Missing, Believed Crazy Read online

  But later that afternoon I found her sitting alone under an apple tree in the orchard, staring over the valley. I said something about how the great Trixter plot was going to plan.

  ‘I guess so,’ she said quietly. “But I can’t believe those headlines. What was all that about Trixie? And since when did I become a little angel?’

  ‘That’s newspapers for you. They’ve got to come up with some kind of headline. What would you have put in their place?’

  Trix thought for a moment, then smiled. ‘I’d have put “MISSING, BELIEVED CRAZY”. At least there’s a bit of truth in that.’

  I laughed. ‘So now what?’ I asked.

  ‘We get Holly and Jade here.’

  Oh, great, I thought. ‘Great,’ I said.

  ‘Then we’ll just have to see what happens.’ She turned to me suddenly. ‘We are doing the right thing, aren’t we, Mark?’

  I laughed. ‘It’s kind of late to be having second thoughts,’ I said.

  She sighed and went back to staring into space.

  ‘It was a good plan,’ I said. ‘Remember the starving kids.’

  She nodded. ‘That’s what matters, not me. The children of Mwanduna.’

  ‘Right.’

  We sat in silence for a moment.

  What, I wondered, was going on out there beyond the mountains?

  EVA JOHANSSON

  In my line of work, the ringing of the phone is like a heartbeat. It stops, and you know you’re dead.

  By now, Jason and I were back in England. The phone rang and rang yet I felt I was drowning – drowning in my own tears. It seemed that everybody wanted to talk about this terrible Trixie business.

  Some calls were from famous friends offering to help (I could mention names but I won’t). Others were from ordinary friends. Detective Inspector Cartwright rang me to ‘keep me in the loop’ as he put it, about the progress of police investigations (I would say no progress at all). Then there were the newspapers, on and on about Little Trixie this, Little Trixie that. ‘What about a mother’s pain?’ I wanted to ask them. ‘Why don’t you write about that?’

  Then, after two days back in England, something rather interesting happened. My American agent Lori rang me to tell me that she had received calls from people in the business asking her whether I was still working. I was too upset about Trixie to listen carefully, but I do recall Lori mentioned a major player in Hollywood who, for reasons of confidentiality, I shall call Leonardo DiC. These people were not ringing out of sympathy for me, my agent said – merely that the news had reminded them of my talent.

  Talent? Me? It was hardly the time to talk about my talent as a leading actress.

  ‘Lori,’ I said, ‘listen to me. I am a mother. I am holding on to my life like a shipwrecked person clinging on to a raft in stormy seas. I know you’re doing your job but right now I can only think of Trixie.’

  ‘So I turn them down?’

  ‘On the other hand,’ I said, ‘I know that I owe it to Jason, to you, to my public, to keep working when this nightmare is finished. What is it they say? The show must go on.’

  Lori waited a moment, then said, ‘So that’s a yes, right? I keep listening to the offers?’

  ‘Do what you must,’ I said, emotion overcoming me once more. ‘Do what you must.’

  LORI MAPLETHORPE-MOORE

  I’m not saying Eva was washed up as an actress at that point. People still remembered her from the 1980s. But, until the kidnap came along, I was being asked if she was available for anti-ageing-cream ads. You hear what I’m saying? The stuff about her daughter going missing gave her visibility. That’s just the way show business works.

  JASON EVERLEIGH

  It was ‘Welcome to the madhouse’. The phone rang. Eva got hysterical. And in the middle of all this, I’m on the phone to the States trying to do deals for my clients. I tell you, it was Nightmare City.

  Then, just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, guess who walked – maybe that should be ‘staggered’ – back into the picture.

  The father. The big-time loser. The Drunk.

  TRACY BROWN

  I went to the police station to help them produce a computer simulation of the man who snatched poor little Trixie.

  It was so frighteningly realistic that, when I saw it, I actually broke down in tears. Those horrible, horrible moments came flooding back.

  When the newspapers showed the picture, the man I had seen was described as ‘the Demon Taxi-Driver’. Yes, I thought, that’s right, that’s how he looked – like someone who had come from hell.

  HOLLY

  The strange, scary stuff that was appearing on the TV began to get to us. We had to keep reminding ourselves that Trix was tough. She was in control. She had never been Little Trixie. There was no such thing as a Demon Taxi-Driver.

  The kidnap story was spiralling out of control.

  JADE

  Every day, the Little Trixie of the headlines seemed less like the Trix we knew. Every day, the theories about her disappearance grew wilder.

  One day, Mr Hunky Policeman (who had started wearing a rather cool pair of dark glasses) mentioned that he had been told Trixie spent a lot of time online. His team had been ‘working on the theory’ that she had met some older bloke in a chat room and had been persuaded to see him.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Holly, her eyes on the screen. ‘And we’re now working on the theory that you’re a total prat.’

  Trix in a chat room, allowing herself to be stalked by some old geezer. How pathetic was that?

