by Jane Holland
Now, I feel lost and directionless, my mind constantly groping towards the next task, only to remember with a jolt that there is nothing to be done. No baby to feed or change or bathe, no medication to administer, no alarm to set on my phone.
The cruel empty hours stretch away in all directions like the spokes of a giant wheel, and I no longer have the faintest idea how to fill them.
I walk into the lounge to find it empty. Treve and Camilla have left. I suppose they think I’ve gone mad, charging out without explanation. Maybe they’re right.
‘Tell us about the baby the police have found,’ I say, turning to the policeman as he and Jon follow me into the lounge. ‘And no more stalling. We’ve got a right to know.’
An empty cereal bowl is on the table. I glance at it, temporarily bemused. Jon never usually eats breakfast in here. He must have grabbed something while I was upstairs in the nursery. I realise I have not had any breakfast. I’m not hungry though. In fact, I feel vaguely sick at the thought of food.
‘I can’t help you, Meghan,’ the PC says, his tone apologetic. He looks from me to Jon, then adds, ‘Even if I knew something, which I don’t, it’s not within my power to discuss the case with you.’
‘For God’s sake!’ I explode.
Jon looks at me disapprovingly, as though pained by my outburst. ‘Meghan, please.’
‘But I can certainly put in a call to the station,’ Pete continues, ‘explain the situation, and ask DS Dryer to get in touch with you. How does that sound?’
I sink on to the sofa, staring blankly at the wall opposite. There’s a framed photo on the wall: Harry as a newborn, red-faced, wrapped in a white blanket, little crocheted woollen cap on his head.
‘Thank you, Pete, we’d appreciate that,’ Jon is saying smoothly. The lawyer’s voice again, firm but fair, almost dispassionate. ‘It’s not very helpful being kept out of the loop. As you can see, that news story on the television has left my wife quite shaken.’
‘Understandably so.’
‘So the sooner we can get our questions answered, the better for her. For everyone, really.’
‘Of course.’ Pete nods, looking across at me with an air of professional sympathy, but it’s obvious he’s not keen. Maybe DS Dryer left a standing order not to be disturbed. Maybe he’s a difficult boss. Nonetheless, he fumbles with his radio, then hesitates. ‘I’ll have to make the call outside. Five minutes, okay? Then I’ll be back with some news.’
He leaves, and we hear him a minute later in the front garden, speaking quietly to someone on his radio.
I hug my chest, remembering the last feed he took, Harry’s little hands grabbing on to me, the smell of his soft flesh against mine, then I push the memory aside. I dare not go down that route. I can’t allow myself to think about Harry, just in case . . .
‘You weren’t very friendly to PC Turner,’ Jon remarks.
‘I just want the truth.’
‘Don’t we all?’
I bend my head, staring at the floor. The patch of sunlight is moving closer to the sofa. ‘What does that mean?’
Jon has been watching the policeman out of the window. Now he comes towards me. I keep my head bent. His trainers stop in front of me, and I study them, not speaking.
‘Do I need to call the doctor, Meghan?’
I shake my head.
‘Good,’ he says, and then leaves the room. I hear his feet on the stairs.
My mobile pings. Notification that a new text message has arrived. I turn over my phone to check it, and frown. The message is from Emily.
Just seen the news. If there’s anything you need, you know where I am. xxx
Oh God.
I stare at the misty screen, tears in my eyes, then text her back with fumbling fingers.
The police aren’t telling us anything.
I hesitate, biting my lip, then add four more words.
What do you know?
Rather less than five minutes later, PC Turner is back. He looks round for Jon and sees only me, still sitting on the sofa. I can tell from his expression that ‘Pete’ has pegged me as trouble and would rather not speak to me alone.
‘Is your husband about?’
I stand up, aching but too restless to sit any longer. ‘I think he’s gone upstairs. Did you manage to get in touch with DS Dryer?’
