basically.’
‘Mmm. Does Charlotte have a mobile phone?’
‘I’ve been ringing it. No answer. I’ve rung the friend she was with last night. I’ve rung the newsagent to check she did the paper round. I’ve spoken to her best friend. Nobody knows where she’s got to.’
I wanted him to tell me it was nothing to worry about, and when he did I felt frustrated because I knew he was wrong. ‘I know Charlie,’ I said insistently. ‘I know this isn’t in character. Something’s wrong. We have to find her.’
‘Ms Landry,’ he said kindly, ‘I understand what teenagers are like. I’ve got one myself.’
‘You don’t know what Charlie ’s like.’
‘Teenagers,’ he continued, as if I hadn’t spoken, ‘go missing all the time. You wouldn’t believe how often they’re reported missing and then they turn up, a few hours later, the next day. I’m sure your daughter will come home soon. Have you had an argument recently?’
‘No.’
That wasn’t strictly true, of course. I rarely lose my temper, but Charlie quarrels with everyone, whether they participate or not. She has a strictly confrontational attitude towards the world. When I picture her, she has her hands on her hips or her arms folded provocatively. She challenges people, she glowers, she squabbles, she storms out of rooms and slams doors. But she’s like Rory, or like Rory used to be: quick to anger and quick to apologize or forgive, generous and contrite to a fault, never bearing grudges. She argued with me yesterday, and she argued with me the day before that and probably the day before that as well, about the fact that she’d lost her physics coursework on her computer and hadn’t backed it up, about whether she and Ashleigh could go to London for a concert on a school day, about why she had to go to her father’s when there was a big party on Sandling Island that evening, about eating an entire pack of ice-cream but leaving the empty tub in the freezer as an irritating decoy, about borrowing my shoes without asking and breaking the heel … But those were small tiffs, the daily stuff of Charlie’s life.
‘No,’ I repeated. ‘We hadn’t argued.’
‘Boyfriend trouble?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Charlie doesn’t have a boyfriend.’
‘As far as you know,’ said PC Mahoney, smiling humorously at me.
‘She would have told me,’ I said. ‘She tells me things.’ For she did. Charlie gave me her anger and impatience, but she also offered me her confidences, often in a touchingly candid way. She’d told me about the boys who’d asked her out; she’d confessed about getting horribly drunk on Bacardi Breezers at Ashleigh’s house, so that she’d thrown up on the neat green lawn; she’d asked my advice about spots and period pains, talked about how she felt stifled by her father’s over-protectiveness. ‘Look, this is all irrelevant.’
‘How about at school? Was she happy? Any trouble with her peer group?’
‘Nothing that would have made her run away from home.’
‘There was trouble, then?’
‘She was bullied for a bit,’ I said shortly. ‘She was the new girl and didn’t fit in. You know how vicious girls can be in a group. But that’s all stopped now.’
‘Mmmm.’ He stood up suddenly, tucking his notebook back into his pocket. ‘Let’s pay a visit to Charlotte’s bedroom.’
‘What for?’
‘Up the stairs, is it?’
He was already on his way, and I followed him.
‘I’ve already looked. There’s nothing to see.’
‘This one?’
‘Yes.’
PC Mahoney stood stolidly in the doorway, gazing in at the catastrophe of Charlie’s room. The air in here smelt thickly fragrant: Charlie loved creams, lotions and bath oils. After she had taken one of her epic showers or lain for hours in a sudsy bath, she would drip her way into her room and rub cream into her body, spray perfume over it and into her coppery hair.
‘Not very tidy, is it?’ he remarked mildly.
He stooped down, picked up
‘Mmm. Does Charlotte have a mobile phone?’
‘I’ve been ringing it. No answer. I’ve rung the friend she was with last night. I’ve rung the newsagent to check she did the paper round. I’ve spoken to her best friend. Nobody knows where she’s got to.’
I wanted him to tell me it was nothing to worry about, and when he did I felt frustrated because I knew he was wrong. ‘I know Charlie,’ I said insistently. ‘I know this isn’t in character. Something’s wrong. We have to find her.’
‘Ms Landry,’ he said kindly, ‘I understand what teenagers are like. I’ve got one myself.’
‘You don’t know what Charlie ’s like.’
‘Teenagers,’ he continued, as if I hadn’t spoken, ‘go missing all the time. You wouldn’t believe how often they’re reported missing and then they turn up, a few hours later, the next day. I’m sure your daughter will come home soon. Have you had an argument recently?’
‘No.’
That wasn’t strictly true, of course. I rarely lose my temper, but Charlie quarrels with everyone, whether they participate or not. She has a strictly confrontational attitude towards the world. When I picture her, she has her hands on her hips or her arms folded provocatively. She challenges people, she glowers, she squabbles, she storms out of rooms and slams doors. But she’s like Rory, or like Rory used to be: quick to anger and quick to apologize or forgive, generous and contrite to a fault, never bearing grudges. She argued with me yesterday, and she argued with me the day before that and probably the day before that as well, about the fact that she’d lost her physics coursework on her computer and hadn’t backed it up, about whether she and Ashleigh could go to London for a concert on a school day, about why she had to go to her father’s when there was a big party on Sandling Island that evening, about eating an entire pack of ice-cream but leaving the empty tub in the freezer as an irritating decoy, about borrowing my shoes without asking and breaking the heel … But those were small tiffs, the daily stuff of Charlie’s life.
‘No,’ I repeated. ‘We hadn’t argued.’
‘Boyfriend trouble?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Charlie doesn’t have a boyfriend.’
‘As far as you know,’ said PC Mahoney, smiling humorously at me.
‘She would have told me,’ I said. ‘She tells me things.’ For she did. Charlie gave me her anger and impatience, but she also offered me her confidences, often in a touchingly candid way. She’d told me about the boys who’d asked her out; she’d confessed about getting horribly drunk on Bacardi Breezers at Ashleigh’s house, so that she’d thrown up on the neat green lawn; she’d asked my advice about spots and period pains, talked about how she felt stifled by her father’s over-protectiveness. ‘Look, this is all irrelevant.’
‘How about at school? Was she happy? Any trouble with her peer group?’
‘Nothing that would have made her run away from home.’
‘There was trouble, then?’
‘She was bullied for a bit,’ I said shortly. ‘She was the new girl and didn’t fit in. You know how vicious girls can be in a group. But that’s all stopped now.’
‘Mmmm.’ He stood up suddenly, tucking his notebook back into his pocket. ‘Let’s pay a visit to Charlotte’s bedroom.’
‘What for?’
‘Up the stairs, is it?’
He was already on his way, and I followed him.
‘I’ve already looked. There’s nothing to see.’
‘This one?’
‘Yes.’
PC Mahoney stood stolidly in the doorway, gazing in at the catastrophe of Charlie’s room. The air in here smelt thickly fragrant: Charlie loved creams, lotions and bath oils. After she had taken one of her epic showers or lain for hours in a sudsy bath, she would drip her way into her room and rub cream into her body, spray perfume over it and into her coppery hair.
‘Not very tidy, is it?’ he remarked mildly.
He stooped down, picked up
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