by A J McDine
Stuart frowned. ‘At this time of night?’
‘There’s a file I need to pick up from the office. And I might stay and get some work done while it’s quiet.’
‘What if the police call?’
‘So, you’re allowed to go out and I’m not?’ I took a deep breath. Picking a fight wouldn’t help anyone. ‘Sorry, forget I said that. If they do, phone me. And I’m not sure how long I’ll be, so don’t wait up.’
Not waiting for an answer, I let myself out of the house. Inside the car, I rested my head on the steering wheel for a second, then started the engine. But instead of turning right towards our Hersden headquarters, I headed up the High Street towards the Stodmarsh Road and our old warehouse on the outskirts of Littlebourne, around four miles away.
If the police didn’t have the manpower to keep a watch on the warehouse, I would do it myself. There was no way I was letting Niamh slip through my fingers, because she was the link that would lead me to Immy.
As I turned onto the main Canterbury to Sandwich Road, I pressed hard on the accelerator and the Porsche surged forwards, as powerful as a racehorse out of the gates. For a moment nothing mattered other than the sheer breathtaking speed of my car as the dial hit seventy, eighty and then ninety miles per hour. I eased up as the car approached a hundred. Being pulled over by the police was not part of my plan, and soon I was cruising along at a sedate fifty-five.
Reaching the industrial estate in a little under ten minutes, I drove past the turning and pulled into a farm track just beyond it. I parked in a gateway, turned my phone onto silent and clambered out. The click of the central locking sounded unnaturally loud in the velvety darkness and I froze, my head cocked to one side. But all I could hear was the rustle of wind in the two oak trees that stood, solid and imposing, on either side of the gate.
I stood for a few minutes as my eyes adjusted to the dark, trying to get my bearings. A field of wheat lay between me and the industrial estate. Although it was only the middle of June, it was already knee high and would be like wading through water. I switched my phone light on and waved it over the wheat in a sweeping arc. The spindly beam fell on a tractor track that cut through the crop as straight as a Roman road, and I climbed the gate into the field and followed it.
The field was only a couple of hundred metres across, but it felt much further. The ground was uneven and pitted with flints. Halfway across, my foot slipped down a rabbit hole and I almost landed headfirst in the wheat.
My heart was racing as the stark, angular lines of the warehouses loomed over me. The estate had been thrown up in the eighties and comprised eight industrial units either side of a small, private road. It was home to an eclectic mix of businesses, from a gearbox specialist to an artisan baker.
Our old warehouse was on the far side, tucked behind the bakery. I weighed up 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 the staff room and made my way back past the kitchen into the main warehouse. Who knew if Niamh had been
back since the police had discovered her things? Perhaps she’d found another place to lie low, in which case I was wasting my time and might as well head home. As I weighed up my options, the sound of a car engine made me stiffen. I tiptoed across to the window at the front of the building and squinted through the filthy glass.
Headlights were approaching the warehouse. No, not headlights. Sidelights. My first thought was that it was the police, carrying out a covert check at DI Jones’s behest. But as the vehicle rumbled closer, I stumbled backwards in shock.
It wasn’t the police. It was Bill.
Chapter Thirty-One
AFTER CORFU
FOUR YEARS EARLIER
For two months after we returned from Corfu, Niamh was true to her word. No one could have guessed, as she pushed Nate on the swings at the park or spent hours at the kitchen table finger painting with him, that she was hiding a terrible secret. She seemed as carefree as any other eighteen-year-old girl. On the few occasions we found ourselves alone and I asked her if everything was all right, she brushed my concerns away. But I kept a close eye on her, just in case, waiting for the facade to crack.
It happened on a Saturday morning in the middle of an August heatwave. Stuart had taken Nate to his swimming lesson in Canterbury, and when Niamh still hadn’t come down for breakfast by ten, I went to investigate.
I found her in bed, curled up in a ball, sobbing quietly. I was across the room in a flash, kneeling on the floor beside her. ‘What’s happened?’
She looked at me with tormented eyes, then shook her head.
I touched her shoulder, and she shifted sideways so I could sit on the bed.
‘It was inevitable it would hit you,’ I said. ‘You can’t keep something so terrible bottled up without the stopper blowing eventually. I think it’s time I found a counsellor, don’t you?’
‘It’s not that,’ Niamh said, her words muffled by the pillow.
‘Then what is it?’ My mind went into overdrive. ‘It’s not your parents, is it? Or your granny?’
She shook her head again.
‘What’s happened, Niamh?’
‘I’m late,’ she wailed.
‘Shit.’ The word flew out of my mouth before I could stop it. ‘How late?’
She pulled herself to a sitting position, still clasping her knees to her chest. ‘I’ve never been very regular, so I didn’t worry too much when I missed my period last month. But I was due again on Monday and it’s Saturday now, and it still hasn’t come, so that would make me two months late. Which means…’
I didn’t have to fill in the blanks. The only times Niamh had left the house since we’d arrived home from Corfu was with Nate in tow. If she was pregnant, it wasn’t because of a quick fumble in the park with a local boy.
But I was getting ahead of myself. ‘It could be stress,’ I told her. ‘The strain of keeping everything to yourself. I knew we should have found you some help.’
She pressed her hands against her breasts. ‘But I’m sore, and I have this horrible taste in my mouth, and I’ve started feeling sick when I wake up.’
It didn’t sound hopeful. ‘I might have an old test in the bathroom. Do you want me to fetch it?’
She nodded, and I patted her knee. ‘Back in a sec. And try not to worry. Whatever happens, we’ll fix it.’
I found a pregnancy test right at the back of the bathroom cabinet and scanned the blue and pink packaging, looking for the expiry date. It was almost two years before. Did that affect the accuracy? According to a quick search on my phone, old tests sometimes gave false-negative results. But until I could pop to a chemist, it was all we had.
