99 Red Balloons: A chillingly clever psychological thriller with a stomach-flipping twist

‘Who has?’

He shrugs. ‘I don’t know the names. Do you?’

He points to the screen. I haven’t used Facebook for ages.

‘I’ve no idea. They sound Scottish. How can they even create a page when they don’t know us?’

‘Anyone can create a Facebook page.’

‘That’s a bit creepy.’

He shrugs. ‘It’s just what happens.’

He scrolls down the page, which is filled with well-meaning messages: I hope they find her. Praying she gets home safe. Amongst them are comments from her school friends: Missed you at school today, hunnie. They’re written as though Grace might actually read them. Who would let their eight-year-old child write on Facebook?

‘What’s that?’ I look closer at the screen.

‘Ah yeah. Just some random psychic woman.’

‘Doesn’t she realise how upsetting things like that are?’

‘Things like what?’ It’s Mum.

‘Don’t sneak up on us like that.’

‘What’s going on?’ she says. ‘Is that Facebook? You know what I’ve said about that.’

‘It’s just some attention-seeking woman, that’s all,’ I say. ‘Obviously on the sherry or something.’

‘Let me sit down, Jamie.’

‘Sure, Gran.’

He gets up silently. Why didn’t she choose another chair? There are two spare. I rub Jamie’s arm, but he flicks my hand away. Mum pulls the laptop closer and puts on her glasses.

‘I thought you said …’ I begin, but I shouldn’t start.

‘What?’ She says it dismissively, but I know she knows.

She said Facebook was dangerous, that no one in their right mind should ever look at it, or write on it. ‘You never know who’s watching.’ She’s the same with mobile phones; I’ve bought her two now but she leaves them in the cupboard, switched off.

‘Deandra,’ says Mum. ‘What kind of a name is that?’

‘One created by fairies,’ I say.

Mum gives me a sideways glance. In an instant her expression has said, How can you be flippant at a time like this?

Dad would have understood. Whenever something terrible happened, he would always cut through the darkness by saying something light. Three days after his own father died, Dad said, I owed him a fiver, you know. No one laughed, they just smiled. We could say anything to Dad. He’d know that it’s my defence mechanism to try to remain in the present. Otherwise I might fall apart, and I’d be no use to anyone then, would I?

‘I have tuned in to my spirit guides,’ says Mum, reading from the screen, ‘and requested their help. I believe that Grace is still alive, but she is being kept somewhere. I hear the sound of water …’ She puts her glasses on the top of her head. ‘Well, that’s utter bollocks.’

My eyes dart to Jamie. ‘Language, Mother!’

He rolls his eyes at me. ‘Mum, I’m thirteen, I’m hardly a child.’

In ordinary circumstances I would have laughed, teased him.

‘What’s going on?’ Emma stands at the doorway. Her brown hair is all over the place, her dressing gown is undone and her nightshirt buttons are done up wrong. She barely slept last night, but it looks like she hasn’t had any sleep today either.

Mum flips down the lid of the computer.

‘Nothing, love. How are you feeling?’

‘I’m not.’

Nadia comes back inside – the breeze travels through to the kitchen as she closes the front door. She goes out whenever she gets a phone call about the case – probably because we’d listen in and second-guess the news from her responses.

Emma’s hands are shaking. Mum stands and puts her arms around her. It’s hard to read Nadia’s expression – her demeanour has been measured and constant since she came to the house.

‘Well?’ says Mum.

‘We’ve had no sightings of Grace, but …’

Emma bends over, as though she’s been kicked in the stomach.

‘I … I … thought you’d found her then … I thought you were about to say …’

Mum guides her to the other side of the table, pulls out a chair, and sits her gently down as though she were made of glass. She stands behind her and smooths down her hair. Why can’t she just leave her alone? Emma raises her head and meets Nadia’s gaze. My sister’s jaw sets and she narrows her eyes.

‘What is it? What have you found out?’

‘We’ve had a big response to the appeal – a lot of people offering sympathy, many saying they’ve never trusted their neighbour—’

I clear my throat loudly. Why is she saying all of this – how long has she been doing this job?

‘Anyway, there are some pieces of information we are following up—’

‘But what if someone’s taken her out of the country?’ I say. ‘What then? How will you find her?’

‘We alerted all ports – air and ferry – as soon as we knew of Grace’s disappearance. But that’s not what I wanted to tell you. We have an image from the CCTV camera outside the newsagent’s on Monday, which shows a man and what appears to be a young boy. We’re about to release the image to the press, but we wanted to show you first.’

She reaches into her rucksack and pulls out an iPad. She swipes it and places it on the kitchen table.

‘Do you recognise either of these people?’

I lean over, as do Mum and Emma; our heads touch as we look at the screen.

‘It’s really blurry,’ I say. ‘You’d think they’d have better quality images these days.’