Alison called Terry’s mobile. Asked where he was.
‘At the Cross Keys. Why?’
No surprise there. He liked to have a couple of beers and unwind after work. ‘Have you seen Jodie?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Because she went to Abbasi’s an hour ago to get some milk and she hasn’t come home.’
‘Maybe she got talking to a mate. Why don’t you call her?’
‘I have. It went straight to voicemail.’
‘She’s probably got it switched off.’
‘She never switches it off.’
‘Out of charge?’
Alison gnawed her lip. ‘I need you to come home.’
‘Okay. I’ll see if I can get someone to give me a lift.’
Alison disconnected the call and tried Jodie’s number again. Voicemail again. ‘Please leave a message after the tone.’ The woman’s automated voice seemed to be mocking her. Talking down to her as if she was just a frantic mother worrying over nothing.
This time, Alison left a message. ‘Hi, sweetie. It’s Mum. Call me, I’m getting worried.’
She went to the front room window and peered outside. Cars lined the street on both sides. A skinny woman was walking a dog that seemed big enough to eat her, and a man was struggling with a car seat in the back of a Toyota.
She phoned the two numbers in her contacts list where Jodie occasionally went for sleepovers and tea. Neither parent had seen her. Both assured her that Jodie would probably turn up with a perfectly good reason for not coming straight home. Alison wished she could believe them.
An idea. Not brilliant, but at least it was something. She grabbed her phone, slipped on her flip-flops, and hurried to Abbasi’s.
Mr Abbasi was trying to tell a young man that it didn’t matter how old he was, he didn’t look twenty-five.
‘Why I gotta look twenty-five when it’s legal to buy booze at eighteen?’
‘Because it’s the law.
‘But it makes no sense.’
‘I’m sorry. If you show me some ID, then I’ll serve you.’
The guy turned around and stomped out of the shop. ‘Twat.’
Abbasi shook his head. ‘Nice lad.’
Alison skipped formalities. ‘Has Jodie been in for milk?’
‘About an hour ago.’
‘Was she with anyone else?’
‘No.’
‘Did she say where she was going.’
‘No. Why?’
‘Because she was meant to come straight home.’
‘Perhaps she’s gone to a friend’s house.’
Alison swallowed her heart. ‘I hope so. I really hope so.’
‘Maybe you should call the police.’
Alison nodded, her mind already out of the shop. ‘If you see her, tell her to come straight home.’
‘Of course.’
Alison took off her flip-flops and ran most of the way back along St John’s Road. She stopped at Chloe Parson’s house three doors away from hers and jammed her finger on the bell. Chloe had a daughter the same age as Jodie. They weren’t friends, but they sometimes walked home from school together in term time from the primary school opposite Abbasi’s.
Chloe opened the door, hair dripping wet and brushed back from her pale freckled face. ‘Ali? What’s wrong?’
‘Is Jodie here?’
She shook her head, spraying water on the woodchip wall. ‘Why?’
‘I sent her for milk over an hour ago, and she hasn’t come home.’
‘Shit.’
‘I just wondered if she might be with Hannah.’
‘Hannah’s at her nan’s in Brighton. Do you want me to help you look for her?’
Feelham suddenly felt the size of London. Jodie could be anywhere. With anyone. You saw stories on the news. Kids that never returned home. The frantic searches. TV appeals. ‘I don’t know what to do. My head’s all over the place.’
‘I’m sure she’ll turn up looking sheepish and—’
‘I’m scared, Chloe. It’s really out of character.’
‘Do you want to come in?’
Alison nodded. She didn’t want to go home and be on her own.
Chloe offered her a seat in the lounge. The bland magnolia walls were daubed with crayon. No prizes for guessing the artist: Chloe’s three-year-old son, Haydon. Pictures of wild cats decorated the top half of the walls, as if Chloe was trying to bring an African safari into her lounge.
Chloe lit a cigarette. ‘Where’s Terry?’
‘He’s on his way home.’
‘Do you want me to call the cops?’
‘No. I’ll do it.’ Alison punched in 999 and told the female call handler that her daughter was missing.
‘Can I have your name and address, please?’
‘Alison Willis. 97, St John’s Road, Feelham.’
‘And your daughter’s name?’
‘Jodie. Jodie Willis.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Eleven.’
‘Her date of birth?’
‘July 1st 2009.’
‘Approximate height?’
‘Four-foot-two.’
‘Weight?’
Jesus Christ, what is this? ‘Not sure. She’s thin.’
‘Any identifying marks?’
‘Only a mole on her left cheek.’
‘Eye colour?’
‘Green.’
‘Hair?’
‘Light-brown.’
‘What she was wearing when you last saw her?’
‘Red tee-shirt and pink shorts. She also had a small purple purse.’
‘Has Jodie any medical conditions such as asthma or diabetes?’
‘No.’
‘Have you contacted all her known friends and associates?’
‘Yes.’
‘Has Jodie got a mobile phone?’
Don’t all kids these days? ‘Yes.’
‘Could you give me the number, please?’
‘I’m gonna have to look it up on my phone. Hold on a minute.’ Alison brought up the menu and read out Jodie’s number to the call handler.
‘How long has she been absent?’
‘Nearly two hours. I sent her to the shops to buy some milk, and she hasn’t come back.’
‘Has she ever gone missing before?’
‘No.’
‘Been in any trouble?’
‘No.’
‘What about drug use?’
‘No.’
‘Other than contacting her friends, have you done anything else to locate your daughter?’
‘I’ve been to the shop. Mr Abbasi said she came in for milk just after six, and that was the last he saw of her.’
‘Mr Abbasi?’
‘The local shopkeeper.’
‘And you’ve not fallen out with her?’
‘No.’
‘Okay. I’ll send someone out to see you shortly. In the meantime, if your daughter turns up, please let us know.’
Alison disconnected the call, thanked her neighbour, and headed home. Her stomach felt as if it was playing host to a nest of hornets, and a headache pulsed behind her eyes.