by Jane Holland
I try again.
Same deal.
That’s it, then. No more diesel.
‘Bloody hell.’
I’m in a single-track lane with steep, straggly hedgerows on either side, and muddy, unpassable fields beyond them. There’s nowhere to turn off, nowhere to stow the car, no space for anyone to get past my vehicle. I am vulnerable here, a target, not to mention an immovable obstacle if the Volvo should come back. Not that I am afraid of a confrontation with that grey-haired woman. But that’s not what I intended when I first started following the Volvo. I originally had in mind a stealthy approach, maybe keep her in my sights while I remain unseen, scope out the place from a distance, decide whether to call the police . . .
Don’t panic, don’t panic.
I grab the car keys, clamber out of the car, and after a moment’s hesitation, lock it behind me. I rather like the idea that nobody can hit me over the head, then drive off and leave me here. Not without towing my car out of the way first, at any rate.
My phone in my pocket, I set off down the muddy lane.
I can see the Atlantic, a glittering expanse stretching beyond the buildings ahead, and recall the cliffs I saw on either side of the beach below. If Tide House stands on a clifftop, I might be able to get a mobile signal from there.
Cautiously, I hug the rough hedgerows over the final few hundred yards, ignoring the scratches from the brambles and spiky hawthorn branches. Though I am still not sure what on earth I am going to do, even if I do find Harry in this house. Am I going to break in without being seen, steal him back, and run cross-country with him in my arms? The very idea is ludicrous. I’m not that kind of person, even if I did drive out here today on impulse.
If only I could have answered the phone when Paul Dryer rang.
It looks like a farmhouse, several hundred years old, probably about the same age as the fishermen’s cottages down the road. There’s a cluster of palm trees on an island bed in front of the house, looking a little sad and gnarled, their long palm leaves tattered by sea winds. The rest of the gardens are gradually turning to wilderness, weeds choking the flower beds, the empty drive overrun with coarse grasses.
I can’t see the Volvo yet. Or any cars or people at all, in fact.
Oh God.
What if I’m in completely the wrong place?
I try to suppress my panic. The driveway leads round to the back of the house. Perhaps the Volvo went that way. It’s worth pursuing, at least.
I creep round what looks to be a disused workshop, its one window furred with dirt, the narrow interior empty and festooned with cobwebs. Then I stop dead on the corner, staring round into the sea-facing yard.
There’s a car parked at the back of the house.
It’s the gold Volvo.
The car is angled away from me, the boot open, as though someone has been taking out the shopping. The back door to the main house also stands open in the bright sunshine, and I can see someone moving about inside the house. The passenger-side back door is also open, and as I watch, my heart thumping, a woman in late middle age comes out of the house and heads straight for the car.
I stare at her, eyes wide, unable to move.
The woman has grey hair.
She’s dressed casually, rather like me. Flat pumps, neatly ironed blue denim jeans and a plain blue T-shirt, with a denim overshirt to hide a less than perfect figure. Despite the large chest, she’s trim and light on her feet, and walks as though she has somewhere important to go.
It’s the same woman I saw that day, wheeling my baby son around Truro in a buggy. I study her face, seeing it clearly for the first time. A little fleshy around the mouth, perhaps, but with a long, narrow nose, and a pinched, determined air.
She reaches into the back of the Volvo. Straightens up, smiling, exclaiming happily, holding something in her arms. Or rather, someone. An animated bundle in blue that kicks and moves with her, held aloft in the sunshine.
A hungry shriek splits the air.
I stiffen, staring at the kicking baby in her arms, barely able to suppress my gasp.
Harry.
There’s no doubt in my mind. I hear his cry and know it’s my son just as I know my own reflection in the mirror.
My baby. And he’s alive.
Relief and excitement flood my heart, and my eyes fill with tears.
I knew Harry was still alive. I knew it!
