by Jane Holland
I nod, and am relieved when she does not look pitying or tell me I must have been mistaken, merely accepting what I have said.
She rummages in her handbag for a compact, then checks her make-up in the mirror. There’s an odd, contorted furtiveness about the way she applies fresh lipstick, bending almost into her bag, as though to conceal what she is doing. The shade is a very pale pink, almost translucent, so that it’s not obvious she is wearing lipstick at all. But she smacks her lips together twice afterwards, and seems satisfied with the result.
Her flowery blue-and-white blouse is nothing I would ever wear, and it seems to be missing a button. But it suits her personality, I realise.
‘You look nice,’ I say.
Emily stares at me, then hurriedly throws her paraphernalia back into her bag and zips it up. As though she is ashamed. ‘Thank you.’
‘And it’s very kind of you to come with us this afternoon. I must admit, I’m feeling a bit . . .’ I struggle but fail to find the right word. Or one that won’t make me sound like I need to be committed. ‘It’s been a very difficult few days.’
‘I’m not surprised. If I had a baby, and someone stole him . . .’ Emily’s fists clench, perhaps unconsciously, and she stares across the square with a blank expression. ‘I’d probably want to kill them.’
The venom in her voice makes me hesitate.
‘I just want Harry back safe.’
She nods, her gaze snapping back to my face. ‘Of course you do.’ Then she asks abruptly, ‘Do you like Camilla?’
‘She’s a good neighbour.’
‘But as a person?’
I am unsure what she wants from me, and sense some underlying hostility. ‘Camilla has a tendency to say things without thinking first. Especially when she’s been drinking. But I don’t think she does it deliberately to hurt people.’ I frown, thinking back. ‘Did she upset you the other night?’
She does not answer that, but says instead, ‘It felt very deliberate to me.’
‘She was drunk.’
She stands up. Jon is coming back from the toilets. ‘Treve doesn’t like her either,’ she mutters.
‘What?’
But she never answers, because Jon is there again, smiling in a false way, helping me gently into my jacket as if I’m an invalid, then handing me my bag with a murmured, ‘There you go, darling.’
It’s as though the row in the street never happened. As though he has wiped the whole terrible incident from his mind.
My arm still aches where he gripped me though, forcing me to go with him. I didn’t imagine that, and I can’t erase it with a smile and an understanding look. Not this time. I haven’t had a chance to check, but I know there’ll be bruises there by now, soft purplish marks springing up where his fingers touched.
He holds out his hand for mine, but Emily jumps in. ‘Please, walk with me,’ she says, and he hesitates, then steps aside, still smiling.
Emily points out the carousel. ‘So pretty,’ she says into my ear. ‘But I hated them when I was a kid. It used to terrify me, all that spinning round and round. Like you’re stuck on there forever, and everything outside is a blur.’
‘Did you mean what you said about Treve and Camilla?’
She looks away, shaking her head, but I don’t believe her. ‘Pay no attention to me. I’m in a catty mood. Everyone’s relationship is different, isn’t it?’
I look at her, catching something in her voice, but she is smiling. We follow Jon, walking arm in arm through the square towards the waiting taxi. There’s a fishmonger among the few stalls set out in the square; as we pass, I smell the fresh fish on his stall, and turn my head, catching a horrific glimpse of dead eyes, long rows of scaly bodies packed on ice, as the white tarpaulin flaps to and fro.
I stumble, suddenly nauseous. But Emily squeezes my arm, and I smile at her hesitantly. Yes, I need to focus on the press conference. Get through that and then . . .
Even if Jon disapproves, I need to tell DS Dryer what happened today. Though now, thinking back, I’m finding it harder and harder to believe my own account. How could I have been so sure that it was Harry?
It had sounded like my baby. But I could have been mistaken.
Above the city centre, the ornately carved spires of the cathedral rise into the blue; beyond them clouds are starting to pucker together, a darkening mass that threatens rain later. I stare up at the three famous spires. I don’t believe in God, never really felt a need before now. But with Harry’s disappearance, perhaps it would not do any harm to go into the cathedral and light a candle for him.
