The Lost Child

By Ann Troup

Mandy Miller disappeared from Hallow’s End when she was just 3 years old. She was never found.

‘The Lost Child is complex, mysterious and highly compelling reading.’ - Reviewed the Book

Thirty years on, Elaine Ellis is carrying her mother’s ashes back to Hallow’s End to scatter them in the place that she once called home. Elaine has never been there, but it’s the only place Jean talked about while she was growing up – so it seems as good a place as any.

As Elaine settles into her holiday cottage in the peaceful Devonshire village, she gets to know the locals; family she never knew she had, eccentric and old-fashioned gentry, and new friends where she would least expect them. But she is intrigued by the tale of the missing girl that the village still carries at its heart, and which somehow continues to overshadow them all. Little does she know how much more involved in the mystery she will become…

For fans of K.L Slater, Diane Chamberlain and C.L. Taylor

What readers are saying about The Lost Child

‘atmospheric, haunting and quite dark’ – Book boodle

‘An unusual, beautifully written mystery.’ – The Disorganised Author

‘A fabulous book that gripped me and left me wanting more!’ – Compelling Reads

‘You won't spot the twists and turns coming and they will keep you on the edge of your seat!! You just won't want to put this book down until you find out what happens at the end!’ – Becky Lock

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins UK
• Release date: May 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781474034968

Book preview

Chapter One

It all began with the dead badger. Elaine had spotted it on the road to Hallow’s End, lying stiff and cold near to the grass verge that edged the narrow lane.

Ordinarily she would have ignored it, just swerved past and put the sight out of her mind. However, faced with an oncoming tractor, she had no choice but to drive over the poor thing. As the rear wheels bumped over its now thrice crushed corpse, she gave absolution to its lingering spirit with an apology made insincere by the shudder of revulsion that accompanied it. Rural Devon seemed to be inordinately littered with roadkill.

Driving over the badger had caused a jolt to the suspension, which in turn dislodged the lid of an urn. The three events sent the contents of the urn, the ashes of Elaine’s recently cremated mother, skittering across the boot in a cloud of gritty detritus.

Remnants of the dead woman worked their way into every surface as the car rumbled over uneven tarmac. The tumbling, rolling motion helped to embed the very crumbs of Jean Ellis deep into shoes and coats and bags, where she could cling unseen.

Even in death Jean could cleave to the daughter she’d coveted. In this powdered state she could nestle against Elaine’s skin, work under her fingernails and linger in the air that she would breathe. Jean had become an ethereal cloud, which no one could escape.

When the car drew to a halt Jean settled for a moment, a dust storm in waiting. At the eye of that storm a burdened soul smouldered.

*

Elaine knew none of this as she negotiated the lanes, diligently following the signs to Hallow’s End and looking out for the fork in the road that would lead to the cottage she had rented. Just past the village she took the right fork, as instructed on the booking confirmation, and within a hundred yards saw a cottage which matched the photograph from the website. Sure enough, the sign on the gate read ‘Meadowfoot Cottage’ and Elaine knew she had found the right place. A gravelled pull-in formed the parking space and she pulled up there. Once out of the driving seat she stretched her stiffened limbs and walked to the back of the car. A girl had emerged from the cottage next door and was walking towards her. ‘Miriam says I’ve got to help you with your bags’ she said.

Elaine smiled at her and opened the boot. She was forced to watch, helpless and appalled, as a gust of wind seized the remains of her mother and delivered them into the unsuspecting face of the teenager who was waiting to her side.

‘What the hell was that?’ the girl demanded, spitting. She wiped at her dusty skin with the sleeve of her hoodie.

Elaine quickly pulled a coat over the urn, trying to ignore the grime that sugared the fabric, ‘I’m so sorry, I’ve been having some building work done, I had a bag of plaster in here and some must have spilled.’ She had to think quickly. The confabulation was in lieu of the truth; she could hardly tell the girl she’d just received a face full of cremains. Mortified, she told the girl to go inside and clean herself up, she would unload her own bags.

The girl scowled and sloped off towards the neighbouring cottage, unknowingly patting clouds of dead woman from her clothes.

‘If that had been anyone else but you, Mother, it might have had a funny side,’ Elaine muttered as she shook out her coat and dusted off her luggage. She wondered how appropriate it would be to sweep one’s parent into a dustpan?

‘I should have had you buried, even you couldn’t have got out of a coffin.’ She scooped what she could back into the green plastic urn and screwed on the lid.

She groped around the boot for a bag, which she could wrap round the urn to stop it disgorging its contents again. When she had finally enclosed Jean inside a Tesco’s carrier she felt a flush of guilt. ‘Sorry Mum, but you never could resist embarrassing me. That poor girl! And I know you hated Tesco, but this will have to do.’

