In Too Deep (37 page)

Our room feels dishevelled and abandoned. Hannah had started packing up her things – her holdall is on the bed with a few clothes stuffed in it. Cooper thumps his tail against my legs as we go in, still pleased to see me. Susan kindly arranged for her receptionist to come up to our room and fetch him, giving him a walk and some water and food. I thanked her profusely when I collected him from behind the front desk.

‘It was a pleasure to take care of him,’ she said. ‘And the guests loved him. I think we should get a hotel dog.’ She grinned and patted him as I walked to the stairs, Cooper following obediently.

In the bathroom I pick up Hannah’s toiletry bag. I drop in her toothbrush and paste, her face creams, a flannel, a hairbrush and anything else I think she’ll need.

I choose two clean T-shirts from the drawer, plus a pair of grey tracksuit bottoms in case she feels like getting out of the hospital gown. I grab her slippers, too, and her favourite fluffy cardigan. Then I see Oscar poking out
from under her duvet. I place him carefully in the bag, giving him a kiss first. I try to imagine that he smells of Jacob, though the truth is that wore off long ago.

Then my thoughts are on the Range Rover again. The Range Rover that’s not there.

‘What was I
thinking
?’ I say, shocked at how stupid I’ve been. I rummage in my bag for my phone, pulling everything out. It’s as if I’ve been looking at the world through a thick fog. I scroll down through the address book until I get to PC Lane’s number. As often happens, I’m greeted by her message service.

‘Kath, it’s Gina Forrester. Look, I’m away at the moment but there’s something that’s too important to ignore any longer. I think you’ll agree. It’s about a Range Rover. A dark green model from 2008.’ I take a deep breath, hearing Susan’s excuses rattling through my mind. Just who is she protecting?

‘It’s got a dent on the front left panel. Will you call me back? Thanks.’

I hang up, refocusing on Hannah and getting her well and home. I pull her charger from the socket by her bed, and hunt around for her phone. It wasn’t with her when I found her. Then I see her bag – the soft leather backpack I bought her for Christmas, roomy enough for her university books. It was the best gift I could manage with Rick’s disappearance still so fresh in our minds.

It’s stuffed full of things – her iPad, a make-up bag, several paperback books, some sweets and an umbrella. And then I see the notebook – a battered old thing held
together with a thick elastic band. I recognise it, having seen her jotting down ideas and thoughts from time to time. A cross between a diary and a memory-jogger. Like Rick, she’s always preferred to write things down rather than make notes on her phone.

I hate myself for it, but I can’t help a look. It might tell me who the father is.

As I suspect, Hannah’s musings go back a while. Mostly it’s notes regarding A levels, things she had to remember at school, thoughts about her friends, how they were helping her in the aftermath of losing her brother.

I knew the grief we all felt was deep and penetrating, different for each of us, but I had no idea she’s been struggling this much.

Throughout the book, Hannah has written poems to Jacob – some describing his innocent charm, his beguiling smile, the way he could get away with anything just by tipping his head a certain way.

I smile. So she noticed it too.

Her simple words almost bring him back to life. Here and there, she’s stuck pressed flowers between the pages, newspaper clippings, tickets and other mementos, each illustrating what she was trying to say, highlighting a moment in her life.

Quickly, I flip through the pages, skim-reading over details about university applications, notes on her personal statement, phone numbers, days out, a few recipes, and jottings about clothes she was saving up for.

I skip past more pages, impatient to get to the present,
and then, much further on in the notebook – it must be November because Hannah mentions her dad – she has written:
Gone
.
My dad has gone. It’s all my fault.

Then there are notes about what Kath Lane asked her when they chatted, plus her replies, underlining some parts. She’s described how I was coping – not very well, by all accounts – with
falling apart
mentioned several times. Hannah’s guilt is immense, though she never says why.

But it’s what’s at the back of the notebook that catches my eye. Hannah logged things that Jacob’s school friends told her, as if she interviewed them, perhaps conducting her own long-abandoned investigation. It sounds like something Hannah would do.

There are no dates, but she’s written that they’re in Year 10. I recognise the names – they were in the same class as Jacob, and a couple of them came round after school. They’d be in Year 11 now, so this was perhaps written about twelve months ago. It’s hard to believe that Jacob would be taking his GCSE exams this summer.