  DETECTIVE INSPECTOR BARRY CARTWRIGHT

  I regret I am not at liberty to divulge my source of information as regards the theory that someone was ‘grooming’ Trixie online. Suffice to say, my officers took it seriously enough at the time for me to mention it during my interviews. It was an important part of the developing picture.

  PETE BELL

  In the press reports, they referred to me as a ‘former journalist’. That hurt. ‘Former’? What was former about me? Every morning, when I awoke, I was still, in my poor, tired, aching brain, a journalist. I’d take a cup of black coffee and light the first cigarette of the day. I’d make my way to my desk, switch on the computer, switch on my brain, and wait.

  And wait.

  And wait.

  A story. I just needed a story. Fifteen years ago, just before Trix was born, there were stories all around me. I travelled the world, writing about politics, war, people. I wasn’t just hot. I was on fire. A Pete Bell story was guaranteed the front page of any newspaper. People envied me – my job, my beautiful wife, my daughter, my shining, golden future.

  Now everything was grey and no story seemed to matter any more except the one I didn’t want to tell – how a promising young journalist with a lovely and successful wife threw it all away.

  It’s always the same. After about an hour in front of the computer screen, it occurs to me, as if for the first time, that the engine might need a little lubrication. Yes. Just a small one. It will be a spark. Get the motor turning.

  To the kitchen. Open the cupboard. Take out the whisky bottle. Pour a small glass. Knock it back in one gulp.

  Ah. It burns. It makes me feel alive. I’m rolling now. In fact, I feel so much better that I’ll take a second glass up with me to work.

  So the day’s slide into the haze begins.

  Soon after Trix’s disappearance appeared on the news, a journalist I used to work with rang me. He is now a big wheel on one of the national newspapers. He asked the usual questions about Trix and was just about to sign off when he said, after this telling little pause, ‘What happened, Pete?’

  I asked him what he meant.

  ‘When we were on the newsdesk together, you cared about things – you cared too much sometimes. Now someone kidnaps your only child and you’re sitting there, feeling sorry for yourself and getting drunk.’

  ‘Instead of what exactly?’

  ‘Instead of doing something. Instead of fighting. In
stead of showing that caring about something – loving someone – doesn’t mean a thing unless you take action. That was what the young Pete Bell would have done.’

  I really didn’t need that – a sermon. Not in my state. I swore at him and hung up. Poured myself another drink. It tasted sour in my mouth.

  That night, I couldn’t sleep. The conversation with my former friend kept coming back to me. Fighting. Taking action. Showing you care. That was what the young Pete Bell would have done.

  The next morning I put in a call to Detective Inspector Cartwright, then left a message on my ex-wife’s voicemail. I started making notes. Maybe I needed a little pick-me-up to help me think straight.

  I made my way as usual towards the drinks cupboard, then gave it a swerve. I put the kettle on for a cup of coffee.

  MISS FOTHERGILL

  Those policemen! After I told them that Trix had spent a lot of time with her laptop that summer term, they just would not let it go. Who was she talking to? Did she have special online ‘buddies’?

  I told them again and again. She was concerned about world poverty. She was finding out how she could help. ‘Buddies’ were frankly the last thing on poor little Trix’s mind. I’m not sure they believed me.

  DETECTIVE INSPECTOR BARRY CARTWRIGHT

  When you’re in the business of fighting crime, you’ve seen it all. Civilians – teachers, parents – have no idea what their little darlings get up to. A fourteen-year-old girl worrying about Africa. No, no, no. That wasn’t going to fly. It didn’t compute.

  PETE BELL

  In the old days, when I was still someone, I would now and then get lost in a story, confused by all the information I had uncovered. There were so many theories as to why something happened, so many voices saying different things.

  So I would get out a piece of paper and write down what I actually knew. Sometimes when the fog of opinion and speculation was lifted, I could see more clearly what had happened.

  It was what I did next. I put aside everything I had read in the press or heard from the police about Trix, and thought of what I knew about her.

  I had sensed from her occasional calls to me from school that there was something wrong, something missing in her life. Her mother ignored her. I was too awash with booze and self-pity to be of use. Her stepfather actively disliked her. There had been problems at school. Now she had disappeared.

  What if this was not a kidnapping at all but a break for freedom? Maybe Trix had run away to start a new life. It would have been a wild thing to do, but Trix has never lacked courage.

  I shared my thoughts with Barry Cartwright. It’s fair to say that he was unimpressed.

  DETECTIVE INSPECTOR BARRY CARTWRIGHT

  Very often in these cases, the father is involved. Divorced. Bitter. On the skids. Drink problem. All these factors made Peter Bell what we police officers call ‘unreliable’. When he popped in at a key part of our investigations and told us that he was convinced that little Trixie had run away of her own accord, we began to have our suspicions. We kept him under surveillance. Eva Johansson was convinced that we were wrong, but in this game you can’t be too certain.

  We had the Demon Taxi-Driver. Now we had the Dodgy Dad. I felt we were making progress.

