Free Nowhere Girl by Ruth Dugdall Page B

you had to discover that for yourself
.
    Well, now you have, so you can come back to me
.
    Can you hear me shouting out? Can you hear me calling you?
    Please come home
.
Cate
    The first sign that anything was different happened when Cate pulled up at the “kiss and drop” section of the school car park. She was approached by the regular security guard, who acted as bouncer of the school campus. This time, rather than simply waving her on, the guard came and opened the car door to let Amelia out.
    “
Moien
. May I check that you will be collecting her tonight?”
    “Of course.”
    The second sign was the pained look on the other mothers’ faces, who were standing in tight groups talking, rather than dashing off to the gym or café or shops.
    Rather than driving back home, where General would be waiting with his legs crossed, desperate for his morning walk, Cate pulled into a parking space and got out of the car. She wandered deliberately close to a gaggle of women in designer jackets with sunglasses propped on their glossy manes, to see what they were discussing with such stricken faces. The group wasn’t speaking English, but even though Cate couldn’t make out most of the words, which sounded Russian, the same name kept repeating on their glossy lips:
Ellie. Ellie Scheen
.
    Now that Cate looked around she noticed that the security guards were doubled in number, and even grumpier looking than usual. All wore orange day-glow jackets over their dark suits, despite the nineteen degree heat, and this at eight thirty in the morning.
    Amidst the gaggle of women, Cate saw a face she recognised, a nervy Canadian woman who had been designated by the Parents Association to meet her for coffee in the school canteen when she first arrived, one of the group’s welcome services. That she had the task suggested to Cate that the woman wasn’t high on the pecking order, had not yet risen to the heights of organising the wine-tasting event or the autumn charity ball. Cate racked her brain for the woman’s name and once it clicked she called out, “Mary-Ann!” No response from the Canadian who was walking swiftly towards the school entrance, so Cate yelled again, “Mary-Ann!”
    She turned, saw Cate and gave a feeble wave. She seemed to be distracted by the security officers. Cate saw that Mary-Ann’s face was drained of colour and she looked anxious.
    “Hi, Mary-Ann. Do you know what’s going on?”
    There was a moment when Cate saw that, along with anxiety, Mary-Ann was also experiencing the sense of importance that comes with holding privileged information. Her eyes sparkled and she paused before she spoke.
    “This morning the Parents’ Association received an email from the principal. A girl from school went missing from Schueberfouer. One of the older pupils, a bit of a rebel apparently.”
    Mary-Ann spoke quietly, but the gaggle of Russian women stopped talking and moved closer.
    One said, in an awed voice, “It is not the first time! A boy was taken before, just outside of Luxembourg. In Ikea. A Swedish boy, just seven years old, with very blond hair.”
    “What happened to him, Katrina?” asked one of her friends.
    The woman adjusted the Gucci sunglasses on her head. “A store detective found the man, before he got away. He was in the toilets, dying the boy’s blond hair brown.”
    All the Russians began a shocked protest at the thought, and Cate tried to think about how many times she had heard this particular story. Why did no-one ever question the sense of taking time to dye hair instead of just scarpering? The mess alone made it unbelievable, but none of the women had cottoned on to the fact and it wasn’t Cate’s job to enlighten them.
    Another woman leaned into the group and said confidentially, “My daughter said that this missing girl is playing Game of 72. It’s all over the Facebook, teenagers are signing up for it, agreeing to go missing for three days.”
    “You need to tell the police about