by Tess Stimson
My mobile rings.
‘No phones in here,’ the receptionist says, from across the room.
I pull out my mobile to silence it. Quinn’s name is on the screen. A text message.
Only a few words are visible: Call me ASAP! Flora …
But before I can tap through to the full message, I hear someone call my name.
Two uniformed policemen are coming towards me. Leading the way is the nurse in yellow scrubs who took down Lottie’s details.
So, she did recognise the name, then.
‘Mrs Martini?’ one of the policemen says again. ‘We’d like a word.’
And then I read Quinn’s text.
two years and thirty-nine days missing
THE SATURDAY MORNING EXPRESS
Saturday 27 November, 2021. Transcript/p.2
Host: Jess Symonds
Guest: Zealy Cardinal
JESS:
I think – and it goes without saying, our hearts go out to both women and it’s really sad, I feel for them both – but at the same time, we have laws, there are procedures in place for a reason.
ZEALY:
It’s really sad, yes.
JESS:
As Alexa Martini’s best friend, you must be devastated for her.
ZEALY:
Yes, we all are.
JESS:
You were one of the twelve so-called ‘apostles’, weren’t you? You were actually at the last supper the night before Lottie disappeared.
ZEALY:
I wish people wouldn’t call us that.
JESS:
For the sake of our viewers, the other apostles at that dinner were your half-brother, Marc Chapman, and his bride, Sian, her parents, Penny and David Williams, and Marc’s dad, Eric Chapman, plus the parents of one of the little bridesmaids, Felicity and Jonathan Everett. Ian Dutton was there too – well, we all know about him. And the last two people at the dinner were Catherine Lord, Sian’s maid of honour, and Paul Harding, whom Catherine later married, is that right?
ZEALY:
Yes.
JESS:
Who’s since been charged with child sex abuse.
ZEALY:
Yes.
JESS:
There’s been a lot of talk about you and the other apostles over the years, hasn’t there? A lot of speculation. Can you tell me, Zealy, what it’s like to have the finger of suspicion pointed at you?
ZEALY:
It’s nothing compared to what Alex has gone through.
JESS:
Zealy, you’ve avoided the spotlight till now – I believe this is the first interview you’ve given to the media, is that correct?
ZEALY:
Yes.
JESS:
Can you tell me, why are you speaking out now?
ZEALY:
Because someone needs to set the record straight. It’s easy to judge Alex, but what she’s been through, she’s been incredibly – it’s a mother’s worst nightmare, none of us know what we’d do in her shoes.
JESS:
But it’s a nightmare she inflicted on another mother, didn’t she?
[long pause]
JESS:
Helen Birch.
ZEALY:
I’m sorry for Mrs Birch, too.
JESS:
Flora’s abduction has been all over the news for weeks, hasn’t it? Even the prime minister mentioned her in an interview the other day. As a person of colour, does that make you angry?
ZEALY:
What?
JESS:
To see another white child given all this attention, all these resources.
ZEALY:
No, of course I’m not—
JESS:
Do you think if Flora Birch had been Black, the prime minister would’ve been appealing for her safe return?
ZEALY:
What I think is you don’t care either way. You’re playing up the race thing to get ratings.
JESS:
What Alexa Martini did was inexcusable, wasn’t it?
ZEALY:
The police weren’t doing anything—
JESS:
Are you saying you support Alexa’s decision to turn vigilante?
ZEALY:
She’s not a vigilante!
JESS:
If she really thought Flora Birch was her daughter, she could’ve gone to the police.
ZEALY:
She went to the police after she saw Lottie on the Tube and they didn’t do anything.
JESS:
But it was Flora she saw on the train, with her au pair, not Lottie.
ZEALY:
Yes, but Alex didn’t know that.
JESS:
So, you think she wasn’t wicked, but deluded?
ZEALY:
[pause] She thought the little girl was Lottie. They look so similar—
JESS:
But DNA tests proved the child wasn’t hers. If Alexa Martini had just allowed the police to do their job, she’d have spared Helen Birch ten days of hell, wouldn’t she?
ZEALY:
Alex’s mother had just died. She was desperate, she wasn’t thinking straight—
JESS:
So you’re saying she’s mentally unstable?
ZEALY:
No, I didn’t say that.
JESS:
Flora nearly died.
ZEALY:
And as soon as she realised how sick Lottie – Flora – was, Alex took her to hospital. She’d never have put her in danger.
JESS:
Would you say Alexa Martini is a good mother?
ZEALY:
Of course!
JESS:
Do you think a good mother leaves her child unattended in a hot car?
ZEALY:
She made a mistake. She was working crazy hours, she—
JESS:
Do you think a good mother has sex with a stranger instead of looking after her child?
ZEALY:
You’re twisting everything. Even if Alex was a terrible mother, she didn’t deserve to have her baby stolen! She didn’t do anything wrong!