My first instinct is to run to him. But I force myself to draw back, clamping a hand over my mouth to suppress my sobs of relief. This woman thinks she’s safe here, that nobody in the world knows where she is or what she’s done. Her body language is relaxed, even happy.
All that will change as soon as I try to take Harry back.
I am alone.
With no working phone and no weapon.
I have to think, to come up with a plan.
Perhaps if I sneak unseen to the cliff edge in search of a mobile signal, I can call Paul Dryer, tell him exactly where I am and how to find me, and that I’ve found Harry.
That’s Plan A.
I hope there’s a signal. Because I don’t have a Plan B.
The grey-haired woman ought to have taken Harry inside the house by now. But I hesitate, deciding to be ultra-cautious. I don’t want to be seen. I count up to ten in my head, taking my time.
One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand . . .
Finally, I shuffle to the corner of the workshop again, staying so close to the wall that my shoulder and hip rub against the rough whitewashed stone. Then I look round the outbuilding.
Straight into the cold, hard eyes of my next-door neighbour.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
‘Hello, Meghan,’ Treve says, looking back at me without any sign of surprise. He is unsmiling. ‘How nice of you to join us. Not part of the plan, unfortunately. But not to worry, I expect we can sort something out.’
I back away, too shocked to reply.
What the hell is Treve doing here? Was he the unseen passenger in the gold Volvo? And what’s his connection with Harry?
A terrible possibility flashes through my head at that instant. But I shake my head, feeling like I must be going insane. The explanation for his presence is so bizarre and outrageous, so obscene in its monstrousness, that I can only reject it.
Was it Treve who took my baby?
‘Leaving already?’ he asks, watching me back away.
My heart starts to race.
He follows at a lazy pace, but his broad shoulders are hunched, head jutting forward, as though he’s about to tackle someone at rugby. I take another few steps backwards, staring at him. I want to speak, but my throat is too dry.
‘I’m afraid I can’t allow you to leave,’ he says. ‘Not that way, at least.’
I stumble over a loose rock, and clutch at the wall for support. My heart is thundering in my chest, my breath strangled. But I decide to stop and hold still, facing him. Even if I run, Treve would catch me in a moment. He’s too fast and too strong. And whatever this is about, I can’t run anyway. My baby son is here, and I have no intention of leaving without him.
Treve comes to a halt too, watching me speculatively. He flexes his large hands, betraying some inner turmoil, and I am suddenly very afraid.
I’m afraid I can’t allow you to leave. Not that way, at least.
What does he mean by that?
‘I saw you about ten minutes ago from my bedroom window,’ he tells me casually. ‘Followed us from Truro, did you? I told her not to park so close to your place. But she never listens, silly bloody woman.’
Silly bloody woman. Who the hell is she, that grey-haired woman who was at the wheel of the Volvo?
‘That was impressive, I have to say. I didn’t even notice you behind us until we turned off to St Ives. By then, it was a little late to try and shake you off. Though we made a good effort through the lanes. I thought we’d succeeded, until I looked out and saw you trying to blend into the hedgerow along the drive.’ His mouth twists in
a mimicry of a smile. ‘You’re not very good at subterfuge.’
He looks so bloody normal. I’ve seen him often enough before in that black T-shirt and burgundy V-neck sweater, the dark-blue denims, though he’s wearing boots instead of trainers today. Scuffed old black boots, the heavy type he might wear for digging in the garden. There’s even dried mud on them. Everything about him shouts ordinary.
‘Treve, I don’t understand. What are you doing here?’
Something in his face makes me fall silent, then a bunch of wild, incoherent thoughts tumble over and over in my head.
I repeat, slowly, ‘Your bedroom window? This is your house?’
‘My mother’s. Not much of a grand estate these days, I admit. Most of the place is falling down, or leaking, or subsiding, and it doesn’t even have power anymore. But it’s very isolated, off the beaten track, as you have no doubt realised. And that suited our needs very well just recently.’
‘I don’t understand,’ I say again.
