by Jane Holland
He is looking at the milk-stains on my dress. I have been uncomfortable for hours, but have pushed it to the back of my mind while struggling to answer the policeman’s questions.
‘Poor Harry,’ I say, distracted. ‘He must need his feed by now. He’ll be distraught. I hope whoever . . . Oh God. They will feed him, won’t they? Whoever took him. They’ll have to give him bottled milk.’
‘Meghan,’ he begins, but I’m no longer listening.
‘Harry’s never had a bottle. He won’t know how . . . He won’t be able to feed. And they don’t have his medicine. It’s still all here, waiting for him.’ I start to cry, and my milk comes, responding to my emotion. The front of my dress grows wetter, and I tear at the buttons to release it, dragging it up and over my head, not caring that the lounge curtains are still partly open, that the lights are blazing, that people passing by outside will be able to see in. I sob uncontrollably, ‘He’s going to die. He’s going to die.’
Jon stares, saying nothing, his face still flushed. Then he wrenches the lounge curtains together and stands there, his back turned to me, head bowed. His hands are still clutching the curtains.
‘Please, stop it,’ he says thickly. ‘Let’s . . . Let’s go to bed. Maybe in the morning we’ll get good news.’
‘Go to bed?’ I am astonished by this suggestion, which seems insensitive in the extreme. I wipe my eyes on the back of my hand, saying, ‘I won’t be able to sleep. How on earth could anyone sleep with this hanging over them?’
‘Well, I’m going to bed,’ he says, and walks out of the room.
I can’t believe he’s left me to go to bed. I stand for a long time, staring at the closed door, listening as he locks up the house, back and front, and treads heavily up the stairs to the bedroom. But yes, he’s gone.
Harry has gone.
Now Jon.
The house grows still and silent. I am alone at last. I hunt for a tissue and blow my nose. Belatedly, I think of our anniversary dinner party. The table outside was left strewn with dirty coffee cups, dessert bowls, soiled napkins. I should pull my dress back on and go out there. Camilla and Treve have probably cleared it though. Now that I think about it, I caught the soft whoosh of the dishwasher earlier while talking to the police. Camilla again, I guess. And I expect the two men will have helped. Such good friends, all of them. Yet we barely spoke to them after the police arrived, we don’t really deserve their kindness. I didn’t even say thank you, except to Camilla, and she seemed so horrified when she left, her face turned away, that I doubt we’ll see her again for a while.
Between my wild behaviour and appearance, and Jon’s hostility, she must have wondered why she bothered staying to help out.
She was so rude to you tonight.
Was she?
I can’t recall a word of our dinner conversation now, though I know we talked for what must have been well over an hour after I served that first course, maybe even two hours. How strange. It’s as though Harry’s disappearance has wiped everything else from my mind. Like there was a before and an after to this evening, and after is the only part that exists for me now.
I don’t even know who nipped in to visit the loo or to fetch another bottle of wine, nor how many opportunities I had to check on my baby after Jon took him back to bed, yet wasted every one of them. All I can think is how selfishly I behaved tonight, how irresponsible I was, how unfit to be a mother. I have always been so careful with Harry, never missed a feed, never missed his medication times, never left him wet or hungry or to cry. But I neglected him tonight – and fate was watching.
I have been justly punished for my neglect; I see that now. But does Harry have to pay as well? That seems too cruel for words.
I curl up on the sofa in my knickers and bra, covering myself with my dress, and hug myself into a tight ball. The overhead light burns into my eyes, so I bury my head under a cushion. My breasts throb, and I long for the release of feeding, for the cool touch that has gone, tiny fingers clenching and flexing against my skin, intent blue eyes staring up at me.
‘Harry . . .’ I whimper.
Chapter Ten
The police are back at the door early next morning.
I am ready for them. At about five o’clock in the morning, I dragged myself wearily off the couch and crept upstairs for a quick shower. Then I slipped into our bedroom for clean clothes. Jon was still asleep – or pretending to be. Either way, I could see the top of his head poking out from under the duvet, but he stayed motionless while I opened and closed drawers as quietly as possible, gathering underwear, clean jeans, T-shirt and a thin cardigan.
