Until You're Mine

by Samantha Hayes

  Will you put me to bed, stroke my head, whisper that everything’s going to be fine?

  ‘Zoe,’ I say as brightly as I can manage, ‘it’s me. I was wondering if you could do me a little favour.’

  21

  QUICK AS A flash, I put everything in the study back exactly as I found it. I lock the door and coax the twins into coats and shoes. I bundle them into James’s great big car and reverse out of the drive into the street-lit murk. Another car flashes me frantically and, as I change through the gears, I realise that I’ve forgotten to put on the headlights.

  ‘I want Daddy,’ Oscar says, probably because the car smells of his father’s cologne, and his hat and scarf are discarded on the seat between his sons.

  ‘Well, he’s underwater,’ I say. It comes out rather cruel-sounding, even though I didn’t mean it that way. ‘In his submarine,’ I add. I need them to like me for as long as this takes. Once I’ve got what I came for, it doesn’t matter what they think of me, although I’d like to think that my brief presence in their lives won’t scar them too much. It’s hardly their fault their father has inherited so much money – although finding out exact details is proving tricky – and not their fault at all their mother just happens to be heavily pregnant. It’s a perfect, if not rather cruel, storm.

  ‘He’s at work, silly,’ Noah says meanly, and then follows it with a yelp when Oscar pokes him.

  My eyes dance between their emerging fight and the brightly lit road ahead. Straight on at the first three roundabouts, she said, then left at the lights. I’m good with directions and have no problem locating the medical centre she said she was waiting outside. She didn’t sound well. I’m sincerely praying that she’s not going into labour early. That would be a disaster. Timing is everything, and I reckon I only have one shot left.

  At first, I don’t see her. It’s as if her grey coat and pallid face have pulled her into winter itself. Had I not recognised her pregnant body, I would have missed her completely. I drive easily into a parking space and turn off the engine. Claudia doesn’t move off the wall.

  ‘Wait here,’ I tell the boys. Noah has found a packet of sweets in his pocket and is revving up an argument by not giving any to Oscar. ‘Share,’ I say, without taking my eyes off their mother.

  I close the door and walk over to where she is. ‘Claudia, are you OK? Is the baby all right?’

  Slowly, she glances up at me. Her eyes are filled with tears. ‘Thanks for coming,’ she says.

  ‘Just tell me the baby’s OK.’

  ‘She’s fine,’ she confirms, and I let out the breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding. ‘I just came over a bit tired all of a sudden. How very useless of me.’

  ‘Let’s get you home,’ I say, and hook my arm through hers. I lead her to the car. Oscar and Noah’s sweet fight is peaking and I see the pain on Claudia’s face as she hoists herself up into the passenger seat. ‘Shush, lads,’ I say, as pleasantly as I can. ‘No need to fall out over wine gums. How about we go down to the corner shop when we get home and you can both choose some treats? Maybe a comic each, too?’ As I start the car, I notice Claudia’s face soften. ‘Then Mummy can have a lie-down. Your little sister’s making her feel tired.’ I resist the urge to reach out and stroke her bump, and grip the wheel tightly instead as I set off on the drive back.

  The cyclist comes out of nowhere. It all happens so quickly – the flash of his bright jacket, the look of horror on his face as he sees me heading straight at him, the panic as he swerves out of my way. I jam on the brakes and manage to miss him. Claudia lets out a gasp.

  Then the deafening smash, the sudden jolt, as we’re hit from behind.

  Claudia lurches forward in slow motion, even though I know it’s over in a split second.

  ‘Oh my God!’

  The boys are screaming and crying but Claudia is silent. Her head is lolling sideways, having bounced back from the dashboard. She isn’t wearing her seatbelt.

  ‘Christ, Claudia, are you OK? Speak to me!’ I undo my seatbelt and lean over her.

  Someone is hammering on my side window. Stupid fucking woman . . .

  Slowly, Claudia’s hands reach around her baby. ‘I’m fine,’ she says weakly. She looks deathly pale. ‘I’m OK. Really, I’m OK.’