‘I left a message for him. He’s out at the . . .’ He stops himself, then looks at me awkwardly. ‘Detective Sergeant Dryer will be back at the station in about an hour or so, I’d expect. Best to sit tight until he calls.’ He manages a thin smile. ‘And don’t turn on the telly, yeah?’
‘Where is that place?’ I ask, picking up my handbag and rummaging through it for my hairbrush. I give my hair a quick brush. ‘Where they found the . . . the remains?’
He says nothing for a moment. Then clears his throat. ‘I’m not sure. Off the A30 somewhere.’
‘It looked like one of those little lanes out beyond Treliske . . .’
‘Something like that.’
I smile. He’s a nice man. But I have no intention of sitting tight.
‘Tell Jon not to worry, would you?’ I collect my handbag and car keys from the coffee table. ‘I’ll be back soon. I just have to go out for a bit.’
PC Turner stares, following uncertainly as I leave the house. ‘Meghan, I really think you should wait here until DS Dryer—’
‘No need.’
It’s so bright outside, I suddenly wish I’d brought my sunglasses with me. They are in the kitchen though and I am not going back inside for them. The car is parked a few doors down. Far enough to make me nervous. I don’t run, but I don’t hang about either. The last thing I want is for Jon to realise I’ve gone and come after me before I can get away.
The suburban street is very quiet, nobody in sight. I notice that Treve’s work van has gone from outside next door. Camilla must still be at home.
The car makes a high-pitched beeping noise as I unlock it.
I glance back over my shoulder.
Jon is standing at the window of Harry’s nursery, the blinds drawn up to let the sunshine in. My heart gives a violent jolt. Has he seen me?
My hands shake as I drag the driver’s door open and throw my handbag on to the passenger seat. To my relief, Jon is looking the other way, studying the street. But then his head turns and he sees me.
Too late.
I look back at the policeman with a hurried smile before getting into the car. He still has that uncertain look on his face. ‘Thanks for your help, Pete.’
Chapter Fourteen
Just beyond the city of Truro runs the A30, the busy main road in and out of Cornwall, an east-west axis that is sometimes single, sometimes dual carriageway, and opens out into unpretentious countryside as it heads further into rural Cornwall. Low dry-stone walls border roadside dwellings, occasional laybys proclaim NO LITTERING beside overflowing bins and plastic bags caught in the hedgerows, and the white cross of the Cornish flag flies proudly above a few tree-shrouded roofs.
At the roundabout, I merge on to the crowded single carriage-way with the rest of the traffic, heading slowly west towards Redruth, Camborne and, eventually, Penzance. Rough hills and fields stretch towards the restless grey-blue glint of the sea on my left, miles in the distance. Row after row of vast, long-legged wind turbines stand on the hilltop there, graceful and sinister at the same time, their vast blades slow-moving this morning.
In my mind’s eye, I see again the news report on the television. The five-bar gate, the muddy field beyond, the forensics’ team bending over something. My hands tighten on the wheel.
I know the place; I am sure of it.
But what will I find when I get there? And if it’s a crime scene – I force myself not to dwell on what may have been found there – will the police even allow me to stop and get out of my car?
Jon must be absolutely furious. I remember his face at the window, the abrupt turn of his head. He will have run downstairs at once, seething
with rage, taking the stairs two at a time, determined to stop me. I try to imagine his expression when the policeman gives him my message, then wish I hadn’t said anything.
There’s nothing he can do about it, I tell myself firmly. But I am still nervous, my body humming with uncertainty.
My palms sweat on the wheel, and I have to wipe them on my jeans, one at a time. It’s possible I have done the wrong thing. But I could not contain myself any longer; I had to do something.
The sun bouncing off oncoming windscreens is blinding. I lower the sun visor, shield my eyes from the migraine I can feel building.
I keep flashing back to Harry’s nursery.
His empty cot.
The appalling silence.
With an effort, I push that memory away. But perhaps the constable was right. Perhaps I should have waited for DS Dryer to return with news. What if the police find Harry, and I’m not there to take the call?
The traffic queue moves on again on my side, a few cars at a time.