He shoves his hands in his jeans pockets, inhales the salty sea air, and then glances about at the run-down, overgrown grounds and outbuildings with a wry expression.
‘You want a proper explanation,’ he says flatly.
‘I want my son back.’
He makes a face. ‘I’m sure you do. But sometimes we can’t have what we want, and that’s just the way life is.’
‘Treve—’
He interrupts me. ‘I used to come here every holiday as a boy. These gardens were stunning in the summer time; people would come from miles around to admire them. The winds can be harsh in winter. But the summers are mild, and my grandfather had green fingers.’ He unfolds his arms and points behind me, but I don’t turn to look, keeping my gaze firmly on his face. ‘He used to sit under that tree in the shade and watch me play.’
‘Why is my son here, Treve?’
But Treve is not listening. ‘My grandfather was an amazing man, Meghan. But he was dead by the time I hit my teens.’
‘Does Camilla know you took Harry? Is she here with you?’
‘Oh yes, my wife is here. I made damn sure of that.’
I catch that strong Cornish accent again on the end of his words, its humble warmth strangely at odds with what he’s saying. He pauses, his long lashes hiding the expression in his eyes. I remember how charming he can be, and how he kissed me, held me, made me feel something for him. Not love, but desire.
I shudder.
‘None of this would be happening if it wasn’t for Camilla,’ he continues. ‘You could say she’s been a catalyst for the whole business. So I couldn’t let her miss any of the fun.’
My teeth grind together. ‘Fun?’
His heavy gaze lifts, meeting mine directly. ‘No, you’re right. Fun is the wrong word. Justice is more like it. Perhaps retribution. An eye for an eye, that’s what the Bible says.’
‘Is that why you took Harry from me. For retribution?’
‘Yes.’
I stare at him, bewildered. ‘Retribution for what though?’
‘Adultery.’
I catch my breath, staring at his face.
Oh my God, no.
‘Adultery?’ My voice drops to a whisper. I can barely force the words out. ‘Whose . . . Whose adultery?’
He makes a rough noise under his breath. His dark eyes never leave my face, a flicker of disbelief in them. ‘You’re telling me you didn’t know about them?’
‘I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.’
It’s a lie, of course. But how can I tell the truth when it might condemn my son to death?
He turns his head and spits vehemently on to the gravel path beside the workshop. It’s a gesture of hatred, of utter contempt. ‘Ha.’ The sound he makes is not laughter, not speech, but an angry explosion of breath. ‘Ha.’
I take another step backwards.
‘So hearing Harry cry didn’t work as I’d hoped,’ he says, turning to look at me again. ‘Disappointing.’
My eyes widen. ‘You sent the voicemail.’ When he nods calmly, I ask, ‘But why do that to me? Were you trying to torment me?’
‘Quite the opposite. I thought by sending you that message, I was demonstrating that Harry was still alive. That there was still a reason to hope. I was sure you’d stay in Truro then, waiting for the police to analyse the recording. You could have avoided what’s coming. But I hadn’t reckoned on your instincts as a mother.’ He makes a face. ‘You’ve been like a bloodhound ever since we took him. Tracking us down, sniffing out your baby.’
It occurs to me that he may be mad.
It’s not a very comfortable thought. There’s no reasoning with a madman, after all.
‘Us?’
He says drily, ‘My mother’s never much liked Camilla. It wasn’t hard to persuade her to help me. Not once I told her about Jon. But then, she’s like me. She doesn’t easily forgive that kind of betrayal.’
My senses tug at me. For the past few minutes, there’s been some faint engine noise in the distance. A thick, guttural chugging in the sky that is growing louder all the time.
Treve glances upwards, brows contracting in a frown.
I turn, staring upward too.
It’s a light aircraft, wobbling slightly on its approach, its wings lit up by the sun behind us. It’s coming in low towards Tide House and the cliffs beyond, one of these very small planes that carry the pilot and one passenger. I calculate that it will pass overhead in about thirty seconds, heading for the open sea.
