by Jane Holland
In the rain and the chaos, nobody seems to notice me.
Five or six men, including DS Dryer, are bending over a trapdoor in the floor, staring down into some kind of pit below. Like an inspection pit for a car, I think at first. Then I realise from the resonance of the men’s voices, standing above it, that the hole must be much larger than that. An underground space, possibly running the whole length of the barn. The ancient carpet that must have been concealing the trapdoor has been rolled back unevenly, sitting humped beyond the edge of the hole like a dusty pink tongue furred with dirt. And there’s a German Shepherd beside it, right at the end of its leash, dragging on its handler and barking hysterically, desperate to get inside.
There’s a horrible smell coming up out of the pit. A smell like rotting meat. A smell that leaves me stunned.
‘Oh God,’ I whisper, staring.
Harry could never survive in a place like this. Since he came home from the hospital, I’ve scrubbed and disinfected everything he touches. His immune system could not possibly cope with such a filthy, unkempt environment.
One of the policemen runs to the police van, and comes back a moment later with a large, heavy-duty torch. He glances at me in passing, recognition in his face.
‘You can’t be here, sorry.’ I’ve seen him before, possibly on the night of Harry’s disappearance, one of the officers who searched our house and gardens from top to bottom. He calls over his shoulder to the other police waiting in the yard. ‘Could someone escort Mrs Smith out, please?’
He passes the torch to DS Dryer, who has not taken his eyes off the pit below. ‘Here you go, sarge.’
‘Thanks.’ Dryer has his foot on what looks like the top rung of a ladder. There’s a brief discussion – I guess it’s about forensics, and whether they should wait for gloves and plastic shoe covers – then he seems to come to a decision, and begins to descend the ladder, his feet clanging with every step.
A hand descends on my shoulder. ‘Mrs Smith? This way, please,’ a young police officer says, his expression sympathetic, and tries to lead me away from the pit.
‘No,’ I say, pulling away from him. ‘Not yet. Wait.’
I do not notice myself moving forward. Yet somehow I am suddenly there, standing alongside the hole with the others, looking down and hoping, hoping to God, just like them, for good news.
‘I’m sorry, you need to leave.’
‘One minute, for God’s sake. My baby could be in there.’
It’s black and formless down there, just as I imagine death must be, and the bouncing torch beam as Dryer descends picks out dust in the air, then support beams, metalwork, what looks like concrete. The pit has been specially built, then hidden with the carpet, kept concealed and probably soundproof.
The smell is unbearable. I remember Charlie Pole, whose pathetic remains they found in the field, and I cover my mouth with a hand that will not stop shaking.
‘Down here,’ comes the shout, and my heart seems to fly down into the black hole with its echoes, desperately seeking out whatever he has found, so I can know the worst, and know it as swiftly as possible. ‘Down here, quick,’ Dryer repeats, and then his voice seems to alter. ‘Bring more light.’
Then, just as my horrified brain is trying to dissect his tone for intricate layers of meaning, peeling back words to expose the nuances beneath, picking over what sounded like fear in his voice but could as easily have been excitement, a wholly unhoped-for sound splits the air in the barn and renders us all suddenly, wildly, ecstatic.
A baby’s cry.
Chapter Twenty-Five
It’s not Harry.
I know that even before the echoes have died away from that first wonderful cry, and the baby has drawn an angry breath, ready for its next demanding wail.
But it is a live baby. A live baby in a dusty hellhole.
A miracle, in other words.
Dryer shouts out of the darkness, ‘Paramedic!’
‘Shit,’ one of the men mutters.
‘And fucking hurry with it, would you?’ Dryer adds savagely.
‘You got it, sarge.’
‘I need one helper,’ he adds. ‘George, you up there?’
The young officer next to me says, ‘Sarge.’
‘Get down here, would you? Everyone else stay put for now. We’ll need forensics down here too.’ He pauses. ‘After the paramedics.’
George glances at me, unsure. Then shrugs and starts climbing down into the pit too.