  ‘Oh I’m so sorry, Claudia.’ My very first thought isn’t her baby’s safety but that she’s sure to sack me now. Who would let such a bad driver ferry her children around? ‘I don’t believe that happened. The bicycle . . . he just appeared from nowhere and I couldn’t . . .’ The twins are still crying in the back.

  Someone opens my door. ‘What the hell do you think you were doing, idiot?’ he shouts. He stares around the car. ‘Is everyone OK?’ he asks, noticing Claudia’s pregnant body and the young boys.

  ‘No, we’re not OK!’ I snap back. ‘And you’re the idiot for rear-ending me! There was a cyclist.’ Then I see the blood. ‘Oh, Claudia, you’re hurt.’ Instinctively, I touch my finger to the small cut on the side of her forehead. The blood colours up my skin like a squashed berry.

  She flinches. ‘It’s nothing,’ she says. ‘I should have put my belt on but it’s so uncomfortable to wear these days.’

  ‘I must take you to the hospital,’ I say, suddenly panicking that I’ve probably brought on labour. But then the repercussions of taking her to hospital are dreadful. What if they keep her in, induce her, notify the police of my careless driving?

  She turns round to face me, giving the driver standing outside the car a quick glance before settling her gaze back on me. Her expression is full of forgiveness. ‘Don’t be silly. I’m absolutely fine.’

  ‘I have to take you to be checked out and that’s final,’ I say, because it’s what any normal person would insist on. I turn back to the man. He’s jotting something down in a notepad.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t expect you to stop so suddenly. Your car’s hardly marked.’ He beckons me out to take a look. We’re causing a traffic jam as other cars struggle to get past the blocked junction.

  ‘Shall I call the police?’ someone yells out of another car. My heart pounds inside my chest.

  ‘No need,’ the man calls back. ‘Here are my details just in case,’ he says to me, ripping out the page. ‘See? Only a tiny mark on the bumper. These things are built like tanks.’ He grins, trying to sweeten everything now he knows there’s an injured pregnant woman in the car and two small children. The front bumper on his car is crumpled and both headlights are smashed, but he clearly doesn’t want a fuss.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, and watch as he takes a note of James’s registration number.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asks. I see he’s wearing a wedding ring. His hands are brown and strong – worker’s hands.

  ‘My . . . name?’ My heart kicks up again. ‘Zoe Harper,’ I say hesitantly, already imagining the police searching through hundreds of Zoe Harpers, none of them me. ‘Are you going to report the accident to the police or your insurance company?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s necessary, do you?’ He peers inside the car again, satisfied.

  ‘No, I don’t think it is,’ I say, calming a little. ‘I have to go.’

  I get back into the car. Claudia still looks ashen. ‘I really should take you to get checked out,’ I say tentatively. ‘You might need a stitch in that.’ Her head has stopped bleeding, leaving a crescent-shaped crust of blood on her skin. The boys are now quiet in the back. Thank heavens I strapped them in to their seats.

  ‘Just take me home, Zoe,’ she whispers, imploring me with her eyes. ‘I’m so tired.’

  ‘It could be concussion,’ I warn her.

  ‘I am not going to the hospital. Understand?’ She is determined. ‘I’m in no mood to be waiting in A&E for hours and giving statements when the doctor feels obliged to notify the police. I just want to go home and rest. Please.’ Her shaky voice and heart-wrenching plea make me start the car.

  ‘OK, OK,’ I say, relieved. ‘But I want y
ou to promise that you’ll tell me if you don’t feel right.’ If she goes into labour, then I’ll have to act fast.

  ‘I promise,’ she says, and her hand rests on mine for a moment as I shove the gearstick into first.

  22

  ‘YOU NEED TO talk to her,’ Adam said. ‘Woman to woman.’

  He’s actually serious, Lorraine thought, stifling a laugh. ‘You honestly think the way through this tangle of teenage angst is that easy?’ If he really expected everything could be resolved by mother and daughter sitting down at the kitchen table with a pot of tea, hell, they might even solve the murder cases between them while they were at it.

  Adam shrugged, showing he knew how simplistic and evasive his suggestion was.

  Lorraine watched her husband sort through the mess on his desk. It seemed everyone had used it as a dumping ground, a barrage of interview reports for both cases having come in at once.

