The Imposter, Anna Wharton [romantic story to read TXT] 📗

and Maureen sit holding a framed photograph of Angie between them.

TEN years after the disappearance of their four-year-old daughter from a city park, Patrick and Maureen Kyle have revealed they will never give up hope that she will be returned to them.

The devastated parents, of Chestnut Avenue, Dogsthorpe, told this newspaper they still believe Angela will be found.

‘Although the case was closed many years ago, the police never found Angela’s body,’ Mr Kyle said. ‘And without a body to bury there is every chance that Angela will walk back into our lives one day. As long as we live, we’ll never stop hoping that will happen. We’ll always be waiting for her.’

Chloe pulls the cutting up closer to her nose, searching the eyes of Maureen and Patrick – for what, she isn’t sure. It’s obvious from this photograph that time has taken its toll on the two of them. Patrick’s once-black hair is now peppered with white around his ears; he’s grown a beard too which is filled in with grey. Two deep frown lines now fill the space between Maureen’s eyebrows, her hair not long and loose like it was when she was a young mother. It’s now cut more practically, less carefree. It must have broken her heart to trim off the locks that Angie herself had once touched.

‘Never trusted him,’ a voice behind her says.

Chloe feels someone leaning over her left shoulder.

She turns around. A middle-aged woman leans back in her seat once again.

‘How do you mean?’ Chloe asks.

‘Always thought he was hiding something.’

‘Like what?’ Chloe folds the cuttings, as if that small gesture will protect Maureen and Patrick’s ears.

‘Well, how many dads do you know who take their girls out to the park on the weekend?’

She sniffs, and Chloe thinks, though resists the urge to say, she doesn’t know any dads.

‘That was it, wasn’t it?’ the woman continues. ‘He left her, didn’t he? Well, I always thought he looked a bit shifty. Leaving a little girl in the park like that, even for a second, he deserved everything he got if you ask me.’

The woman pulls her handbag up under her large bosom. Sniffs again.

‘Well,’ Chloe starts, ‘it was only for a second . . .’

She has no idea why she’s defending Patrick. Perhaps after this time spent within the story, she feels some kind of loyalty to Maureen and Patrick, like they’re friends. Yes, like she knows them. She sits up a bit taller then. After all, hadn’t it only taken a second for Nan to go missing?

‘Don’t matter how long, you don’t leave your kids,’ the woman says. ‘Not even for a moment. How she stuck with him all these years I don’t know. If my husband had come home without any of ours, I’d have strung him up myself.’

Chloe turns back to the cutting and reopens it. She tries to see Patrick as this stranger does. But to her, Patrick looks shattered, the same as his wife beside him. Hadn’t he also welcomed the police enquiry, even when they arrested him? A guilty man wouldn’t do that. Her fingertips feel clammy where she’s clutching the cutting. How could anyone think they got what they deserved? No one deserves to lose a child. Especially not these two, not when they had clearly cherished her so much.

‘That little girl was about the same age as my Jessica at the time,’ the woman starts again, only this time Chloe doesn’t turn around. ‘We were all saying the same thing in the school playground: it had to be him involved, police just couldn’t pin anything to him. And they do these appeals every year – what do they say?’ She leans forward to read the headline, then mimics them, ‘“We’re still waiting for Angie.” Well, she ent coming home. She’s gone, ent she? Gone the minute he took his eyes off her. Wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t know where an’ all, you mark my words.’

Chloe has heard enough. She pushes the cutting back into her bag and looks up for her stop. It’s not the next one, but she decides to get off anyway. She gathers up her shopping, and as she does, two oranges roll out and down the central aisle of the bus. The woman tuts. Chloe feels the anger burning inside, her temples throbbing. How could someone say that about Maureen and Patrick? No two parents are more devoted than they are. If only she had been lucky enough to have been their daughter. Chloe would have killed for parents like that.

As the doors close she hears the woman say to the passenger sitting next to her, ‘Well, I was only saying.’

ELEVEN

There’s chaos in the newsroom when Chloe walks in on Monday morning. On days like these Chloe has learnt that it’s best to shuffle straight towards the archive, losing herself among the filing cabinets until tempers calm.

‘What’s happened?’ she whispers to Alec as they stand opposite each other in the archive, separated by metal, her filing B, him L.

‘No front page this morning,’ he says, slamming the L drawer shut. Chloe feels the reverberation of it inside the B drawer.

Nothing causes more panic here than a Monday morning without a splash. Malc is a micro manager, very often calling reporters into the office to brief them on stories himself. The one day of the week that he’s forced to spend with his family is a constant source of anxiety to him. He must spend all Sunday hoping for a story to break, Chloe has often thought. Alec said he should have stayed as a news editor; some people just can’t let go.

Malc’s office door slams open and shut throughout the morning until almost midday when the paper finally goes to press. It’s cost them money and he snaps at Sandra, his PA. She types faster outside his office. Alec and Chloe instinctively make their footsteps lighter inside the archive. But five minutes later, Sandra pops her head in among the piles of filing.

‘Malc