Everyone else round the edge of the pit seems to move at once. The next few minutes are chaotic, not helped by the thin cries from below that torment my ears, demanding our help, urging our love. Two of Dryer’s plain-clothes team scramble back to their cars for more torches. One of the uniforms, a young man who only looks about twenty, runs in search of the paramedics. The police around me become suddenly busy, talking on the radio, making phone calls, putting their heads together in discussions over what happens next.
We wait in silence, then I hear someone ascending the ladder.
A head emerges. It’s Paul Dryer.
He’s holding a baby in his arms. A baby in a dirty blue sleepsuit.
It’s not Harry, of course.
I already knew that, from the cry alone. But I had still hoped . . .
My heart contracts in pain, yet I allow myself a smile for the survivor. One mother at least will not be hurting tonight. One mother will hold her baby tonight. One mother will not cry herself to sleep.
Is that Tom?
He is a very young, chubby-faced baby, though balding on the back of his head like an old man. His hair is wispy and gingerish. His eyes are wide and dark blue and utterly gorgeous. I can’t imagine what the poor little darling has been through. Or rather, I refuse to allow myself to imagine it, or the imagining alone would break me. And I need to stay sane and whole.
‘Paramedics are here,’ someone shouts.
A man and woman in green jackets come running into the barn. They are carrying rolled-up silver hypothermia blankets and a hefty bag of equipment between them.
Paul looks relieved to see them. ‘Here,’ he says, still cradling the baby boy close to his chest.
The paramedics both stop to examine the baby, blocking my view for a moment, then the woman bears him swiftly away to the waiting ambulance.
Paul Dryer talks to the male paramedic for a moment. Their voices are quiet, the conversation too low to be overheard. Then they start to climb down into the pit, the paramedic first, Paul watching him descend before putting his foot on the top rung too.
I watch them, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling in horror.
No urgency, no haste.
‘No,’ I say thickly, and call Dryer’s name. When he turns back, staring at me, I say, ‘He’s my baby. Please, I have to be the one to pick him up. Not someone else, not a stranger. I can’t let someone else . . .’
‘Meghan, no,’ he says, shaking his head with sympathy.
‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’
I am sobbing.
DS Dryer looks at me but says nothing.
This time I allow one of the officers to lead me out of the barn, all my sense of purpose gone. I wander outside into the rain, but there is no sign either of Jon or DC Gerent. I explain how we arrived.
‘Wait here with PC Hannah. I’ll find your husband,’ the woman officer who escorted me out of the barn says, and leaves me with another policewoman while she traipses away across the mud.
PC Hannah smiles at me tentatively. ‘Coffee?’
I shake my head.
Police are going about their business all around us in the farmyard. This is how a ghost must feel, I think, gazing back at them without much interest. Trapped on earth, unable to be seen or to communicate with the living. I am aware of the rain falling steadily now, soaking my hair and face, but am too stunned and exhausted to seek shelter.
I am not there long before DS Dryer emerges from the barn again, looking fairly exhausted himself. He r
uns a hand across his forehead, then spots that I’m still there, and comes straight across to me.
‘I thought I’d sent you home. Where’s Jon?’
PC Hannah says helpfully, ‘Someone’s gone to find him, sir.’
‘I see.’ He studies me, frowning. ‘You’re soaked.’
I laugh, then cry.
‘Who cares?’
‘Meghan,’ he says, then puts a hand on my arm. ‘I wanted to wait to speak to you both together. You and Jon. But since he’s not here . . . It’s not your boy down there. It’s not Harry.’
I stare at him.
He hesitates. ‘Turns out the baby who survived is actually Poppy. And the other baby down there is much younger than Harry.’ He closes his eyes briefly. ‘Poor little sod.’
I gasp, and clap a hand to my mouth. ‘Oh my God. You mean, the baby that died was . . . Tom?’
He nods grimly. ‘I have to speak to Jack and Serena Penrose straightaway. That’s why I’ve come out. Look, please don’t say a word to anyone. I shouldn’t have told you, by rights. Not before them.’ His mouth twists. ‘But I could see the state you were in.’