To her continuing shame her muttering was interrupted by a small cough, forcing her to turn around and face a cheery looking, apple-cheeked woman who had been standing behind her for God knows how long. ‘Hi.’ Elaine said, acutely aware of the blush that had crept across her own cheeks.

The woman took a long appraising look at both Elaine and her car, ‘You must be Miss Ellis, welcome to Hallow’s End. Good journey?’

Elaine hastily checked the open boot. ‘Not too bad thanks, though the road up here is a mite bumpy,’ Thankfully the remains looked more like unused cat litter than anything else. ‘Is the girl OK? I think I might have upset her when she came to help me unload.’

‘You mean Brodie? Oh, don’t mind her, she’s always like that. Hasn’t stopped moping since she got here.’ The woman bent to pick up one of the bags. ‘Righto, follow me and I’ll show you into the cottage and let you know how everything works. I’m Miriam Davies by the way, I live next door, so any problems and I’m on the doorstep. I come in twice a week to clean and change the linen, but anything you need in the meantime – don’t hesitate to ask. I look after my sister you see, she’s had a stroke poor woman, can’t do a thing for herself, so I’m always in. And now we’ve got Brodie to worry about too; poor waif, got to feel for her really, what with her mum being poorly in the hospital.’ Miriam scrunched up her face as she pronounced the word ‘hospital’, making it sound like a profanity – and leaving Elaine in no doubt about which kind of hospital it was. ‘So all in all, I’ve got my hands full, but nothing’s too much trouble for guests.’

By the time Miriam had finished talking they were inside the holiday cottage and she was busy straightening cushions and twitching curtains. As if she hadn’t already made the place spotless. ‘So, what brings you to Hallow’s End then, Miss Ellis?’ she asked, pausing her activity. Her ruddy face was expectant and smiling.

Elaine took a quick glance around the room where she was to live for the next few weeks. She was looking for the clock – the source of the incessant ticking, which was already grating on her. There it was, on the dresser, its face taking on the essence of a Cheshire cat. She turned her back on it. ‘It’s Elaine by the way. Well, I’m having some building work done at home, so need to be out of the way for a couple of weeks, and Hallow’s End is where my mother was born – she died recently – so I thought I’d come and see where she grew up.’ She hated explaining Jean’s death, it felt as though she were asking for sympathy. The anticipation of the mawkish reaction, which most people heaped upon her, was beginning to turn into a feeling of mild dread. She braced herself for Miriam’s anticipated compassion.

‘I’m sorry to hear that Elaine, that must have been very difficult for you. Still, life goes on doesn’t it?’ Miriam said evenly.

The matter-of-fact response was oddly refreshing, ‘Yes, I suppose it does. You might have known her. Her maiden name was Jean Burroughs.’

Miriam gave the name a moment or two’s thought, ‘No, doesn’t ring a bell, and I’ve lived here all my life.’

Elaine was surprised, the village hadn’t seemed exactly extensive when she had driven through and she’d always imagined that there was an intimacy in rural communities that dictated everyone would know everyone else. But her mother had told her that the family had moved away when she was young, so perhaps it wasn’t so unusual after all. ‘I know the family moved to Bristol a long time ago, but I’m sure there was an aunt still here – Ruby I think.’

Miriam stiffened slightly, ‘Ruby Tyler.’ She stated the name with a tone of grim disapproval.

The unexpected change in Miriam’s efficiently cheerful persona was quite disconcerting.

‘I think so, I never knew her surname. She was just someone who was mentioned once or twice.’ It was true, Jean had never talked much about her family, or her childhood, but the never-met Aunt Ruby stood out in Elaine’s memory as the lady with the cottage garden where Jean had liked to play. It was one of the few things she had been able to imagine from the snippets of information her mother was always so unwilling to share. From Miriam’s reaction it seemed that Aunt Ruby might not be the warm and cosy woman that Elaine had always pictured.

‘Well, I’m ever so sorry to tell you, but Ruby’s been gone a long time. Must be twenty years at least now.’ Miriam had adopted a more conciliatory tone, as if she had consciously decided not to speak ill of the dead.

‘Oh well, never mind. I’m sure I’ll enjoy my stay anyway.’

‘I’m sure you will’ Miriam agreed with a degree of warmth that Elaine hadn’t been expecting after the mention of Ruby.