Desperation, that’s what that would be. Sheer bloody desperation.
We’re not there yet, I tell myself.
We squeeze into the back of the taxi together, smiling at each other like it’s a pleasure outing, an entertainment. But my heart is thudding horribly now, and my palms are clammy, and all I can think about as the taxi pulls away from the kerb is that woman with the buggy, and Harry’s high-pitched wail cutting above the rest of the noise. Why should I allow myself to feel like a fraud? It was him, it had to be him.
So why didn’t Jon let me call the police? Why didn’t I call the police myself? What kind of mother am I?
Everyone’s relationship is different, isn’t it?
Sitting on the top table at the press conference is a hellish experience: so many camera lenses focused on my face, so many faces turned in my direction.
DS Dryer begins to speak.
The mics set up in front of us are intimidating and slightly alien, not only a reminder that what we are about to say may be broadcast to the world, but also that we are out of our depth here. No previous experience has prepared either of us for this ordeal. Is it any wonder that Jon is on the edge of his temper all the time, that we can barely say a civil word to each other in private?
DS Dryer’s voice is calm and level, though I catch a hint of fatigue in his face. He has not managed to shave today, so has a dark stubble-shadow about his chin and jaw, though clearly he has combed his hair back, probably splashed his face with water too. But before we were led into the room, he admitted that he had not been to bed last night, that he had spent the past twenty-four hours chasing various leads – with little success so far.
He’s a good man. It’s not his fault the police have so little to go on.
I listen as he explains the circumstances of the case so far, then outlines the steps they have taken during the investigation, and I think again of the dead baby they found, whose identity has not yet been confirmed by the police. I remember the muddy field and the pure white of the forensics suits, and feel my heart jolt as though crashing. It may not be Harry they found, but what if it had been? What if my baby son’s body is the next one some rambler stumbles across in a wood or finds concealed in a plastic bag in a roadside ditch? What if we are sitting here in another few days or weeks, facing these cameras again, talking about Harry in the past tense?
I am filled with a burning impulse to tell the journalists that Harry is out there right now, somewhere in Truro, and that I saw him. Or rather heard him.
But of course who would believe me?
Even Jon does not believe me.
Everyone is staring at us, like we are strange new exhibits at the zoo. I want to growl and snarl, maybe scratch under my arms like a chimpanzee, give them something really startling to stare at, not just this lost little woman and her husband.
Jon would kill me.
I begin to be glad of Emily’s reassuring presence at the back of the hall, her eyes steady on my face too, but friendly, non-judgemental. Jon is sitting close beside me, of course, his knee touching mine, our hands linked on the cloth-covered table top. My husband. The father of my child. But there’s so much tension coming off him, it’s more like sitting next to a man with a bomb than a supportive husband. So I lock my throat shut and stare past the terrifying rows of journalists and photographers and cameras, focusing on Emily instead. She is a safe place in a room of
dangerous, bristling . . .
Jon squeezes my hand, and I realise that I have been making little sobbing noises under my breath.
I swallow the sobs, tighten my lips and slip my hand out from under his. It suddenly makes me feel ill to have him touch me. That tiny shift should be barely noticeable to the watching journalists, I hope, but will be enough to make my feelings plain.
Rebellion. Of a kind.
Emily does not smile, but seems to nod slightly, both hands clasped about the strap of her shoulder bag, her flowery blouse rucked up, light-brown hair a bit windswept.
My friend.
People can surprise you at times of crisis, I find myself thinking, having previously dismissed Emily as a bit of a flake, frankly.
I feel my breathing start to calm down. My mind settles on the comforting knowledge that, if I did hear Harry today, and didn’t imagine the whole thing, then he is alive. That whoever that grey-haired woman is, and for whatever reason she has taken my son away, she must at least be looking after him, perhaps even making sure he is getting his medication.
Suddenly, I hear my name, and glance at DS Dryer to see him looking back at me expectantly. The room is silent.
He has just introduced us.
