by Tess Stimson
‘Through this holy anointing, may the Lord in his love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit,’ he murmurs. ‘May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up.’
I’m not religious. While Mum sought comfort and aid from a higher being on her knees in church, for me, Lottie’s disappearance was the final proof that if a god existed, it was a bitter, vengeful one, undeserving of our attention.
But there’s something soothing about the soft cadences of Father Jonathan’s prayers, the tangible faith of more than two millennia that he represents. It’s hard not to find a kind of solace in the belief of others, even if I can’t join them. I felt its power when I married Luca in his maternal family’s ancient chapel in Sicily, walking down an aisle worn smooth by the passage of thousands of feet. I felt it again two years later, when I stood in front of the same altar a few feet from his coffin as the priest eddied clouds of incense from the gold thurible around us. A strange calm, as though I’d put myself in the hands of something larger and unknowable. Not faith, exactly. But a sort of surrendering.
Dad and I stand at the head of Mum’s bed, on either side, holding her hands.
The nurses have turned off the monitors, so there’s no beeping, no alarms. Father Jonathan and Aunt Julie flank her feet, with Sharon between them. Mum is encircled by love.
I don’t know if she’s aware of us, but Naomi Todd has told us hearing is the last sense to go. ‘It’s OK,’ I whisper, bending next to her pillow. ‘I’ve found Lottie. I’ll bring her home, I promise. You can go now. I’ll look after Dad.’
A small tear appears at the corner of her eye. I wipe it away and tuck the precious tissue in my pocket.
Her breathing is so shallow I can barely make out the rise and fall of her chest. I can’t believe my mother is leaving me. She’s only fifty-nine. She’ll never get to see Lottie come home. Never celebrate another Christmas with us.
I try to remember the last conversation we had, and fail. It would have been about Lottie. It was always about Lottie. I don’t think I’ve seen, not really seen, my mother since the day my child was taken. I need to apologise to her for that—
Naomi Todd gently touches my shoulder. ‘She’s gone, Alex.’
Mum looks as if she’s sleeping. And yet I can tell instantly she isn’t here any more. The essence of her, who she is, who she loved, has gone.
Dad presses Mum’s hand to his cheek and lays his head on the pillow next to her. He looks utterly broken.
‘Come on, love,’ Aunt Julie says. ‘Let your dad have some time alone with her.’
‘Someone should tell Harriet,’ I say.
‘In a minute,’ Aunt Julie says.
In the waiting room, Sharon presses a hot mug of tea into my hand. I don’t know why I’m so felled by this. I feel stupefied. I’m thirty-one years old. I haven’t needed my mother for a long time. I’m not sure I can even remember how to breathe.
Aunt Julie sits next to me and rubs my back. ‘You’re all right, love. You’re all right.’
‘Someone should tell Harriet,’ I repeat.
‘Do you want me to call her for you?’
I should be the one to tell my sister, but I don’t trust myself. ‘Let me give you her number,’ I say.
‘I’ve got it, love. She gave it to me when I saw her at the airport.’
My mind is fogged. I can’t seem to make sense of anything.
My aunt steps out into the corridor to make the call. I grip the cooling mug of tea with both hands, as if it’s all that’s tethering me to the ground.
‘Harriet’s leaving Shetland tomorrow morning,’ Aunt Julie says, when she returns. ‘She’ll let us know her flight details as soon as she has them.’
‘When?’ I ask.
‘When what, love?’
‘When did you see her at the airport?’
‘The day Lottie disappeared,’ she says, patiently. ‘I ran into her at Heathrow. Now, stop worrying, love. We’ll get things sorted.’
I finish my tea, even though it’s cold now. I’ve got so many things to do, but my thoughts are disjointed and out of order. It’s as if each of them has been written on pieces of paper that’ve been tossed willy-nilly into the air.
