The Girl Who Vanished

About the AuthorR.M. Ward was born in Surrey and now lives in Bath with her husband and two dogs. She has two grown-up children. She worked in local government for years before writing full-time. Her debut YA thriller, Numbers, published under Rachel Ward, won many regional awards in the UK and Europe, was released in twenty-six countries and is currently optioned for film. She has written two psychological thrillers for HQ Digital, Safe With You and The Girl Who Vanished. Also by R.M. WardSafe With YouUK The Girl Who VanishedR.M. WARD HQAn imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.1 London Bridge StreetLondon SE1 9GFFirst published in Great Britain by HQ in 2023Copyright © Rachel Ward 2023Rachel Ward asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.E-book Edition © May 2023 ISBN: 9780008560287Version: 2023-03-21 Table of ContentsCoverAbout the AuthorAlso by R.M. WardTitle PageCopyrightDedicationNote to ReadersThe GirlFrancesFrancesThe GirlFrancesThe GirlFrancesFrancesNaomiFrancesNaomiFrancesFrancesNaomiFrancesFrancesNaomiFrancesFrancesFrancesFrancesFrancesNaomiFrancesNaomiNaomiFrancesNaomiFrancesNaomiThe GirlFrancesFrancesFrancesFrancesThe GirlFrancesFrancesNaomiFrancesFrancesThe GirlNaomiFrancesFrancesThe GirlFrancesFrancesNaomiFrancesNaomiFrancesThe GirlNaomiNaomiFrancesFrancesFrancesFrancesNaomiFrancesFrancesFrancesFrancesFrancesFrancesFrancesFrancesFrancesFrancesNaomiFrancesNaomiFrancesFrancesFrancesFrancesFrancesFrancesFrancesFrancesTheresaA Letter from R.M. WardKeep Reading …AcknowledgementsDear Reader …About the Publisher For Ozzy, Ali and Pete Note to ReadersThis ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings:Change of font size and line heightChange of background and font coloursChange of fontChange justificationText to speech The GirlShe looks down as she walks, concentrating hard, following the messy trail of treasure, a ribbon of stones and seaweed running along the sandy shore parallel to the water’s edge. She crouches down, not caring if the water laps in and catches the bottom of her shorts, and sifts through a promising spot, hoping for a crab leg, a stone with a secret stripe of quartz or, the greatest prize of all, a cowrie shell.The sun is warm on her arms and the back of her legs. Her hat with daisies on it is protecting her neck and there’s a tiny breeze blowing in from the water.A shadow falls across her and she shivers.She looks up and sees a tall, dark figure against the bleached-out sky, bare feet on the sand, head almost touching the sun.‘Your mum’s looking for you. She’s really worried.’She looks past the woman’s legs at the crowded beach. It’s a kaleidoscope of windbreaks and fold-up chairs, clutches of people and towels all over the sand like crazy paving. She has no idea where Mum and Danni are.‘Come on, let’s get you back to her.’She holds out her hand. It’s a beautiful hand – long fingers and painted nails.The girl picks up her bucket and spade and slips her grubby, gritty hand into the hand of the stranger. FrancesThe call comes when I am asleep. The call no mother ever wants. A ringtone piercing my fitful dreams, jerking me back to consciousness.‘Mrs Brookman. Frances? My name is Harriet Smith. I’m a staff nurse at St Thomas’ Hospital. Your daughter, Naomi, was in an accident earlier today. She’s in surgery now. You should get here if you can.’My foggy brain tries to make sense of her words.‘Is she okay? An accident? What happened?’‘We’re not sure. A road traffic accident of some sort. She was brought in by ambulance. We’re assessing injuries now.’‘Oh my god. Is she going to … I mean, will she be all right?’‘We’re doing everything we can, but you need to get here.’‘Yes, of course. I’m on my way. Did you say St Thomas’? London, right?’‘Westminster Bridge Road.’‘Okay. I’m two hours away. Tell her … tell her to hold on.’I’m already up, clutching my phone, staggering towards the bathroom.In the bathroom, sunlight floods through the textured glass. I’ve come to rely on afternoon naps – they’re the only way I can cope with the exhaustion of the insomnia that has plagued my nights for years. I’ve given up trying to fight it. It’s easier for me to get up when I wake, work at my drawing board at four in the morning, but then I must sleep later on. Waking up in the afternoon is disorientating enough. Being woken suddenly like this plunges my brain into confusion; my sense of time, gravity, reality all jumbled up.I splash cold water onto my face. The shock of it brings clarity. This is real. Naomi’s in hospital. I’ve got to drive to London. Now.In the kitchen, Tiggy threads her way through my legs, almost tripping me. I curse and clutch the cold granite worktop of the island in the middle of the floor. The cat looks up at me enquiringly and meows.‘Not now, Tigs. I’ve got to go.’ I’m halfway to the door when I realise I don’t know how long I’ll be gone for. I go back and fill a bowl with wet food. Her nose is in before the bowl even hits the floor. She loves Naomi, always taking up residence in her room when she’s home from uni for the holidays. There’s a lump in my throat now. ‘I’m going to fetch her, Tigs. I promise I’ll bring her back soon.’I don’t need much with me – just keys, debit card, phone. I fleetingly wonder if I should take a change of clothes but there’s no time for that. I grab the little cross-body bag I use every day and my car and house keys from on the hall table. As