by JJ Marsh
Adrian’s stomach had been in spasm since the last time she left, and his level of dehydration was reaching a serious stage.
“Teagan, you are wonderful. Thank you so much. Just one question, do you think you could get me some water? A bottle, a jug, or even a bucket. I’m so thirsty.”
She folded her arms and leant on them to look down at him. “Water? No problem at all. We have a tap right outside here. You want it now? Yeah, I’ll fetch it for you now, just in case.”
He managed to haul himself to a standing position against the wall, his injured foot held up behind him as if he were a horse about to be shod. Before dinner. Late morning, he assumed. He’d been here since dawn, so by now Matthew must have raised the alarm. But no one knew where to find him. His wallet might be found in the scrub behind the quarry hoppers, the broken bits of his mobile might cause some suspicion, but how could anyone locate him on ‘the farm’? Think, Adrian, think.
“Here, I can’t lift a bucket, but I filled an old bottle. You’ll be pissing like a carthorse after this.”
“Thank you so much. I can’t tell you how grateful I am, Teagan. When I get out of here, I’m going to buy you such a fabulous present ... what sort of thing would you like?”
“A present?” She folded her arms again, leant back against the beam and swung her legs, with a dreamy smile on her face. He was no expert, but this woman had certain special needs, that was clear. But whatever her problems, she was his only hope. He drank deeply from the plastic bottle, ignoring the swirling sediment.
“A present that comes in a box, or like anything at all?” she asked, scratching at her frizzy fringe.
“Anything at all. What would you like most in the world?”
She answered before he’d finished speaking. “A babby. But one I can keep. This time I want to keep him. Or her. One of them was a little girl. I’d like a girl.”
Adrian’s breaths came short and shallow. “You couldn’t keep the other ones?”
Her dejected face became impatient. “Course not! None of us can, that’s the rule. And you know it from the off so there’s no point whining. The babbies go to a better place, we know that and it’s best. The Mammy told us. They all go to university and Oxford and London and abroad. They have presents all the time.”
He put down the bottle, sensing the tightrope he trod. “Best for the ... babbies, but it must be hard for you. For the mothers.”
Teagan rocked gently from side to side. “Some takes it harder. But when you come to Lannagh, you know what to expect.” She burst into a surprisingly good rendition of Abba’s The Name of the Game. “Everyone knows the name of the game. Or if they don’t, they soon cop themselves on. Are you going to eat your food?”
Lannagh. The name on Eoin’s business card. So there was a possibility that Beatrice did know where he was. Adrian bit into a cold potato, savouring the dry, crumbly mouthful. “Delicious. You’re a good singer. I can tell.”
“It’s not just Abba I can do ...
So if your man is nice, take my advice
Hug him in the morning, kiss him at night
Give him plenty love madam, treat your man right
‘Cause a good man nowadays sure is hard to find ...”
“Sssh, Teagan, that’s brilliant, but I think we should keep quiet. You really do have an impressive voice. Who was that? Ella Fitzgerald?”
“No idea, Gannet. It’s off a record, that’s all I know. Your turn.”
“OK, but quietly.” He flicked through his repertoire and chose something appropriate to time, place and audience.
“I dream of Teagan with the light brown hair
Borne, like a vapour, on the summer air
I see her tripping where the bright streams play
Happy as the daisies that dance on her way.”
Teagan rested her head on her shoulder and gazed at him as he sang softly. When he’d finished, she clapped with enthusiasm, although her palms never quite met.
“Is that a real song or did you make it up?”
“It’s a real song, but I changed the name. Just for you.”
Her smiling cheeks shone like autumn apples. “You have a voice on you, you creature. Oh, it’s a crying shame. I’d love to keep you. But no. They take them all away. That’s the rule.”
The potato wouldn’t go down. Adrian swigged more water.
“Take me away? They wouldn’t do that, surely?”