Suddenly, I’m there.
It’s a narrow country lane off to the right. An obscure Cornish village name on a dirty road sign. I miss the name as I signal and get into position to turn. Pen-something, probably. Plus other signs for a campsite and a tourist attraction a few miles on.
A police car is parked across the mouth of the lane, lights flashing. Police officer in uniform beside it, watching the traffic pass.
No time left to change my mind.
I pull in alongside his patrol car and put down my window. The police officer assesses the car, my face, then bends to speak to me. ‘Resident?’
I nod silently, hoping he does not ask for an address or any kind of proof.
‘Nothing to worry about.’ His smile is reassuring. ‘There’s been an incident about half a mile down, and the road is partially blocked. We’re only stopping large vehicles.’
‘So I can go through?’
‘Of course.’ He pats the car, and then steps back. ‘Not too fast though. Mind how you go.’
I thank him, put the car into gear, and pull away.
As I recall from a failed shortcut we took once, struggling to find a local hotel with a wedding exhibition, the lane is deep and narrow. It twists and turns for the first quarter mile, then opens out briefly. High wild hedgerows cut off my view on either side, punctuated by sporadic gates that lend fleeting views of the Cornish landscape. Green pastures, yet more green pastures, and then the faint yellow splash of rape fields in the distance.
I drive slowly, staring about, my heart still thudding. The hedgerows are bristling with lush spring growth, occasional white pinpricks of flowers among the sharp tangle of hawthorns. It would be an idyllic scene if it were not for my knowledge of what was surely left here to rot, of the desecrated, muddied remains of a young life.
Less than a minute later, I turn the corner and see them.
Police cars, other vehicles, and a large police van parked up on the verge. Officers in uniform standing about, one looking my way. There’s no sign of the forensic team now. The gate has been left open, the field itself cordoned off.
It looks like the scene from the television report, but colder, clearer, somehow more real. The field standing muddy, its entrance crisscrossed with tyre marks and boot prints. POLICE DO NOT CROSS tapes fluttering in sharp gusts blowing across fields from the sea. A man in a black leather jacket packing cases and zip-up bags into the back of the police van. Some people with tripods and camera equipment – reporters? – standing further away on the other side of the road, huddled together in the windy sunshine.
And DS Dryer in the midst of all this activity, his face tense, brows drawn together, talking to one of the uniformed officers.
I pull on to a narrow strip of verge maybe fifty yards shy of the field entrance, and sit there a moment, listening to the engine ticking as it cools. Why did I come here? It seemed like the obvious thing to do when I was at home. The only thing, in fact.
But now, with Dryer heading towards me down the lane, a frown on his face . . .
I get out and stumble across the uneven grass. ‘Hello.’
‘Meghan?’
‘I had to come. I need to know—’
‘PC Turner called to let me know you might be on your way.’ DS Dryer is trying to steer me back towards the car, like I’m an errant sheep. ‘I’m sorry you’ve wasted a trip. There’s nothing to see.’
‘They said on the news . . .’ I feel sick, but force myself to say it. ‘They said the police had found a baby.’
‘Please, Meghan. This isn’t a good idea.’ He turns, signalling to one of the uniforms standing by the police cars. ‘Let me get one of my officers to drive you home. Your husband is beside himself.’
‘I don’t give a fuck what he thinks!’ I explode, and then bite my lip in consternation when he stops, staring at me. ‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean . . . Look, Detective, please can’t you just . . . ?’ The words tumble out like vomit, horrible, impossible to hold back. ‘Was it Harry’s body in the field? Have you found Harry? I can’t stand not knowing; it’s driving me mad. Please, can’t you just tell me the truth?’
The uniformed officer has arrived, a man about Jon’s age. He smiles at me, then looks at DS Dryer for instructions. ‘Can I help, sir?’
‘Yes, would you escort Meghan to—’ DS Dryer stops, staring down the lane. A police car is edging its slow way down the lane towards us. ‘Hang on, this looks like PC Turner and her husband arriving now. Doesn’t matter, Constable. You can go back to what you were doing.’