To her surprise Miriam leaned forward and patted her on the hand, ‘None of us can help our family, can we?’ she said. ‘But you seem like a nice girl. Anyway, I must get on, Esther will be wanting her tea and God knows what Brodie’s been up to since I’ve been gone. Well, here’s your key, and don’t forget I’m across the way if you need me.’

As the curious little woman waddled away, her floral apron flapping against her legs, Elaine was reminded of Jemima Puddle-Duck and found that she was smiling at the comparison.

*

Despite the fact that it really did have roses around the door, the cottage wasn’t quite the bucolic idyll she had imagined when she’d booked. It wasn’t so much how it looked; it was quaint enough, even twee in places, right down to the wood burning stove in the inglenook and the horse brasses over the mantel. Now that she was alone with the mismatched furniture, the chintz and the ticking clock it all felt slightly oppressive, as if the cottage was waiting for her to do something that would bring it to life. Though the wind buffeted the windows and forced the trees outside to look as if they had to bow and pay homage, it wasn’t cold enough to light a fire, so she cast around for another way to drive the shadows out.

The place needed light, it needed noise and it needed movement. She found a radio in the kitchen and tuned it in to Radio 4. Voices flooded the two rooms and she felt herself begin to relax. Having filled the kettle and set it on the stove to boil she was happy to discover that Miriam had been kind enough to leave milk in the fridge and tea and coffee in the cupboard. She switched on a couple of lamps, letting puddles of light the colour of orange squash illuminate the gloom. Satisfied, she hauled her bags upstairs and into the whitewashed bedroom.

By the time she’d put her toiletries in the bathroom and had wedged that damned clock in a cupboard, she felt as though she had made a dent in the moribund atmosphere. Hiding the clock had established the fact that she would mark her own time in this place. It had felt like a small act of rebellion, and left Elaine feeling stupidly victorious at taking matters into her own hands. She laughed at herself for being so pathetic and settled herself onto the sofa where she toasted Jean with a cup of tea. ‘Cheers Mum, sorry about the rough journey, but we’re here now. I’ve brought you home.’

Jean lay still and quiet in the boot of the car, fortuitously unaware that she had been wrapped in a cheap plastic bag (a fact that would have offended her sensibilities no end) or that she had been returned to the last place on earth she would have chosen for her final resting place.

Chapter Two

Brodie Miller shivered, a movement that seemed to rattle the very bones of her small frame. Miriam asked her if someone had walked over her grave. Brodie replied that if that was true it felt as though they had decided to hang around and perform act one of Riverdance on it.

Miriam speculated that Brodie might be coming down with something and foisted a mug of honey and lemon on her then sent her upstairs to bed with a hot water bottle, just in case. Neither remedy had arrested the strange feeling that had entered her bones, but both had provided a good excuse for her to remove herself from the unnerving presence of her Great-Aunt Esther.

Esther’s unrelenting beady-eyed stares, her wrinkled puckered lips and that thing she did – pinching and plucking at the arm of her chair with her spindly fingers – were all driving Brodie spare. So much so that she would have faked a cold long before if she’d thought it would get her off the hook so easily. Being in the same room as Esther was awful, it was like being eyed up by a hungry witch. Esther had a way of stripping you bare with her eyes, which bothered her no end. Especially because she suspected that Esther saw things which Brodie would prefer she didn’t.

Smug with relief at her easy escape she settled onto the creaking bed and peered out of the window. Her room was the only thing she had instantly liked about Hallow’s Cottage. The fact that she was up in the eaves and could see the world below from the comfort of a warm bed pleased her no end. Whoever had built the place, God knows how many hundreds of years ago, had been forced to put the window near the floor to fit it in so it felt like a vantage point, somewhere she could observe unseen.

Since arriving at the cottage she had spent many hours lying there watching the windswept trees perform their strange and urgent ballet, bowing this way and that, as if beckoning towards the big house beyond. Brodie had only glimpsed Hallow’s Court, too unsure of this place yet to want to venture further into something that already felt like a time-slip. It was unsettling enough to have been foisted on these unfamiliar relatives with no warning to either party. Miriam was nice enough, Esther downright scary – but the whole Downton Abbey set-up was frankly weird when you were fifteen and freaked out already. Exploring Hallow’s Court at close quarters wasn’t high on her list of priorities at that time, despite the urgency of the leafy invitation. She had to admit that the big house beyond the trees did intrigue her. It housed a family with such ancient origins that their centuries-long occupation of the land had given the place their name. Hallow’s End served Hallow’s Court and vice versa. Brodie felt quite proud that she had worked out the significance of the apostrophe in the village name. It meant that the place belonged, that it had sprung from some feudal right bestowed by an archaic ruler. It meant this place was really old and had been spawned by the presence of the Hallow family. Imagine that, owning the land and the people who lived on it? Of course it wasn’t like that any more, but it was still weird, the idea that a place could be born from someone’s name. The problem was that the whole concept made you feel like you had to be part of it, be encompassed by all the oldness and sucked into the history. Brodie had grown up on a council estate where the only things that made you belong were a lack of money and the lack of any ambition that might get you out. The concept of wanting to embrace the place you lived was entirely alien to her.