Teagan’s regretful expression was that of someone looking into an open coffin. “Ah, they would, you know. That was decided first thing. The row that’s gone on all the morning was only about how to get rid of you once it’s done. You’re not exactly what they’re used to. But Samir’s persuaded the Mammy.” Her imitation of the harsh voice was exact. “Everything we need right here, and we’ve had no problems so far. I’ll sort it after dinner. Oh aye, Gannet, they’re going to take you away.”
Adrian swallowed the piece of potato, which felt like a house brick. “When you say ‘not what they’re used to’, why am I different?”
“C’mon, you know yourself, most creatures are already dead when they get here.”
Adrian couldn’t speak, couldn’t think and focused all his attention on breathing. In. Out. In. Out. There had to be a way of out of this.
“Teagan, I know someone who can help. Help both of us. All I need to do is call her. Or maybe you could call her for me. I think you’d like her.”
Her open face soured into a pout. “Your girlfriend?”
“No, my ... boss. She’s much older than me, but a very nice person. I think she’d like to hear from you. Would it be difficult for you to call a number and leave a message? I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
“I dunno, Gannet. I’m not good with the telephone. But I’ll have a go. What do I have to do? If you don’t want that pork, I’ll have it. I’ve always got room for more.”
“I do want it. I’m starving and my stomach is growling like a mad dog. But this is more important, Teagan. What you need to do is dial 999 and ask for Detective Stubbs of the Metropolitan Police. Tell her I’m here and give her this address. Can you remember ...?”
“Police, Gannet? You’re a sandwich short of a picnic, you are. We can’t have the Garda round here! Am I not after telling you the rules? I’ll bring you something after dinner, if you’re still here.” She jumped off the wall, landing with a thud on the other side of the partition.
“Teagan!”
He heard her tut and sigh, before the adjoining stable door creaked open. The male voice made him jump.
“Teagan! What the feck were you doing in there?”
“Jesus, Eoin, you scared me half to death! I just wanted to have a look at your man. Being nosy is all.”
“Get back to the house. Dinner’s nearly ready. And if I catch you hanging round here again, I’ll tell the Mammy. You know what’ll happen then.”
“Ah don’t, Eoin. I’ll not do it again. Promise. I’ll go in and help with the dishing-up, will I? What you got there? You taking him some food?” Teagan’s voice switched from humble to curious in a second.
“What did I just tell you about sticking your beak in? Now piss off back to the house.”
Adrian stuffed the water bottle under the straw, along with the scraps of food, and sat with his injured ankle stretched out in front of him. The door creaked open, and bright afternoon sunshine lit the stable until Eoin slid in and shut the door behind him, bringing a fresh wave of the unbearable stench.
“Brought you something. You’ll be thirsty enough, after all the puking, I’d say. And a couple of sandwiches, if your stomach can face it. Cheese and pickle, and pork with apple sauce. Brought you a jacket an’ all. Gets cold enough at night.”
Adrian took the foil-wrapped package and bottle of water. Eoin laid the jacket over his knees. “Thank you. Look, it’s kind of you to bring me some food, but I’d like to know when I can leave.”
“Won’t be long. But when exactly, well, that’s up
to Samir. But I think you’ll be out of here soon enough. Right, I need to get back. How’s your ankle?”
“Painful.”
“Good. So you won’t be trying to take off anywhere.”
“Unlikely. My ankle is sprained.”
“Teagan had that. My sister, the one who’s been poking her nose over the wall. But when she got hold of a crutch, you couldn’t stop her. She was moving about fast enough.”
Adrian couldn’t believe the man. Small talk when they’d already decided to dispose of him. “I’m so glad she’s better. Thanks for the sandwiches.”
“Get them down you. And whatever it was Teagan brought you. You’re gonna need your strength.” His expression was in shadow as he closed the door behind him.
Adrian heard the bolt shoot home and the turn of the key in a padlock. Heavy footsteps crunched away.
So he knew Teagan had brought him food. He swigged some water and picked up the foil package. Of course, it could be drugged. Maybe he should stick with Teagan’s rations. Funny how he mentioned her ankle. She’d told him it was her wrist. A shaft of light played across the straw-littered stable. Light from the doorway. Eoin had shot the bolt and padlocked it, but the door wasn’t closed. He could get out.
