by Jane Holland
‘Yes,’ she agrees, her voice like a hiss in the dark. ‘I understand. You missed him.’
I swallow past the lump in my throat, nodding my agreement.
‘Tell me about that,’ she urges me, and leans forward, her eyes on my face, her voice dropping low, as though we are confidants, alone together, and no one else can hear us. Her request feels acceptable, though inside I’m screaming at her to shut up, to leave me alone. ‘How has it made you feel, being without your little baby?’
‘It’s been the most awful time of my life,’ I whisper, holding her gaze. I feel tears roll down my cheeks, but do not raise a hand to wipe them away. I want her to see my pain. To witness it. ‘Every day, I wake up and remember that Harry’s gone, and it’s like part of my heart has been torn out.’
‘And your husband?’
‘He’s been out of his mind with worry too.’
‘So where is he?’ She looks about the interview room, then glances briefly under the table, as though she expects him to be hiding down there. ‘If your husband cares so much what happens to his son, why isn’t he here?’
My palms are damp with sweat. I clasp them together out of sight, staring at her. It’s almost as though this bitch is psychic, like she can read my deepest thoughts. Or a witch, someone with powers none of us can understand or control. The idea terrifies me, and I have to tell myself firmly not to be so superstitious, that she is just a woman, and an evil one at that.
Witch or not though, she understands my pressure points, knows how to needle me with just the right question.
If he cares so much what happens to his son, why isn’t he here?
‘I . . . He . . .’ My heart thumps violently as I lie to her, trying to look and sound casual. ‘The thing is, the police told me you only wanted to speak to me. So Jon stayed at home tonight. In case . . .’
‘In case?’
‘In case there was any news.’ I unclasp my sticky hands and rub them on my jeans. ‘One of us had to stay at home. In case Harry was found.’
‘So your husband doesn’t hope he’s already dead?’
‘What?’
‘Oh, I’m not judging him. A sick child. Who wants that in the family? Better to put the little runt out of his misery.’
The woman places her hands flat on the table in front of her. She takes a long, deep, contented breath, her broad chest rising with it. Her smile is so sweetly cloying, I feel physically sick and lift a hand to my face, almost retching behind it.
Is this creature even human?
She leans closer and her voice drops, conspiratorial now. ‘I expect that’s the real reason your husband didn’t turn up tonight,’ she adds. ‘Because he secretly thinks it would be rather useful if his firstborn never came home again.’
‘No.’
‘And that’s what you secretly think too, isn’t it?’
‘God, no,’ I gasp.
The woman looks across at me and smiles. With untarnished happiness. As though I have made her life a little brighter just by agreeing to let her torture me.
‘You devil,’ I say, choking on the words.
DI Pascoe stands up. ‘That’s enough. I’m terminating this interview.’
DC Gerent puts a hand under the woman’s arm, as though about to drag her away. Back to the cells for the night, I presume. Back to her deliberate silence. I can’t allow that to happen.
‘No!’ I exclaim. ‘Wait. I have one more question to ask. Please.’
‘What is it?’ The woman looks across at me with pleased expectation, her head tilted to one side, like a dog hoping for a treat. She’s enjoying my desperation. ‘I want to hear Meghan’s question.’
I hate her using my name.
DC Gerent glances at DI Pascoe for permission, then releases the woman’s arm. The policewoman stays beside her though, waiting impatiently for the interview to finish, her lips pursed with disapproval.
‘Who is your accomplice?’ I demand, staring at her, my whole body trembling with the effort not to leap across the table and beat the truth out of her. ‘Who’s been helping you?’
‘I don’t have an accomplice.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘No, I’m not. I don’t need no fucking accomplice. I’ve never needed no one.’ Her voice sharpens, turns cruel. ‘Do I look helpless? Don’t tar me with your own brush.’
‘But there was someone in my house tonight. Somebody came back for more of Harry’s medication. I heard them.’
‘Nothing to do with me.’
