The Missing Children Case Files

He’s started filling the sink with soapy water and has rolled up the sleeves of his flannel shirt. I’m not in the habit of allowing people to come into my house and start cleaning up, but this is another of Freddie’s ticks, and I know better than to interrupt. He’s wearing the same sleeveless faded denim jacket he had on the first time I met him in the soup kitchen. Back then, his hair was longer, and the baldness stretching from his fringe line to the crown of his head was slightly less wide. Amazingly, he now looks ten years younger than he did three years ago; it’s amazing the rejuvenating effects of consistency. A healthier diet, a warm bed, and a decent shower have given Freddie Mitchell a new lease of life.

Of course, I know it isn’t just the roof over his head that has re-energised him.

‘Are you going to join me for breakfast?’ I ask casually, opening the white paper bag and inhaling the sweet scent of pastry.

‘No, I’ve already scoffed a sandwich on my way over. They’re both for you. Call it a thank-you present.’

In the three years since we met, Freddie has gone out of his way to shower me with presents, and no matter how many times I tell him that there really isn’t any need, he still insists. After that first night at the soup kitchen where I just sat and talked to him, he returned the next night with a bunch of daisies he’d picked while he’d been out and about. They were half-dead and covered in soil and cigarette ash, but the gesture had warmed my heart.

You wouldn’t know it to see Freddie now, but he was close to death when he arrived in that soup kitchen. I was volunteering there on a break from university during my final year and I’ll never forget the feeling of hopelessness that would come home with me each night, not because of who we were helping but simply because it never felt like enough. I wanted to put a roof over all of our visitors’ heads but was powerless to do much more than serve them soup and offer a friendly and encouraging smile.

Freddie was outrageously flirtatious, even though it soon became pretty evident that he had no interest in anyone not of his gender. No, correction: he had no interest in anyone – at least, not in that way, or so he had expressed to me in the past. There are still so many scars in Freddie’s life that he has yet to share with me but each has carved him into the man he is today, and I love him all the more for them. He’s told me about those dark nights when, desperate for food, he was embroiled in schemes outside of his control and how, during one cold winter in 2010, he lost four months of his life due to the volume of drugs he was consuming.

‘The HIV diagnosis was inevitable,’ he told me the first time I properly sat down to interview him at The Black Horse, along Weymouth’s seafront, ‘but it doesn’t define me, nor diminish me.’

Freddie is many things, but bitter isn’t one of them. He is warm, caring, and one of the funniest men I’ve ever met. In many ways, he feels like a distant brother or cousin, but I know there are more sides to him than he will ever share.

‘You didn’t make it to The Black Horse last night,’ he says now, his back to me as he rinses one of the plates with water from the tap.

Something tells me this is the real reason he’s stopped by this morning. ‘Yeah, I know,’ I say apologetically. ‘I was going to come, but then…’ I pause, trying to rack my brain for an acceptable excuse for not joining in the celebration of the court’s verdict. He’ll see through any reference to deadlines with my writing. Eventually I settle for honesty. ‘I didn’t want to intrude.’

His shoulders tense as he spins to face me, the soap suds dripping from his rough hands to the linoleum at his feet. ‘You will always be welcome among us, you know that. If anything, you’re more welcome than any of the others.’

I was anticipating he’d say that and I don’t doubt that he means every word, but I’m merely the portal through which their story has now been told.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t come. I meant to send you a message but I got waylaid. Was it a good turnout?’

There is a sadness in his eyes before he turns back to the dishes. ‘We were all there. The three of us who… what did they call us in court? The plaintiffs. It’s odd seeing Mike and Steve together like that again. All of us have gone off at tangents to one another and, to look at us, you’d never know we all started off in that place.’

Two things to know about Freddie Mitchell: he will never refer to himself as a victim and he will never mention the St Francis Home for Wayward Boys by name.

‘You’ve all come a long way, Freddie. Just look at you. How many days sober now?’

The tension eases a fraction in his shoulders. ‘1,283 days without so much as a cigarette or bottle of Babycham.’