A man who looks like my father joins us in the family suite. He’s wearing Dad’s clothes and Dad’s glasses, but this man is hollowed out, empty, a husk of a man. He sits on the sofa, his hands hanging uselessly between his knees, and I can’t bear the pain of seeing him shrunken and diminished like this.
I can’t let my father collapse in on himself. If I don’t do something, he’ll sink without trace. I’m the only one who can restore the heart of this family.
And I made a promise to my mother.
two years and twenty-five days missing
chapter 61
quinn
Quinn’s bender lasts six days. A record, even for her.
She gets thrown out of the pub when she’s so drunk she literally can’t stand up. The kid behind the bar manhandles her into the street, shoves her AA chip in her face and tells her to sort out her shit. So she stops by the off-licence on her way home and buys a case of Jack Daniel’s.
Shit sorted.
She only sobers up when she’s burned her way through all six bottles of whiskey, and there’s no alcohol left in the house. She’s even drunk the shitty peppermint schnapps she found in the cupboard under the sink when she moved into her flat two years ago, after her stint in Washington ended.
From the minty stains on her shirt, she’s guessing she threw up on herself at some point. She’s been wearing the same clothes for almost a week; even she can smell the stink coming off her. She needs to clean herself up or they won’t let her back in the off-licence.
She strips off and gets into the shower, steadying herself against the tiles with her good hand as the cold water sluices off her back. Her stomach is practically concave, because she hasn’t eaten in nearly a week. Food absorbs alcohol, which makes it an inefficient way to get drunk.
When she’s drunk, she gets maudlin. When she’s maudlin, she rings Marnie, who pities her enough to take the calls, even though it’s been two years since they broke up. Quinn figures she’ll have some damage limitation to do while she’s sober enough to be coherent so, after she’s pulled on a fresh shirt and a pair of clean jeans, she searches her apartment for her phone.
The battery’s dead, of course. She plugs in her charger and gives it a minute for her recent calls and texts to load, then scrolls through them, squinting to read through the cracked screen. No drunk-and-dial calls to Marnie, thank fuck. Her battery must’ve died before she had the chance.
But there’s a voicemail from Alexa Martini, left six days ago.
She should delete it. That woman’s brought her nothing but trouble. If she opens the door again, she’ll fall back down the rabbit hole. She’ll lose her job.
She’s not going to delete it. Of course she’s not going to delete it.
She plays the message. I’ve found her. I know where she is. I’m looking at her house right now. If you want your damn story, Quinn, call me back.
Jesus fuck.
It’s been six days. If Lottie Martini has been found and she’s missed it, she’ll slit her fucking wrists.
Quinn grabs her computer and fires it up, her hangover dissipating as adrenaline completes the job the cold shower started. But a search for Lottie’s name reveals no fresh developments in the Martini story since Alexa yanked the emergency brake on the Tube three weeks ago. There’s nothing new on AP or Reuters, nothing anywhere.
Her heart rate returns to normal. Alexa Martini is either crazy or trying to fuck with her head. She should never have let herself sober up. She needs a drink.
But she clicks on the INN website, just to be sure.
Christ on the fucking cross.
She can’t believe what she’s reading. Just when she thought the Lottie Martini case couldn’t get any more twisted.
Quinn hits spee
d dial on her phone.
chapter 62
We don’t leave the next morning as I’d planned. The child is sick and running a temperature. What kind of mother would I be if I took her out now, in the cold and rain, and dragged her halfway across the country on a bus? The woman who was staring at us in the café hasn’t returned. The child needs rest and sleep and plenty of liquids. We can leave in a day or two, when she’s feeling better.
But she doesn’t get better. She gets worse.
She’s always been a voracious eater, but now she has no appetite. She’s listless, curled up on the sofa, staring blankly out of the window at the grey, rain-sheeted beach below. She doesn’t want me to read to her; she doesn’t even want to watch TV. This difficult, wilful child is suddenly biddable and compliant, and it terrifies me.