JESS:
She kidnapped a child.
ZEALY:
That’s not what I meant—
JESS:
A lot of people think Alexa shouldn’t have been allowed out on bail, after what she’s done. Do you think she’s been given special treatment, because of who she is?
ZEALY:
How would putting her in prison help anyone?
JESS:
That’s a matter for a jury to decide.
ZEALY:
After all she’s been through, surely she deserves some compassion? Helen Birch got her daughter back, but Alex’s daughter is still missing. Can you imagine what she’s feeling right now?
JESS:
Do you believe Lottie Martini is still alive?
ZEALY:
I think Alex will never stop looking for her.
JESS:
Isn’t it time, as her friend, you took her aside and told her to stop?
[silence]
JESS:
Do you think she should stop looking, Zealy?
[long pause]
ZEALY:
If it was your daughter, would you?
chapter 67
alex
My hands are shaking with nerves. I tuck them beneath my thighs and take a slow, steadying breath. I can’t believe she’s agreed to see me. I’d never be as forgiving in her place.
We’re meeting in my lawyer Jeremy’s office, at his insistence. The police have made it clear they intend to pass my file to the Crown Prosecution Service, with a recommendation to press charges. As per the Child Abduction Act 1984, it is an offence for a person to take or detain a child under the age of sixteen so as to remove him from the lawful control of any person having lawful control of him, or, so as to keep him out of the lawful control of any person entitled to lawful control of him without lawful authority or
reasonable excuse.
I’ve no idea whether the CPS will decide to prosecute, but Jeremy seems to think it’s a fair bet they will. There’s a lot of public pressure to throw the book at me, as a deterrent to other would-be vigilantes tempted to take the law into their own hands, should they think they’ve stumbled across their kidnapped child. Because there are so many of us out there.
There’s a soft knock at the door. ‘Are you ready?’ Jeremy asks.
I stand, wiping my palms on my skirt.
Helen Birch is younger than I remembered. When I saw her in the café, I put her in her early fifties, but now I can see she’s probably a decade younger than that. She has a thick middle and short legs, a droopy bosom. Her best asset is undoubtedly her startling leaf-green eyes, fringed by long, dark lashes. I’d have noticed them before, but I was only really paying attention to Lottie.
To Flora.
Helen extends a hand and then withdraws it. ‘Sorry,’ she says.
I don’t know whether she’s talking about her gesture or the awkward situation in which we find ourselves.
‘Please, would you like to sit down?’ Jeremy says, indicating the two armchairs on the opposite side of his desk. ‘Can I get you two ladies some tea?’
Jeremy is no more than thirty-five, but from his manner and conversation you’d think he’s seventy.
‘Thank you,’ Helen says.
He steps out of his office to see to the tea, briefly leaving the two of us alone. Helen still doesn’t sit down.
‘How is she?’ I ask, unable to help myself.
‘Flora’s doing much better, thank you,’ Helen says. ‘The doctors say she can come home tomorrow.’
The emphasis on her daughter’s name is subtle, but unmistakable.
‘Thank you for agreeing to see me,’ I say. ‘I wouldn’t have blamed you if you—’
‘Why am I here?’
Her tone is not particularly hostile, but those green eyes are cool.
I’ve no idea what to say to her. This meeting was Jeremy’s suggestion: he says the CPS is less likely to pursue prosecution aggressively if Helen isn’t demanding retributive justice from the rooftops. She has no reason to be sympathetic to my cause, and for my sake I don’t much care whether I go to prison or not.
But if I’m behind bars, no one will be looking for Lottie.
The Met has made it clear that when the current tranche of government funds runs out, they won’t apply for more. As far as they’re concerned, this is now a cold case. And the Lottie Foundation is fatally compromised: the twin blows of Paul Harding’s arrest, and now mine, has sent our donors running for the hills. Even Jack has been forced to distance himself from us in public, though his support in private is the only reason I’m even out on bail.
‘I need to apologise to you in person,’ I tell Helen, finally. ‘I know that can’t begin to make up for what I put you through. But I just needed to look you in the eye and tell you how sorry I am.’
Helen says nothing. But when Jeremy returns with the tea, carrying a tray of old-fashioned floral porcelain teacups and saucers, she sits down.
‘I was so sure,’ I say. ‘I can see now she’s not Lottie; her eyes aren’t even the right colour. But at the time, I looked at her and I really saw my daughter.’
It wasn’t just that she resembled a little girl who could be my daughter. I saw Lottie. I was as certain of that as I am of gravity, of the ground beneath my feet. And yet I lied to myself. I’m the unreliable narrator of my own story.
And if I’ve lied about this, then nothing I say can be trusted.
‘I was so sure,’ I say again, ‘and then Mum died and I’d promised I’d bring Lottie home. I’m not asking for sympathy,’ I add. ‘I just wanted to explain. I never meant to hurt you, or Flora. I thought I was rescuing her.’