‘And I saw her. At Lemon Quay.’ When she does not react, I add, ‘The middle-aged woman. Grey hair. Blue jacket. She was pushing Harry in a red buggy.’
She shrugs, looking blank.
‘Look, you must have run out by now,’ I say desperately.
‘Run out of what?’
‘The medication you took from his room.’ I swallow. ‘Please, Harry needs those injections every day. Or he could get sick and die.’
‘I didn’t take nothing.’
Rage flares inside me. ‘You took Harry,’ I almost shout at her.
‘No, I didn’t.’
There’s an abrupt silence in the interview room. I hear someone breathing heavily, almost panting, and realise with a shock that it is me.
She is shaking her head at me. ‘It was fucking hilarious,’ she says into the silence, ‘that interview they showed on the news. The way you threatened to hunt down and kill whoever took your baby. Like you’re the one in control. After I saw that, I had to meet you close up, listen to you beg me for your baby. Please, please, I just want my Harry back. You sad, sorry bitch.’
‘Don’t say another word,’ her lawyer tells her sharply.
‘I was tempted when I saw him in the supermarket, yes. Just for a minute. But then you said he was sick.’ She grimaces. ‘Hate sick babies, can’t stand to be around them. All they do is bloody scream the place down.’
‘But you told the police—’
‘One more name on a list of missing babies. What difference does it make to say, yes, all right, I took that one too, when I didn’t?’ She takes off her glasses and cleans them on her white sleeve. Then puts them back on and smiles her horrible, cruel smile at me again. ‘And saying yes meant I could meet you like this, face to face. It’s been a real treat, thanks for that.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ Paul Dryer says hoarsely.
I feel the blood draining from my face, my body turning to ice. I stare at her, trying to make sense of what she’s saying.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I never took your baby, you stupid bitch.’ She leans across the table, her gaze locked on mine, speaking slowly and clearly. ‘Never went to your house, never took him away with me, never laid a finger on the little bastard. That clear enough for you?’
My chest is tight again. I’m breathing fast and shallow, like I’m about to have another panic attack. Even this place feels claustrophobic, the walls of the interview room closing in on me. And her words are going round and round in my head, alien, utterly incomprehensible.
‘But if you didn’t take Harry,’ I whisper, ‘then who did?’
Chapter Thirty-Three
I wake next morning with Emily’s image in my head.
Emily, turning up late for our dinner party, looking pale and unsettled throughout the meal.
Emily, staring after Harry as Jon carried him back into the house. That look of longing on her face, as though forced to give up something precious.
Emily, putting dangerous words in my mouth at the press conference. Then mysteriously disappearing.
Emily, hiding a baby’s dummy in her handbag.
Emily, forever texting and calling to ask how the investigation is going.
Emily, who has been trying unsuccessfully for a baby for – I don’t know how long. Months? Years?
With these thoughts confusing my head, I wander down to the kitchen in my pyjamas, and am just filling the kettle when my phone buzzes with a notific
ation.
It’s Emily again.
You free for lunch?
I hesitate.
The Cornish Snatcher has categorically denied taking Harry, and the investigating team seemed tired and uncertain when I left the police station last night.
Maybe it’s up to me now.
I meet Emily for lunch at a pub a few miles outside Truro, along the road to Falmouth. It’s an old country inn, set back from the main road beside the meandering River Kennal. We order our meals at the bar inside, then carry our drinks out into the sunshine. We’re both driving, so we’ve ordered non-alcoholic drinks: a pineapple juice for Emily, an iced coffee for me. The pub gardens slope gently down to the waterfront, and we choose a picnic bench-style table right beside the river itself.
Emily is wearing a trouser suit that looks like it’s come straight out of the Seventies: dark-brown check, with a bright-orange blouse. Another of her eye-catching outfits.
I’m in jeans again with a loose gypsy-style top. I didn’t put much thought into my outfit this morning, just threw on what I could find in my wardrobe. I did spend some time on my make-up though, trying to hide the bruise from last night’s argument. And I’m wearing heels. A concession to my femininity that makes me feel a bit better about myself.