  MRS MAGGIE DE VRIESS

  My daughter Holly has always been a caring person. Not surprisingly, the disappearance of her little friend began to take the gloss off her Italian holiday. She began to mooch about, watching TV rather than sitting by the pool. Both she and her American friend Jade seemed jumpy and ill at ease. I suspected that neither of them were sleeping as well as they should.

  So when, one evening while we were having a barbecue on the terrazzo, Holly announced that she and Jade wanted to go home, we were not entirely surprised.

  ‘But, darling,’ I said, ‘there’s no one to go home to. We’re out here and Jade’s parents will probably be at work all day.’

  ‘We can stay with Mark Bliss,’ she said coolly.

  ‘Who exactly is Mark Bliss?’ asked Geoff, my husband.

  ‘He’s a good friend of Trix’s,’ said Holly. ‘And her other best friend William Church is staying with him at his godfather’s place.’

  I was not keen. It was not exactly a good time for young girls to be travelling about on their own.

  ‘My mum will meet us at the airport,’ Jade piped up. ‘She’ll put us on the train. It’ll be cool.’

  Later that night, Geoff and I discussed the matter. There was no way that we were going to interrupt our hard-earned holiday. I assumed Jade’s mother was reliable. We agreed that we should call the godfather of this Mark Bliss and take it from there.

  HOLLY

  Had Jade just referred to her mum? I happened to know that her mother was on holiday on the other side of the world with her latest boyfriend.

  I’ll give that girl one thing. She had nerve.

  GODFATHER GIDEON

  Jeepers. More kids. This woman with a voice like a chainsaw rang from Italy. Mark had mentioned that the call was coming, so I was prepared. What a summer this was turning out to be.

  ‘Oh well,’ I said. ‘I’ve got three of the little blighters here already. I suppose another two won’t make a difference.’

  To tell the truth, the idea was less painful than I might once have thought. Having Mark and his friends at Hill Farm had been almost enjoyable. Strange, that.

  MRS DE VRIESS

  Three? Who was the third? For a moment I was thrown. But Gideon Burrowes, the godfather, sounded a well-spoken man and I had his telephone number.

  The third child, I assumed, was his own. Everyone has children, don’t they?

  WIKI

  If it were not for the small fact that we were at the centre of a major international crime, those days at Hill Farm would have been pretty good. There were things to do all day – not just killing animals for supper, collecting eggs and firewood, but also swimming in a pond that was at the end of the fields, climbing trees. One day, after lunch, Gideon showed us how to whittle a piece of wood – ash is best – to make a catapult.

  The sun shone. The cats basked themselves on the front doorstep. Birds (I found out from one of Gideon’s books that they were swallows) swooped down over the courtyard and into the shed where he kept his tractor. Then there would be this mad twittering as they fed the chicks that were in a nest on a ledge. And off the adult swallows would go again.

  Sometimes I just lay on the grass, feeling the sun on my skin and watching the swallows come and go. I felt alive.

  MARK

  I had been to Gideon’s before and I knew the way it worked around there – look at the animals, drive the tractor, get used to the smell of cow-dung. It was fine in its way although, given the choice, I prefer real life.

  The other two were less cool about it. Wiki morphed into this young gamekeeper-type, forever asking Gideon about some bird or flower that he found. ‘Wow,’ he’d say. ‘Look at that – a lesser-spotted, crimson-breasted whatsit bird. They’re really unusual.’ At first I thought he was trying it on, but I began to realize that he was learning all sorts of stuff about the country every day. I had to admit it. Wiki was on his way to being a true straw-chewing country boy.

  Ever since we had heard from Italy that Holly and the Jadester would soon be on their way to join us on the side of a Welsh mountain, Trix had been more cheerful. Girls like girl company – it’s one of those strange things.

  And you know what? Old Wik and I got caught up in the general feeling. When we got the call that the girls had arrived and were in the taxi from the station, we left our various tasks and went to a bank at the end of the long drive, which looked down the hill into the valley, to wait for the last two members of ‘the gang’ to arrive.

  JADE

  The English countryside: I don’t get it. There’s way too much weather. Everything’s tiny – the roads, the shops, the people. The facilities are zilch. OK, I admit there are birds and trees and stuff and, if you happen to be o
ne of those people who gets excited by birds and trees and stuff, there’s no limit to the number of hours you can spend looking at them on account of their being everywhere all the time. For anyone else (i.e. anyone with a brain), the countryside is like school detention with scenery. I never saw the point of it.

  So the news that we were now leaving a perfectly acceptable luxury villa to go to Wales, which I just knew was going to be even worse than English countryside, made my spirits sag big time.

  OK, I thought, so we’ve got a self-kidnapping situation. We’ve got a lost summer holiday situation. What could possibly make the whole thing just that bit worse? Yup, that’s right. A Welsh situation.

  HOLLY

  The taxi climbed and climbed. We left this little country road and went up a bumpy track. After about five minutes, we saw these scruffy village children ahead of us, sitting around doing nothing.

  ‘Sheesh, meet the neighbours,’ Jade said gloomily.

  The taxi was about to pass them when the smallest of them started waving.