There’s a long silence. I look down at my hands. I’ve done exactly what I said I wouldn’t do: I’ve asked for her sympathy.
‘I don’t need to tell you what you did to me,’ Helen says, keeping her emotion in check with a visible effort. ‘When I went down to the beach and she wasn’t there. The terror. The panic. I felt like I was drowning. The pressure in my chest …’ She hesitates, collects herself. ‘I don’t need to tell you.’
‘I’m so sorry—’
‘All those nights when I couldn’t sleep,’ Helen says. ‘When I was imagining what’d happened to Flora, who might’ve snatched her. The men.’ She stops again, remembering to whom she is speaking. ‘I prayed it was someone like you who’d taken her. A woman who’d lost her own child and needed mine. Someone who’d look after her; love her, even. I prayed, and I promised God, if Flora was returned to me, safe and well, I wouldn’t ask for anything else. Just bring her back to me. That was the bargain I made.’
My throat closes. I’ve made the same pleas, the same promises.
Helen’s knuckles turn white as her hands twist together in her lap and I know how much this is costing her. ‘I promised I’d take the gift of my daughter and let everything else go,’ she says. ‘I promised I wouldn’t seek vengeance or punishment. No matter who’d taken her, if I got her back safe, I’d forgive them. And then a miracle happened.’ Her voice is suddenly filled with wonder. ‘Flora came back.’
We both know she’s right: it is a miracle. The police will have maintained a facade of optimism while they searched for Flora, but Helen must have googled the truth, as I did, and learned that, after the first three days, only one in twenty children who go missing are found alive. Murderers and paedophiles usually kill their victims long before that. And of those children who are recovered, nearly all are runaways or have been abducted by family members in custody disputes. After ten days, the chances that a child taken by a stranger will be returned safe and well are slim indeed.
After two years?
‘You were my miracle,’ Helen says. ‘You were my nightmare, and then you were my miracle.’
My daughter has been missing for seven hundred and seventy days. There’s been no verifiable sighting of her, no trace, in all that time. Now I know I didn’t see Lottie on the Tube after all, the tiny flame of hope I’ve cherished for the last five weeks has no oxygen to feed it. We’re back to square one.
In my heart, I know my child must be dead. But if Lottie is still alive, if, my prayer is that she’s been taken by a woman like me. A deluded, broken woman who believes my child is hers and is keeping her safe. I pray Lottie has forgotten me and thinks of this woman as her mummy. I pray she’s loved and warm and happy.
Helen stands. ‘I hope you find your daughter,’ she says. ‘I pray to God she comes back to you, as Flora did to me. And if she does, you have to pay it forward, Alexa, like I’m doing. You have to let the hatred and anger go. You have to forgive. That’s the deal you’ve done with the universe.’
And because I would do anything, agree to everything, to have Lottie home, I say yes.
two years and forty-one days missing
chapter 68
alex
It’s not the funeral my mother deserves. I stole the last two years of her life when I lost her granddaughter and now I’m robbing her of the dignified, public farewell she should’ve had.
It’s impossible to hold the service at my parents’ parish church, as Mum wanted, because of the media feeding frenzy surrounding me after my arrest six days ago. So we’re forced to say goodbye to her in a small, private chapel set within the grounds of a nearby Benedictine monastery, whose high walls and rolling fields keep the press at bay. We have to limit the ceremony to just a few family and close friends, which is all the tiny church can admit.
For the second time in three years, I stare down at the cold, still face of my dead, pillowed on satin and oak. If there is a god, he’s no god of mine.
Dad turns to me, as always, for support. I take his arm and help him to a pew at the front of the chapel; I put my arm around his shoulder when he sobs, broken and bereft, as Father Jonathan urges us to celebrate my mother’s
life; my voice is clear when I give the reading Aunt Julie chose: In my house there are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you.
But I can’t cry. I can’t feel. My heart is flint. The flickering ember of hope for Lottie that sustained me is no more than grey ash in my soul.
When the brief service is over, we spill outside into the chill November afternoon. The pallbearers load Mum’s coffin into the hearse for the short journey to the cemetery a few miles away. It’s only two-thirty, but the pale sun already hangs low in the grey sky.
I’m surprised to find Jack waiting for me on the gravel pathway behind the chapel, standing beneath an ancient cedar to shelter from the drizzle. He’s wearing a smart, thick black wool coat, but his jaw is stubbled and he looks like a man who hasn’t seen his own bed in two days.
My frozen heart lifts at the sight of him, in all his shambolic dishevelment.
There’s something comforting about his worn-down, worn-in, worn-out cragginess, and I have to resist the temptation to turn down his crooked collar, straighten his tie.
‘It was a beautiful service,’ Jack says. ‘She’d have been very proud of you.’
‘I didn’t realise you were here.’
‘I stayed at the back. Didn’t want to intrude.’
