persuaded to switch off her precious apps.
‘We’re going to focus on Millie and what’s happened, but not specifically how it happened. We don’t want copycat scenarios; nor do we want people deciding not to trust the police.’
‘What will they expect of me, Tom?’ I can hear a nervous tremor in my voice. I don’t know my lines, and yet this is the most important role I have ever played.
‘My best advice is to be yourself. Don’t try to be strong, but don’t overdo the emotion if it’s not how you’re feeling. People can spot if it’s a performance, and you have enough genuine fear and dread in you. Just let it show.’
I swallow and nod my head.
It’s time. Becky reaches out and gives my hand a quick squeeze, then walks out in front of me. She’ll be sitting with me, but Tom will do the talking. I’m in the middle.
As soon as the door opens, the cameras start to click – it’s a cacophony of sound and I hadn’t realised there would be so many people. Tom had said there would be a lot of interest because a child is missing, but I hadn’t expected this. Lights nearly blind me as the television cameras focus on my face. I think about my expression, but stop myself. This is not an audition for a role. This is my life.
Tom speaks into the microphone, explaining succinctly that both Ash and Millie were taken from our home on Saturday evening. He tells the room that Ash subsequently escaped, but he was in a separate car to Millie and we don’t know where she is.
I can tell that he’s coming to the end of his planned speech and I feel a flutter of nerves. Tom has told me that I don’t have to answer any questions. I only have to talk about Millie, and how concerned I am for her.
‘Millie’s mum, Jo Palmer, is now going to say a few words.’
It’s my turn, and I take a gulp of air. It’s tempting not to look at the cameras, and instead to stare at the table in front of me, at the scribbled notes that I made, but I have to get through to everyone watching. I need to make contact with them – show them how important this is – so I force myself to raise my eyes to the cameras, and I start to speak. I feel as if I am in a dream, not part of my own body, until I get to the end of my speech.
‘Millie is a beautiful little girl, full of laughter and happiness. She never walks – she always skips along, talking, laughing, her hair flying behind her. Wherever she is now, she will be frightened, confused, wondering where her mummy and daddy are, and why we’re not there to look after her.’ I stare straight at the red light on a camera, my gaze intense. ‘If anyone watching this knows anything at all about my Millie – why she was taken, who by, or where she is now – I’m begging you to get in touch with the police. And if you’ve got her, let her go. Please. Not for me. Do it for Millie.’
My voice finally breaks on the last mention of her name, and I lower my gaze as the tears drip onto the table. I don’t raise a hand to wipe them away, but listen as Tom explains how people can get in touch anonymously. There is some shouting, the journalists competing to get their questions answered. I shut out the noise so that it sounds like a muffled murmur, my mind focused on nothing but Millie.
Finally, I feel Becky’s hand touch mine and realise that Tom has stood up. The questions are over, and I raise my head to walk off. I want them to see my tears. I want them to see that this is ripping me apart.
46
I don’t remember leaving the room or the building, but somehow we are back in the car and Becky is driving me home. I vaguely heard Tom telling me that I did really well, but it’s a blur. I just want to get home. I want Ash to be there. I need someone to hold me, to tell me it’s going to be okay, even though I know it’s a promise no one can make. My arms feel empty with no one to hug.
I jump as my phone rings in my bag. While we were speaking to the press one of Becky’s team was monitoring it for me, but now it’s back with me, and I’m terrified that the kidnappers are going to call and say that by going on air I have ruined everything and I’ll never see Millie again.
I glance at Becky. She’s driving and can’t help me, and I don’t want to answer.
‘You know what to do,’ Becky says. ‘We’ve got you covered, and your calls are being monitored.’
I wipe a sticky hand on my trousers and feel around in my bag for my phone. I stare at the screen, but it’s blurring through a new batch of tears, and I rub my eyes impatiently.
‘It’s Tessa,’ I tell Becky.
‘She may have seen the press conference – it was live on the news. And there’ll be press outside your house now. Don’t tell her anything else – nothing that wasn’t in the announcement. Can you put it on speaker too, in case there’s anything tricky?’
I throw Becky a worried glance. Surely they can’t think Tessa is still involved in some way? We know it can’t have been Ash in her bedroom, don’t we? I had assumed that she was in the clear. Do they still think she’s involved, or being held hostage herself?
‘Hi, Tessa,’ I say, my voice flat and emotionless.
‘Jesus, Jo, why the hell didn’t you tell me?’
I don’t know what to say. The last of my reserves of resilience have drifted away, and I just want to cry.
‘Jo? Where are you now?’
‘In a car with the police,’ I manage to murmur.
‘Are you on your way home? Because as soon as you get there, I’m coming over – if I can fight my way through the crowd. Jesus! This is so awful. How are you bearing up?’
I give a choked laugh which sounds more like a sob. ‘I’m not.’
‘Well, I’ll be watching for the car, and then I’m coming to look after you. When will Ash be home?’
‘Tomorrow.’
I know I’m being almost monosyllabic, but it’s taking a huge effort to open my mouth at all.
‘Okay. Well until then you’ve got me.’
I hang up without saying goodbye and look at Becky. She’s frowning.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘You can’t assume she isn’t involved. I know it’s unlikely, and she’s your friend. But she lied about someone being in her house last night, and you don’t think she’s ever done that before, do you?’
I don’t. In spite of the fact that I often tell Tessa her behaviour with men will end up with someone getting seriously hurt, she still tells me who her latest conquest is – how they met, the good bits and the bad bits, often with far too much graphic detail for my taste.