He doesn’t mention the crack pipes, heroin needles, and wrappers of cocaine for which he used to beg, steal, and borrow.

‘And now you’re helping out at the shelter too. You should be so proud of how far you’ve come in such a short time, Freddie.’

An uneasy cloud of tension falls as two plates collide beneath the soapy water and I see Freddie’s shoulders gently rocking. Dropping the pastry to the plate, I stand and slowly move in behind him, placing my arms around his shoulders and I just hold him. A warm soapy hand shoots out of the water and rests on my forearm.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whimpers.

‘You’ve nothing to be sorry for, Freddie,’ I say quietly.

We remain standing there for several minutes until the crying subsides and he has composed himself once again.

‘Fifteen years,’ Freddie eventually sighs. ‘They gave him fifteen years for what he did to us. They were all abusers, but he was the worst. He was the one who started it. He was the one who got the others involved, and changed them. Fifteen years and he’ll probably be dead before he’s served any of it.’

When the police first interviewed the three accused, both Geoffrey Arnsgill and Timothy MacDonald – the co-defendants – pointed the finger at Arthur Turgood; both accepted responsibility for their crimes but said it was Turgood who forced them to conspire. Both should have been stronger, both should have said no, should have spoken out, and both would regret their choices for the rest of their lives.

‘He’s what, eighty now?’ Freddie continues. ‘He’s already lived the best part of his life. What punishment is fifteen years after the life he’s led? Getting away with unthinkable crimes against vulnerable children who didn’t know better?’

There is nothing I can say. Any attempt to suggest that justice has been served – albeit shockingly late – will sound trite. Too little, too late. And whilst there are those of us who have fought and battled to deliver justice for Freddie and the others, the sentencing passed down by the judge is not enough for their victims. Nothing ever will be.

Freddie sniffs loudly and shakes my arms from his shoulders. ‘What a cry baby I’m being. I don’t know how you put up with me!’

And there it is: Freddie only lowers his guard for the briefest of moments and then it’s back to business. His mask is back in place now and there will be no more display of emotion from him. Not today anyway.

‘I only let you in so you can clean up after me,’ I joke, returning to the table and finishing off the pastry.

He laughs with just the slightest echo of the recent upset. ‘And I only come in and clean up because you’re such a slob.’

It’s my turn to chuckle as the face he is pulling is possibly the sweetest, most innocent look I’ve ever seen from him. He even flutters his eyelashes for effect, as if butter wouldn’t melt.

‘What’s with all the papers on the table then? You got your next big mystery to solve?’

I look at the aged picture of Anna on the screen, along with the information I printed about Lord Fitzhume last night. ‘Not exactly. It’s hard to know where to go next.’

Freddie dries his hands on the towel hanging from the radiator. ‘If you ask me, Turgood was just the tip of the iceberg. I reckon if you looked hard enough you’d unfortunately find others like me who suffered at the hands of monsters charged with protecting them. I wish our story was unique but the world is a sadder place than that.’

‘Maybe I should quit while I’m ahead,’ I muse, reminded of Maddie’s dismissive tone about my proposal to focus my next book on Anna.

Freddie is directly in front of me now, waving a finger of caution. ‘Don’t ever say that!’

I’m almost laughing as I look into his eyes until I realise they are suddenly very serious.

‘All joking aside,’ he begins, ‘you don’t realise just how fine a writer you are, Emma. I have read your book three times since it was released and every time I find nuance and detail that I missed the previous time. Even though it’s my life being laid bare, it often feels like I’m reading about someone else, and for the first time in forever, I feel like I finally understand who I am. It’s like therapy for the untreatable! There must be a million other stories out there – people who are in a similar or even worse position than I was – and you need to find them and bring them back from the edge, as you did me. That is your purpose in this world. Where Jessica Fletcher saved the souls of the people of Cabot Cove, so you will save the rest of the world.’

I narrow my eyes at his mention of my personal literary hero and a small grin breaks across his otherwise determined face.

Reaching out, I stretch my hand around his. ‘Thank you, Freddie.’

