Guilty

by Laura Elliot

Genres: Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

‘ I was gripped from the first few pages and found myself hooked on a rollercoaster ride up to the last few pages… I read it in pretty much one sitting, I just needed to know how the book was going to end’ Donna’s Book Blog It begins with a phone call. It ends with a missing child. On a warm summer’s morning, thirteen-year-old school girl Constance Lawson is reported missing. A few days later, Constance’s uncle, Karl Lawson, suddenly finds himself swept up in a media frenzy created by journalist Amanda Bowe implying that he is the prime suspect. Six years later … Karl’s life is in ruins. His marriage is over, his family destroyed. But the woman who took everything away from him is thriving. With a successful career, husband and a gorgeous baby boy, Amanda’s world is complete. Until the day she receives a phone call and in a heartbeat, she is plunged into every mother’s worst nightmare. An utterly compelling psychological thriller that will keep you guessing to the very last page. Perfect for fans of The Girl on the Train, Gone Girl and Sarah A. Denzil’s Silent Child. Read what everyone is saying about Guilty : ‘ Guilty was such a great book. It was filled with so many twists and turns…It was well written and definitely made you wanting more with every page turn. ’ Oh My Lit ‘ Guilty is one gripping psychological thriller with a well-constructed plot and realistic and believable characters… Incredibly thought-provoking, it'll make you question everything.’ Novel Deelights ‘A mesmerizing psychological thriller…and will leave you completely fulfilled with a flawless ending. Guilty is the first novel I have read by Laura Elliot and it will NOT be my last. I found Guilty to be impossible to put down, the characters are intoxicating, and the story compulsively addictive. ’ Books and Smiles ‘A great thriller that is full of suspense and tension.’ Goodreads Reviewer ‘This book is a raw, edge-of-the-seat page-turner. The story is told in four parts, all of which lead into each other beautifully.’ Goodreads Reviewer ‘ This tense psychological thriller grips you tight from the prologue and adds layers of tension with each page you turn…Laura Elliot has skillfully crafted an excellent novel. Her writing style keeps you flipping pages at a frantic pace.' Goodreads reviewer ‘This is a very well written psychological thriller.’ Strong Reviews

Release date: June 22, 2017

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 394

Sample

The night has laid claim to Cherrywood Terrace. Street lamps pool the pavements and burglar alarms wink from the walls of slumbering houses. A chink of light escapes between old Mr Shannon’s bedroom curtains. He never sleeps at night, or so he tells her, staying awake with crosswords and books of poetry in case death comes calling in the small hours to catch him unawares.

In the room next door her parents are sleeping. Her father’s faint, rhythmic snoring is the only sound to break the silence as she rummages through the clutter at the bottom of her wardrobe. From deep in the toe of a boot she has outgrown, she removes a phone and reads the last text she received. The one she has ignored until now. The challenge is clear. It’s dangerous, high-risk, reckless, unnecessary. She doesn’t have to take it on yet, even as she repeats these words to herself, she feels a coiling excitement, the giddy fever of knowing she can do it – will do it – and no one will ever call her a coward again.

She shoves cans of spray paint and a torch into her backpack, along with the phone. Better change her trainers for boots. Turnstone Marsh will be swampy in places. She pauses on the landing. Madness, she thinks. Why am I doing this? But anger has pushed her this far and it remains the barb that drives her down the stairs.

Out on the terrace she hesitates and looks towards a house on the far side. She was there earlier, silently entering and leaving the same way. She shrugs the memory aside and walks swiftly to the end of the terrace where a pedestrian lane provides a short-cut to Turnstone Marsh.

It’s darker here. Her footsteps sound too loud. The wind tosses her hair as it tunnels between the high walls on either side of her. She sees it flailing in the shadow cast before her and pauses, afraid she is being followed. All is silent when she looks back. No footsteps behind her, none coming towards her. She reaches the end of the lane and crosses the road to the marsh.