I make her favourite tomato soup but she eats a spoonful and then pushes the bowl away. Her eyes are sunken into her skull and her skin is pale and clammy. I can’t believe the transformation in her in just a couple of days. She looks almost consumptive. Maybe it’s flu. She’s been sick before, but not like this, never like this. I don’t even have any Calpol to give her to bring down her temperature and I can’t leave her to go into the village to get some. All I can do is try to keep her comfortable.
On the morning of the fourth day since she got sick, I have difficulty waking her.
She cries out when I open the curtains, flinching from the light.
My stomach plunges.
I lift the top of her pink pyjamas and note the telltale rash across her chest. My heart in my mouth, I pick up the empty glass beside her bed and press it against the rash. The spots do not disappear.
Meningitis.
‘My head hurts,’ she whimpers.
Can I risk taking her to hospital? Even if I give a false name, there’ll be so many questions. There won’t be any record of her in their computers. They’ll want to admit her and, with every moment she spends in the hospital, the chance someone recognises her will increase.
I could leave her there. I could take her to A&E and just leave her there.
But if I do that, I won’t be able to go back. I’ll lose her forever.
We’ll ride it out. I have some penicillin I bought online. It’s past its expiry date, but those don’t mean anything. I’ll keep up her fluid intake and crush a couple of paracetamol into a spoonful of jam to help with the headache. If I can get some food into her, that’ll help, but fluids are the important thing. And we need to get that temperature down.
I run her a tepid bath – not cold, that would be too much of a shock to the body, that’s the mistake everyone makes – and gently help her out of her pyjamas. She lets me sponge her down without complaint, and then I lift her out of the bath again and wrap her in a soft, fluffy white towel.
She leans her hot head against my shoulder. ‘I love you, Mummy,’ she says.
It’s the first time she’s ever said that to me.
chapter 63
alex
From my hidden vantage point, I watch Lottie run down the beach, her blonde hair streaming like a bleached flag behind her. She’s pretending to be a plane, or a bird perhaps: her arms are stretched wide as she swoops and dives across the sand.
No one is with her. No one is watching her.
Except me.
Lottie stops suddenly, plopping down on her fat bottom in the sand like a much younger child. She tugs off her sandals and flings them into the cold, grey sea, laughing with delight as the tide quickly whips them away. Watching her, it’s hard not to smile. Even at nearly six, she’s still young enough to be unfettered by should and ought. She’s impulsive, living in the moment, just as I remember. She skips joyfully along the chilly beach in her bare feet, her skirts flapping wetly around her calves, and I wonder briefly at what age we stop skipping and surrender to the pedestrian discipline of walking and running.
I’m glad she’s having so much fun now, because I know she’ll be frightened when I take her. I can’t help that, but I’ll make sure the scary bit is all over as quickly as I can.
Lottie veers closer to the shoreline, oblivious to my presence as I emerge from the rocks behind her, and I quell my instinct to pull her back from the water’s edge and tell her to be careful, that the tide is stronger than it looks. Life is dangerous. If she doesn’t know that by now, she soon will.
And the biggest threat to her doesn’t come from the sea.
It comes from someone like me: a stranger to her, lurking in the shadows.
My pulse quickens as I step out from behind the rocks. I’m about to cross a line and set in motion a train of events from which there’ll be no going back.
The first year I was at Muysken Ritter, one of the partners represented a French woman whose baby son had been snatched from his pram when he was ten months old. Four years later, he was found in Johannesburg, being raised by a couple who’d innocently adopted him after he’d been trafficked to South Africa. The High Court in Pretoria decided it was in the boy’s best interests to stay with the only parents he’d ever known. The biological mother was permitted to see her son once a month and even those visits were supervised, in case she tried to snatch him back.
Four days ago, I promised my dying mother I’d bring Lottie home. I’m not waiting for the police to act, for the courts to grind their way towards a decision that might give my baby to another woman. I’ve got nothing left to lose, now.