My heart is galloping. ‘I need to tell Jon.’
‘Of course,’ he agrees. ‘I’m sorry, I’d take you home myself if it was up to me. But DI Pascoe has gone back to the station to oversee the interview process, and I’m needed here. Someone has to run this awful bloody circus.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘We’ll go over the details of Harry’s disappearance again tomorrow, if you can bear it.’ He looks beaten. ‘I’m beginning to think we’ve missed something really important. I thought Harry would be here with the others. I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault.’ At least he’s not here and dead, like poor Tom. I remember Jack and Serena after the press conference, their scared faces, the hope still in their eyes. ‘His parents, oh God. I can’t bear to think of it, it’s too horrible.’
The detective trudges away, and I get out my phone. I have to get hold of Jon. But his mobile rings out, then goes to voicemail.
‘Jon? I don’t know where you are, but please come and find me. I’m near the barn.’ I pause, a sudden rush of emotion clogging my throat. ‘He’s not here. Harry’s . . . not here.’ I take a breath, try to sound more in control. ‘So we’re back to square one. Please come quickly, I need you.’
I hug the phone against me, staring back into the sinister, dark hole of the barn.
If Harry’s not here, then where the hell is he?
Everything inside me had been screwed up tight to confront his dead body, and now I feel like a broken spring, all my nerves jangling and uncoiled.
Harry was here in this vile place. He must have been here. She spotted him first in the supermarket, maybe followed us home that day, bided her time, then took the opportunity when it arose. The dinner party in the garden. The empty house. The front door that I must have left unlocked. She would have brought him here to join the other babies, her illicit treasure trove of innocence. So where is he now?
What did that insane bitch do to my son? It’s hard not to think of the baby in the field. But I try all the same.
There’s still hope.
I think of Jack and Serena again.
There’s always hope, until the very last possible second.
Long minutes pass, and still no sign of my husband. Finally, PC Hannah gets on the radio, then comes back and tells me haltingly that Jon appears to have driven home without me.
‘What?’
‘Your car’s no longer on site. I checked its description with the officer at the end of the farm track, and he says he saw that car head back towards Truro about twenty minutes ago.’ She looks at me sympathetically. ‘I’m sorry.’
I stand there, aghast, and can’t meet her eyes. Why on earth would Jon have left without me? We’re miles out of town here, in the depths of the Cornish countryside. How on earth am I supposed to get home?
I feel so alone and humiliated, I don’t know what to say. But the big question running through my head is, what have I done to make him treat me like this?
‘If you like,’ PC Hannah says, ‘I can organise a lift home for you.’
‘No, please don’t bother. I’m going to call someone to pick me up. A friend.’
At least I hope she’s a friend.
‘Okay,’ she says, then adds, frowning, ‘Don’t forget this is a crime scene. If you could keep what you’ve seen here to yourself—’
‘Of course.’
I take out my phone. For a moment it seems the call will go unanswered. Then I hear a tentative, ‘Hello?’ at the other end.
‘Emily? Thank God.’ I swap the phone to my other ear and turn my back on PC Hannah, aware that she is listening intently. ‘I was wondering, are you free to come out and pick me up?’ I explain the situation as discreetly as I can, and give her the directions. ‘I’m sorry, it’s quite a long drive from town. I’ll give you the petrol money.’
‘It’s fine. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
‘Thanks, Em,’ I say huskily.
PC Hannah looks at me expectantly after the call.
‘Half an hour,’ I tell her.
She waits with me at the end of the track until Emily turns up, both of us sheltering under a large police umbrella. I suspect she doesn’t quite trust me not to try to sneak back to the barn, where dozens of police and white-coated forensic officers were milling about as we left the site. While we wait, I make a series of increasingly frantic calls to Jon on my mobile, including several to our landline at home, which rings out each time until finally going to answerphone.