Bells of white bindweed flutter like spectres in the roadside hedges and she hesitates, torn between the desire to return home and burrow under her duvet and the need to continue on and complete the challenge. She climbs an embankment and jumps down on to the spongy grass. The humps and hollows of the marsh are familiar to her. This is where she used to ride her mountain bike when she was younger, but her surroundings look different now, eerie and threatening. She takes the torch from her backpack and sweeps it over the jagged outline of Toblerone Range. She remembers the struggle to cycle to the top peak, then the exhilarating ride across the humps. The thrill of descending without stopping or falling off. Now, she is facing an even bigger challenge and she is anxious to complete it before her parents awaken and discover she is missing.

She follows the path by the river. The ground is firmer here, safer than walking along the grassy trails. At the end of the marsh, she crosses Orchard Road and stops outside the haunted house. The gate is padlocked. She shines her torch along the boundary wall and finds a gap where the bricks that have broken away provide her with a foothold to climb over.

The outside walls of the house are covered in graffiti. Last year, the front door was removed and used for a Hallowe’en bonfire. At the entrance, the smell of mildew forces her to a standstill. She asks herself once again why she has taken on such a senseless dare. It’s white-knuckle, crazy stuff. A man died in this house. Seven days dead before he was discovered by the postman. His ghost could be waiting inside, ready to wail at her when she steps over the threshold. Even if ghosts don’t exist, there will be rats watching her, waiting to bite.

She turns to leave, then changes her mind. She must go forward if she is to reclaim her position with The Fearless. She climbs down the steps into the basement. In the beam from her torch, she sees old, mouldering furniture, rusting pots and pans. She almost trips over a horse’s saddle. Slashed open, its fleece, scraggy as a crow’s nest, spills from the interior. She takes the cans of paint from her backpack. The walls are already covered in graffiti, stupid swirls and squiggles and angles and curses. That’s just vandalism. She believes graffiti should have a purpose. It should make a statement. A protest against authority, particularly parents who’ve forgotten what it’s like to be young. She positions her torch on the floor and sets to work.

It’s done. She videos her art with the Fearless phone. The cover loosens and flaps against her hand. Impatiently, she pulls the phone free and films the junk strewn across the basement. This will add atmosphere to her video. Paws skitter across the floor. She sprints towards the stairs.

At last, she’s out in the open. The fresh air feels damp on her skin and she can breathe freely again. The anger that gave her the courage to complete the challenge turns to relief but she feels regret, also. She has broken a promise she made to someone special. She pushes this stab of guilt aside and argues with herself that friends are more important. Belonging matters. And she will be back in the circle again – right in its centre – after tonight.

A briar snags her jeans. In the darkness, it feels as if a hand has gripped her ankle to prevent her escaping. She bends and pulls at the material, swears softly as the phone slips from her hand into the long grass. By the light of the torch she finds it. The cover has fallen into a patch of thistles. Prickly leaves sting her fingers as she tries to pluck it free. She leaves it there, anxious to be gone from this spooky, derelict site.

She clambers through the gap in the boundary wall and jumps down on to Orchard Road. Once outside, she videos the gate and the exterior of the bleak house where the ghost of Isaac Cronin roams through the mouldy rooms.

She presses record on her phone and shouts, ‘A message to The Fearless. It’s done. No one can ever call me chicken again.’ She spins across the road, giddy with triumph and a story she is longing to tell. The moon pearls the sky, shining coldly and mercilessly down on the last exhilarating moments of Constance Lawson’s young life.

It began with a phone call. Still sleepy, Karl Lawson reached for his mobile on the bedside locker, surprised to see his brother’s name on the screen. Justin never rang in the morning. An early riser, he was usually on the M50 by now, hoping to reach Junction 9 before the peak-hour traffic slowed everyone down.

‘Is Constance with you?’ he asked before Karl had a chance to speak.

‘No,’ he replied, the abruptness of Justin’s question snapping him fully awake. ‘Why on earth should she be here at this hour?’

‘Has she been in touch with you this morning or last night?’

