Girl, Missing (6 page)

I didn't mention Martha Lauren Purditt.

‘I really, really need to know where I come from,' I said. ‘I thought maybe you could tell me something about my real mother.'

There was a long pause.

Mr Tarsen's smile seemed a little strained. ‘I'm sorry, Lauren. I'm afraid I can't help you.'

‘Why not?' My gut twisted into a knot. I knew what was coming, but I had to look shocked. Upset. Like I wasn't expecting it.

‘Until you're eighteen, you're not entitled to see your original birth certificate without the approval of your parent
or guardian. And you've already made it clear your adoptive parents do not approve. I bet they don't even know you're here, do they?'

I blushed. Mr Tarsen shook his head in this really patronising way. ‘I'm afraid I would be breaking Vermont State law if I told you anything.'

‘Oh,' I said. ‘Oh no.' My voice sounded phoney to my ears. I wondered how far Jam had got in his search.

Mr Tarsen stared at me. ‘It isn't just your age,' he said. ‘I checked your file before I came down. In your particular case, the mother filed a request for non-disclosure immediately after you were adopted. That means she doesn't want you to know who she is or where she is. Ever.'

The knot in my stomach tightened. Was that true? I'd turned up at Marchfield, expecting that I would have to be cagey about what I wanted. After all, it was likely the agency knew at least some part of what had really happened. A seed of doubt now crept into my head. Maybe I'd got the whole thing wrong. Maybe Mum and Dad and the agency were on the level. And I was simply a child whose mother didn't want her.

No. That couldn't be true. I had remembered my mother. I had dreamed of her. She loved me. She hadn't wanted to lose me.

Mr Tarsen fidgeted in his chair. ‘I know it's hard,' he said.

‘You mean I mightn't ever find out?' I said. ‘About my past?'

‘I'm sorry not to have been of more help.' Mr Tarsen stood up. His patronising smile deepened. ‘But you wouldn't want me arrested now, would you?'

I stared at his white polo-neck.

Maybe for crimes against fashion
.

He nodded towards the door.

Do something
.

‘Can't you tell me anything about my mother?' I said. I knew I was on dangerous ground. The last thing I wanted was to make Tarsen aware of what I knew about Martha, but I had to give Jam more time to snoop about. ‘You must have met her?'

Mr Tarsen shook his head. He stood up. Walked to the door. My heart raced. There was no way Jam would have found where my file was by now.

‘Wait,' I said. ‘What about Sonia Holtwood?' I'd remembered the name from Mum's diaries. I knew it was risky to mention her – after all, whoever she was, she was obviously involved in my adoption in some way. But I was desperate. I had to give Jam more time.

Mr Tarsen stopped with his hand on the door handle. He turned round to face me.

‘Where on earth did you get that name from?' he said slowly.

‘I saw it written down somewhere,' I said, unable to think of a plausible cover for Mum's diaries. ‘Who is she? Someone who worked here? Or my . . . my real mother? Or . . . ?' I looked down, pressing my hands against my jeans to stop them shaking.

There was a long pause. I could feel Mr Tarsen's eyes boring into me. ‘What else did you see, Lauren?' he said.

‘Nothing.' My face was burning.

Crap. Crap, crap, crap
.

There was a long pause.

‘Sometimes it's hard for adopted children to accept the truth,' Mr Tarsen said softly. ‘So they make up fairy-tales. Foundling stories. Stories about being stolen away from their homes.'

I looked up at him.

‘Is that it, Lauren? Is that what you think happened to you?'

I sat silently, my heart pounding. Mr Tarsen stared intently at my face. Did he know what had happened? Or was he simply guessing at what I might be thinking?

He leaned forward. ‘Believe me, Lauren. Sonia was simply young and irresponsible and unable to cope with you.'

‘So she
was
my mother?' The words came out in a whisper.

Mr Tarsen looked at me with this strange mix of frustration
and something else I couldn't read. What was it? Pity? Fear?

‘I can see you're not yet prepared to let this go.' He checked his watch. ‘But we can't talk about it any more now. Who else knows the two of you are here?'

‘No one,' I said. ‘Just the bus driver from Burlington.'

