Just What Kind of Mother Are You? Read Free Page B

could just as easily play on their own or with somebody else?’
    ‘Dunno,’ he says innocently, but then shoots me a mischievous look. One that says, I know. Are they, like, idiots, or what?
    Five minutes later and we pull up outside school. I look to see if Kate’s car is in its usual place by the gate, but she isn’t here yet. I do like her, but it does annoy me how she insists on going into school each day. Because really, there is no reason for it.
    Her son, Fergus, is almost eight. He’s more than capable of removing his coat and shoes, changing into his indoor pumps and finding his way to the classroom. The school has only eighty kids. He’s not going to get lost. But Kate’s one of those mothers who enjoys chatting with the teacher. She likes to watch Fergus slowly taking off his shoes, rolling her eyes at the other mothers while clapping her hands together, saying, ‘Come on, chop chop! Quicksticks! Pass Mummy your boots!’ Kate doesn’t have a proper job. She and her husband get a steady stream of income from renting holiday cottages. So all Kate has to do when she gets home is put her washing machine on and write thank-you notes to people she doesn’t really like.
    I’m jealous of Kate’s life.
    There, I’ve said it.
    It’s taken me a while to get to this point. Before, I couldn’t admit it. I used to complain to Joe. Blame him in a roundaboutway for my having to work full-time, blame him for the fact I had to face every day exhausted, and—
    My phone is ringing.
    I pull it out of my pocket and see that it’s Sally. Perhaps the minibus has not turned up. Maybe the driver’s not been able to start the engine in the cold weather.
    ‘Hi, Sal, what’s up?’
    Sally is crying. Big, choking sobs. She can’t get her words out.
    ‘Mum?’ I can hear noise in the background, more crying … the sounds of traffic. ‘Mum … something really bad has happened.’

3
    D ETECTIVE C ONSTABLE Joanne Aspinall is almost at the station when she gets the call about the missing girl. Thirteen years old. And not a worldly-wise thirteen either. Joanne wonders if there even is such a thing. I mean, what difference would it make if she were an astute girl? What if she was used to being out and about on her own? Would that change anything? Did it make it any less urgent?
    Missing’s missing. There shouldn’t be a difference.
    But when Joanne sees the photograph, she shudders. It has to be said, this girl does look young for her age. Astonishingly young, in fact. And Joanne has to admit, even if it’s only to herself, that the thirteen-year-olds who go gadding about in Wonderbras and tall boots tend to turn up eventually. Usually returning home sorry and sheepish, sad and scared, wishing they’d not put their parents through that anguish. Because all they wanted to do was prove a point.
    Joanne had been no different when she was young. Leaving the house, screaming at her mother that she was old enough to take care of herself, desperate to be taken seriously as a grownup. When really, grown up was the last thing she was.
    Joanne thinks about the strange confidence that seems to come to girls at this age, and decides that this confidence, this intrepidity, comes later in boys. Round about the sixteen mark. That’s when their cockiness is heightened and she starts seeingboys who’ve never been involved in any kind of trouble before suddenly start making nuisances of themselves.
    They’d had a memo in the office just last week. The army was on the lookout for kids whose life could be ‘turned around with the right sort of guidance’.
    It said: ‘They could have a lot to offer the British Army,’ and Joanne thought, Yes, I bet they could. The self-preservation instinct is woefully lacking in young lads; they’ll happily walk into battle, happily regard themselves infallible, indestructible. No wonder the bloody army wanted them.
    After the quick brief on the missing girl, Joanne makes her way to the address.