‘I haven’t seen her for a few days. Why? Is something wrong?’

Justin hesitated, as if choosing his words with care. ‘She’s not in her bedroom. I thought she might have called over to talk to you.’

‘Talk about what?’ Karl left his bed and crossed to the window, from where he had a view of his brother’s house. Justin’s car was still in the driveway.

‘Things were a bit fraught here last night,’ Justin admitted. ‘And she usually runs to you when she thinks we’re trying to clip her wings.’

Fraught was probably a euphemism for blistering fury, Karl thought. He was familiar with the rows Constance had with her parents. She was the eldest of three and often complained that her upbringing had been a dress rehearsal for the siblings coming up behind her. Justin was right in thinking she could have confided in him but not on this occasion.

‘Was it a bad row?’ he asked.

‘Apart from telling us we’d ruined her life, no worse than usual,’ Justin replied. ‘But that’s neither here nor there at the moment.’

‘What was the row about?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘If you thought she’d come straight to me then, yes, it does matter.’

‘We’re not allowing her to attend the Blasted Glass concert.’

‘Ah, for God’s sake, Justin, you can’t—’

‘We discussed it with the other parents.’ Justin cut across his protests. ‘We all agreed that the girls are too young… and they are. You should have asked our permission before you told them you had those tickets.’

‘I’d no idea there’d be a problem. They’ve been looking forward to that gig for weeks.’

‘I don’t want an argument about this,’ Justin snapped. ‘Right now I need to find her or she’ll be late for summer camp.’

‘Have you phoned her friends?’

‘Jenna’s already done so. They’ve no idea where she is. They texted each other last night about the concert. Hate rants about parents, I should imagine, but Constance never mentioned anything about where she was going this morning… or if she planned to go out during the night.’ Justin’s voice sharpened, as if the latter possibility was too dangerous to entertain.

‘Night? Constance would never go out at night.’ Even as he spoke, Karl knew this was untrue and the alarm he sensed behind his brother’s questions added to his disquiet.

‘What about the riding-school?’ he asked. ‘Doesn’t she help out in the stables when she’s on her school holidays?’

‘Not without telling us… usually,’ said Justin. ‘But you could be right. I’ll check there. It’s either that or she’s training in the park with the Harriers.’

‘I presume you’ve rung her mobile?’

‘‘She left it on her bedside locker.’

‘Then she can’t have gone far. That phone is like an extension of her right arm.’ Karl’s feet were cold against the wooden floor but the chill that ran through him came from an uneasiness that, as yet, had no direction.

‘I’ll check the beach,’ he said.

‘Why the beach?’ Justin sounded surprised.

‘If she’s out riding, that’s where she could have taken the horse. She’s just working off some teenage angst. We’ll find her quickly enough.’

After they ended the call he sat on the edge of the bed and checked his texts. Three days since he had last heard from Constance.

Have you got the tickets, Uncle Karl?

I have indeed, he’d texted back.

And backstage passes to meet the band. You owe me, kid. Big time.

What was wrong with Justin and Jenna, he wondered as he pulled on a T-shirt and jeans. Constance had been a fan of Blasted Glass ever since Karl introduced her to their new music. The fact that he could get free concert tickets for her and her friends had been an added bonus. He imagined her disappointment last night, her anger over her parents’ decision.

He heard Sasha’s door opening, the soft patter of her feet on the landing.

‘Daddy… Daddy.’ She ran across the bedroom, two Dora the Explorer heads waggling on her slippers, her Dora dressing gown flaring behind her as she jumped into his arms.

He hoisted her on to his back and they descended the stairs, singing the Dora theme song at the top of their voices. She held his neck in a strangle-like grip until he lowered her into an armchair and put on a DVD.

‘Ten minutes, that’s all,’ he said. ‘Then you have to get dressed for summer camp.’

Sasha ignored his warning, her attention already focused on the screen. Having moved seamlessly from the Teletubbies to Barney then on to Dora, her latest phase showed no signs of abating.