Mr Tarsen tugged at the neck of his jumper.

‘OK, this is what we'll do.' He fished a leather wallet from his pocket and drew out two notes. ‘Take this. Turn left out of the agency. Couple of blocks down Main Street and you'll see the Piedmarch Motel.'

He shoved the money into my hand.

Jeez. $150.

I stared at him. ‘You want us to stay here, at a motel?'

Mr Tarsen nodded impatiently. ‘You get a good night's rest. Then we'll call up your parents in the morning and get them to come and take you home. They can pay me back later.'

I frowned. What was going on? One minute the man was Captain Law Enforcement. The next he was offering me money and acting like some private parental liaison service. It didn't make sense.

I stood up. Mr Tarsen ushered me through the door.

Jam was waiting outside, by the lift. Mr Tarsen's hand rested on my shoulder, steering me into the lift, then out of the front door.

‘Don't worry, Lauren. I'll see you tomorrow,' he said.

And suddenly Jam and I were out on the street, alone. It was dark now. Nearly 5.30 pm. And even colder than it had been before.

I pulled my jacket round me. ‘Well?' I said. ‘Did you find anything out?'

‘Yup.' Jam chewed furiously on his lip. ‘I know where your adoption file is. Or at least I know where the index is. But there's no way we'll be able to get a look at it while everyone's still there. We'll have to go back tonight.'

10

Breaking and entering

I sat on the bed in the motel room and dialled room service. I'd never done anything like that before, and I had butterflies in my tummy as I gave the order. Which I guess sounds stupid, considering everything else I'd done – and was planning to do – that day. ‘One Piedmarch Burger with extra cheese and bacon. One Piedmarch Burger Lite. Two Diet Cokes. And one portion of chips – I mean fries, please.'

Jam emerged, showered and changed, from the bathroom as I put down the phone.

‘Did you get some food?' he said. ‘I'm starving.'

I nodded.

We were in the Piedmarch Motel. We hadn't really wanted to come here, but it got too cold to be outside – and we didn't know anywhere else we could go. There were no other places to stay on Main Street. We'd paid up front for the room, raising no more than an eyebrow from
the droopy-faced man at the front desk. It was clean but ugly, dominated by the big double bed I was sitting on.

Maybe we shouldn't have chosen the cheapest – and smallest – room available. I suddenly felt embarrassed at the thought of sharing the bed with Jam.

I stared across the room at the tiny wardrobe, which I already knew was empty apart from three wire coat-hangers.

‘I don't want to spend the night here,' I said.

Jam shrugged. ‘We don't have much choice.'

I made a face, knowing he was right. Our plan was to break into the agency, find my file, then get the bus straight back to Burlington Airport. But the buses didn't run overnight. The first one left at 6.30 am. Which meant we had to time our return to the agency for a couple of hours before that. The middle of the night.

My mind wandered to Mr Tarsen. How much did he really know? And why had he been so helpful all of a sudden? I couldn't work out why he hadn't just made us call Mum there and then – or the police even. Whatever he was up to, the last thing I wanted was to hang around tomorrow morning, waiting for him.

There was a sharp rap on the door.

Jam opened it. A girl with blonde plaits stood in the doorway. She giggled as she handed Jam our room service food tray.

He paid in cash, then put the tray on the table under the window. The girl didn't take her eyes off him as she closed the door.

‘That girl was totally checking you out,' I said, glad to change the subject for a minute.

The back of Jam's neck reddened. ‘No she wasn't.' He looked round at me. ‘Would you mind if she was?'

‘Yeah, right,' I pretended to swoon, the back of my hand against my forehead. ‘Because I've been fancying you secretly for months.'

Jam's whole face now went bright red.

Crap. Crap. Crap. He thinks I mean it
.

‘Only joking,' I said hastily.

‘Right.' Jam shrugged. He pointed to the Piedmont Burger Lite. ‘What the hell is that? Some kind of diet food?'

I glanced at the thin burger wrapped in its skanky sliver of lettuce. It looked a lot less appetising than his extra-cheese-and-bacon burger.

‘I'm sure it'll taste OK,' I said unconvincingly.