I’m done playing by the rules.
It’s a crisp, sunny morning and unseasonably warm, one of those rare November days that feels more like early autumn. The beach is dotted with dog-walkers and local families taking advantage of the watery sunshine. I deliberately waited till Saturday to do this in the hope there’d be people around, so Lottie and I would be able to blend in more easily, but I’ve been luckier than I dared dream. I choose to take it as a good omen. A last gift from my mother.
Lottie looks up from her playing and sees me. She hesitates a second, and then raises a finger to her lips: ssssh.
My heart turns over. She remembers me.
She has no idea who I really am, of course. To her, I’m just the lady from the café, the lady who returned her toy. But when I beckon, she comes to me, her eyes bright with curiosity.
My daughter, just three feet away.
She should know better than to go so willingly to a stranger, but she’s always been one of those children who likes breaking the rules. I fight the urge to pull her close. More than anything, I want to touch her, to know she’s really here, but I hold myself in check.
‘No Squishmallow today?’ I say.
‘Not at the beach. I don’t want him to get wet again.’
‘Of course. Silly me.’
She laughs.
‘I have a little girl your age,’ I say. ‘You won’t believe how many Squishmallows she has. And something even better.’
‘Even better?’
‘Even better.’
‘Like what?’
I shrug. ‘Oh, you’d have to see it.’
‘Can you show me?’
‘I could. It’s not very far away,’ I say. ‘But I don’t think you’re allowed.’
She frowns, considering. And then she raises her fingers to her lips again, ssssh, her eyes dancing with mischief.
I smile and turn as if to leave, knowing curiosity will be her undoing. She catches up to me and takes my hand, because she trusts me.
My daughter’s hand in mine.
We walk together in plain sight along the beach, past dozens of people. No one even tries to stop us.
I can’t believe it’s this simple. This is the moment of greatest risk, the only period of time when, for all the planning of the last few days, events are largely beyond my control. If someone sees her with me and challenges us, I have my excuse ready. But no one even notices. We’re made invisible by our very ordinariness, Lottie and me.
I walk a little faster. The clock’s already ticking. Lottie may be missed at a
ny moment. Time is of the essence.
I turn onto a stony path leading away from the shore. Lottie’s barefoot, though she doesn’t complain. But she’s slowing us both down as she hops gingerly from foot to foot, so I pick her up and she doesn’t protest.
My daughter in my arms.
She frowns for the first time when I open the door to the back seat of my rental car. I didn’t want to risk using my own vehicle, in case there’s a CCTV camera I missed, though I think I’ve managed to avoid them. The ID I gave the car hire company is obviously false; you’d be shocked how quickly you can obtain a fake driving licence and passport online. Thanks to Simon Green and Berkeley International, I know my way around the dark web all too well.
‘Where’s my car seat?’ she says.
‘Aren’t you too old for that?’ I ask, although of course she isn’t.
‘Yes,’ she says, pleased.
She doesn’t ask questions as we drive to a cheap hotel just forty minutes from South Weald village, other than a request to use the bathroom, which I deny, since by then we’re nearly there. I deliberately chose somewhere nearby, so as not to panic her with a long drive, but she doesn’t seem at all concerned. I keep stealing looks at her in my rear-view mirror, unable to believe she’s really here. She’s here, with me. We’re making our escape. This isn’t a fairy tale, this isn’t my imagination: this is real. Lottie is real.
I force myself to concentrate on the road. I’ve been careful to pick a route with few traffic cameras and no road tolls. I don’t think the woman who stole my baby will be stupid enough to raise a hue and cry but, just in case, I’ve taken steps to ensure we won’t be found, until I’m certain she’s slunk back into the same dark hole from which she emerged. I don’t care about revenge, about punishing her. I have my daughter back.
In a few days, I’ll be able to take her back home to London. It won’t matter how I found her. It’s not a crime to rescue your own child.
The nightmare is almost over.