The thought of how freakish it all was provoked a gobbet of anxiety, which forced her to fumble for her mobile phone and scroll down the contacts list until she found her brother’s name. It was necessary to send a text asking him to call her; she didn’t have much credit. No one had thought to give her any money in the melee which had ensued when her mother had been taken to hospital. The memory of that day made her shiver again. She could imagine little worse than coming home from school to find her mother lying in a sea of spilled pills, vodka and vomit. Actually that was a lie, what was worse was having to come home and see it again, and again, and again.

She was relieved when a few minutes later the phone began to vibrate in her hand. ‘Tone, thanks for ringing back. I’ve got no credit.’

‘No probs Squidge, what’s up?’ Tony asked, his voice tinny and more distant than she would have liked. It felt like he was a million miles away.

‘Nothing really, just wanted to speak to someone, you know,’ she said, her voice cracking as the unbearable worm of misery wriggled, causing her lip to wobble and a tear to bulge ominously at the corner of her eye. She hated herself for being so weak.

‘Awwww, Squidge! Don’t cry, I know it’s crap, but it won’t be for long. As soon as I can get leave I’ll come and get you, OK?’

‘OK’ she said, sniffing.

‘How are the old bids? Treating you all right?’

‘Yeah, they’re OK. Miriam’s nice, but Esther’s a bit freaky. She looks at me like I’m something nasty someone brought in on their shoe. And I’m supposed to earn my keep by helping with the guests, Miriam had me lugging people’s bags today, and I had to change beds and vacuum,’ she said in a decidedly sulky tone.

Tony laughed, ‘Well a bit of work won’t kill you, and it’ll keep you out of trouble. Don’t worry about Esther, she’s always been like that – thinks hers doesn’t stink as I remember – but she’s relatively harmless, especially now. I can remember getting a few slapped arses when I was a kid though. Now she’s confined to a chair you should be safe enough. But remember to wipe your feet and mind your p’s and q’s. Anyway, I’ll put a few quid in your bank OK?’

‘Cheers Tone. Look, do I really have to stay here? I could cope on my own ‘til you get back, you know I could.’ She heard his weary sigh and could guess what face he would be pulling.

‘Look Squidge, you know the score. I’m sorry love but I had no choice, you can’t stay on your own, no way. Not that I don’t trust you, but those scumbags on the estate would take the piss no end if they thought you were on your own. Besides, your social worker would have you in care before we could blink. I know you don’t know the old bids, but they’re OK, and it’s got to be better than foster care hasn’t it? At least they’re family.’

Brodie snorted, ‘Yeah, family I never even knew existed we’re so bloody close! Speaking of family, have you heard from Fern?’ At the mere mention of their sister’s name she could sense Tony bristling with contempt.

‘Yeah I spoke to her, she’s not interested. She’s got a holiday booked and can’t get down to see Mum or you. She doesn’t care Brode, you know that.’

‘Yeah I know. Still…’

Tony changed the subject, ‘Anyway, I called the hospital earlier. Mum’s OK, she’ll probably end up having ECT sometime this week and hopefully that’ll sort her out, eh?’

Brodie rolled her eyes, it came to something when zapping people with electricity and turning them into dribbling simpletons was the only answer. ‘Maybe. Won’t bring Mandy back though will it?’

There was silence, and for a moment she thought Tony had gone and the connection had been broken. ‘You still there?’ It took a second longer, but finally he answered.

‘Yeah, still here, sorry. I wish she’d get over it, it was thirty years ago for Christ’s sake! Shit happens and we just have to live with it. I wish she’d just bloody get a grip and concentrate on the family she has got. Perhaps then Fern wouldn’t be a complete fuck up and you wouldn’t be shipped off to all and sundry every five minutes!’

And perhaps you wouldn’t have run off to the Navy and left me alone to deal with it, Brodie thought but didn’t say. ‘I suppose…’ was what she did say, reluctant to embark on a confusing and emotive debate about how a woman should deal with the abduction and probable murder of her child. ‘I just wish we didn’t have to live with it so much’ she said, picturing the council flat that she called home, which had become a shrine to the missing Mandy, the perpetual toddler who clung to Brodie’s existence like a hungry ghost. She didn’t want to think about it. ‘Anyway, when can you get leave?’