Adrian struggled to his foot. How could he escape in such a state? He slipped on the jacket, shoving the sandwiches and water into his pocket, and hopped towards the light. The door creaked open at his touch. He surveyed the track down towards the house. No one about. He turned to check the uphill section and saw it immediately. An upturned broom against the wall. He checked again.
Eoin had brought him food, drink and clothes, put the idea of a crutch in his mind and left the door open. He was trying to help him escape. The smell made him pause, but he knew he had to get away.
Far enough from the house, so no one would be likely see him, especially if they were all eating lunch. He reached for the broom, shoved the bristly end under his armpit and hobbled his way behind the stable block. Every single movement jarred through his leg, but he chanted encouragement to himself. Keep going, you can do it, another step, don’t stop. All he had to do was make for the road, flag down a vehicle and get to the nearest police station.
He rounded the corner of the stables, peering into the forest for a path. A shadow crossed the corner of his vision. Adrian had only half-turned before the blow caught him on the back of his head, buckling his knees and snapping the broom. His face hit the ground, all squashy and covered in pine needles, and his last conscious thought was an appreciation of the nice smell.
Chapter 40
And for One Million Pounds, Dawn Whittaker, where do you think you’ll be at nine a.m. on Sunday morning?
A: In bed with toast and a mug of tea
B: Doing some half-hearted yoga
C: Cleaning up after the kids
D: Driving down the M4 with the woman who wrecked my marriage to apprehend some baby-traffickers.
Virginia couldn’t have been more accommodating.
“Would you prefer to drive, Dawn?”
“Let me know if you’d like to stop for a coffee or anything.”
“Is the air-con a bit strong? I’ll turn it off for a while.”
Dawn gave monosyllabic replies and reviewed the situation several times. Virginia was out of order treating her like a maiden aunt. She was not an invalid, nor a widow, but a divorcee. A woman whose husband had been unfaithful. After thirteen years of happy marriage, at the ceremony where she was due to receive her first policing award, Ian had gone into the toilets with this woman and made the name Dawn Whittaker synonymous with sniggers for police forces across the country.
After an hour of silence, Virginia spoke. “Do you want to talk about the obvious, or would you rather not?”
“By the obvious, you mean my husband’s penis in your mouth?”
“That’s the one. I’m happy to apologise, take the verbals, or you can slap me in the face, if you like. Just let me pull onto the hard shoulder first.”
Dawn stared ahead, wondering what she did want. “I don’t think I want revenge. It’s more a case of wanting to understand. Why did you do it? You smashed up a family, a marriage, four lives, and left two children with a broken home.”
Virginia drove for some miles without speaking. Finally, she cleared her throat.
“I don’t think I did all that. That happened, I’m not denying it, as a result of the PBA ‘event’. But none of that was my intention. I didn’t know he was married.”
“Would it have made a difference if you had?” Dawn faced her.
“Probably not, if I’m honest. The thing is, my selfish opportunism threw a curveball into your marriage. I’m sorry for that. But the inability to cope with it, the divorce and the resultant traumas? I can only accept so much responsibility.”
Dawn turned to the window, fighting the truth of the statement. Ian had tried to repair her faith; he’d wanted to work at resolving the crisis. Still did. She refused. Once a philanderer ... it was only a matter of time before he humiliated her again. And the shame of all her colleagues knowing, laughing; she had no choice but to act. Taking him back would have been the worst kind of weakness. She despised that politician’s wife kind of behaviour. Forgive and forget. How could she ever forget?
Virginia’s voice was low and conciliatory. “Dawn? Saying this is a pointless exercise, but I’m actually sorry. I wish it hadn’t happened. I’m older now and not all that proud of how I used to behave. So despite what you think of me, can we work together, do you think?”
Dawn gritted her teeth. “For Beatrice’s sake, we’ll have to. And in the circumstances, what’s the alternative? Shall I take the lead in Chepstow, and let you handle Ms Fisher of Cardiff?”