  ‘What do you think about Amanda Simkins’ statement that Liam Rider was having another affair?’ she asked, needing to move on from contemplating a heart-to-heart with Grace. ‘Is it worth following up?’

  ‘Of course,’ Adam said coldly. He ruffled his hair. ‘Why don’t you do it?’ He was unnecessarily casual with her.

  Lorraine nodded. ‘Adam, look, you’re right about having a talk with Grace.’ He stared at her, unnervingly. ‘But it needs to be both of us.’

  He sighed and unrolled his shirt sleeves. Lorraine knew that the jacket would go on next – the old battered leather one he’d bought aeons ago – and then he’d reach for his keys and make up some story about following up with an interview or being late for a meeting. Anything to avoid dealing with his wayward teenage daughter. Anything to avoid dealing with personal issues full stop.

  Lorraine took a deep breath. ‘You know how I said I didn’t want details?’ She couldn’t believe she’d just said that. She felt faint.

  Adam stopped, jacket half slung over broad shoulders. He didn’t turn, as if he already knew what was coming.

  ‘Well, I’ve changed my mind. I want to know everything. Who she is. What she does. Where you met. How it happened.’ Lorraine swallowed. ‘Where it happened. How often.’ She didn’t even know how serious it had been. Was it really just one night or something more deep and meaningful?

  There was silence. A static hiatus that crackled with unspoken resentment. It could, Lorraine thought, turn into one hell of a scene. Did she really want that right now?

  She sighed. ‘If not now, we’re going to have to face this some time, Adam.’

  At this, he reanimated. He shrugged on the remainder of his jacket, grabbed his car keys, then halted again.

  ‘We need to speak to Carla Davis’s social worker,’ Lorraine continued, trying to act as if nothing had just happened.

  ‘Get Barrett or Ainsley on to it,’ was his flat reply.

  ‘It’s OK,’ she replied quietly. ‘I’ll do it myself.’

  Adam glanced at his watch and frowned. She knew what he was thinking. He’d already said she should be the one at home when Grace came back from school – if she came back from school – and was hoping they’d have all this getting-married nonsense sorted out by the time he came in. They both knew it had to be talked about soon, it’s just that Adam didn’t seem to want to be a part of it.

  ‘Grace texted me earlier,’ Lorraine said, waiting for a reaction. ‘She has a netball match and won’t be back until seven.’

  ‘At least it sounds as if she’s actually coming home,’ he said, pulling a face that reflected his annoyance with the whole situation. To Lorraine it screamed that she should have done a better job with their daughter, as if it was all her fault.

  A moment later he was gone, flicking off the lights while she was still in the room.

  *

  Thankfully, she caught two of them before they locked up for the evening. A reluctant security guard had buzzed her into the building, watching her walk all the way down the corridor into the grey bowels of the dull council offices. The social care department had its own key-coded door but someone had wedged it open with a waste bin, leaving the way clear for Lorraine. She found herself in another reception area – though it didn’t appear as if the general public were ever greeted there – and when she heard voices from one of the other rooms, she went straight through.

  ‘Hello, the door was open,’ she said, to get their attention. A man and a woman, both probably in their mid-thirties, were chattering while shifting boxes of files. It looked as if either a hurricane had whipped through the open-plan space, or they were moving offices. ‘Hope you don’t mind.’ Lorraine briefly showed them her ID and told them her name.

  ‘Excuse the mess. It’s not normally like this.’ The woman had a biscuit in her mouth but removed it to speak. She had a giant hand-knitted scarf around her neck and they both wore coats, hers dark purple and his grey tweed. Between them they looked exhausted but determined. If they were planning on moving all the boxes stacked around the desks, they’d be here a couple of hours yet. ‘We’re up and down between here and archives. That’s why the door was open. And why we’re wearing coats,’ she added. ‘It’s freezing down there.’

  ‘We’re having our annual housekeeping session,’ the man said. ‘And we’re short-staffed to boot.’ He cleared his throat. He was pale, clean-shaven and appeared rather delicate. Lorraine imagined the woman would be doing the bulk of the lifting. ‘How can we help?’

  ‘I’m here about Carla Davis. I believe she’s on your case list.’ Lorraine added a smile. It couldn’t hurt.