Nicole was still in her nurse’s uniform when he entered the kitchen. She looked tired after her night shift in Emergency.

‘Rough night?’ He kissed the top of her head.

‘Chaotic, as usual,’ she replied. ‘But no dramas.’ She plunged the handle on the cafetière and filled the kitchen with the smell of freshly brewed coffee. ‘What’s new in your world?’

‘Justin just rang.’ He accepted the cup of coffee and drank it standing up. ‘Sounds like Constance is in trouble.’

‘How so?’

‘She’d a row with her parents last night.’

‘Not another one?’

‘This time she’s letting them cool their heels. She wasn’t in her bedroom when Jenna checked earlier.’

‘That’s not like Constance.’ Nicole sat down on a kitchen chair and yawned. Mascara smudged the skin under her eyes and wisps of blonde hair feathered her cheeks.

‘She’s thirteen,’ Karl replied. ‘Testing the waters.’

‘I’m surprised she’s not here. You’re usually her first port of call when there’s trouble on the home front.’

‘That’s what Justin thought,’ he replied. ‘But not on this occasion. I know you’re tired but can you hold the fort for a short while longer? I told Justin I’d drive around, see if I can find her. I’ll be back in time to bring Sasha to summer camp.’

‘Go on, then. I’ll get her dressed. I suppose she’s watching Dora again.’

‘Need you ask?’ He pulled the hall door behind him and glanced across the road towards his brother’s house. Justin had already left for the stables.

The morning traffic was beginning to build as Karl drove through Glenmoore. Once past the village and on to the coast road, it eased. It was still too early for the dog walkers but a few joggers were already in action. Karl parked his car on North Beach Road and walked down the wooden steps to the beach. Coral clouds stippled the sky and a cormorant, surfacing from the sea, flapped its wings as it landed on a rock. It was going to be a hot day.

Apart from a shoal of dead jellyfish glistening on the sand, the beach was deserted and unmarked by any indentations from horses’ hooves. He walked towards a formation of rock that curved naturally into a sheltered cove. Nicknamed Ben’s Shack as a tribute to the teenager who had organised the first beach party there, this was where the young people from Glenmoore gathered in the summer. The Shack parties had been a rite of passage for him and Justin during their late teens: bonfires blazing, guitars playing, bottles clinking, weed and sex; a potent mix. Justin had met his wife, Jenna, who was also a Glenmoore local, at one such party. They often reminisced with Karl about those nights, laughing ruefully and vowing to lock their children in towers rather than allow them anywhere near Ben’s Shack.

Karl entered the cove, expecting to find dead embers and bent beer cans. The sand was clean. Clearly no beach parties had taken place there for a while. The uneasiness he had felt since his brother’s phone call lessened as he walked back to his car.

Justin rang. Constance was not at the riding-school and he was driving to Glenmoore Park in the hope that she might have decided to run with the Junior Harriers.

Nicole was stretched on the sofa when Karl returned home and Sasha, dressed in jeans and a Dora T-shirt, was snuggled against her as she watched her DVD.

‘No luck,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I took so long.’

‘Do you think we’ve any reason to worry?’ Nicole hugged Sasha closer.

‘I’m sure she’s fine,’ he replied. ‘I’ll call over to Jenna and see what’s happening.’

‘I can drive the kids to summer camp.’

‘No, you won’t,’ he said. ‘It’s way past your bedtime. I’ll pick up Matthew and Lara, and come back for Sasha.’

Justin’s car was still missing from the driveway. Karl unlocked the front door and entered the kitchen, where Jenna was speaking on Constance’s phone.

‘She wouldn’t leave the house in the morning without telling us where she was going,’ she said to Karl when the phone call ended. ‘She loves helping out with summer camp and she should be getting ready to leave right now. I’m worried something’s happened to her.’

‘Nothing’s happened to her,’ Karl reassured her. ‘She’s sulking somewhere, probably regretting running away but afraid to come home in case she’s in even more trouble.’

