Discarded M. Hunter (the snowy day read aloud TXT) 📖

Beyond them, Jo-Jo laughs happily with the paramedics who are checking for any injury or trauma, oblivious to what is unfolding outside of the ambulance. I feel sick to my stomach at the prospect that at least one of her guardians could treat her safety with such disdain. And for what purpose? Fame? Is the cost really worth it?

It reminds me of a case up in Yorkshire where the mum was going to leave her abusive partner but lost the bottle, and then concocted a story about her daughter going missing. I remember the controversy that followed in the trial. I hate that my recent brush with fame could have encouraged someone to repeat the mistake.

Did Tina and her former sister-in-law fabricate the story about Jo-Jo wandering off so that I’d make them the subject of my next book? If their motive was money and five minutes of fame, the cost is likely to be jail time now.

I can’t look at either of them any longer and begin the slow descent down the hill, with my own indirect involvement weighing heavy on my mind.

Chapter Twenty-Seven Now

Weymouth, Dorset

Monday mornings are made for gallons of coffee, and hoping for the best outcome to all endeavours in the forthcoming week. At least, I think I read that in someone’s motivational tweets once. And then I think back to Jack and the suitcase discovered at Pendark, and the urge to pull the duvet back over my head and remain where I am grows. He’s not messaged to say the DNA comparison has been completed, but I’m reluctant to chase him for the news I’m dreading. Until he tells me otherwise, I can cling to the hope that those weren’t Anna’s remains we found.

Pushing the bedding from me with a groan, I am annoyed at my own inability just to relax and take a duvet day. Instead, I sit up, rub the remaining sleep from my eyes, and head to the shower. I feel more alive when I step out and brush my teeth, before combing my hair and tying it into a messy ponytail that will keep it out of my way.

The black and white image of Faye McKenna stares up at me from the kitchen table where I left it after my meeting with Maddie at the restaurant. Her hair is much longer in the photograph than the image I found of her aged twelve on the missingpeople.org site. It’s only just occurred to me how much older she looks in the photograph on my table. Lifting and moving it closer to my eyes, I inspect the image for any other differences. Her hair was tied in bunches in the picture on the site, whereas it is hanging looser here; gone are the square-shaped prescription glasses, and even her teeth look less crooked. The essence of her is the same, but I would estimate the picture I’ve been sent is Faye at least two, if not three, years older than when she disappeared in November 1998.

My pulse quickens as my mind reaches the only possible conclusion: whoever sent this picture knew Faye years after she disappeared. That could mean it has been sent by one of the kidnappers (though that feels unlikely); by another victim being held by the same people (assuming a ring is involved, like the one Jack is hunting); or by Faye herself. Who’s to say she didn’t escape her captors and continue her life under an assumed identity? If she was twelve in 1998 that would make her thirty-four now.

The information I managed to dig up about her disappearance was limited – last seen waiting for a bus home from secondary school, a bus she didn’t catch – but this photograph emerging could be something tangible for the police to follow up. Loading up the site again, I search for the name of the force overseeing her case, and am directed to a phone number for Greater Manchester police.

Dialling the number, I am connected with a generic answerphone advising me to phone 999 if I have an emergency, or to leave a message if my query relates to anything else and they will arrange for someone to call me back. I leave my name and number, and explain I have information relating to Faye McKenna.

No sooner have I hung up than I’m hurrying to the knocking at my door. Rick stands there smiling in the same clothes as last night, and looks more handsome than I remember.

‘Morning,’ he says jovially. ‘I was about to grab some breakfast before heading home, and wondered if you fancied coming for a cup of tea and a muffin?’

We didn’t speak much when he dropped me home last night. Although Cavendish had told him he wasn’t required at the station, he told me he was keen to return and lend a hand regardless.

‘Or we could get coffee and a waffle, if muffins aren’t your thing,’ he adds, maybe sensing my reluctance. ‘Please don’t make me beg,’ he says, that friendly smile breaking through, a small dimple forming in his cheek. ‘I’m not one for big scenes, but if getting on my knees is what it’s going to take…’

I stop him as he starts to bend and stoop. ‘Okay, okay, I’ll get a drink and some breakfast with you,’ I say, grabbing my purse, phone, and keys from the side table and pulling the door closed.

We walk into the town centre and conversation is stilted, neither of us really knowing what to say that avoids the topic of Jo-Jo; he’s not at liberty to discuss the case with me, and I don’t want to put him in an awkward position by asking.

‘You weren’t really going to get down on your hands and knees, were you?’ I ask.

His cheeks redden a fraction. ‘To be honest, it wouldn’t have been the first time I begged a girl to go on a date