Lisa Hall - Have You Seen Her - The new psychological thriller from bestseller Lisa Hall

‘Mrs Jessop . . . Fran.’ DS Wright speaks slowly, calmly, before she turns her gaze to include me. ‘As yet, we haven’t found any sign of Laurel in the immediate area, but we are still carrying out a full, intensive search. In the meantime, there are just a few things that I would like to ask you about.’

Fran says nothing, her face pale, so I nod instead. ‘Yes, of course. We’ll answer any questions you have, won’t we, Fran?’

‘Great, thank you.’ DS Wright pulls out her notebook, rifling through the pages until she finds what she’s looking for. ‘So, Laurel went to catch up with her mother – with you, Fran – is that right?’

‘Yes.’ I nod again, as Fran crushes a tissue to her nose, tears spilling over and running down her cheeks. ‘But I didn’t actually see her catch up with Fran.’ Just saying the words makes me feel sick.

‘But you’re sure she went in that direction – towards the portaloos?’

‘Yes, yes I’m sure.’ I am sure – aren’t I? Guilt and worry converge to make me doubt myself, to doubt the picture I see in my mind’s eye of Laurel running towards the back of Fran’s coat, as she weaved her way slowly through the crowds.

‘And you didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary, either before or during the bonfire? Nobody hanging around that shouldn’t have been? No one who seemed overly interested in Laurel?’ Her eyes settle on my face and I feel a slight sweat break out across my forehead, despite the cold night air, as though it is me under investigation, me who has done something wrong.

‘No. No one. Although, there were people starting to arrive as we walked up the lane, so I don’t know that I’d . . .’ I was going to say, I don’t know that I’d have even noticed, but I can’t bring myself to say it out loud.

‘And what about Laurel’s father? Fran says that he was supposed to meet you all here this evening?’

‘He was,’ I say, frowning slightly, ‘he’s a surgeon – a heart surgeon at the hospital in South Oxbury – but he didn’t make it here, obviously.’

‘I tried to get hold of him,’ Fran says, a frown to match my own creasing her forehead. She pauses for a moment and blinks hard. ‘I called him a few times, but it just kept going to bloody voicemail.’ She presses her lips together and looks away, wrapping her arms tightly around herself.

‘It was sort of a big deal, tonight . . .’ I say in a low voice, ‘he works really long hours, but he’d promised Laurel that he would make it.’

‘Can we try him again?’ The blonde officer who spoke to me earlier has arrived to stand next to her colleague, and she looks to DS Wright for confirmation.

‘I’ll do it,’ I say, glancing at Fran. She looks white, the blue lights still pulsing in the background giving her face a sickly sheen every time they pass over her features. ‘I’ll call him.’

I call his number, my fingers fumbling with the phone, but I don’t know if it’s through shock or simply the cold. Just as it did for Fran, the voicemail kicks in within a couple of rings.

‘Dominic? It’s Anna. Can you call me as soon as you get this?’ Fran is talking to DS Wright, so I step away slightly, hanging up the phone and scrolling down to the number I am only to call in strict emergencies. This counts, I think to myself, this definitely counts as an emergency. It starts to ring, and I press one finger into my ear in order to hear better, as I feel the blonde officer’s eyes on me – DC Barnes, I think Wright called her. I turn my back and wait for the call to be answered.

‘Theatre,’ a gruff voice barks into the receiver.

‘Oh, hello,’ I say, gripping the phone tightly as I try to keep my voice steady, ‘I need to speak with Mr Jessop, please, it’s rather urgent. Can you tell me if he’s in theatre, or is he available?’

‘Mr Jessop?’ There is a pause on the line and a murmur of voices faintly in the background, and I imagine the nurse glancing at the whiteboard, then asking her colleague, checking to see which theatre he might be in. ‘Sorry, he’s not on this evening. His list finished at five o’clock.’

Shit . Where the hell is he? He promised Laurel that he would be here tonight, and I assumed that he had got caught up with work – after all, that’s usually what happens with Dominic. I glance over to where Fran is holding a tissue to her nose, her other arm wrapped tightly around herself as if cold. DC Barnes takes a step towards me, and I hold up one finger as the phone in my hand buzzes, relieved when DS Wright calls her over and I don’t have to worry about her listening in.

‘Dominic?’ I pause. ‘You got my message? Fran’s been trying to get hold of you for ages.’

‘Oh, Jesus.’ I hear him exhale, a long, deep sigh, and imagine him sat in his car, his big, luxury Porsche Cayenne that neither Fran nor I are ever allowed to drive, or maybe at home, knowing he was going to be late and miss the bonfire, waiting for us to get back so he can put Laurel to bed. ‘Look, Anna, if she’s getting you to call me just so I answer and then she can take the phone and chew me out, I’m hanging up now, OK?’

‘No, Dominic, it’s not . . . it’s not that.’ My mouth is dry, and I wish I could take it back – I wish I had left it to Fran, or one of the police officers here to make the call.

‘What is it, then? I know I missed the fireworks, but . . . I’ll talk to Laurel tomorrow and make it up to her. It wasn’t my fault . . .’

‘Dominic, I called the hospital, looking for you.’ Whispering, I grip the phone tightly in my hand, feeling the skin stretch over my knuckles, and turn back to where Fran is waiting. I raise my voice again. ‘It’s Laurel. She’s gone missing.’

As I speak the words out loud to Dominic, I see Fran almost visibly stagger slightly, as if my words have cut her, her hands covering her mouth as if to hold in a scream. Mr Abbott appears at her side to clutch her by the elbow and keep her steady.

‘What? What’s happened? Where is she? Are you still at the field?’ Dominic fires questions at me, one after the other, barely giving me time to respond, before he tells me he’s on his way and hangs up on me abruptly. More police officers are arriving, and there is a sense of urgency now humming in the air. Mr Abbott has rounded up several more volunteers who are already beginning to search the field more thoroughly, and I hear Laurel’s name being cried repeatedly into the frosty night air.

‘She’ll be getting cold.’ Almost as though she read my mind, Fran comes close to me, her voice quiet. ‘And she’s not keen on the dark either. Remember that time the bulb went in the nightlight in the middle of the night and she woke up? We all thought she’d been . . .’ Her voice trails off and she gives a tiny huff of wheezy laughter, that catches in her throat. ‘Is Dominic coming?’

‘Yes. He got held up.’ I don’t mention my call to the hospital. My hands are freezing now, and I shove them deep into my pockets, my fingers touching something cold and plasticky. I snare whatever it is between my fingertips and draw it out, only to see a tiny doll, like the little Polly Pocket dolls I used to have as a child. Mr Snow gave it to Laurel as we passed one morning on the way to school – it had blonde hair, and a pink jacket, and he told her it looked exactly like her – I assumed it must have belonged to one of his grandchildren. It certainly wasn’t new. Laurel must have sneaked it into my pocket without me noticing. I curl my fingers round it and feel the soft plastic stick slightly to my palms.

‘He’s always held up.’ Fran’s voice jolts me back to the present. ‘Maybe if he’d actually bothered to turn up this evening this never would have happened.’ She gives a little sob and presses the back of her hand to her mouth again, as her eyes comb over the field, watching the figures of volunteers sliding across the mud, all shouting Laurel’s name.