Back in Niamh’s room, I handed her the box.
‘Will you wait?’ she said in a small voice.
‘Of course. The instructions are inside. Give me a shout if you need anything.’
She nodded and disappeared along the landing. The bathroom door clicked shut and in the ensuing silence I ran through the options. When she emerged, ashen-faced, I already had the number for a local abortion clinic saved in my phone.
She handed me the plastic stick. Two blue lines had appeared in the tiny display like veins on an old person’s skin. ‘That means I’m pregnant,’ she said in a monotone.
‘OK, well, we’ll buy another test to be sure, but bearing in mind the other symptoms you’re having, I think you’re probably right. We’re too late for emergency contraception,’ I said, chastising myself for not considering it at the time. ‘So, I suggest I make an appointment with a clinic to discuss termination.’
Niamh’s eyes were round. ‘I can’t have an abortion!’
‘Why not? It’s a pretty straightforward procedure before fourteen weeks and you can only be about eight weeks along.’
‘I’m a Catholic,’ she cried. ‘I don’t have the right to end my baby’s life!’
‘It’s not a baby, it’s an embryo, not much more than a mass of cells.’
‘You’re wrong. It already has arms and legs and fingers and toes. It’s a baby, and if I kill it, I’ll be a murderer.’ Niamh buried her face in her hands.
‘But the man who fathered it is a rapist. You don’t want the baby to grow up knowing that, do you?’
‘It doesn’t matter. God created the baby, not me or… or… him.’ She lifted her head and gazed at me. ‘Don’t you see?’
I didn’t, but now was not the time for a pro-life, pro-choice discussion. ‘So, what do you want to do?’
Niamh chewed a fingernail and stared into the middle distance. Eventually, she said, ‘I want to have the baby, and I want you and Stuart to adopt it.’
I burst out laughing. ‘Niamh, I don’t think that’s -’
‘No, listen,’ she said. ‘It’s the perfect solution. I’ve thought it all through. Nate would love a little brother or sister, wouldn’t he?’
I didn’t answer, even though I knew she was right.
‘And you can’t have any more children, can you?’
‘You can’t just adopt someone’s baby, Niamh. It doesn’t work like that. You have to be approved by Social Services, meet all sorts of requirements. There are no guarantees, even if Stuart and I wanted to adopt.’
‘You promised you’d be with me every step of the way,’ she sniffed.
She was right; I had. And I still felt guilty that I’d encouraged her to go to the party. ‘I know I did,’ I said at last.
‘Then please at least think about it.’
I held up my hands in surrender. ‘All right, I’ll think about it. But I’m not making any promises, OK?’
I’d planned to spend the morning going through some costings for our winter menu, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Niamh’s bombshell. Not just the fact that she was pregnant and was refusing to even consider a termination, but that she wanted Stuart and me to adopt her baby.
The thing was, she’d touched a nerve. Having been an only child myself, I’d wanted Nate to have a brother or sister, and Stuart had always talked about having a brood of kids. When my emergency hysterectomy wrecked our plans, we even discussed going down the adoption route. But life was busy, and we never got around to doing anything about it. And now Niamh was offering something we both wanted on a plate, no strings attached.
I owed it to her to at least broach the subject with Stuart, so after dinner I led him into the front room, sat him down on the sofa and topped up his wineglass.
‘There’s something we need to talk about,’ I said.
‘That sounds serious.’
‘Actually, it is.’ He was silent as I told him an edited version of events in Corfu. That Niamh had slept with a boy at the party and had now discovered she was pregnant. That getting rid of the baby went against her Catholic upbringing and she wanted to go ahead with the pregnancy.
‘Who’s the father?’ he asked after a long pause.
I scratched the back of my neck. ‘She doesn’t know. What I mean is, he was a boy she met at the party. They didn’t exchange details.’
‘Just bodily fluids.’
‘Stuart!’ I said, aghast. ‘Don’t be like that. It was her first time, and she’s devastated. We all did things we shouldn’t have when we were her age. Don’t judge her.’
‘You’re right. I’m sorry. So, what does she want from us? I suppose she’s asked you to break the news to her parents?’
‘She doesn’t want them to find out.’
Confusion clouded his face. ‘But how’s she going to…?’
‘She wants to have the baby here, in Canterbury, and she wants us to adopt it,’ I said in a rush.
‘Bloody hell.’
‘I know.’
‘What d’you think?’
‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘One minute I think it’s a brilliant idea, the next I think it’s utter madness.’
‘But we did always want more than one.’
I nodded.
‘And Nate would be thrilled to have a baby brother or sister.’
‘He would,’ I agreed. ‘So, what d’you think?’
Stuart took a big gulp of his wine and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Let me sleep on it.’
Chapter Thirty-Two
WEDNESDAY 16 JUNE
The pewter-grey Range Rover pulled up outside the front of the warehouse. My mind was racing. What on earth was Bill doing here?
If Melanie had told him Niamh was sleeping rough in our old warehouse, it was conceivable he’d driven over to find her. But something about the scenario niggled me. And then I remembered. The suspicious vehicle the dog walker had seen parked outside the warehouse last night was a dark-coloured four-wheel drive or an SUV.
A dark grey Range Rover, perhaps.
And if it was, why was Bill here last night, when we only found out this morning that police had discovered Niamh’s belongings?
Before I could unpick my thoughts, a car door slammed. I watched from the window as Bill’s familiar, lanky frame stepped into the soft glow of the Range Rover’s sidelights. There was something about the sag of his shoulders, his mussed-up hair and the way his hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans, that raised the hairs on the back of my neck.
