“And you are—”
“Carol Atkinson. A-T-K-I-N-S-O-N. Mrs. That’s it. This here is Mrs. Laschamp. Elfrieda.”
“And you live here, Mrs. Atkinson?”
“Me? Lord, no,” she laughed. “I’m from an agency. I do mornings. I do her personal care, her cleaning, washing, help her with her bath, anything she needs doing, really. Bring her meals and that. Get her basics in, sort her meds. Bit of cooking. Keep her company mostly. Read to her. Anything what needs doing. All of it. You know.”
“And you’re here every day?”
“That’s right, every day, like clockwork.”
“And you drive here?”
“Yes, yes, I’ve got a little car. That one. The yellow one. The Fiat.”
“And your hours?”
“That depends on what needs doing. I get here, well, eight, maybe, nine, and then I’m off later, you know, two o’clock, one-ish sometimes, perhaps.”
“No,” Mrs. Laschamp said, “I don’t think so.”
“Yes, that’s right, isn’t it, Mrs. Laschamp? I do your mornings.” She lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “She gets a bit confused, you know.”
“So you were perhaps driving along this road at approximately seven forty-five on Monday, the first of September?”
“Well, yes,” the Apron said. “I suppose I would have been.”
“It’s possible, then, that you saw a young female walking along the road, heading west, toward town?”
“Laika Martenwood. Lord, no. I’d definitely remember. No, there weren’t nobody when I came along. I’d have noticed. It would stand out, you see. You never see anyone walking round here.”
“Or any vehicles, a white van perhaps?”
“No, nothing.”
“Mrs. Laschamp,” the man’s voice, “is it possible you’ve seen this girl?”
“Don’t ask her. She don’t go out much, do you, Mrs. Laschamp? She don’t see nobody ’cept me.”
“And Elisabeth.”
“What’s that, Mrs. Laschamp?”
“Elisabeth. My sister.”
“Your sister, Mrs. Laschamp?”
“My sister came. In the morning.”
“In the morning?” The man’s voice.
A brief hesitation, then the Apron’s voice again. “In the morning. Yes, that’s right. I remember now. She had a brief catch-up with her sister a few days ago in the morning, when I was here, doing my hours. I’d forgotten. Elisabeth. Frieda’s sister. That’s right. Lovely lady.”
“Is this Elisabeth?” Mrs. Laschamp said. I angled my head slightly to look through a gap in the banisters. I could see Mrs. Laschamp tapping a finger on a photograph. Time’s up, I thought. I’ll get my bag.
“See what I mean?” the Apron said. “She gets awful confused.” She raised her voice as she spoke to Mrs. Laschamp. “Your sister’s, what, about your age, I’d say, give or take, yes? And that there’s the missing girl, the one what’s been on the news. The one what’s been kidnapped by that Cox bloke, whatsisname, Ian Cox. The builder.”
“Mr. Cox has been released, Mrs. Atkinson.”
“Has he now?”
“Without charge.”
“That can’t be right. You sure?”
There was a moment of silence.
“Well,” the policeman said, “thank you both for your time. Do please let us know if you see anything.”
“We certainly will,” the Apron said, “don’t you worry about that.”
***
About a month later, a new person turned up. It was the middle of the afternoon. The bell went, then the knocker. Then I heard the letter-box opening. I lay flat on the carpet at the top of the stairs.
“You in there, Frieda?” a voice said. “It’s me, Linda.”
Frieda opened the door.
