Lock the Door

by Jane Holland

  I left it there for Jon earlier. Did he see it on the kitchen table when he came home? Did he stop and read the headline before coming upstairs, before climbing into the shower with me? Before we made love?

  WHO SNATCHED BABY TOM?

  I can feel myself trembling, my teeth close to chattering, like someone suffering from hypothermia. Emotions crash back and forth inside me, and thought has become impossible. My head is full of white noise. I clasp my hands together, focus on what the police are doing and saying, try to regain control. But it’s like trying to hold back the tide, and I know if this goes on much longer I’ll simply drown.

  DS Dryer looks up out of the window, craning to see. ‘Excellent, air support is already here. We’ve got the dog handlers en route too.’

  ‘Oh God,’ I murmur.

  He looks round at me, his face carefully blank and professional, then turns to Jon. ‘I think we got most of your son’s details on the phone.’ In contrast to DC Gerent’s gently sympathetic air, his tone seems brisk, almost matter of fact. ‘We’ll need to go through it all again, of course, just to make sure we haven’t missed anything. A forensics officer will be here soon too. I expect he’ll want to do a thorough examination of your son’s room, and perhaps look at the stairs and front door as well.’

  He pauses. ‘But before we do that, maybe you could tell us everything that happened tonight?’

  ‘What good will that do?’ I demand, my voice small and shrill. ‘Someone has stolen our baby. You need to be out there, looking for him, not standing about here.’

  ‘And we will be, don’t worry. But first, you may know something useful without being aware of it. So from the beginning, if you could, and as quickly as possible. For instance, we’ll need the names and addresses of your guests.’ He is still looking at Jon, not me. ‘I presume they’re all still here?’

  ‘All but one.’ Jon hesitates. ‘Emily. She came with my friend Simon, but left early.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘She wasn’t feeling well.’

  ‘I see.’ He nods to DC Gerent, who scribbles something in her notebook. ‘We’ll need to talk to her too. Tonight, if possible.’

  ‘Talk to Emily?’ I stare up at him. My voice is shaking but I can’t seem to control it. ‘I don’t understand. You think one of our friends might have taken Harry?’

  ‘It’s nothing like that, Meghan,’ the detective says soothingly, giving me a quick, reassuring smile. ‘Your friend Emily may have seen or heard something when she was leaving that could help us locate Harry. Even if she’s not feeling well, we’d still like to speak to her without delay.’

  Jon nods. ‘I’m sure Simon can give her a call.’

  ‘Thank you. In our experience, the first few hours after a child goes missing are often the most vital.’

  I exchange a glance with Jon.

  DC Gerent moves discreetly aside as my husband comes to sit next to me on the sofa. Jon looks at me sideways, takes my cold hand in his, squeezes it comfortingly. It is the first time he has touched me since before the dinner party.

  I can feel his hesitation. But it’s time, and we both know it.

  ‘Detective,’ he begins in a low voice, ‘there’s something I didn’t mention on the phone earlier. I wanted to keep it private, but I realise that’s not possible anymore. It’s something you really need to know.’ His face is haggard as he turns it towards the police officer. ‘Something about Harry.’

  Chapter Eight

  Auto-immune neutropenia.

  I do not blame the police for looking blank when we try to explain, in a fumbling way, what’s wrong with Harry. Six months ago, I would not have had a clue what those words meant either. Now though, auto-immune neutropenia is a massive part of our daily lives. It’s a phrase that stops and silences us, that reminds us that our beautiful little boy is mortal.

  ‘Not all doctors agree on what it is,’ I tell them shakily, ‘which makes it hard for us to be completely specific. But it’s a rare condition that hits very young children and babies. The immune system in kids with neutropenia is seriously compromised, which basically means Harry can get sick very easily. He has to be protected from germs and bacteria. We have to keep everything immaculately clean. You see, the slightest contact with germs and he can become dangerously ill within hours.’

  DS Dryer frowns. He glances at the constable, who is busy scribbling in her notebook. ‘Getting him back quickly is a priority-one issue, then. We’ll need the name of his doctor too, and any specialist care workers.’