  The pair looked at each other. ‘I’m Mark Dunn,’ the man said in a professional tone. ‘Social worker, Children’s Services.’ He paused, weighing up any confidentiality breaches against Lorraine’s introduction as a detective inspector.

  ‘Is she OK?’ the woman said, confirming to Lorraine that at least she was in the right place. ‘I’m Tina Kent, by the way. Social worker-cum-removals girl.’ She grinned.

  ‘She was attacked this morning, I’m afraid. That’s why I’m here.’ Lorraine mirrored the sudden anguished expressions of the pair and gestured to a couple of office chairs. They immediately sat, while Lorraine perched on the edge of a desk.

  ‘Is she . . . ?’ Tina asked tentatively.

  ‘Carla’s alive but in a bad way. Sadly, her baby didn’t make it.’

  ‘Oh my goodness.’ Tina’s hand went to her mouth in shock. Mark sighed and dropped his head into his hands.

  ‘The attack happened in her flat. Her friend raised the alarm. She saved her life, actually.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Mark said. ‘We’ve not seen her recently because she turned eighteen a while back.’ Lorraine sensed it was a sensitive washing of hands. ‘She used to be one of ours. In and out of care and foster homes, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Actually, she flagged up again, Mark. A few months back.’ Tina spoke softly as if trying to exclude Lorraine from the confidential information. ‘When she fell pregnant,’ she almost mouthed directly at him.

  ‘I’m assuming her unborn baby would have been a priority for you, knowing Carla’s background,’ Lorraine said.

  Tina nodded, still absorbing the shock. ‘Yes, her lifestyle wasn’t exactly conducive to raising a child. We were working with her to get her on track ready for the baby’s birth. If she didn’t manage it then we’d have had to step in.’ Tina was sweating now. She unwound the thick scarf from her neck. Her cheeks were tinged red and she pushed her fingers through her hair as she thought. ‘We all had dealings with her over the years.’ Her voice was wavering.

  ‘I think her most recent contact was either you or Claudia, wasn’t it, Tina?’ Mark said.

  ‘It was me. I was assigned to her when we learnt she was pregnant from her GP,’ Tina blurted out, as if it was entirely her fault. She was on the brink of tears. ‘But I first met her when she was about eight years old. I’d recently qualified and she was one of my very first cases. Her home life wasn’t good at all. Excuse me a mo
ment. Sorry.’ Tina pulled a bunch of tissues from the box on the desk and a few steps’ walk suddenly broke into an emotional stride out of the room. Her footsteps echoed down the desolate corridor although her sobs were even louder as she dashed to the toilets.

  ‘It’s been a tough week,’ Mark said.

  Tell me about it, Lorraine thought.

  ‘You mentioned that someone called Claudia had worked on Carla’s case. I’ll need to speak to everyone involved. It’s important to have as clear a picture as possible who Carla knew, who her friends were, what she did with her time. That kind of stuff. We don’t want to miss anything.’

  ‘No problem,’ Mark confirmed. ‘Is Carla going to be OK?’

  ‘It’s a bit early to tell. We’ve tried to interview her but she’s not made much sense yet. Her injuries were very serious.’

  Mark pulled a face. ‘I’ve been a social worker for nearly thirteen years. Nothing surprises me any more.’

  Tina came back into the office. ‘I’m sorry about that,’ she said crisply, over-emphasising her return to self-control. ‘I was on annual leave when Carla was originally signed off our care. She was allocated housing and seemed to be doing OK. Then a few months ago, Carla’s GP notified us of her pregnancy and that she was still taking drugs. He told us about her unstable mental state, too. She’s not one for coping, put it that way.’ Tina was obviously ready to talk now. ‘So she’s back on our radar again – or rather her unborn baby was.’

  ‘I’d like you to make me a list of everyone you think she knew, places she often visited, where she got her drugs from, anything to do with her life. Even if you’re not sure it’s relevant, please include everything you know. I can’t be certain if or when Carla will be in a fit state to help.’

  Mark and Tina nodded.

  ‘I’d also like access to her case file,’ Lorraine stated.

  ‘I can try to find it,’ Mark said. ‘Though it’s going to be hard at the moment.’ He indicated the mess in the office.