thought runs through my mind that plants a heavy feeling in my stomach: what if someone else was watching Grace walk home today?
She went into the newsagent’s and never came out. How is that even possible? The image of Mr Anderson’s face comes into my head. He might have owned the shop for a few years, but how well does anyone know him?
‘Have you questioned Mr Anderson?’ Everyone looks at me and my face burns. ‘The newsagent, I mean.’
Hines gives a brief nod. Did he just roll his eyes?
‘Yes, yes.’
He doesn’t elaborate – they don’t give much away. He makes me feel stupid – guilty even – just by looking at me.
‘Is there anyone you can think of who might have taken her?’ he says. ‘A relative? Someone with a grudge?’
‘No, of course not,’ says Matt. ‘This is real life, not some bloody soap opera. We’re normal people. We don’t go around making enemies.’
My ears tingle as he says it. No.
There is someone, I want to say. But it shouldn’t be me saying that. Has Emma forgotten?
‘Did she argue with you before she left this morning? About something mundane, trivial even?’
‘Grace isn’t like that,’ says Matt. ‘We don’t argue in the morning.’
‘What time did you leave for work today?’
‘Just before eight.’
‘Mrs Harper – Emma.’
She looks up.
‘Did you and Grace argue before she left for school this morning?’
She frowns and shakes her head. She looks to the mantelpiece at the many photos of Grace. One of them is the obligatory school picture. By the time Jamie has left school I’ll have twelve – one for every year. I can’t breathe when I think that photo of Grace might be her last.
Hines writes in his notepad again and looks to me.
‘So just to get everyone’s name right. You’re Stephanie Palmer – Grace’s aunt?’
‘Yes,’ I say, too loud probably.
No one reacts. And why should they?
But it feels like a lie when I say it to a stranger.
My stomach is churning. I stand, swaying slightly, and squeeze past DS Berry in the doorway before rushing up the stairs. I get to the bathroom just in time to empty the contents of my stomach into the toilet.
I don’t feel old enough for a shopping trolley, but I am. The handles on carrier bags these days cut my hands; they’re much too thin, too cheap. Monday means it’s meat and potato pie for tea, which means calling into the butcher’s, then the vegetable shop.
Everything aches, especially my knees. I’d spend all afternoon in the bath if I could, but I’m not sure I could get myself out of it. Besides, it’s my routine that keeps me from staring at the walls, the television, the photographs.
It’s raining – again. It’s always raining. Wearing my long raincoat and ridiculous matching hat I could be anyone. It’s like my invisible cloak.
‘Are you all right, Maggie?’
The voice makes me jump. I wish I were invisible. I look up, lifting the wide brim of my hat.
‘Oh, hello, Sandra. Didn’t see you there.’
She’s holding an enormous golfing umbrella that’s emblazoned with Benson & Hedges. Do they even sell those any more? A fat drip of rain from it lands on my hand and splats onto the top of my trolley.
‘I’m not surprised,’ she says, ‘with that thing you’re wearing.’ She regards my hat as though it smells of rotten eggs. She shouldn’t pull that expression; someone should tell her it makes her look even older. ‘And you didn’t hear me either. I’ve been shouting you for the past ten minutes.’
Sandra’s a big fan of hyperbole. I don’t reply; she doesn’t notice.
‘How are we this afternoon?’ she says, her head tilted to the side. ‘I said to my Peter, I know I’ll see Maggie this afternoon ’cos it’s Monday. And every Monday she—’
‘Got to run, Sandra.’ I pull the brim of my hat over my eyes and start walking. ‘I’ve got an important appointment later.’
I need a new routine. If I bump into her again I might actually scream in the street – or jump in front of a moving car.
After a few minutes of walking, I’ve left Sandra behind. She’s probably going to tell her Peter that I’m a miserable old crone, but I don’t care.
The rain pauses.
I hear Sarah’s voice.
I look up to see if the face matches the sound. From behind she has the same brown hair in a bob on her shoulders. I can’t stop myself. I walk faster until it’s a light jog. My shopping trolley trips over the cracks in the pavement. I haven’t run for at least ten years and it shows. I slow to a walk before my knees give up, and I’m only a few feet away from her.
She laughs.
It’s Sarah’s laugh. I can’t help myself, again.
‘Sarah,’ I shout.
A passing bus splashes a puddle that misses me by inches.
I tap her right shoulder.
She stops in front of me. She turns round slowly and I know before I see her face that it’s not her at all.
Her eyes meet mine; they’re blue. Sarah’s were brown.
‘Sorry. Wrong person,’ I say, before she says it for me, like others have before her. She looks at me kindly, whoever she is, and smiles. No doubt she sees me as the ridiculous old lady that I am.
‘That’s okay.’
She turns back round and crosses the road. Probably to get out of the path of the crazy woman. I might actually be crazy, I don’t know. Of course that wasn’t Sarah. It could never be Sarah, and I should know that by now. Sometimes I think I could die from this loneliness, but I carry on. It’s torture. It’s too hard being the only one left. Being happy seems such a faraway memory. Why did everyone leave me?
The rain starts again, which is a good job because I’ve reached the butcher’s. The water disguises