Jenna stared at the mobile screen, as if she expected a message to flash into view and solve the mystery of her daughter’s whereabouts. ‘I’m making my way through the names in her address book. I’d no idea she knew so many people.’

The kitchen door opened and Lara, her younger daughter, flounced into the room in her nightdress.

‘Where’s Constance?’ she asked.

‘She’s just gone out for a little while,’ said Jenna.

‘But she didn’t give me a cuddle.’

‘Here’s one now.’ Jenna scooped her up in her arms and hugged her. ‘Constance will give you all the cuddles you want when she comes back.’ She buried her face in the little girl’s hair, her voice muffled. ‘It’s time to get dressed for summer camp.’ She handed the phone to Karl. ‘Will you ring a few of those numbers while I’m upstairs? Someone has to know something.’

‘Will do.’ Karl took the phone and hit the number Jenna pointed out to him. It continued ringing and he was about to cancel the call when a youth answered.

‘Yo, bitch. What’s up?’ The voice was young and brash.

‘Is that Lucas O’Malley?’ Karl asked.

The youth’s sharp intake of breath was followed by a pause. When he spoke again his tone was more muted. ‘Who’s that?’

‘I’m Constance Lawson’s uncle. Is my niece with you?’

‘No. Why do you want to know? Is something wrong?’

‘Hopefully, nothing’s wrong. She’s gone off without her phone and her parents are trying to contact her.’

‘So, why ring me? I hardly know her.’

‘Are you in the habit of calling strangers “bitch”?’

‘It’s a term, man. It don’t mean nothing.’

‘If you see her tell her to ring her parents immediately.’

Karl was ending his fourth call, and was no nearer to finding out anything about Constance’s whereabouts, when Matthew, his nephew, rushed into the kitchen in his tracksuit and trainers.

‘Has Constance really run away?’ he asked as he shook cereal into a bowl.

‘Of course not,’ Karl replied. ‘She’s probably with her friends.’

‘She’s always with her friends.’ He spooned Rice Krispies into his mouth and swallowed noisily. ‘She hates living with us. That’s what she said last night. Girls are so stupid. They’re always crying about something.’

Karl left his nephew musing over the shortcomings of big sisters and escaped into the living-room to ring the next number. He kept looking out the window, convinced Constance was going to rush through the gate, sheepish, apologetic, her ponytail swinging, horrified that her friends were being contacted.

When Jenna came downstairs with Lara, he ushered the little girl and Matthew into the car, and stopped at his house to collect Sasha.

Cars were arriving and leaving the campus in Glenmoore College, which served as a summer camp during the holidays. Matthew had joined the football camp and Karl dropped the girls into the arts and crafts room. He made his way to the field behind the school where the track and field camp was located, hoping to see Constance among the volunteers. No sign of her anywhere and Justin, obviously sharing the same hope, was already speaking to the coach. It was clear from the slope of his shoulders that Constance had not turned up. Nor had she been seen at the train station, the shopping centre or the cafes in the village, he told Karl as they walked back to their cars.

Jenna had finished checking the names on Constance’s phone when they returned to the house.

‘I know it’s too early to call the police.’ Justin slumped into a chair and rubbed his chin. ‘But I’m afraid to let it go on any longer.’

‘Getting the police involved at this stage seems like a drastic step,’ said Karl. ‘She’s only been gone a short while.’

‘This is drastic,’ Jenna replied. ‘It’s ten o’clock and we’ve no idea how long she’s been missing.’

‘Did her friends mention anything about a dare?’ Karl asked.

‘A dare?’ Justin sat up straighter. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Constance did something stupid a few weeks ago.’ He hesitated, aware that they were watching him intently. ‘She begged me not to tell you. She was afraid of how you’d react—’

‘Cut the crap and tell us what happened,’ Justin snapped.

The brightness had gone from the morning. Karl was conscious of this dulling as he began to speak, a thumbprint smudging his future, but he was unaware that the familiar whorls and lines of his life would never be the same again.