She brushes away a few gnats from around her head. ‘So hot today.’
‘I love this place.’
‘But the river attracts the flies.’ She turns in her seat to look across the river. The sun reflects off her glasses as she tilts her head back, an almost blinding flash of light. ‘It is beautiful though.’
‘Thanks for asking me to lunch,’ I say, watching her closely. ‘I’ve not been very good at replying to your messages, I’m afraid.’
‘You’re upset and probably run off your feet too. Which is hardly surprising. And for what it’s worth, I don’t believe a word Jon says about you.’
‘What’s he been saying?’
‘You know.’ She shrugs. ‘That you’re not yourself at the moment. That you imagined seeing Harry that day at Lemon Quay.’
‘I didn’t imagine anything. I’m sure it was Harry. I was sure then, and I’m still sure now.’
Emily is smiling, perhaps because of my vehemence. ‘It’s okay, Meghan. I’ve never known you to be fanciful.’
‘Thank you.’ I pause, thinking it over. ‘Did you tell the police that?’
‘Nobody asked me.’
‘Well, thanks for being so supportive anyway.’ I hesitate, unsure how to go about questioning her without letting on that I’m suspicious. ‘I don’t want to get you into trouble though. Are you missing work for this lunch?’
‘Day off. I’m on part-time at the moment anyway.’
‘And how are you? You’ve seemed unwell lately.’
She grimaces. ‘Endometriosis. You know, where womb tissue grows outside the uterus. Causes cramps and abnormal bleeding . . . Well, it’s been quite bad this past year, though they say it sometimes gets better on its own. I take anti-inflammatories for the pain during a flare-up.’ She pauses. ‘That’s what’s stopping me from falling pregnant.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
I believe her. But is it possible her condition has made her desperate for a child? So desperate that she could countenance stealing my baby?
‘Did the police ever find that woman?’ she asks, adroitly changing the subject. She takes a sip of juice, watching me over her glass. ‘The one you saw with Harry that day.’
‘No, though I got the impression they didn’t look very hard. Frankly, the police think I’m a flake. Seeing Harry in every baby’s face.’
‘Idiots.’
‘Well, it probably didn’t help having Jon undermining my story the whole time. You probably saw the way he was with me before the press conference. He thinks I’ve lost it. That I need psychiatric treatment.’
‘Have you heard from him yet? I was so shocked when he rang.’
I pause. ‘He rang you?’
‘Last night,’ she admits, and glances away again, her expression distracted. ‘He spoke to Simon, of course, not me.’
‘And what did he tell Simon?’
‘No details, only that you and he had argued. Are you sure splitting up over a row is the right move? Especially now, when you need each other more than ever. I’m sure it must be all this stress over Harry’s disappearance that’s causing any arguments.’ Emily turns her head, looking at me sharply. ‘Please don’t think I’m interfering, but the two of you always seemed so close, so deeply in love. I thought you had the perfect marriage.’
I feel uncomfortable under her sudden close scrutiny. I was supposed to be the one grilling her at this lunch. Instead, she’s making me question myself. I look away, and take a long swallow of my iced coffee. It tastes great, cold and pungent, just right for this hot weather.
‘Appearances can be deceptive.’
‘Not always.’ She pauses, and I take another drink of iced coffee, wondering exactly what she means by that. Has her appearance – as a friend – deceived me? ‘Did Jon do that?’
I look up, taken aback. I’d hoped my concealer had reduced last night’s bruise to a dark smudge, barely visible in the dim light of the bathroom mirror this morning. But we’re sitting in full sunlight, right opposite each other, and it’s obvious Emily can see the discolouration for what it is. The after-effects of a marital dispute that got physical.
‘Things became a bit . . . heated,’ I mutter, touching my cheek.
‘God, that’s appalling.’ Her voice hardens. ‘If Simon ever hit me, I wouldn’t hesitate. I’d call the police. Even if we had a child together.’