Once dressed, I spent several minutes in the nursery, just staring into the empty cot. It’s almost as though I can’t believe he’s gone without constantly reminding myself, without seeing the evidence first-hand.
In my panic and hysteria last night, I did not notice that my medicine chart is also missing. The chart where I have been meticulously listing all Harry’s injections, times and sites. This morning, I looked blankly at the tape marks left on the wall where it appeared to have been torn down, then searched the room in case the chart had been thrown under the cot or changing station.
There was no sign of it.
But I cannot seem to think clearly enough to work out whether its loss is significant or not. All I know is that I have to remember to mention it to the police. It’s as though my fear is consuming my brain to the point where it’s all I can do to survive from hour to hour. So by the time the police arrive, I’ve been watching the road for several hours. Eager for news, I jerk the front door open before the detective even has a chance to ring the bell.
It’s DC Gerent and DS Dryer again, accompanied by a third, older man in a black coat. He looks me up and down with a careful, assessing gaze. I guess he must be another plain-clothes police officer. Perhaps a specialist in abductions.
‘Well?’ I gaze past them, wide-eyed, staring up and down the quiet suburban street. I know I must sound hysterical, but cannot seem to control myself. ‘Have you found him?’
DS Dryer shakes his head.
‘Nothing?’
‘I’m sorry.’ He glances at his colleagues. ‘May we come in, Meghan? We have some more questions about Harry.’
‘Of course.’
I struggle to sound welcoming, to smile as they enter the house, wiping their feet on our doormat, making their way into our lounge. These are the officers who are going to help us get Harry back, after all. But the little hope that’s been burning in my chest all night, the hope that I would wake up in the morning and discover that my ordeal was all over because he had been found safe and sound, begins to waver and look thin. Much more bad news, and it will go out completely.
I cannot let that happen. I have to believe that we will see Harry again.
‘Early days, I suppose.’
DC Gerent smiles at me comfortingly. ‘Exactly. And once you’ve answered these questions, and we’ve got the press release out there, we may see more movement.’
I have followed them into the lounge. ‘Please, sit down.’
The third officer sinks into Jon’s favourite chair. The other two hesitate, then sit together on the sofa.
I stand near the window, my gaze occasionally wandering to the street. ‘Movement?’
DC Gerent says helpfully, ‘When people see a child abduction on the news, dozens tend to phone in sightings and suspicious activity.’ She opens her notebook and flicks through to a blank page. ‘Mostly mistaken information. But one or two of those calls may yield something useful. So yes, we do sometimes get movement after a press release.’
‘But not always,’ the new officer says.
I look at him directly. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t think . . .’
Dryer makes a noise under his breath. ‘Apologies, that’s my fault. I forgot you haven’t met Detective Inspector Pascoe yet.’
I study the new officer more carefully. ‘Detective Inspector Pascoe,’ I repeat.
&nb
sp; I am pleased the police are taking it so seriously. But my heart gives an odd little jump, like it’s hopped sideways in my chest. Does this mean they think Harry is . . . But I shut down the thought before it can go any further. I must not think like that.
‘It’s good to have so many people looking for Harry,’ I say.
He is older than the other two, probably in his late forties, with bushy, silver-flecked eyebrows and moustache, a thickening body and the beginnings of a paunch. Too many good dinners, I think.
‘Please try not to worry, Meghan. We’re going to do our best to get your son back as soon as possible,’ the inspector assures me.
‘Thank you,’ I tell him.
‘I’m only here for a few minutes, I’m afraid. I have to go and prepare the team for the door-to-door.’
‘You mean, question my neighbours? Do you really think someone in this street might have—’
‘Not necessarily. It’s all part of our standard procedure for lost or missing children. Press release, appeal for information, plus door-to-door enquiries . . . We ask if anyone’s heard or seen anything suspicious, especially around the time of the actual abduction, then pool the resulting data.’ Pascoe smiles thinly, showing yellowing teeth. A smoker? That would explain the faint whiff of tobacco smoke I keep catching. ‘Like a fishing net, trawling for information. As the constable here said, there can be a lot of irrelevant sightings and claims the first few days of an operation like this. But we’ll follow up all the positive leads, speak to as many people as possible, and somewhere in there hope to find whoever took your son.’
