The Stepdaughter. Debbie Howells

Чтение книги онлайн.

      Nicki

      I think about letting the phone ring. It’s late, the end of a long first day back at work. After a month’s compassionate leave—supposedly to get over my husband walking out, I imagine some naïve psychologist calculating the number of days before shock subsides, grief levels out, before the new normality of being left starts to settle, getting it massively wrong, because after ten years of marriage, anyone can tell you a month is nothing.

      But habit wins out. “Nicola May.” I listen to the district inspector’s voice at the other end, my stomach suddenly lurching when he tells me that a teenage girl has disappeared in Abingworth village, not far from here. I dread the idea of facing distraught parents, now, when my own emotions are still raw. “Look, I wouldn’t normally ask, sir, but isn’t there someone else who could do this?”

      He hesitates. “I need someone good. And you know what’s going on. This is the perfect opportunity to get someone into the village without suspicions being aroused.” He pauses again. “But I understand. I’ll see if Robson’s around.”

      I pause, knowing he’s referring to a porn ring that’s been linked to the area. There have been accounts of photographs of abducted teenagers appearing online, weeks after they’ve disappeared. Most of them have never been found. But I know that if I’m back at work, I have to be able to rise to the challenge. The sooner I get over to Abingworth, the better.

      “It’s fine, sir. I’ll do it.”

      “You’re sure? Thank you, Nicki.” The DI sounds relieved. “We really need you in there.”

      I’ve never heard him use my given name before. After he hangs up, I take a deep breath. Minutes ago, I thought I was on my way home. But with a teenage girl missing, I can’t afford to waste time.

      Though the roads are mostly clear, the drive to Abingworth takes longer than I’d expected, slowed by an accident that’s closed one of the lanes on the two-lane highway. When I take the turnoff too fast, my car skids briefly on black ice, and I drive more slowly, using the time to think.

      All I know is that Hollie Hampton went missing two days ago. That her father didn’t call us straightaway, that he’s used to her disappearing now and then, is already setting off alarm bells. Hollie is sixteen and pretty. The DI emailed her photo to me. If she were my daughter, I wouldn’t have waited.

      Following my GPS, I turn into a narrow lane without road markings, edged with grass coated in frost. A row of cottages comes into view before I pass a number of bigger houses set back behind flint walls, slowing down as the lane bends sharply left. A hundred yards ahead, through the trees, a flashing blue light alerts me to the Hamptons’ house.

      As far as I can tell in the darkness, it’s a long, rambling place. Pulling over, I park on the sloping drive, then get out and take the rough steps down to what looks like the front door. When I knock, it’s opened straightaway by a man who I imagine is Hollie’s father. He looks as though he hasn’t slept for a week.

      “Mr. Hampton? I’m DS May. Can I come in?”

      “Yes. Of course.” After closing the door behind me, he says, “They’re in here.”

      I assume he’s talking about the local police. “You still haven’t heard anything from your daughter?”

      “No,” he mutters, his head down as he leads the way.

      Now that I’m inside, it’s obvious the house is old, with wide, uneven floorboards, here and there the timber frame and old bricks exposed. In the small sitting room that James Hampton takes me to, I recognize one of my colleagues, Sarah Collins. She’s with another uniformed policewoman and a fair-haired woman who’s clearly been crying. I assume she must be Hollie’s mother. “Mrs. Hampton? I’m Detective Sergeant May. I’m just going to ask Sergeant Collins to update me. Then I’d like to talk to you and your husband. Can you give us five minutes?”

      Fear, uncertainty, dread hang in the air, a feeling I remember from the last time I worked on a missing teenager’s case, where every question, every phone call, has the potential to reveal a truth no one wants to hear. She nods, getting up and going over to her husband. “Can I make you all a cup of tea?”

      “Yes, please.” I nod. Her offer has the added bonus of getting them out of the room so that we can talk more openly. As they leave, I turn to Sarah Collins. “Tell me what you’ve got.”

      She glances at her notes. “Not much. Hollie was last here two days ago. Her parents—it’s worth mentioning that Mrs. Hampton is her stepmother—anyway, they both say that it isn’t unheard-of for Hollie to disappear for a night without telling them, but never longer than that. Also, they’ve always been able to get hold of her at some point by phone, but this time, they haven’t been able to.”

      “You have her number?”

      Sarah Collins nods. “We’re already checking it out. We have the contact details for her school. According to Hollie’s father, they called him recently. Apparently she’s missed quite a bit of school lately. He seemed to think it wasn’t anything unusual. We’ve also got СКАЧАТЬ