He frowns. ‘What for?’

‘For being you. For not judging me for living like a slob. For being my shining light at the end of a tunnel. For not giving up.’

He raises my hand and kisses the back of it. ‘Don’t stop being you either. You have great instincts, Emma. You see through all the bullshit and you write from the heart. Whomever you choose to help next will be lucky to have you aboard.’

I can’t help but smile at my very own motivational coach. There’s more truth in what he’s said than I’d care to admit and I already know there is no cure for the writing bug once it has hold of your soul.

He straightens but doesn’t let go of my hand. ‘You know, if you’ve got any free time this week, we could do with all the help we can get at the shelter. I know you’re this big, important bestselling author now, but don’t forget us little people in your climb to the top, eh?’

The truth is, I will never forget Freddie, Mike, or Steve. Their stories have helped shape my author’s voice and without them I would still be a struggling journalist at a small, county newspaper. They have brought this success my way and I want to give them something back, but I know Freddie will never accept charity.

I take a moment to get the words clear in my head. ‘Freddie, I’ve been thinking about something for a while, and…’ Here goes. ‘I want to share the profits from the book with you and the others. After all, I wouldn’t have had a book if it wasn’t for—’

‘Please don’t do that,’ he interrupts, shaking his head. ‘I appreciate the gesture is coming from your heart but you’ve done enough for all of us and you deserve every success your book brings you. It was a necessary tool to kickstart the police investigation but it’s more than that. Any old Tom, Dick, or Harry could have written about our hell, but you did it in such a… an honest way. Nobody else could have told our story so elegantly and we can’t take any of the credit for that.’

‘But I feel like I’m profiting from… from what happened to you.’

Freddie’s eyes glisten but his smile remains. ‘That’s what makes you so special, Emma Hunter. I’m proud to tell people that I’m friends with this bestselling author with the world at her feet. You are the one positive light to come out of the darkness in my life, and I want to live vicariously through your success. So don’t ever think that you don’t deserve to be on the ride of your life, and don’t you dare stop riding it either. You won’t just be stifling your dreams, but ours as well. So, you cling on with all your strength, and we just might hang on with you.’

Chapter Nine

Now

Weymouth, Dorset

Maddie’s call comes just after Freddie has left. I’d promised I’d make an effort to get down to the shelter and soup kitchen tonight. In fairness, I could do with a break from staring at my screen, plotting out Anna’s final movements, and looking for new gaps that I haven’t previously considered.

‘I’m on my way down with some exciting news,’ Maddie shouts, still yet to get to grips with the hands-free phone kit in her old VW Beetle. I’ve tried explaining that she doesn’t need to shout with Bluetooth, but she perseveres.

I wanted to ask what news could be so exciting as to warrant her driving three hours to Weymouth to meet me in person but she cuts me off before I have the chance.

‘Can we meet somewhere nice for lunch? Not that dingy place we met last time. Somewhere that’s heard of haute cuisine preferably. Are there any five-star hotels in Weymouth? Pick one of those and text me the address.’

With that, the line disconnected. Maddie is nothing if not efficient in her business dealings.

After an internet search of hotels, I narrow it down to The Waterside Hotel and Spa which is a little way in from the sea front and not somewhere with which I’m particularly familiar. I can’t pronounce half the items on the menu so hopefully it will be adequate for Maddie’s tastes.

Closing the door to my flat, I stand on the step, listening to the waves crashing against the rocks. A shimmer of sea breeze coats my cheeks and lips, the fresh salt assailing my nostrils. There really is no place like it. So many of my classmates at school couldn’t wait to shake the sand from their shoes, as Rachel puts it, always talking about moving closer to London because, “Nothing ever happens in Weymouth.” They don’t realise how wrong they are.

Admittedly, the streets quieten as autumn draws nearer but if anything, that’s when nature comes alive and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful sunset than when I’ve walked along the shoreline.