My gaze wanders back to the street. ‘Good,’ I say absently, and move the curtain aside slightly to see the parked cars a little better.
Gradually, I sense his gaze on my face and look round. All three police officers are watching me. I muster a smile, and let the curtain drop.
‘Did you manage to talk to Emily last night?’
Pascoe glances at Dryer, who raises his chin and says, ‘Emily? Yes, indeed. She gave us a full account of her movements yesterday evening, but we didn’t see anything suspicious or unusual.’
‘Well, I found something suspicious here,’ I tell them. ‘I kept a medication chart on the wall next to his cot, a daily record of Harry’s injections. The doctor told me it might be useful for their records, and would also remind me not to inject him in the same place twice. I went back into his room this morning, and that’s when I noticed.’
‘Noticed what?’ DS Dryer prompts me.
‘That it’s gone,’ I explain. ‘Torn off the wall, by the look of it. I think whoever took Harry must have taken the chart too.’
Dryer is frowning. ‘That would suggest they know about his condition.’
I stare at him.
‘Where’s your husband this morning, Meghan?’ DI Pascoe asks. He sounds impatient. ‘I know it’s early, but I had hoped to meet him too.’
‘Jon’s still asleep. I can call him, if you like.’
‘Please.’
I go to the bottom of the stairs and listen, then call upstairs. ‘Jon?’ There is no answer. I raise my voice. ‘Jon?’
It’s still early, a little before eight o’clock, but I am sure Jon must be awake. Though if he had a night as rough as mine, he may not want to get out of bed yet.
There’s a noise from above. Jon comes to the head of the stairs and looks down at me, still in his dressing gown. I can tell from his face that he has been suffering all night too. ‘Who was that at the door?’
‘It’s the police.’ I lower my voice. ‘They want to speak to both of us, together. Get dressed and come down, would you?’
I can see that he does not like my tone.
I soften my voice. ‘There’s going to be a press release. They just need to ask a few more questions.’
The door to the lounge creaks.
I turn, seeing DI Pascoe in the doorway. The inspector comes to the foot of the stairs, looking up curiously at my husband. ‘Morning, good to meet you. I’m DI Pascoe, in charge of the investigation.’
‘Hello,’ Jon says, very stilted, not moving.
‘A terrible time for you both.’
Jon remains silent.
‘Well . . .’ Pascoe nods, a little awkwardly, then turns to me. ‘I’m afraid I need to be somewhere. I just wanted to say how sorry I am about this whole business, and that I’ll be giving it my full attention. Now I must be on my way.’ The inspector thrusts out a hand, and I shake it, studying him uncertainly. ‘Don’t worry, you’re in excellent hands with Detective Sergeant Dryer. One of our best, in fact.’ He heads for the door, already checking his phone. ‘Hope to catch up with you both later. I can let myself out.’
I glance up at Jon. He looks at me, then turns and disappears back into the bedroom.
My breasts tingle, hard and uncomfortable. But it’s not as impossible to bear as yesterday, nor is it leaking more than the pads can manage to absorb. This is Nature responding to Harry’s absence with age-old pragmatism, I realise. Half a day without feeding, and milk production is already beginning to lessen.
Wearily, I head for the lounge, and stop dead.
DC Gerent is blocking the doorway.
I meet her level gaze, surprised, and she steps aside.
‘Is he coming down?’ she asks.
‘He’s getting dressed.’ I smile in a chilly fashion, and hope it’s the truth. I go back into the lounge and sit in the chair the inspector vacated. The cushion still holds a slight, residual warmth. ‘He won’t be long.’
I feel like crying again, but cannot. Not in front of the police. They might misinterpret it. But I did not recognise the expression on Jon’s face just now. It was like looking at a stranger.
