No One I Knew by A McDine (best e book reader for android .TXT) 📕

my options. The quickest way to reach it would be to climb the fence, walk up the side of the secondhand car dealership, and across the estate. I wasn’t worried about CCTV - the aged cameras had never worked in all the years we’d operated out of the unit, and anyway, as the owner I was here legitimately. But I didn’t want to risk setting off the security lights and alerting Niamh to my presence. It would be safer to follow the perimeter of the fence and approach the old FoodWrapped warehouse from behind.

The moon peeked out from behind a cloud as I crept around the edge of the field, trying to avoid the brambles that trailed across the ground like viciously barbed tripwires. As I neared the warehouse, it occurred to me I had no clue what I’d do if I found Niamh. Call the police and wait for them to arrive in force, all blue lights and sirens? Or try to reason with her myself, mother to mother? Not for the first time since Immy disappeared, I was at a loss. The old Cleo Cooper would have known exactly what to do. She was decisive, unshakeable, in command. The new version dithered and wavered. She was self-doubting and hesitant. All the things I despised in a person, and yet that was who I’d become, thanks to Niamh. The day she stole my daughter, I’d become a shadow of my former self. Anger flooded my veins, and I quickened my pace. Sod the police. I would deal with Niamh myself.

The fence was rusted and sagging, and the rotting post wobbled in my hand as I stepped gingerly over it into the undergrowth behind the warehouse. A line of poplars marked the boundary between the industrial estate and a crescent of executive-style homes, and in the shadow of the trees it was hard to see my hand in front of my face, let alone locate the overgrown path that led to the warehouse.

After a couple of false starts, I felt concrete beneath my feet. I shuffled to a narrow window at the back of the building and peered through the grimy glass into the cavernous space beyond. It was too dark to see a thing, so I pictured the layout in my mind. Three offices to the left: mine, Bill’s and Sheila’s. A kitchen, toilets and staff room beyond. Opposite the offices, the cold storage room. PVC strip curtains to keep the cold air in. In the centre, an open area where our team of packers had assembled the ingredients for our meal kit boxes. Next to the main front door, a small reception area.

DI Jones said someone had jemmied open the back door. I felt along the doorjamb, pulling back as my fingers came into contact with splintered wood. A stab of pain made me gasp, and I used the light of my phone to inspect the damage. A sliver of wood, as sharp as a pin, was embedded in the palm of my hand. I held my breath, pulled it out with my thumb and forefinger and wiped away a bead of blood.

This time I was more careful as I eased the door open. When it was wide enough for me to slip through, I paused, listening for signs of life. The place was silent, and I stepped inside.

Immediately, a mouldering smell hit me. We’d taken most of the fixtures and fittings with us to the new HQ in Hersden, and we’d put the Littlebourne warehouse on the market a couple of weeks after we’d vacated it. It had been standing empty, airless and forgotten, since then. Fast forward a couple of years and the place was slowly rotting away.

Happy the warehouse was empty, I searched for Niamh’s things. I checked the offices first, but they were deserted. I steered clear of the cold room - there was no way Niamh would be in there - and glanced in the kitchen, but it, too, was empty. The door to the staff room was closed. I hesitated outside, my fingers resting on the handle. What if I was mistaken, and she was hiding inside, off her head with drugs, a knife hidden up her sleeve or in her sleeping bag? Would she blame me for the way her life had spiralled out of control? Because whichever way you looked at it, if she hadn’t taken the job as our au pair, the rape, the unwanted pregnancy, the subsequent fall into addiction and prostitution would never have happened.

But if there was even a slightest chance that Niamh knew where Immy was, it was a risk I was prepared to take. My grip on the handle tightened, and I pushed the door open, my heart in my mouth.

The beam from my phone danced around the windowless room, settling on a huddle in the corner. A cry lodged in my throat. Was it Niamh, curled up under her sleeping bag like a tramp in a doorway?

‘Niamh?’ I whispered. ‘It’s Cleo.’

Silence.

‘Are you OK?’

The huddle didn’t move. I stole across the room, my senses on high alert. It could be a trap and she was feigning sleep to draw me closer. An image of her slender fingers clasping a kitchen knife under the sleeping bag crept into my head. But no, I was being ridiculous. The Niamh I knew wasn’t capable of violence. I hunkered down on my heels and stretched out a hand. ‘Niamh?’

The shape yielded beneath my touch, and I let out a long breath. I picked up the hood of a fusty anorak and peered underneath. A sleeping bag had been rolled up and secured with a worn leather belt. Next to it was a rucksack and a couple of carrier bags full of clothes. A small satchel-like bag and a pair of grubby trainers. Niamh’s belongings, all packed up and ready for a swift getaway. But no sign of Niamh. And no sign of Immy.

Feeling foolish, I left