‘Ben’s Shack,’ he said. ‘Three weeks ago, I picked Constance up from there.’ He saw his brother wince and look sharply across at Jenna. Apart from that exchange, they remained silent as Karl told them about the phone call he had received from Constance. She had rung him in the early hours when Nicole and Sasha were sleeping, and he was downstairs working on his laptop. Hearing her slurred, disjoined sentences and gulping sobs, he had decided the caller was playing a practical joke. A drunken teenager randomly tapping digits. He was about to end the call when he recognised her voice.

‘Uncle Karl… help me, Uncle Karl… please help me.’

‘Just calm down.’ He tried to make sense of what she was saying. ‘Take it slowly and tell me exactly what’s going on.’

She had left her house after her parents had gone to bed and was at a party in Ben’s Shack. The party was over and she was alone on the beach. Her house key had fallen from her jacket pocket and disappeared into the sand. She begged him to collect her and bring his spare key to her house with him. He mustn’t tell her parents. She would run into the sea if he brought them with him. She sounded hysterical, capable of carrying out her threat, and Karl, unable to tell if she was drunk or drugged, or both, drove to the beach to pick her up.

He had cut across the sand dunes, following a well-worn track through the marram grass. The tide was out and wet sand gleamed in the moonlight. Ben’s Shack was deserted but the glowing embers of the bonfire led Karl to her. She was huddled behind the rocks, the smell of vomit on her clothes, her eyes luminous, her gaze disoriented.

‘I’m sorry… sorry… sorry…’ She had blubbered apologies into his neck as he carried her from the beach. She was feather-light in his arms, her stick-like legs dangling. She made him think of an overdressed rag doll, her short skirt rucked above her thighs, a glittery top stretched across her small breasts. A sprite child, perched on the cusp between capricious, dangerous immaturity and budding sexuality.

Back in his car, he had listened while she attempted to explain what had happened. She belonged to a gang called The Fearless. They were an exclusive group who dared each other to undertake different challenges. Painting graffiti on walls, egging the front doors of teachers’ houses, waterbombing passing cars, using fake ID in a pub to order a vodka and Red Bull, breaking into graveyards and lying on tombstones to take selfies… her voice shook as she listed the various challenges the members had undertaken. She became evasive when Karl demanded the names of the gang. Membership of The Fearless would be taken away if a member revealed anyone else’s identity or refused a dare. Constance had been challenged to take a naggin of vodka from her parents’ drinks cabinet and gatecrash Ben’s Shack.

She held up her phone to show Karl the video she had taken at the party. Flames from a bonfire leaping upwards. A young man sitting astride a rock, playing his guitar. Two girls dancing together, bodies touching, arms raised, holding bottles. The gang on the beach had been at least five years older than Constance. She admitted that she’d videoed them from behind the rocks, too frightened to mingle with them. She had taken selfies of herself drinking the vodka but admitted she had only drunk it for courage. The night had ended on an even more dismal note when she lost her keys and threw up over the sand.

‘For God’s sake, Constance, I always thought you were a sensible girl.’ Karl had been outraged by her recklessness. ‘What are your parents going to say when they find out?’

‘Please don’t tell them, Uncle Karl. Promise me you’ll never tell them.’

‘We’re not arguing about this,’ he had replied. ‘I have to tell them. Anything could have happened to you tonight.’

‘I rang you because I knew you’d understand.’ She was terrified, sobbing, pleading… please… please… please. She would do anything he asked if only he would keep that night a secret. ‘They’ll ground me for forever if they find out. You’ve no idea what they’re like. They’re so strict. They don’t remember what it’s like to be young. Not like you do.’

He told her she must leave the gang. She cried some more but, before he drove her home, he had wrung the promise from her. Cherrywood Terrace had been deserted when he braked outside her house.

‘Thank you, Uncle Karl, you’re the best.’ She flung her arms around him and kissed his cheek. ‘I just wish you were my dad.’ She stumbled up the driveway, then turned and waved before closing the door behind her.