Tony sighed again, ‘I don’t know Brode, it’s difficult. I know it’s crap but no one died and it’s hard to make the Navy understand that I should be looking after you. But I’m doing my best, OK?’

‘OK’ she said, not entirely sure she believed him. Much as she adored her brother, he wasn’t always as honest as she’d like him to be. She knew for a fact he couldn’t handle Shirley, their mother. Besides, she was pretty sure that Tony’s girlfriend Kerry might have some influence on the situation. Brodie had only met her twice, and though she was nice enough she got the distinct impression that Kerry wasn’t a girl who embraced complexity. Their family was complex if it was nothing else. Brodie knew it by instinct, but had seen it confirmed on the referral to Young Carers that her social worker had recently made. ‘Complex family issues’ she had written. As far as Brodie was concerned, if it was written down in black and white, it was gospel.

‘OK Squidge, I’ve got to go, but I’ll put that money in for you all right? It’ll be all right Brode, I promise.’ He ended the call before she had chance to interject with an emotional reply.

Brodie stared at the screen for a few minutes, waiting for the light to fade from the display and blink out. She’d wanted to talk more, to ask him why he’d sent her to stay in the very place where Mandy went missing. Even though she already knew the answer – there hadn’t been anywhere else. Brodie Miller wasn’t wanted and never really had been. Which reminded her that there were other things she needed to say.

She’d wanted to ask him how he thought their mum would take it, knowing that he’d entrusted Miriam, the woman she still blamed for Mandy’s abduction, with the care of her youngest daughter? However – Brodie wasn’t three, she wasn’t a vulnerable baby. She’d been looking after herself for a long time. But beyond all that, beyond the past, she wanted to know why nobody told her anything and just expected her to work it out for herself and then suck it up. And why, all in all, she was worth less than a dead child. Especially one like Mandy. The child had been endowed with such saintly attributes in her long absence that she couldn’t possibly be real. Ok, Brodie was neither cute nor beguiling, but she was there, she was real, she existed.

There had been times, recent times, when Brodie would have been lucky to have found a tin of beans for her tea. Whereas complete strangers still lit candles for the missing Mandy.

*

Elaine emptied a tin of mushroom soup into saucepan and while she waited for it to heat through, buttered a few slices of bread. Her exploration of the village that afternoon had yielded the knowledge that if she wanted to eat well during her stay, she would have to drive into town to buy food. Hallow’s End wasn’t going to provide anything more than the absolute basics. The village store seemed to exist as a place to exchange gossip rather than as a shop. Other than the fast turnover stuff like bread, milk and butter, the other stock had been rimed with a film of dust suggesting that it was there for show and was only bought by those in abject desperation. Elaine had been both abject and desperate and had paid for her shopping under the curious and pitying stare of several village residents.

The walk back had been a hairy experience, it hadn’t occurred to her that rural areas weren’t overburdened with street lighting. The combination of descending darkness, rough terrain and inappropriate footwear had resulted in a sore ankle and not a little embarrassment. She hadn’t anticipated showing herself up as such a rube. Fortunately her only witnesses had been a herd of unimpressed cows. In falling she had managed to dent the tin of soup, which made the prospect of eating it even more unappealing.

The truth was that she hadn’t really thought this trip through. The whole thing had been motivated by a desperate need to get away and be anywhere else but at home surrounded by reminders of Jean. Dan, her philosophical builder, had suggested she might be having a delayed grief reaction. It was possible she supposed, but didn’t quite explain the sense of guilt-ridden relief she’d felt at her mother’s demise. Not that she hadn’t loved her mother – if the loyalty she had shown was love, she had. Jean had been a loving, attentive, caring, cloying, claustrophobic, hovering, demanding, frightened, needy…

‘STOP Elaine’ she told herself. ‘Just stop, it’s gone. Breathe.’ But the feelings clutched at her, forcing her to pull at the scarf around her neck to make room for more air. As she pulled, her fingers brushed against the ragged scar that ran halfway round her throat. Instinctively she left the garment in place, patting it down to make sure it hid the ugliness beneath.

‘Get a grip Elaine, for God’s sake!’ she chided out loud, deliberately turning her attention to the soup which had started to burble and slop in the pan.

It was a pretty disgusting meal, but she was hungry and ate the grey tinged soup for the sake of filling the hollow in her belly. Time was passing very slowly in the cottage, so much so that she was almost tempted to release the clock from its hidey-hole. But she knew that its insistent clamour would do nothing but transport her straight back where she didn’t want to be.

The first thing she