Heading down the stairs to the main road, I notice there are more people on the beach than I’d anticipated. It’s a warm Friday for late September, but the schools are all back now so this is usually the time of year when numbers dwindle, and yet there must be close to a hundred people out there, as well as some splashing about in the water.

I wave as I pass old Giuseppe, who is still advertising donkey walks along the beach, even though all three of his donkeys are tied up. He’s been here for longer than I care to remember. He always had a soft spot for Mum and so, as a treat, she’d sometimes bring Anna and me down here for a ride; he never charged her. That all stopped after Anna disappeared. In fact, virtually all socialising stopped that day. Life became a monotonous stream of journeys from home to school and back again, and at the weekend, Mum would be out along the promenade of shops showing Anna’s picture to anyone who’d stop and listen. Mirth and frivolity became distant memories and even supposedly joyous occasions such as Christmases and birthdays became days to mourn Anna’s departure. I don’t blame Mum for shutting down but when I look back on my childhood, I can’t help thinking that I lost more than just a big sister that day.

Turning right as the shops come into view, I head up past the train station, past the retail park that was built in an effort to drum up visitors out of season, and on to the road that will eventually lead to Portland Bill. The same shudder that always greets me echoes along my spine when I spot the prison at the top of the hill. The same prison where my father hanged himself almost a decade ago.

‘And I’ll have the sea-bass risotto with the pomme frites,’ Maddie says, handing the menu back to the immaculately dressed waitress whose long black hair has been slicked into a bun on top of her head.

The waitress reaches for Maddie’s ribbon-folded serviette, shakes it out of shape, and gently lays it across her lap before repeating the exercise with mine. She can’t be much older than twenty-one. I thank her and she bows eloquently before disappearing off towards the kitchen.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite so out of my depth whereas Maddie looks to be in her element.

‘Try the elderflower cordial,’ she suggests, nodding at the fizzing flute she ordered for me.

I lift it and she clinks her glass against mine. The bubbles tickle my nose as I sip it. To her credit, it is delicious.

The room we’re in is adorned with white Romanesque statues, with carefully placed stone petals to maintain the dignity of their subjects. The high-vaulted ceiling is made up of triangular-shaped glass panels which form a peak at the join and provide so much light. The room is air conditioned yet warm enough that I don’t feel the need to pull my cardigan back on. I’ve chosen a blue cardigan today so Maddie won’t worry about my lacklustre wardrobe again. I picked this one up from a charity shop in the town but it is still new to me and doesn’t look worn. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost be willing to believe we were staying in some foreign country. This isn’t the Weymouth I call home.

‘I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve come all this way to speak to you,’ she says, her eyes twinkling with excitement. She’s clearly itching to tell me something as she hasn’t stopped fidgeting since she arrived ten minutes after me.

‘You mean it wasn’t just for my sparkling company and repartee?’ I tease.

She grins mischievously. ‘Apart from that, I meant. Well, there are two reasons really, no, three, but we’ll come to the last one in a minute. The first bit of news I received on the drive down here. I’ve been nodded the wink from a friendly source that Monsters Under the Bed will definitely be number one on the Sunday Times Bestseller list this weekend. It’s rare for books to reclaim the number one spot after publication, but to do it three times in six months is almost unheard of. You should be so proud of yourself.’

Remembering Freddie’s words earlier today, I don’t challenge her.

‘And,’ she pauses for effect, and I’m half expecting her to begin tapping her fingers on the table to generate a drumroll, ‘Reflex Media – who produced that serial-killer hit for Netflix last year – want to option Monsters for an eight-part television series!’

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Maddie smile so widely, and for the first time I can see a small pocket of wrinkles where her lips join.

I should be as excited as Maddie is right now. I know the company she’s referring to, and I know how hugely successful that serial-killer documentary was. It was a viral hit across the globe and it was a must-see even for someone as clueless as me. This is a big deal. No, correction, this is a really big deal.

‘Wow,’ I say, but I can feel the frown already forming. ‘That’s incredible news.’