Treve looks back at me, and his eyes widen as he realises my intention.
‘No.’
He lunges forward, making a grab for my arm.
Too late.
I break away and start to run, back the way I came, past the workshop, past the overgrown network of paths, towards the island bed with its ragged palm trees. I kick off my cumbersome heels, and run even faster.
‘Hey!’ I shout, waving my arms wildly over my head and jumping up and down as the small plane begins to pass low above the house.
I shout as loudly as I can. ‘Hey, down here! Stop, look down! Help me!’
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The small aircraft keeps flying straight, the engine noise almost deafening now. I stare up at it, straining my arms as high as they will go, still waving frantically. The plane passes over me, a winged shadow that blocks out the sun for a few brief seconds. I catch a flash of light reflected from the cockpit, and the vague shape of a head inside that might be the pilot. The propeller is a blur. The palm leaves seem to flutter in its wake, or is that just the wind?
There are markings and numbers written large on the underside of the plane, I almost catch them as it soars overhead, begin to read them . . .
But then it’s passing over the house, noisy and intent on the Atlantic Ocean ahead, a metal beast in the air, uninterested in the tiny scurrying figures below.
I keep staring upwards, shielding my eyes from the sun as I turn.
The small aircraft continues on across the short stretch of land between the house and where I imagine the cliffs to be, and into the glittering light that is the sea.
My arms fall back to my sides.
I want to cry.
I must have been mad to think I could get their attention from the ground. Perhaps the arm-waving was not entirely pointless, though probably too late to be spotted once they had started their approach. But how could any pilot hear someone shouting from below with that noise in their ears?
A second later, Treve tackles me to the ground. I don’t hear him coming, not after the noise of the plane, but I get the wind knocked out of me by the impact.
‘You stupid bitch.’
He pins me to the grass around the base of the palm trees, half-squatting on my back, his weight crushing me. I struggle to turn over, to wriggle out from under him. But he’s too strong and heavy; I can hardly move my arms, let alone the rest of my body. My chest is still labouring to breathe after that flying tackle.
‘You ever do anything like that again,’ he mutters, close to my ear, ‘I’ll kill your baby. I don’t want to hurt him, Meghan. I’m not a monster. But if you force my hand, I swear to you, I’ll break his neck myself.’ He is breathing hard. ‘Now, do we understand each other?’
I nod.
‘Good.’ He jerks me to my feet, then drags me back towards Tide House, gripping my arm like he wants to break it. ‘After that stunt, I can see it’s time for a little reunion. I’ve tried talking to you. But it’s clear you’ve already made up your mind about me.’
He sounds so angry, I’m terrified he will kill Harry.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Nobody asked you to follow us here, Meghan. You weren’t supposed to do that, to come here, to be any part of this. You could have walked away. But no, that would have been too simple. So don’t blame me for what’s about to happen. Because you’ve brought this on yourself.’
‘No, please,’ I stammer.
‘Your problem is, you couldn’t accept that you’d lost him. You couldn’t let Harry go.’ His voice is thick with contempt. ‘So here you bloody well are, with victim stamped through you like Cornwall through a stick of rock.’
He drags me barefoot across the gravelly yard, ignoring my cries of protest, past the gold Volvo, and through the back door into the sunlit hall.
Dazed, I stare around at the painted walls and high ceilings. The ceilings are almost twice the height of our own, giving an impression of airy grandeur, and the stairs are broad, the banister ornate dark wood that looks like someone may have polished it recently. Tide House is not in good repair though. The stained wooden floorboards in the hall are warped and uneven. There’s a powerful smell of damp everywhere, of musty old furniture and mildew. And from what I saw of the front, with its cracked timbers and missing slates, I imagine that the roof must leak in places.
Treve pushes me towards the stairs, and I stumble, knocking into a small side table. As I try to right myself, the table falls with a clatter.
No doubt startled by the noise, his mother appears in the open doorway of one of the ground floor rooms.