  ‘Dr Shiva is the hospital consultant in charge of his case,’ Jon says quickly, always more confident when dealing with hard facts. ‘I expect she’ll have all the details on file.’

  ‘That’s very useful, thank you.’ He looks at his colleague. ‘Constable, could you see if we can get hold of the doctor? I know it’s late, but as soon as possible, please.’

  Gerent nods and leaves the room. I hear her quiet voice on the radio outside the door. At least they seem to be taking his illness seriously.

  DS Dryer continues, ‘Is Harry on any medication for this condition?’

  I glance at Jon.

  Jon nods. ‘He’s in the middle of a course of Neupogen to improve his immunity to germs. It’s a strong drug. Twice-daily injections. It’s vital that he doesn’t miss any. The doctors take a frequent blood count to see how well his immune system is working, and when his count is low, he has to take a course of Neupogen to improve his . . . chances.’

  The detective frowns at this hesitation. ‘Of survival?’ he asks bluntly.

  I let go of Jon’s hand and cover my mouth. My hand is shaking.

  ‘I’m sorry, Meghan,’ DS Dryer says. He crouches before me, looking into my face. ‘I have to ask these things, I’m afraid. We need to know what we’re dealing with, how dangerous this break in medication could become for Harry.’

  ‘It’s not so much missing the injections that could have repercussions,’ Jon tells him, his voice suddenly unsteady, ‘but the fact that his ANC may drop without them.’

  ‘ANC?’

  ‘Absolute Neutrophil Count,’ I manage to say, finding my voice again. ‘That means Harry’s immune system would be severely compromised and at risk from any infections he encounters, however slight. Simple exposure to the common cold, or just touching a dirty toy, could potentially . . .’ I swallow. ‘It could kill him.’

  DS Dryer nods slowly, his gaze locked on my face. ‘I understand. And when is Harry due another of these injections?’

  ‘8 a.m. tomorrow.’

  After a two-hour interview with the police during which we try to remember as much as we can about the dinner party, who went where and for how long, how unusual it is for us to leave the front door on the latch, that it must have been a mistake, until I am exhausted and barely able to speak anymore, the sergeant finally nods to his constable, and the two police officers stand up.

  ‘Thank you,’ Jon says, sitting forward on the sofa, slightly apart from me. At some point during the interview he let go of my hand and shifted into professional mode, his voice no longer hoarse and emotional, discussing Harry’s disappearance as though it is a legal case he is dealing with. I suppose that makes it easier for him. ‘I’ll look out those hospital letters for you, let you have copies.’

  ‘That would be helpful,’ Dryer agrees.

  Jon stretches wearily, reaches for his cup of tea and puts it down again without drinking any. It’s his second cup of tea since the long interview started, and is probably cold by now. I must remember to thank Camilla for being so kind, hanging on in the house long after Simon has been questioned and allowed to go home, and making several rounds of tea for us all. I wonder if the police were able to speak to Emily tonight too. But I suppose they would have told us if she had seen anything useful.

  ‘Thank God it’s Saturday tomorrow.’ Jon pauses, thinking. ‘Should I take Monday off work, do you think? Maybe several days?’ He frowns, considering it. ‘That coul
d be complicated though. Somebody else would have to take over my case load.’

  I wonder how he can even ask.

  ‘You must do whatever feels right for you,’ Dryer tells him.

  ‘Simon’s pretty snowed under at the moment, but he might offer to . . .’ He glances at me, then shrugs. ‘No choice, really. I need to be at home with Meghan. Just in case.’

  I ponder those words, the odd hesitation after them, almost as though Jon had intended to say more, but then caught himself up at the last second.

  Just in case.

  Then I realise what he means. Just in case they find Harry – and he’s dead.

  I stand up and wander to the window to stare out. Everything aches, especially my heart. I don’t know what lies ahead for us, just as I don’t know where my son is, and it’s the not knowing that is driving me crazy.