‘Why do girls worry so much about being fat?' Jam snapped. ‘If you eat rubbish food you're gonna end up looking rubbish too.'

Whoa
. I stared at him. Jam had never, ever, made any comment about how I looked before. My chest tightened.

‘Whatever,' I said, not wanting him to see how hurt I was. ‘Tell me what Tarsen's secretary said.'

‘I did.' Jam glared at me for a second. ‘I asked her how they kept all their records. You know, geeky stuff like when they started storing things online. She told me there are still paper files for older contracts and some documents. The index is in the Resource Center.'

There was an awkward silence while Jam ate his burger. I tried to think of something else to say.

D'you really think I look rubbish?

‘So how d'you know where the Resource Center is?' I said.

Jam wiped his mouth on his sleeve. To my intense relief he grinned at me. And when he spoke the bitterness had gone from his voice. ‘Sometimes, Lazerbrain, I wonder how you manage to cross the road without getting knocked over. The Resource Center was the room you were in today with Mr Tarsen.'

After we'd eaten we both dozed off in our clothes. It was only about 8 pm in Marchfield, but I guess we were both still running on London time – where it was past midnight.

I had the dream again. This time I reached the rocks on the beach. I peered round one, then another. I ached to see her face. But she wasn't there. My excitement turned to fear. Where was she? Then, at the edge of the furthest rock, I caught a flash of long black hair.

I woke with a start. Jam was still sleeping beside me.
A slick of hair had fallen over his face. It quivered as he breathed out.

I checked the time: 4.10 am. We'd have to go in a minute. I wandered round the room, unsettled by my dream and the thought of what lay ahead. Jam's PSP was lying on the table under the window, next to the food tray. I picked it up. Six short grooves had been scratched into the back panel.

That was weird. I tilted the whole thing towards me, so that the grooves glinted in the light from outside the motel window.

Why would Jam carve notches into his PSP?

‘What time is it?' Jam sat up, yawning.

I put the toy back onto the table.

‘Time to go,' I said.

Main Street was deserted. Everything was shut and dark – except for a lone twenty-four-hour cab firm halfway down the road.

The pavements were thick with frost, the air bitterly cold. I hugged my fingers under my armpits to warm them as we walked towards the agency.

Jam led me round to the fire escape at the side of the building. He picked up a large stone from the ground, then started climbing to the first floor. I followed, trying to make as little noise as I could on the iron steps.

Jam stopped at the first-floor landing. Above the low railings in front of us was a large window. He held up the stone.

‘Ready?'

I nodded. My breath came out ragged and quick, misting in the cold air.

Jam smashed the stone against the window. The noise of the glass shattering crashed into the night. He did it again. Then again. Smaller smashes, as he created a hole big enough for us to crawl through.

My job was to keep a look out. I leaned over the fire escape, peering as far as I could up and down the street at the front of the building. My heart pounded harder with each smash, convinced the noise would wake the whole town. At last it was over. All I could hear was Jam breathing heavily beside me. I listened for the sound of shouts or police sirens.

Nothing. Not even a burglar alarm. That was weird, wasn't it? Surely a place storing important records would have a—

‘Come on.'

I turned round. Jam was carefully picking his way through the window.

I followed him through, making sure I didn't cut my hands on the few shards of glass left in the lower pane.

There was no sound from inside the agency.

My mouth was dry as I felt for the carpet of the first-floor corridor.

We were inside.

I rubbed my sweaty hands down the sides of my jeans. The corridor stretched away from us into shadow. Jam was a metre or so in front of me, shrouded in darkness. I followed him past the lift we had used earlier, to the office where I'd talked with Mr Tarsen.

A row of big files stood on a shelf behind the door. We quickly found the records for the year I was adopted.

‘Lauren Matthews Ref: B-13-3207,' I read out. ‘The “B” is the code for the filing cabinet.'

Jam walked up and down the row of three-drawer cabinets along the far wall. ‘Here,' he said, pointing to the second from the window.

He tugged at the top drawer. Then the middle one. ‘It's locked.' He turned and stared at me. ‘All the drawers are locked.'