‘Good afternoon,’ Jon says, leaning forward to the microphone. ‘Thank you all for coming. My wife and I are very grateful. And we hope that, as DS Dryer outlined, by making ourselves available to questions at the end of this session, we will be allowed some privacy at our home during this very difficult time.’
He sounds surprisingly cool and detached, I realise, more like another policeman than the father of one of the missing babies. His training as a lawyer, I suppose.
I ought to be grateful that one of us at least is not falling apart.
But for some reason his ability to stay calm is having the opposite effect on me. I look at my husband’s face and resent him. Resent his cool demeanour and high-handed assurances that Harry will be found, and particularly his arrogant belief that I must be going out of my mind for having claimed I could pick Harry out of a crowd just by his cry.
But you are going out of your mind, an inner voice tells me. And everyone here knows it.
I keep my eyes on Jon’s face, listening to the blood beating in my veins. I feel faint and have to cling on to the table top to stay upright. He is begging whoever has the stolen babies to return them, and if they have Harry, to return him to us, explaining that our son has a serious condition, that he needs constant medication. Hands go up in the audience at once, and voices call out for more information, but he ignores them.
He turns to me, his face very serious. ‘Anything you want to add to that, Meghan?’
To my own amazement, I nod.
‘Yes, yes, I do,’ I reply in a voice that does not tremble as badly as I had feared.
Several journalists at the back shout that they can’t hear me, and I stop, momentarily thrown, not sure what to do.
‘Speak into the mic,’ DS Dryer tells me.
‘Right, thanks.’ I lean towards the microphone, and look deliberately at Emily. Focus on her so I can’t get distracted by everything else that’s happening. She pushes her glasses back along her nose, then gives me a quick thumbs-up gesture, which is somehow more reassuring than anything Jon could have said to me.
What do I want to say to the press?
That’s easy.
Jon discussed the plan with me before we sat down. Show emotion but keep calm, talk about Harry and how much he means to us, use his name as often as possible, let the kidnapper know they have the power – and hope they will use it for good by releasing him.
‘I love my darling little boy very much,’ I begin, slowly and clearly. ‘And I want to say to . . . to whoever has taken Harry that . . . that . . .’
As I hesitate, a few cameras start going off, flashes blinding me; the heat from the arc lights they’ve set up feels suddenly overwhelming. There’s sweat on my forehead, trickling into my eyes. I stare blindly through the journalists, some of them standing now, and realise I can’t see Emily anymore.
Has she gone?
She seems such a shy little creature at times, and a bit kooky, not quite with it. But then I remember her unexpected response outside the pub, saying what she would do if she had a baby and someone stole him. Emily was transformed for that instant from a kitten to a lioness. A lioness who would rip out the throat of anyone threatening her child, and think nothing of it.
I lick my lips, my throat dry, then continue, ‘That if you don’t give me back my son safe and well, I’m going to hunt you down and kill you.’
Chapter Twenty
Outside the room where the press conference is being held, in a narrow corridor that smells vaguely of drains, we find a handful of people waiting for us. A man in a flat tweed cap and a woman, who both look to be in their early forties, and two other women, one clearly younger than me, the other older and dressed very differently, though they share the same square jaw and slightly bulging blue eyes. Sisters, perhaps?
DS Dryer murmurs in my ear, ‘Some of the other parents.’
I throw a questioning look at him.
‘Of missing babies,’ he elaborates.
I examine their faces more carefully. Perhaps I’m expecting them to be waving pitchforks. I’m guiltily aware that I did our cause little good back there, and no doubt they know it too. Someone may have told them what I said, the stupid threat I made. Perhaps they were even watching on a monitor, or standing at the back of the room, behind that intimidating forest of cameras and mics.
‘Jon,’ I say urgently, plucking at his sleeve. ‘I’m feeling tired. Especially after what happened at lunch. Perhaps we should go straight home.’
DS Dryer frowns. ‘Something happened at lunch?’
Jon puts his arm around my shoulder, smiling at the policeman. ‘Nothing. It was nothing,’ he says. His lawyer voice. ‘We were at Lemon Quay. You know how busy it gets there. Babies in buggies, the noise of the carousel. Meghan thought she heard Harry crying, that’s all.’