‘Yes, sir.’
I turn back towards my car, hurrying, my head down. I can’t face Jon. Not right now. At the car, I drag my phone from my pocket and check it again.
Still nothing.
No reply from Emily.
I double-check, but my previous message mocks me on the screen, unanswered.
What do you know?
I nearly drop the phone, trying to force it back into my pocket. I can’t seem to focus on what I’m doing. The simplest tasks feel beyond me today. I fumble in my pockets for the keys, but can’t find them. They must still be in the ignition.
‘Meghan, wait.’
I am opening the car door when Dryer catches up with me, one hand grabbing at my elbow.
‘Get off,’ I say thickly.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asks, frowning down at me. ‘I know this must be a very upsetting experience, but you need to calm down, take things more slowly.’
‘Was it Harry?’
‘No,’ he says quietly, and I almost collapse against the car with relief. Dryer glances over his shoulder. I can see Jon bearing down on us, his face grim, the constable a few steps behind him. Dryer lowers his voice, bending towards me. ‘Look, I shouldn’t say this. Frankly, I could be reprimanded just for discussing it with a member of the public. But the remains we found today . . . They couldn’t be your son.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
Dryer hesitates. ‘Because this was not a recent death, according to the police surgeon.’
I close my eyes briefly in horror, then nod to show I’ve understood. It isn’t Harry. It can’t be Harry. There is still hope.
‘Thank you.’
‘Now please, go home.’ He straightens, turning to my husband. ‘Jon, good to see you again. Thank you, Constable.’ He shoots me a glance. ‘I think Meghan is ready to go home now. Aren’t you?’
I want to say no. But I dare not.
‘Of course,’ I agree limply, and do not resist as Jon guides me round to the passenger seat of the car.
He helps me into the car, his hands gentle and solicitous. But I see the look in his eyes, and know I have not been forgiven.
He does not speak until the police have been left far behind and we are back on the A30, heading for Truro. Then his hands relax on the wheel and he asks, ‘Okay, so what was all that about?’
I do not reply, staring out of the window at the countryside flashing by.
>
‘Talk to me, Meghan.’
I shut my mouth tightly, folding one lip over the other.
Jon waits, then gives a short, unpleasant laugh when I remain silent. ‘Very well,’ he says lightly, then adds a moment later, ‘Don’t ever do that again.’
The warning in his voice is unmistakable.
Chapter Fifteen
Later that afternoon I get a notification of a new text on my mobile at last. I open it in excitement, but it’s not from Emily. It’s from my mother, randomly asking if we’ve decided what we’re doing for a holiday this summer.
Only then do I realise that I have not yet phoned my parents and told them about Harry’s abduction. I had to give their names and addresses to the police, though I was assured they would not be contacted, that it was just protocol ‘at this stage’.
Guilt floods me.
DS Dryer has left a message on our landline answerphone, asking about the possibility of us appearing at a press conference on Monday. My parents buy British newspapers occasionally out in Spain, and I know they often watch UK news on satellite television. It would be awful if they had to find out about Harry second-hand because I hadn’t got the courage to ring them.
I make the phone call sitting on the third stair up with the front door partially open, letting in sunlight.
Jon is outside in the front garden, mowing the unruly strip of lawn in front of our low hedge. ‘I might as well do something useful while we wait and get the mower out,’ had been his reasoning when we came home. But I’m certain that Jon, like me, is groping about for something to do, for tasks to fill the ever-widening space in our lives that Harry’s loss has created. The passing to and fro of the mower is loud and mind-numbingly domestic, and I listen to it for several minutes before dialling my parents’ number, somehow comforted by its familiarity.
I know Treve and Camilla are home, because both their cars are parked outside. Besides, I saw Treve out the back when we got home, picking leaves out of their small ornamental pond. He lifted a hand when he saw me at the window, and smiled. I waved back, but my return smile did not quite happen.