  I lean my forehead on the cool windowpane. If only something would happen, I think, or one of the police would show a flicker of emotion. Then perhaps I could get a sense that progress is being made.

  But everyone is so calm and professional. While we have been talking, other officers have wandered in and out with written notes and whispered comments, brief phone calls have been made to those searching, communications on the radio have crackled and buzzed, and the helicopter has swung around and away, then returned to hover above our street. I’ve heard ominous bangs and thuds from around the house as a team of officers have searched our property thoroughly, looking in every tiny space, even climbing up into the attic, with no result. Things seem to have quietened down now. The blue lights are still flashing out there, but there are fewer than before, and the ambulance that had been mysteriously called glides silently away into the night.

  The helicopter is still on patrol though.

  ‘What exactly are they doing up there?’ I ask into the silence, lifting my head to stare up at the misty white beam of the helicopter searchlight as it touches the roofs opposite.

  ‘Searching the area around the house.’ DS Dryer comes to stand beside me. ‘They use thermal imaging cameras,’ he explains, watching the helicopter too, ‘to see if there’s anyone hiding out in any of your neighbours’ back gardens, plus all the back alleys, cut-throughs and streets adjacent to this one. If they see anything suspicious, an officer will go in on foot to investigate.’

  I am shocked. ‘You think Harry might be in one of my neighbours’ gardens?’

  ‘Not necessarily. But we have to check. It’s standard procedure.’

  At that moment, the helicopter swings away and disappears swiftly across the rooftops, its searchlight beam wavering and then rising. Within less than thirty seconds, I can barely hear its whirring rotor blades anymore.

  Dryer grunts. ‘Nothing.’ Then shoots me what is presumably supposed to be a reassuring look. ‘The helicopter is just stage one, don’t worry. The dogs are still out, and there’ll be house-to-house enquiries first thing in the morning. In fact, we should have a clearer overall picture tomorrow. If we haven’t got him back by then.’

  ‘Is that a possibility?’

  The policeman hesitates. ‘Best not get your hopes up, Meghan. I’m going to leave an officer outside tonight though, in case of further developments.’ His tone softens. ‘Meanwhile, you both look shattered. Probably a good idea if you try to get some sleep, impossible though that probably sounds.’

  Jon gets up and starts to collect the dirty tea mugs together. The constable offers her mug with another of those sympathetic smiles she does so well, and some murmured comment, but he takes it without responding. Now that the interview is finally over, his shoulders have slumped and he’s shuffling about the room like an old man. I’ve never seen him like this, so drawn and beaten down.

  I watch him anxiously. Even when Harry got his diagnosis, Jon seemed to handle the bad news better than I did.

  It makes me fear the worst.

  ‘So you’ve got all the information, everything we could tell you.’ Jon pauses at the door, mugs in hand. ‘You’ve searched the house, the street . . . What happens now?’

  ‘There’ll be a press release early tomorrow, letting people know what Harry looks like and how to contact us if they see him.’

  ‘Do you think it’s this snatcher that’s taken him?’ I ask abruptly. ‘The one they were talking about in today’s newspaper?’

  Dryer grimaces. The scar across his cheek twitches. ‘Too early to tell. Not the same MO as the others though. You know, it doesn’t follow the same pattern.’ He shrugs. ‘But obviously it’s one of the possibilities we’re considering.’

  Jon nods slowly. ‘How can we help?’

  ‘You’ve given us enough to go on for now. If we need any other information, or if you want to add something or make a further statement, someone will call round. Tomorrow, you should be allocated a liaison officer to keep you informed of our progress.’

  ‘In other words, it’s out of our hands.’

  Dryer looks at us both, not unkindly. ‘That’s how the system works, I’m afraid, and it’s usually a pretty efficient machine. All you need to know right now is that we’re going to do our absolute best to get your baby back safe and sound. Goodnight, Jon, Meghan.’

  He nods to me, then the two police officers leave.

  I watch from the window as they confer with their colleagues outside, then gradually get back into police cars and drive away. The forensics officer, a thin young man with several briefcases under his arm, has been and gone. One police car remains, no flashing light, tucked in discreetly down the road amongst our neighbours’ cars, about a hundred yards from the house.