James Donnelly
, Hannah has written.
Remembers last lesson.
Then she’s put
D-day
in brackets.
IT
lesson. Mr Chase set a project. ‘Imagine you are travel agent organising English holiday for American couple.’
Hannah has put a string of exclamation marks under that bit, saying that she was once set the same project.
Jacob liked High School
, James had gone on to tell her
. He had friends. Joined the football team.

Mark Gibbs
, Hannah wrote.
Also remembers that
IT
class. Everyone mucking about. Jacob went to the loo looking upset. Mr Chase had to find him. Some kids laughed when he came back crying. Jacob was working alone.

Rachel and Tom Swift (the twins) both liked Jacob
, Hannah has written.
Travel agent project. Had to arrange flights, transfers, hotels, tours and sightseeing. Stick to budget. Rachel told me Jacob was acting normal, chatting and working at computer, but suddenly he ran out. He didn’t go to football training. Someone said they saw him at the bus stops. (Danny?) After that, no one knows.

But we do, I think. The police reckoned that he’d got confused at the school bus stops – Jacob had never been confident at finding his own way – and had got on the wrong bus. When he’d realised his mistake, that was when he’d asked the driver to let him off. They’d been several miles out of town by then.

Hannah then wrote several pages of speculations – perhaps Jacob was being bullied, that he was having trouble with his friends, that he couldn’t do the work, or maybe he hated his new school (she’d put how she felt the same for the first term or so).

I snap it closed and replace the elastic band. I’ll never know for certain. Then, as I find her phone at the bottom of her backpack, I wonder why she hasn’t made similar notes in order to work out what happened to her dad.

Perhaps like me, I think, turning off the lights and locking up the room, she can’t stand to face the truth.

‘Would you call me a taxi, please? My car’s been taken to the garage.’ Cooper stands beside me, wagging his tail as the hotel receptionist fusses over him. ‘And I don’t suppose there’s any chance you could . . . ?’ I glance down at him.

‘Yes on both counts,’ she says with glee. ‘Hello again, boy!’ She pats her thighs as I hand over his lead.

‘I won’t be too long. I need to take stuff back to my daughter in hospital and—’

‘Nonsense,’ Susan says, emerging from the back office. She looks a lot more composed than half an hour ago. ‘Jane, don’t worry about the taxi. I’ll drive Gina.’

‘Really, there’s no need,’ I say, but Susan is already out from behind the desk, her hand on my arm, leading me towards the door. Her bag is on her shoulder and her keys are in her hand. Despite my misgivings about her, she seems as genuine as anyone ever could be.

Half an hour later, she parks the car at the hospital and buys a ticket. ‘I’ll come in with you,’ she says. ‘I’d like to see Hannah, if that’s OK.’

We walk to the ward together, trying to keep the conversation light. I ring the intercom and a moment later a nurse lets us in.

‘Not heard a peep from her since you left,’ she says, leaving us to head down the corridor by ourselves. I smile, recognising her from earlier.

‘She’s got her own side room,’ I tell Susan, though I think it was more by design than luck. A bed on the general maternity ward is no place for a young girl who’s just lost a five-month pregnancy.

As we go into her room, I stop suddenly. ‘Where is she?’

Her bed is empty.

I step outside again and check the number beside the door. It’s the correct room.

Back inside, I check the folder at the end of the bed. It has Hannah’s name on it.

‘Perhaps a nurse took her to the bathroom,’ I suggest. ‘That’s a good sign, I suppose.’ My racing heart slows at the rational thought. It’s only when the nurse comes in to take her blood pressure, asking where Hannah has gone, that it speeds right back up again.

‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’ I stare at the ward sister, unable to believe what I’m hearing. I force myself to stay calm, trying to convince myself there’ll be a rational explanation.

Three nurses have now gathered in Hannah’s room, staring at the empty bed and disconnected drip stand as if she might reappear at any moment. They’ve already been round the ward twice, searching every toilet and bathroom and all the other individual rooms.