‘I didn’t think anything. I definitely heard him.’
‘Now, darling, you know it’s impossible for anyone to pick out one baby’s cry above all the others in such a large public place. Do be sensible.’ He looks down at me searchingly. ‘Perhaps you aren’t up to meeting anyone right now. I could do it alone.’
‘No,’ I say quickly.
‘Then maybe Dr Shiva should see you again. You had a good day yesterday.’
Yes, I think grimly. When I was drugged up to the eyeballs.
DS Dryer meets my gaze. ‘Can you tell me about it, Meghan? Where exactly were you when you had this sighting? Perhaps we could find some CCTV footage.’
‘I never actually . . . That is, I didn’t see him for sure.’ I look at both men, and my voice falters. ‘There was a middle-aged woman with a red buggy. She walked through the covered market off Lemon Quay. Grey hair, blue jacket. I didn’t see her face. Or the baby’s. But I heard his cry.’ Since he appears to be taking me seriously, I add more firmly, ‘It was Harry. I swear it.’
‘I’ll get DC Gerent to sit down with you later and take those details,’ he says, nodding. ‘Then we’ll see what we can find out. And do please call me Paul.’
‘Thanks, Paul.’
Jon glances at the people waiting to talk to us. The other parents. He makes a face, and mutters in my ear, ‘God, do we really have to do this right now? I need a drink.’
But it’s too late to retreat. DS Dryer is already shaking their hands and muttering words of comfort before turning expectantly back to us.
‘This is Jack and Serena Penrose,’ the detective sergeant tells us, his air suitably sombre as he introduces the other parents.
Only four others though.
I think of the body in the field, and can’t imagine how that baby’s parents must be feeling. The pain and loss must be indescribable.
‘Their son, Tom, was taken a few weeks ago,’ he continu
es. ‘Jack, Serena, can I introduce Jon and Meghan Smith to you? Baby Harry only went missing on Friday. I expect you heard the press conference just now.’
He waits while the four of us shake hands, then smiles at the two other women, who have been waiting patiently to one side. ‘And this is Heather Mackie, Poppy’s mum. And Heather’s aunt, Kate. Poppy was taken shortly before Tom.’
All four of them look slumped and exhausted, their faces drawn in pain, like life has taken a stick to their backs. Fleetingly, I wonder if that’s what we look like too. And we have only suffered a few days of this torment. What will it be like if this ordeal is dragged out for weeks or even months, as it has been for the Penrose and Mackie families?
‘Hello,’ I say with a weak attempt at a smile, shaking Heather’s hand, then Kate’s.
Heather is wearing a loose orange T-shirt and a hippyish pair of red tartan trousers that sit low on her slim hips. She looks about twenty, maybe. Kate is older, her dark skirt and white blouse more sober and conventional. She is supporting her niece, a protective arm about her shoulders.
‘Excuse me, I have to speak to a colleague,’ DS Dryer says, and hurries away down the corridor, leaving us alone with the other parents.
Jack Penrose is frowning heavily when I turn back. ‘I’m sorry to be rude,’ he begins, looking directly at me, not Jon, ‘but why did you have to say that? That you’ll kill whoever’s taken your baby?’
His wife bobs her head in agreement. ‘Yes, you shouldn’t have said that about hunting them down. That was crazy talk. What if it makes her angry?’
‘Her?’ Jon repeats.
‘Or him, then.’ Serena Penrose shrugs. She and her husband both have strong Cornish accents, and I guess by his tweed jacket and her dark-green overjacket, marked with dried splashes of mud, that they are farmers of some kind. ‘It’s usually a woman though, isn’t it? When it’s babies. That’s what I’ve been told.’
‘I’ve heard that too.’ Poppy’s mother, Heather, is nodding. She has a round, slightly flushed face, and jagged-edged hair. Did she cut it herself? I can tell that she is as annoyed with me as the others are. But her voice is softer, less emphatic. ‘I was speaking to a psychologist at Truro College last week. She thinks it’s probably a woman who’s taken them. Unless it’s a couple, with one egging the other on. That’s how these things work.’