Over the following weeks, Karl checked that she had kept her promise. She insisted she was no longer in the gang and he had taken her at her word. Now, as he faced her parents, and watched their agitation grow, the burden of what she had confided to him fell like a stone between them.

‘Our daughter got drunk, gatecrashed Ben’s Shack and you never thought to let us know.’ Jenna sounded more astonished than angry.

‘It was stupid of me. I know that now,’ Karl replied. ‘But Constance promised it wouldn’t happen again. I trusted her. We’ve all had similar experiences when—’

‘Not when we were thirteen.’ Justin slammed his fist into his other hand. ‘Jesus Christ, Karl, I can’t believe you never told us.’ The edginess in his voice echoed with past recriminations. The tone was always there, lying below the surface, ready to rise when, as now, he expected to hear the worst from his irresponsible younger brother.

‘She was frightened of what you’d say—’

‘Your first responsibility was to us, her parents.’ Jenna stared angrily at him. ‘If Constance is in some kind of trouble I’ll never forgive you.’

‘This isn’t the time for a row.’ Karl tried to placate her. ‘I searched the beach because I thought there might have been another party last night. It was a shot in the dark and I was wrong. But she could be involved in another challenge. Check her texts—’

‘I’ve already checked them,’ said Jenna. ‘There’s no information that can help us.’ She showed Karl the texts. Constance had been angry, ranting about her parents and her disappointment over the concert, but there was nothing about The Fearless or the reckless challenges she had described. He checked the photographs in her gallery, the dates they were taken, but was unable to find the video Constance had shown him.

‘She must have deleted it.’ He handed the phone back to Jenna. ‘Her friends have to know something. You should ring Tracey and Gillian again. They must be members of the gang.’

‘If they do know something, they won’t be able to hide it from the police.’ Justin stood up and shoved his arms into his jacket. ‘I’ve wasted enough time. I’m going to Glenmoore Garda Station to report her missing. Come with me and tell them what you know about these so-called challenges.’

Coffee was brewing in the police station when they arrived and the guard on desk duty had poured a mug for himself. It cooled by his elbow as he took details from Justin. After a short wait, they were brought into a back office where a heavyset woman with short, brown hair introduced herself as Sergeant Moran and asked them to be seated. She fired questions at Justin. Did Constance have a boyfriend? Was she in the habit of staying out late? Had she shown signs of withdrawal, a loss of interest in school? Had there been a row at home?

‘Sort of,’ Justin admitted.

‘There’s no such thing as a “sort-of” row with a thirteen-year-old,’ the sergeant said. ‘What was it about?’ If her grim expression was any indication, she must also be the mother of teenagers, Karl thought. His apprehension was increasing every time she glanced at him.

‘She was annoyed because we refused her permission to go to a rock concert,’ said Justin. ‘She went to bed at about eleven but we only realised she was missing this morning.’ He turned to Karl. ‘You tell her why you thought Constance could be on the beach.’

Sergeant Moran listened impassively as he repeated what he knew. ‘This could easily be a similar escapade,’ she said when he finished. ‘We’ll do some preliminary checks with the emergency services and talk to her close friends. Once we’ve reviewed the situation, we’ll be back in touch with you. In the meantime, continue the search and contact us immediately if you’ve any further information.’

Nicole was in bed when he returned home. He debated waking her but decided to let her sleep.

He rang his office and spoke to Barbara Nelson, his deputy editor.

‘Everything’s under control here,’ she assured him when Karl explained what had happened. ‘I’ll look after things until you come in.’

He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. ‘I don’t know what’s going on, Barbara. It’s so unlike Constance to wander off without telling her parents.’

‘She’ll be back soon,’ said Barbara. ‘I ran away from home when I was fourteen. Can’t remember why now. It was either my bulimic phase or else the shoplifting episode.’ She laughed. ‘Those teenage years, Karl. Who’d want them back? Give me the midlife crisis, anytime.’

‘You could be right.’ Her cheerfulne