‘We don’t know where she’s gone, I’m afraid,’ the young yet competent nurse says. ‘In my opinion, she wasn’t well enough to leave her bed, let alone the ward.’ She shakes her head, as if my daughter is yet another nuisance patient who’s taken herself off to the canteen for a hit of chocolate or coffee.

‘Does she smoke?’ another nurse asks. ‘Perhaps she went outside.’

I shake my head vigorously. ‘Did
you
see anything?’ I snap at the nurse who has so far remained mute. Susan’s
arm is around my shoulders, holding me steady, as if I’m ever so slightly mad.

‘Sorry, no. I was dealing with—’

‘Perhaps you’d like to wait in the relatives’ room, Mrs Forrester,’ the more senior nurse suggests. ‘I’ll contact security right away.’ She turns to go but stops in the doorway, blocking my exit. ‘Sometimes we get patients leave of their own accord,’ she says, less sternly. ‘I don’t condone it, of course, but when they’re consenting adults, there’s not much we can do except alert their GPs.’

‘But Hannah wouldn’t do that,’ I say, wanting to scream. ‘She’s not stupid. She knows she needs medical care.’ I stop, giving a compliant nod, and follow Susan. She sits beside me in the relatives’ room while the ward sister goes off in search of answers.

‘Why are people always disappearing from my life?’ I say in a high-pitched and shaky voice. Susan pours two cups of water from the dispenser.

‘It’s called having a family,’ she replies kindly. ‘And being a mother.’

‘But your family hasn’t disappeared.’

Susan is quiet for a moment. ‘No,’ she says, staring at her lap. ‘Not yet.’

The ward sister eventually comes back to the relatives’ room with flaming-red cheeks and a frown.

‘Mrs Forrester,’ she says breathlessly.

I stand up. Susan is beside me.

‘I just had a call from security. They’ve scanned the
CCTV cameras. There’s some footage they want you to see.’

‘Oh God.’ I drop down into the chair again, covering my mouth. ‘Is it bad?’

The nurse glances at Susan.

‘Would you like me to go?’ Susan offers.

I nod. ‘Thank you.’

Susan walks off, following the sister, but I don’t want to be alone so I chase after them, keeping a distance behind.

Down one floor and along several corridors, the nurse leads Susan into a glass-partitioned office near a pair of external sliding doors. I hang back, watching as one of two security guards shows her a monitor that’s out of sight to me. I see Susan’s face clearly, lit up by the flickering reflected from whatever’s playing on the screen.

She stares at it blank-faced for thirty seconds. A couple of times, the guard reaches forward and clicks a mouse, perhaps changing cameras, maybe showing her different footage.

Susan watches intently.

Then she nods solemnly, her lips forming silent words. I see her teeth clench together and her eyes close for a beat too long. Her hand goes over her mouth. Slowly, she looks up and out through the glass wall, staring right at me. Her other hand beckons me in.

Once inside with the door shut, the hospital sounds fall away. The room is without feeling and airless. The nurse says something, but it’s as if she’s talking another language. I focus on Susan.

‘What is it?’ I say weakly, looking at the blank monitors. ‘Did you see anything? What’s happened?’

Susan swallows. She takes me by the shoulders and draws me close.

‘She’s been taken,’ she says, choked. ‘It looked as though she didn’t want to go.’

‘
No
. . .’ I feel faint. I grab the back of a chair. ‘Who? Did you see who took her?’

After a moment, Susan nods.

‘It was my husband,’ she replies, her voice barely working. ‘It was Phil who took Hannah.’

I didn’t look at the footage. I
couldn’t
look at the footage. In the car, Susan tells me how Hannah was being dragged and pulled by the arm, but when she collapsed Phil had carried her, hauling her over his shoulder. He’d chosen a back way out of the hospital to avoid detection. His brazen exit had incredibly not drawn any attention, with the guards admitting that constantly checking each camera simultaneously was impossible.

‘But Hannah wouldn’t go off with a stranger,’ I say, confused and terrified as Susan drives lethally through the traffic. Unless she was so drugged up she didn’t know what she was doing.

My knees are pressed together and my hands tucked under my thighs. I shouldn’t have got in the car with her, rather I should have stayed at the hospital and waited for the police. But Susan was so convincing. She told me she knew where he would be going, that she could sort it out. Stupidly I believed her.