Missing Girls

MISSING GIRLS MEL SHERRATT CONTENTS ONE MONTH AGO Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 All Books By Mel Sherratt Acknowledgments About the Author ONE MONTH AGO He awoke on the settee with a start, his shoulders and back complaining immediately. It hadn’t helped that he’d downed almost a full bottle of whisky yesterday. Anything to ease the anger. He checked his watch: half past eight. He’d been asleep for almost twelve hours, so be it fitfully. Moving his legs round to the floor, he sat up, waiting for the dull ache behind his eyes to subside. The TV was on low, a news channel showing today’s headlines. He wondered how long it would be before his face was plastered all over it. He stood too quickly, swaying a little, and he held on to the furniture as he made his way to the door. In the bathroom upstairs, his head throbbed. He stared at himself in the mirror over the sink. There was a hole in the right-hand corner, the cracks coming out from it like a spider’s web. He’d done that with his fist just last month. Remembering why wouldn’t help him now. Not bothering to shower, he staggered down the stairs and into the kitchen. The place was a tip even before he’d arrived. Threadbare carpets, curtains that had seen CHAPTER ONE Sunday Marsha Clay pounded through the heather on her way up towards the rocks. If it wasn’t so warm, she might not have been out of breath but, despite it only being seven-thirty in the morning, the sun was bright in a clear-blue sky. Marsha wanted to be there before the crowds descended. The Roaches was a popular tourist spot, with walks ranging from one mile to nearly seven. Yet, coming now, she could almost guarantee that she would share the space with no more than a handful of people. Ahead, her dog, Larry, charged about as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Oh, to be as happy as him, she mused, although as a chocolate Labrador, he looked more like a calf than a march hare prancing up and down. She reached the top of the rocks and took in a deep breath of fresh air, sighing contentedly afterwards. This was her Happy Valley. At its highest point, on clear days, there were views over Staffordshire, Cheshire, and even into Lancashire and Wales. She sat down on the grass, stretching her legs out in front. Larry came to sit next to her, and she