  I wonder who drew the short straw to keep watch over us all night. It’s a warm evening, but it must be a lonely job.

  Jon looks at me. ‘Oh God.’

  I take a few steps towards him, and my legs fail entirely. I wobble and then collapse, like a newborn calf trying to walk, ending up on my knees on the wooden floor.

  Chapter Nine

  Jon makes a grab for me, falling to his knees too. His arms come round me, hands clutching at my back, holding me tight. We grip each other without passion, just desperation.

  ‘I locked the door,’ I insist. ‘I’m sure of it.’

  ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘I’m sorry, so sorry.’

  ‘I can’t believe this,’ he mutters against my throat. His voice is cracked, unfamiliar. ‘Where the hell can he have gone? He was there, I checked on him. Then he just . . . disappeared.’

  I can’t find my voice for several minutes, but hang on to him instead, mutely thankful for his presence. This man is not just my husband now, but my life raft; I could not possibly face this storm on my own. And though the warmth of his body can no longer comfort me – I am not sure anything will ever comfort me again except the safe return of my baby – it does at least steady me enough to be able to carry on. By which I mean survive.

  Anything more than mere survival is beyond me right at this moment. I feel like an overstretched elastic band, too slack and exhausted to do anything but balance there on my knees, waiting for the next blow.

  Minutes pass like that; I’m not sure how many. The two of us clinging together, speechless, staring at nothing, trapped in the inertia of bewilderment.

  Finally, the door to the lounge creaks open.

  It’s Camilla, peering round curiously.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she mutters at once, no doubt shocked to find us both on the floor, on our knees, and begins to close the door again.

  ‘No,’ I say, finding my voice at last. ‘Please, Camilla, come back. Thank you so much for staying.’ Jon releases me and I stumble to my feet, light-headed. ‘I didn’t even realise you were still here. It must have been hours since . . .’

  ‘It was no trouble,’ she insists.

  Jon gets to his feet, thrusts his hands into his jeans pockets. His face is darkly flushed. The stress, I realise. I’m not the only one here suffering.

  ‘Where’s Treve?’ he asks.
<
br />   ‘Gone home.’ She glances at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘About forty minutes ago. He was getting tired, has to be at work early tomorrow morning, or he would have stayed too.’ Camilla looks tired herself, I notice; dark circles are showing through her usually immaculate make-up. ‘My first class isn’t until noon.’

  ‘Well, thanks for staying,’ he says.

  I look at him.

  Camilla hesitates, then nods. ‘Right, I’ll be off, then.’

  She looks back at me, very directly. I can see the concern there, and it warms me to her at once. She was a little self-centred at the dinner party tonight, but I could see that she had argued with Treve, and I understand how that feels, even in company.

  She adds, ‘No . . . news, I take it?’

  I can almost see the word hanging in the air between us, carefully unspoken. Like it would be a breach of good manners to say his name aloud.

  Harry.

  ‘The police are out there now, looking for him,’ Jon replies for me, not looking at her but bending to rearrange the scattered cushions on the sofa. His tone comes across as tense, almost hostile, which surprises me. ‘That’s all we know. They said they’d be in touch again tomorrow, give us a progress update.’

  She nods again, her face shuttered, then slips out.

  Once she has gone, I study Jon’s averted face, watching as he tidies the room in a mechanical fashion, straightening the magazines on the coffee table, tightening the screw tops on the spirit bottles.

  It is not like him to be rude, even when under pressure.

  ‘You weren’t very nice to her,’ I comment.

  ‘I don’t need their pity,’ he tells me brutally. ‘She and Treve were only hanging around so they could watch what was happening. It’s ghoulish. We see people like that all the time in the courts. Pretending to be sympathetic, but actually enjoying other people’s misfortune.’

  ‘That’s unfair.’

  ‘Is it?’ He straightens and stares at me. ‘Camilla can be a spiteful cow at the best of times. But she was so rude to you tonight. Why the hell do you put up with it?’