I hesitate, decide not to leave a message, and then call his mobile again. This time it does not ring at all but goes straight to voicemail, the automated message telling me that the mobile I am trying to reach is turned off.
I leave a breathless message, telling him I’m on my way home and asking him to call me. ‘Jon, I need to know where you are,’ I say at the end, then add, ‘urgently.’
Which really means, why did you leave without me, you sod?
Finally, Emily pulls down the track, waving at me through the half-open window. ‘Sorry it took so long. The traffic is crazy.’
I lean down and smile at her with relief. She looks even more like a hippy than usual, in a patchwork-style dress with trainers and no socks, and a navy-blue waterproof coat over the top. No make-up, no jewellery. Like she dressed in a hurry to come out to me.
‘Thank you so much for doing this,’ I tell her.
‘No problem.’
I climb in and Emily drives straight off again, barely glancing at PC Hannah or down the track to the farm, even though yet more police vehicles are now parked up on the verge. But her hands are clenched on the steering wheel, and I can see she is looking pale again. It may be my imagination, but she seems to be holding herself stiffly, as though her stomach hurts.
‘Still feeling unwell?’ I ask, concerned.
‘It comes and goes.’
‘Nothing serious, I hope?’
‘Women’s problems,’ she says enigmatically, ‘as Simon likes to call them. He can be a bit squeamish about . . . physical stuff. Bodies, you know.’
Bodies.
I swallow, and look away. ‘Jon’s not much different.’
‘So old-fashioned though, don’t you think? Honestly, I thought we’d got past all that crap.’ She runs a hand through her hair, which is looking messier than usual. ‘Where is Jon, by the way?’
I tell her what happened at the farm. The basics. I leave out the part about the babies they found. I don’t have permission to share that kind of sensitive information, and besides, Jack and Serena ought to be first to know about their son’s death.
‘He just drove off and left you there? That’s appalling.’
‘I’m not sure what happened. One minute he was there, the next . . .’ I frown, thinking. ‘Perhaps he got an urgent call.’
‘From work,
you mean? But why not tell you he had to leave? And why not take you back into town with him?’
I shrug, helpless and still too hurt to trust myself to discuss it.
She glances at my face, then brakes suddenly. Pulling into the side of the road, she parks the car precariously on the grass bank. ‘You look bloody awful.’ She lurches sideways, grabbing her phone from the handbag at my feet. ‘I’m going to call Jon myself. Find out exactly what he thinks he’s playing at.’
‘I’ve tried. No answer.’
I wait though, watching as she dials. Then she shakes her head and ends the call.
‘No answer,’ she agrees.
I bury my face in my hands. ‘Christ.’
‘You want me to drive you to the office? See if he’s there?’
It’s tempting.
But I sit up and shake my head. ‘No, I need to go home. Clear my head.’
‘Of course.’
She pulls straight back on to the road. Then glances at the dashboard. ‘Damn, I need to stop for petrol.’
Guiltily, I rummage in my handbag for a twenty-pound note. ‘This is so good of you, Emily. Especially given you’re not feeling one hundred per cent. Please, let me pay.’ I point ahead as we join the main road back into Truro. ‘Look, a filling station.’
There’s a queue at the fuel pumps, so we have to wait. It’s still raining, but I wind the window down once we’re under the canopy. My chest feels tight and I need the fresh air. All the stress, I expect.
‘Stay here, I’ll do it,’ she insists when I try to get out.
Watching in the mirror as she pumps fuel into the tank, I see how bloodless Emily looks. There are signs of strain about her eyes and mouth, like she too is labouring under some enormous stress. It makes me feel doubly awful for having dragged her all the way out to pick me up.
‘Thanks,’ I say again, and hand her the money through the window.
Emily disappears into the filling station to pay.
Almost as soon as the sliding doors have closed behind her, her phone begins to ring. Down in her handbag. At my feet.
I look through the rain. Emily is at the back of the queue. I can’t answer someone else’s phone. Whoever it is can call her back later, that’s all.