‘You bet your life it is!’ Maddie replies, almost punching the air. ‘Do you know how long I’ve waited to have this kind of a hit on my hands? They’re sending over some numbers for the option later today but for once this is merely a formality. They’re pretty confident that, given the book’s success in the UK, and the trial verdict on Thursday, this will have TV executives bidding for the chance to distribute. I don’t want to pre-empt their figures but we are talking mega bucks!’

I take a moment to compose my thoughts. ‘What about Freddie, Mike, and Steve?’

Maddie’s smile shrinks a fraction. ‘What about them?’

‘It’s their story,’ I tell her, not in an attempt to irk her but just stating a fact. ‘They gave me permission to write Monsters… because they needed their story projected into the public eye, but we never discussed the prospect of their murky history being played out on the big screen for the world to witness in garish technicolour.’

She doesn’t respond, studying my face carefully.

‘Is it really my place to sell on their story to the highest bidder?’ I try again.

‘Darling, Monsters Under the Bed is your story now. The disclosure agreement they all signed included the rights for the story to be sold for feature production and they all signed up to it.’

I’m sure Maddie is probably right about the terms of the agreement they signed, as she’s usually pretty switched on when it comes to contracts and erroneous clauses – that’s what makes her such a good agent – but if I don’t remember such a clause then I’d bet they don’t either.

‘It’s great news,’ I say, forcing a positive tone I’m not feeling, ‘but can I talk to them about it before we agree to anything?’

Maddie looks like she wants to chastise me again but she closes her mouth and simply nods. ‘If that would make you happier then so be it.’ She raises her flute of elderflower cordial again. ‘Mark my words, this sort of opportunity doesn’t present itself very often and you’d be crazy not to take it.’

I thank her, and the flutter in my stomach reminds me that so many other writers would give their eyeteeth to be in my position.

‘You said there was a third bit of news?’ I ask, in a subtle attempt to change the subject.

Maddie almost spits out her drink as the memory comes rushing back. ‘Oh yes, of course, it’s to do with your next project—’

‘Oh great,’ I say, pulling out the printed pages I brought with me and was hiding in my bag until after the meal. ‘I’ve had some ideas on that too. I’ve put together an elevator pitch and rough outline of how to structure the story, starting with the moment Anna left the garden, but then flashing forwards to interviews with those who were involved in the early days of the investigation – the police, interviewed neighbours, and the like – and then…’ I stop as I realise Maddie is shaking her head and clearly not listening.

‘No, I’ve told you, your sister’s disappearance isn’t what the publisher is looking for. They want something new, something current, something to capture the nation’s imagination in the same way Monsters did.’

‘Yes, but you haven’t heard how we can make Anna’s disappearance more relevant,’ I try again, but this time she holds up her hand to cut me off.

‘I’ve got a story for you to work on. I’ve discussed it with the publisher and they think it’s fab.’

I already have a sinking feeling as I ask, ‘What idea?’

‘It was your publishing editor who phoned me about it actually. Does the name Lord Fitzhume mean anything to you?’

I nod grimly, biting the inside of my cheek to keep myself from shouting.

‘Well, it turns out he’s some distant relative of the royal family. His granddaughter was abducted a year ago and although he’s previously gagged every media outlet to keep the story off the front page, he’s now prepared to relent. His only stipulation is that you tell the story for him. He’s even used his influence to gain the support of the Metropolitan Police service, and a detective will be assigned to help you piece together the case history.’

‘No,’ I say calmly, but authoritatively. ‘You told me I could choose my next project and I want to tell my sister’s story.’

Maddie pulls a disappointed face. ‘I know how important your sister’s disappearance is to you, Emma, and if I could spend my remaining days helping you discover what really happened to her, I would. But – and don’t take this the wrong way – nobody has been able to shed any fresh light on what happened to her in two decades, and the publisher isn’t keen on the prospect of a story that doesn’t provide an outcome to what happened to her. They really like the story Fitzhume has promised to tell, and you are contracted to deliver a manuscript that will get the publisher’s sign-off. You signed a two-book contract with them, Emma, and they’re within their rights to see that you deliver on it.’