I try to steer her back to the topic of Harry’s disappearance. But subtly. So she does not see where I’m heading.
‘So Jon called. Did he stay with you last night?’
‘No, though he asked if he could. I got the spare room ready for him, but he never showed up. And Simon says he’s not at work today either.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Simon’s been calling his mobile on and off all morning. He says the call goes straight to voicemail, that Jon must have turned his phone off.’
I stare at her blankly, thrown by this information.
Paul Dryer said he tried Jon’s mobile last night too, and couldn’t get hold of him. It did not seem strange at the time. But during the daytime?
‘Meghan,’ she murmurs, ‘do you think Jon would ever . . .’
‘Ever what?’
She shrugs, looking awkward. ‘Just something Simon said. That Jon is a little neurotic. Takes it very personally when the firm loses a case.’
‘So?’
‘Simon wasn’t sure if Jon might perhaps be the kind to overreact in a situation like this. You know, with Harry missing, and then the two of you arguing.’ She bites her lip. ‘Simon wondered whether Jon might hurt himself.’
Taken aback, I say, ‘Jon? Are you kidding?’
I think of my husband’s carefully concealed temper, the way he has raised both his voice and his hand to me, always behind closed doors where I am the only witness, and have to bite back a laugh. I should tell her, really. Explain how bad things have become between me and Jon, particularly since Harry was taken. But I’m not ready yet to admit the truth about my marriage.
Besides, I didn’t come here today to talk about me and Jon.
‘No,’ I say firmly.
‘That’s good to know.’ She knocks back some fruit juice, then puts the glass down with a snap. ‘But look, what about you? And the investigation? How’s it going?’
I study her face. She seems so genuine, but I can’t shake my suspicions. I’m still unsure that Emily is innocent, that she didn’t take my child. But innocent or guilty, she’s right about one thing. I have to focus on Harry now, and push Jon to the back of my mind.
Briefly, I explain about my interview with the Cornish Snatcher, avoiding the worst details and trying not to dwell on my emotional response to the woman, though I i
magine my expression of disgust must give it away.
‘Anyway, I thought it was all over,’ I finish, ‘that we were going to find Harry at last. Only now she claims she didn’t take him.’
Emily stares, clearly shocked. ‘But she must be lying.’
‘Maybe.’ I shrug. ‘Maybe not.’
‘She admits to having taken the other babies though?’
I nod. ‘But not Harry.’
‘God, how awful. I’m so sorry, Meghan. You must be going crazy.’
That’s one way to describe it.
The meals arrive, and for the next few minutes we eat without talking. But I am going through her words in my head.
Even if we had a child together.
‘Emily?’
She looks up from her meal, smiling. ‘Yes?’
‘I’ve got a confession to make.’ I put down my knife and fork, and look at her directly. ‘When you gave me that lift home, and you went into the garage to pay for fuel, your phone started ringing. It was in your bag.’
I see a change come over her face. Her lips part, her eyes fix on mine, but I continue regardless. ‘It was Jon. He wouldn’t speak to me, just hung up. But when I was putting the phone back in your bag, I saw . . .’
She is staring. ‘What?’
‘The baby’s dummy.’ My heart is beating furiously, a deep, erratic thud. ‘The blue dummy in your bag. In a plastic box. And I wondered if . . . That is, I thought it might be you who did it.’
‘Me who did what?’
‘Who took Harry.’
Her eyes widen with incredulity. Then she laughs. ‘Is this a joke?’
I shake my head.
‘Okay,’ she says, and her smile fades. ‘Look, I had that dummy in my bag because . . . To be honest, I meant to give it to you as a little gift. That night at dinner. Only I got sick and couldn’t stay. Then afterwards . . . Well, it wouldn’t have been appropriate anymore. So I hung on to it.’ She pauses. ‘I’m really sorry if seeing it upset you.’
She reaches across the table, her fingers brushing my hand, and I jerk back as though I’ve received an electric shock.
