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

the time – it’s nearly eight. She’s too worried about Nan to do anything here, and anyway, it feels empty, pointless while Nan is still out there somewhere. She pushes back from her desk on her swivel chair; there is still time to get to the police station and back before 9 a.m. She leaves the office the same way she came in. Only this time she feels the editor’s gaze follow her out.

FIVE

Chloe pushes open the thick heavy doors to the police station. She scans the benches that line the walls in case Nan is waiting there in reception. She can almost picture her: a puzzled face, shivering from the cold, but there, all the same. Instead a skinny man sits in a battered leather jacket and dirty jeans, and a woman in her fifties opposite clutches her handbag as though it contains precious forensic evidence.

Chloe walks up to the reception desk and presses the bell. An overweight woman slumps slowly towards the window.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m enquiring about my nan, she’s missing. I just want to know if there’s been any news?’

‘Name?’

‘My name?’

‘Your grandmother’s.’

‘Oh, Grace Hudson.’

‘Has an officer been in touch with you to say there’ve been any developments?’

‘Well, no, but—’

‘Then I think it’s fair to assume there haven’t been any sightings. Have we got your contact details in case any of our officers need to get in touch?’

‘Well, yes, but—’

‘Then we’ll be in touch if there’s any further news.’

The woman goes to walk away but Chloe taps quickly on the safety glass.

‘Please, I . . . Can I just speak to the officer I spoke with yesterday? It’s important.’

‘Do you have new information?’

‘No, I just need to know they’re doing everything they can.’

The woman rolls her eyes a little and taps something into her keyboard, then she picks up her phone to make a call.

‘He’s coming down.’

‘Thank you.’

She slopes off back to her crossword.

Chloe sits down on the benches, next to the woman clutching her handbag. The woman shuffles an inch away.

Chloe waits for twenty minutes before PC Dunn puts his head around the door.

‘Chloe? Do you want to come through?’

She follows him – too slowly it seems. He walks quickly, weaving this way and that through the corridors, through double doors – another set – and she struggles to keep up. He’s tall, well over six feet, and his straight black trousers don’t quite meet his ankles. He chooses a different interview room today and they sit down. He takes out the same tiny notepad from his top pocket and the same tiny pen.

‘I hear you have some further information for us?’

‘Well, no, I . . . I just wondered if there’s been any news?’

He sighs, shaking his head and putting the lid back on his pen. ‘Not as yet, I’m afraid, but you can rest assured we’re doing all we can.’

Chloe can’t help but think of the woman and her crossword behind the desk.

‘We did manage to speak to the social worker, what was her name . . .?’ He flicks back a few pages in his notepad as Chloe’s hands squeeze one another in her lap.

‘Claire Sanders.’

‘Claire Sanders, yes, that’s right. She said that she’s been trying to get Mrs Hudson into a care home for some time but there’s been some resistance . . . from yourself, would that be?’

‘Well, yes, but it’s only because, well, we can manage, you see? Nan doesn’t need to be in a care home, she’s got me, and . . . and I’ve got her and—’

‘Yes . . . although with the greatest respect, Mrs Hudson is currently missing – we’ve got officers searching for her now. You’re not really managing, are you? Perhaps if she had been in a care home, this wouldn’t—’

Chloe’s phone rings in her pocket, finishing the sentence for him. She scrabbles through her coat to reach it. Even PC Dunn sits forward in his chair.

A name flashes up: Hollie. Her best friend. Chloe shows the policeman.

‘It’s just my . . . er . . . hang on, hello?’

‘Oh my God, Chloe, I just picked up your text. Are you OK? Have they found her?’

She quickly tells Hollie she’s at the police station, there’s been no news. The two arrange to meet at a local coffee shop. She puts the phone down and PC Dunn closes his notepad.

‘Chloe,’ he says, ‘I know you’re worried, but I can assure you we’re doing everything we can. Seventy-nine per cent of missing people are found within twenty-four hours.’

She thinks of the girl in the cuttings. ‘And the rest?’

‘Let’s be positive, eh?’

He leads her out of the station. There’s nothing she can do but follow.

In the coffee shop, Hollie wraps her in a big winter-coat hug.

‘Oh hun, I can’t believe this is happening.’

‘Me neither,’ Chloe says as she pulls out a chair and sits down. She looks over the menu, but she’s not hungry. Instead they order coffees to help them thaw while Chloe quickly fills her in. Hollie reaches her hand across the table towards Chloe, and she stares at it lying limp on top of her own. Chloe feels the gratitude swell inside her for Hollie’s unswerving loyalty.

‘Listen, it’s not your fault, you know that, don’t you?’ Hollie says.

Chloe shrugs.

‘They’ll find her, just you wait and see. I bet loads of people go missing like this and, well . . . I’m sure it’s all going to be fine.’

Chloe stirs her coffee.

‘I know, it’s just . . . she’s all I’ve got.’

Hollie pushes her long blonde hair back behind her shoulders and stirs more sugar into her coffee. Chloe sees how she glances up at her every now and then as she turns the teaspoon round and round inside her mug. Chloe shuffles in her seat.

‘Your nails are nice,’ Chloe says.

Hollie stops stirring to admire them. She has these gels done, long nails that curl slightly at the top. They’re always painted like miniature portraits, with little flowers or glittery tips. Hollie calls it her guilty pleasure, though Chloe isn’t sure what she has to feel guilty about and has never asked. She wouldn’t have them done herself, though she has walked past the kind of nail salons that Hollie visits. Chloe has never so