Elisabeth Carpenter - 99 Red Balloons

‘I know, Em. I know.’

My heart is still beating so hard; I’m surprised it hasn’t jumped out of its place.

‘We have another CCTV image,’ says Hines, ‘that we’ve been able to enhance. We can see their faces now.’

Emma stands straight up. ‘Give it to me.’

Rachel Berry opens her folder and hands over one of the copies, and another to Matt who’s been quiet since they arrived. Emma holds the image inches from her face. The tears gather in her eyes before rushing down her cheeks. She strokes the piece of paper.

‘Oh, Grace, my baby. Where are you?’

I daren’t look.

But I have to.

It really is Grace.

I want to sink to the floor and cradle the picture in my arms.

I thought it would be grainy – that we’d think it looks a little like Grace, that it could be another child, but not this. It is her – in different clothes: dark trousers and a large hooded coat. Her face is so clear, but all of her hair has been taken up – or been cut – underneath a black hat. This was why they thought it might have been a boy in the first image.

Matt is holding the piece of paper in front of him, but the other hand is over his eyes as he sobs silently.

‘Let me see her,’ says Mum, the other side of Emma. ‘Oh my God. It’s Grace.’ She covers her mouth with a hand.

‘Do any of you recognise the man holding Grace’s hand?’ says Detective Hines.

Holding her hand? I hadn’t noticed – I hadn’t even looked at the man.

‘Why is Grace smiling?’ says Matt.

It’s like we’re all looking at the photo for the first time again without our blinkers on. She is smiling – how had I not seen that?

‘But the man – do you recognise him?’ The detective sounds impatient.

Mum takes the photo from Emma, and looks at it closely. She narrows her eyes, shaking her head. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Emma, Matt,’ says Hines. ‘Is he familiar to you?’

‘I’ve never seen him before,’ says Matt.

‘Not even with work? Could he be a client of yours?’

‘We only meet clients briefly, but I’ve definitely never met him before, I’d remember.’

The detective turns to Emma and me. Mum passes the paper back to us and we stand, heads together, as we look at it.

‘I think I have,’ I say. ‘He looks familiar, but I can’t remember where from.’ I look to Emma, and I don’t know why I feel scared, but I do. ‘Em?’

She nods her head imperceptibly. Her eyes are wide and her face is pale. The paper starts to ripple as her hands shake. ‘Yes. I have seen him before. He was at the office a few weeks ago. I work as an accounts assistant at a recruitment firm. Oh God. I might have even spoken to him.’ She’s starting to panic again. Mum takes her to sit down.

‘What was he doing at your workplace?’ asks Hines.

‘He said he was there for a job. We advertise for temps for local businesses… drivers, warehouse assistants, waiting staff, that sort of thing. We must interview at least twenty people a week, but he seemed different; he wore a suit – dark green, old-fashioned. He was a bit odd – stared at me. I couldn’t look him in the eye properly.’

Emma gives the details to the detectives and I walk slowly into the kitchen. If she knows him from work, then where the hell do I know him from?

‘We should telephone the police,’ says Jim.

The taxi driver looks at us in the rear-view mirror. I bet he’s listening to every word. He should keep an eye on the road – there’s sleet coming down hard. I’m surprised he can see out of the windscreen, the speed he has those wipers going.

‘What would we say, that some idiot has the wrong number, talking gibberish?’

‘But he said your name, Maggie.’

‘That’s what you say. I didn’t hear for myself. Did you have your hearing aid in?’

‘You know I don’t wear a hearing aid. Stop being so flippant. Are you not worried?’

‘It’ll be something or nothing. I’m not worried at all.’

Of course, that’s not true. I’ve been wracking my brain to think who it could be. A man who knows my telephone number, who knows my name. Ron’s brother? I haven’t heard from Alan since Ron died and he wouldn’t telephone me with such a strange message. Could it be Zoe’s dad, David? No, it won’t be. He couldn’t wait to remove himself from our family. Only waited three years after Zoe went before leaving Sarah for good, the coward. The deserter who shacked himself him up with a new family – three kids, I heard. He should be ashamed of himself.

‘Keep the change, mate,’ says Jim, handing over a five-pound note. The fare was four pounds seventy-three pence. Last of the big spenders. I put my hand in my pocket and give the driver a pound coin before following Jim out of the car.

‘I’ve got my lucky socks on,’ he says. ‘Come on. Let’s get you out of the cold.’

‘I’m not that cold.’ There’s a blast of warm air as we walk through the door. The place smells of roast dinners. ‘How did he say it?’

‘How did who say what?’ Jim turns round and looks at me funny. Ron always complained that I could continue a conversation three days after it finished.

‘On the phone. Was it a menacing I did it for you , or a kind I did it for you ?’

‘Don’t give up your day job, Mags.’ He holds the door open for me, and almost pushes me into a communal lounge. All these years it’s been here and it’s the first time I’ve stepped inside the place. ‘I suppose it was kinder than not. I didn’t feel threatened by it. It was just… what’s the word… perplexing – the way he just hung up.’

‘Are you sure it was a man?’

‘I may be a bit daft, but I’m not stupid. It was definitely a man.’

‘Did he sound old or young?’

‘I don’t know – I can’t tell a person’s age from their telephone voice. Anyway – you’re probably right – it’ll be nothing to worry about.’ He’s trying to make me feel better, but his smile isn’t reflected in his eyes. He takes out his wallet. ‘I’ll get our bingo cards. You sit yourself down here,’ he pulls out a chair at the nearest empty table to us, ‘and we can at least try to forget about the phone call for a few hours. After that, we can figure out what to do about it.’

I sit where I’m told to, while he wanders over to a man of about fifty standing behind a table with a bingo machine on it. Around me, residents are sitting in groups at various-sized tables. It’s the quietest bingo ‘hall’ I’ve ever been to – though I’ve not been to many, contrary to what Jim seems to think.

The table next to ours is far too close for my liking, but I suppose I don’t have to talk to them.

‘Have you been here before?’ I whisper to Jim. He sits down, placing eight A4-sized bingo cards in front of us. They’re for the partially sighted I imagine, though I could probably read the numbers from outside.

‘Welcome to bingo at Orange Tree Hill!’ The booming voice makes me jump. ‘And let’s get this show on the road. Are you ready?’ There’s silence. ‘I said, are you ready? ’

‘Get on with it, lad,’ shouts Jim.

My face flushes as the few people who heard Jim turn to look at us. I want the ground to swallow me up.

‘Right we are then! Dabbers at the ready. Two fat ladies, eighty-eight.’

As the man announces the numbers – and he can’t even do that properly – I can’t shake the feeling that someone’s looking at me. As I cross my numbers out, I glance around the room.

A lady next to us, wearing a pastel blue fine-knit, waves her ticket in the air.