I’m scared. Not simply over Harry’s disappearance, but of the change of mood I am sensing in my husband. I saw it last night after the police had left, that sudden, inexplicable withdrawal of affection. Our marriage has not always been smooth. But why this new, disturbing silence?
Dryer is looking at me expectantly.
‘Can I offer you a drink?’ I ask belatedly. ‘Tea? Coffee?’
Both officers politely decline.
‘Tell me about yesterday,’ Dryer says.
My gaze flies to his. ‘Yesterday? Didn’t we cover all that last night?’
‘You were a little sketchy on some of the details.’ He has his own notebook, I realise, and has bent his head, glancing through it. ‘Lots of information about the dinner party, your guests, what you ate, where everyone was when you discovered Harry was gone.’ He pauses. ‘But almost nothing about earlier in the day. You went to the supermarket, is that right?’
‘Yes, shopping for dinner.’ My skin prickles. ‘Sorry, how is that relevant? Harry didn’t go missing until—’
‘We like to get a fully rounded picture of the parents’ daily routines, in cases like this.’
In cases like this.
I imagine my son’s name and date of birth on a file, tucked away in some dusty folder in a police archive twenty-five years from now. CHILD ABDUCTION: UNSOLVED.
‘How many do you get back?’ I ask.
‘Sorry?’
‘Missing children. How many are ever found?’ I swallow, my throat so dry it’s almost closing up. ‘Alive, I mean.’
DS Dryer glances at his colleague. There’s a kind of regret in his face. ‘We’re going to do everything we can, believe me.’
The door opens.
Jon, at last. He’s showered, and had a close shave, and is looking far more like himself. Jeans again, I notice, but his best ones, straight from the drawer and still neatly ironed, a thick leather belt with a metal clasp threaded through the loopholes. He has chosen a blue shirt today, open collar, and draped a thick cream woollen jumper about his shoulders, sleeves tied together to hold it in place.
Even after three years, I’m struck by how sexy he is. How, every time he walks into a room, I instinctively smile and think, this gorgeous man is my husband. It’s li
ke a reflex action, something I can’t control.
Today, Jon manages a smile for me too. A smile that does not quite reach his eyes. I wonder if it’s for the sake of our guests or if he really wants to make up after our fight last night. He kisses my cheek, and I catch a hint of warm, citrus aftershave. Only his face gives away his lack of sleep, two dark smudges below each eye.
‘Darling,’ he murmurs, turning immediately to the police, ‘have you offered these detectives a cup of tea?’
‘We’re fine, thank you,’ Gerent says at once. ‘I hope you both managed to get some sleep last night.’
‘Some,’ he agrees.
She leans forward to shake his hand, studying him as she did last night, then sits down; she’s wearing trousers but she smoothes an invisible skirt behind her. The gesture catches my eye as Jon reaches past to shake Dryer’s hand.
The formalities over, Jon comes to stand behind me. The policewoman keeps her eyes on his face. Not suspiciously but with interest. She is smiling faintly.
I suppress a ludicrous quiver of jealousy.
Now that Jon is downstairs, the whole thing feels very calm and professional. Except for the earliness of the hour, we could be two couples meeting to discuss the sale of a house. The clock on the mantelpiece ticks relentlessly, and I glance at it. Nearly twenty minutes past eight; I probably only had two or three hours’ sleep, or it certainly felt that bad. I look at the sunshine starting to creep across the window frame. It’s going to be another warm day.
The house is very quiet, I think.
Too quiet.
‘Did you manage to speak to Dr Shiva?’ Jon asks.
DS Dryer nods. ‘Yes, she was very helpful. I think we’ve got a pretty good idea of Harry’s condition now, and the medication he needs. Actually, I was just asking your wife about her movements yesterday.’ He produces a pen from inside his jacket, tests it on the paper, then looks up at Jon. ‘And we’ll need to hear yours as well.’
‘Me? Oh, I was in the office all day,’ Jon tells the policeman, and then smiles at him in that charming, self-deprecatory way he has with strangers. ‘I’m in the office all day most days. Meghan is always complaining about the long hours I work. But now she’s not working, someone has to pay the bills.’
