Local Girl Missing Read Online Free Page A

waited and, after calling all your friends to no avail, she rang the police. By then nearly twenty-four hours had elapsed since anyone had last seen you. The police interviewed all of us, the coastguard searched for a few days, but you had simply vanished. Nobody could understand it. The only thing they found was your trainer at the edge of the old pier. After that, the investigation tailed off. The police clearly believed that you had fallen off the pier and drowned. There was no official ruling. Your family never requested an inquest, so you’re still a ‘missing person’.
    And now … the newspaper headline flashes in front of my eyes again and I blink it away.
    I need to go. It’s nearly 3 p.m. and I can’t put off meeting Daniel any longer. Reluctantly I turn on the engine and I’m about to leave when something on the pier catches my eye. A figure is leaning so far over the railings it looks as if any minute they could tumble into the choppy sea. It’s just a dark silhouette, but with the long hair whipping a heart-shaped face it looks like a woman. It looks like you. My stomach lurches. It can’t be you. It can’t be anyone. The pier is fenced off, the planks rotten and full of holes. Nobody could walk on that pier now without falling through the boards.
    Suddenly the low sun breaks apart the grey clouds, shining down on the pier and almost blinding me. I’m forced to close my eyes, black dots swimming behind my lids. When I open them again the sky has reverted back to greyness and the pier is once again empty. Just the light playing tricks on me.
    The holiday apartment is high up on the cliff top overlooking the old pier. My mouth is dry as I turn right. I’m no longer on the coastal road but driving up the steep Hill Street, my car making light work of the potholes. The road levels off and I kerb crawl until I spot Beaufort Villas, a lemon and white Victorian apartment block with huge bay windows and ornate, pointed roof gables. It stands in a row of almost identical buildings in ice-cream colours, facing Oldcliffe Bay and looking down on the old pier like a line of disapproving aunts in their Sunday best. This part of town has always been more prestigious, with its grand houses and residents-only park, in spite of the now decrepit pier.
    I pull into the driveway, my tyres crunching over the gravel, and park next to a gold Vauxhall. A man is sitting on a low wall by the front door, one leg crossed over a knee, scribbling something in a notebook. I know it’s Daniel even after all these years: the curve of his chin, the line of his long nose and the cowlick which meant his dark hair never sat straight but flopped over his forehead, so that he was continually forced to push it out of his eyes. He looks up at the sound of my car, his face expectant, and places the pen behind his ear.
    My hand trembles slightly as I pull on the handbrake. Why does coming back here make me feel so nervous? Holding meetings, appeasing difficult clients, dealing with disillusioned staff is all a breeze compared to the way I feel right now. I get out of the car, making an effort to be graceful in my skinny jeans and stiletto-heeled boots. The cold air that greets me is like a slap in the face.
    ‘Frankie?’ He leaps off the wall and ambles towards me, still slim and rangy and extremely tall. He’s wearing black jeans, a long dark overcoat and a striped scarf pulled up to his chin. He slips the notebook into the front pocket of his coat. From a distance he looks like the twenty-three-year-old he was when I last saw him, but as he approaches I can see that age has softened and plumped out his once-sharp features, and streaked his nearly-black hair with the odd flash of white. His skin looks rougher, less translucent. My first memory of him is on his BMX, riding around the estate and trying to impress us with his wheelies. He was nine. Now he’s forty-one and very much a man. The thought makes me blush.
    We hug awkwardly. Then he