“Sounds good to me. How about putting in a call to Ranga, see if he’s found out which car hire firm she’s using?”
“OK. And I also want to know what time Social Services are meeting us. I must have some time to talk to this couple first.”
Dawn dialled, curious about how easily she’d let this marriage-wrecker off the hook. Not even a pejorative name had been used in anger. Maybe it was time to move forward. Maybe it was time to speak to Ian. Three years later, she still refused to speak to him directly. It wouldn’t hurt to attempt a conciliatory gesture next week. Just a call. Or perhaps a Hi-how-are-you email. For the kids’ sake. The trouble with harbouring a grudge was the time and energy it took to maintain. And who knows, if she stopped seeing herself as a victim, others might follow suit.
She was about to end the call when Ranga answered.
The terrace was on a steep slope, like something out of a Yorkshire soap opera. Virginia parked the Volvo opposite and checked the names again.
“Yvonne and Gerry Nicholls. What do you want me to do? Hang about in the background, interview neighbours, or join in and back you up?”
Dawn considered for a moment. “Why don’t you see what you can find out from neighbours, wait for Social Services and ask them to hang on for half an hour. Then ring the bell. If I need more time, I’ll say. But if they’re still holding out, you can bring in the big guns.”
“Will do. Good luck.”
The door opened. Dawn offered a reassuring smile, whilst taking in every detail. Late thirties, tired and without make-up, permanent worry lines, velour leisure bottoms and stained grey T-shirt. Every inch the new mother.
“Yes?”
“Mrs Yvonne Nicholls? I’m Detective Inspector Dawn Whittaker from the Metropolitan Police. Sorry to disturb you on a Sunday, but I wonder if I could ask you a few questions. May I come in?”
As Yvonne announced ‘a detective from the police’, Gerry Nicholls turned from his position at the window, a tense concern dragging on his mouth as he gently rubbed the back of the tiny infant held to his chest. Dawn smiled and moved behind him to look at the crumpled sleeping face. A blue Babygro.
“How old is he?” she asked, in a quiet voice. He was undoubtedly premature, probably jaundiced
and should be in hospital.
“Three weeks,” Gerry answered, his eyes darting from his wife to Dawn. “He’s away now, so I’ll put him down.”
Dawn’s objective was to cause the minimum of embarrassment. The tension emanating from Yvonne Nicholls told Dawn it wouldn’t take much to get full disclosure. So she accepted tea and waited for Gerry Nicholls to rejoin them.
“What’s your baby’s name, Mrs Nicholls?”
“Liam. We liked it because it’s sort of old and modern at the same time, and it has a sort of solid sound to it. We did think about Edward, after Gerry’s dad, but that’s become a bit common now so ...” Her husband returned and she petered out.
He shook hands with forced levity. “So, Detective, can you tell us what all this is about?” He sat opposite Dawn at the dining table, beside his wife. Another one on a hair trigger.
Actions speak louder than words. Dawn spread the 8x4s of the Welsh cul-de-sac across the coffee table and sipped her tea. Pictures of them entering the house, pictures of them leaving with the basket. She didn’t need to say a word. Yvonne cracked instantly.
“Oh God, Gerry, oh God. They’re going to take him away, I can’t bear this, I can’t.”
White-faced, he rubbed his wife’s back, unconsciously repeating his earlier gesture of comfort and staring at Dawn in abject misery.
“Mr Nicholls, I’d prefer to hear your side of the story. The evidence only gives us so much.”
“I should have known. Nothing ever works out for us. Everything we try and do turns to shit. Every-fucking-thing.” His face contorted into a rictus of a smile, he covered his eyes with his palm and his shoulders shook silently. Dawn sat opposite the weeping pair and reached for a packet of Wet Wipes from the sideboard. He recovered and brushed away the tears with the heel of his hand.
“We can’t have kids. No reason why not, nothing wrong with either of us, but it just doesn’t work. We’ve tried hormone injections, zinc tablets, fertility cycle management, ovulation tests and three series of IVF. All we got was a big fat disappointment, every time. So we faced facts and applied for adoption.”
