‘We’re keen to find out who her friends are, especially who the father of her baby might be.’
I take a moment to think. I want to get it right. ‘I remember she had one very good friend. Emily, I think her name was.’
‘Could that be Emma?’
‘Yes, yes, Emma. That was it. She was quite a help to Carla. Emma came from a more stable background and actually worked with us in Carla’s rehabilitation. Like her mother, Carla also had a heroin addiction.’
The woman detective is taking notes. ‘Tell us more about the drugs.’
‘She’d always been into something or other – cannabis, any type of pills she could get her hands on, crack, and finally the heroin. She was usually hooked on something, pretty much from when we first got her, right up until she was eighteen and set up in her own flat. I think she was clean for a couple of months then. Getting pregnant actually helped her on a practical level and almost gave her the momentum she needed to get her life straight.’ I sigh, remembering the first time we went to visit Carla in her own place. I prayed she’d sort herself out. ‘It wasn’t her we were interested in any more – she was over eighteen – but rather her unborn baby. No child should have to be raised in the conditions Carla was offering.’ Then I’m thinking of her dead baby and I feel sick and the room is swimming in and out of focus. I just can’t take in what’s happened.
‘So any ideas about the father?’ the man asks.
I think long and hard. ‘She did have a few boyfriends,’ I tell them. ‘But as far as I recall, none were long term. A young woman like her living alone is so vulnerable.’ Then I’m thinking about myself. At the opposite end of the social spectrum, my life is worlds apart from Carla’s, but when it comes down to it, it could just as easily have been me who was attacked. When James is away, I’m as good as a single mother. ‘You’d best ask Tina Kent, my colleague, to be sure. She’s been dealing with her recently. I was providing supervision on the case. Tina would likely know more about the baby’s father.’
‘We spoke with Tina earlier. We’ve taken some of the case files, although Tina did comment there was one missing, the most recent, signed out to you apparently.’
‘Ah yes,’ I say. I should have taken it back days ago, but it’s quite safe locked in James’s study. No one can get to it there. ‘I can fetch it if you want to take a look. As head of department, it’s my job to regularly review cases that the other social workers are dealing with. We think of it as quality control.’ I’m already on my feet, puffing as I speak, in order to fetch the file.
‘Thanks,’ DI Fisher says, ‘that would be helpful.’ Then she adds, ‘How long have you got to go?’ She points at my bump.
‘Too long,’ I say with a laugh. ‘A couple of weeks, but if she came now I’d be very happy.’
‘She?’
‘The scan showed it was a girl. I already have twin boys – I’m their step-mum – so I’ll be glad of the female company.’
‘I have two girls. Teenagers. Nothing but trouble.’ DI Fisher says all this through a grin.
I waddle off to the study and open the filing cabinet James allows me to use for work. If the files are taken out of the office, I’m not allowed to leave them in the car or unattended, but they’re fine temporarily in fireproof storage in a locked study. I locate the papers and go back to the sitting room. The detectives have been talking but stop when I come in.
‘Here,’ I say, handing it over. ‘You should really sign a receipt at the office for this.’
DI Fisher produces a copy of the form Tina has already filled out for the other documents. I add this file’s details and initial it alongside the detective’s signature. I’m satisfied I’ve done the right thing. It’s not as if I can withhold information from the police.
‘I really hope it helps.’
For the next fifteen minutes, they ask me more about my dealings with Carla, her drugs habit, her mental state the last time I saw her, her family, and even about her aspirations. I should probably have offered them a cup of tea, but I just want them to go. The shock of all this is making me feel ill.
Finally, they make a move.
‘If there’s anything else I can do,’ I say, leading them through the hall, ‘please do get in touch.’
They both nod and shake my hand, grateful for my help. As they turn to leave, Zoe is coming up the drive with a twin attached to each hand. She is tugging them up the front path. She slows and stares at the detectives, suddenly dropping her gaze and turning away. The detectives barely notice her, talking intently to each other, and now the man is on his phone as they stride off down the street.
As Zoe brushes past me, muttering and grumbling, I’m trying to figure out why she looks so ghostly thin and pale.
*
Later, there’s an email waiting from James. I wasn’t expecting one so soon. My heart flutters at the thought of savouring the couple of lines he will have sent. I settle onto my bed with a cup of tea and gaze at the laptop screen as it balances on my legs. I want to absorb the message-sender’s name and subject line as it sits unread and full of promise in my inbox. I miss him so much.
What will he have to say this time? Perhaps he’ll tell me the sub’s turned around and is on its way back to port. Maybe he’s driving along the motorway right now to our land-locked home, ready to chuck in his Navy career. It’s not as if we need the money. I’m certain the inherited family wealth would be enough to keep us comfortable into old age and beyond, but James says the money can’t be touched yet, that it doesn’t even feel like his. I don’t understand, but he gets irate if I pry.
I sip my tea and click on the message. As I suspected, it’s short. It will have been vetted by the military before it reached my inbox.
Dearest Claudie, Missing you all desperately. Are the boys well? Now in Med and operation going to plan. I can’t help wondering if you’ve had our baby. As ever not much time, but my heart is with you all. Is Z behaving? I hope she’s proving her worth. Email when you can with news. Will check often. All my love, as ever, James.
It’s always pretty much the same, except this time he’s mentioned Zoe. It must be some comfort to him that I’m not entirely alone. Neither of our families lives nearby, with James’s parents in Scotland and my mother having emigrated to Australia years ago. Elizabeth’s family is based in the Channel Islands so the twins and my baby will have no doting grandparents at close call. But James looks on the positive side and says we have ready-made holiday homes.
The first time James left me to go away was only two weeks after I’d moved in with him. Friends were worried that he’d rushed things after Elizabeth’s death, that I was simply ready-made childcare for the boys, but I didn’t mind. I loved him from the start and knew I wanted to be with him for the long haul, military career or not. He came as a package deal and that was fine by me. Even then, I wanted to give him a baby and he was entirely agreeable to that idea. He told me it might be difficult to conceive, what with him being away so much. I wanted to tell him that if we didn’t conceive, that wouldn’t be the reason.
I rest my head back against the pillow and listen for noise. All is quiet. Zoe bathed and put the boys to bed an hour ago, and I read to them and kissed them on their mops of hair. They clung on to me, asking when Daddy would be home.
‘I’m going out later,’ Zoe then told me in the kitchen. To be honest, I was glad of the time alone. The detectives’ visit had unsettled me. I’d just intended to watch some television to take my mind off it but then decided to email James instead, which was when I saw that he’d beaten me to it.
‘Zoe, Zoe, Zoe,’ I say, putting the laptop beside me on the bed. I’m still concerned that she’s been snooping in James’s office. I hate to think of her prying into our affairs.
I pick up my book and settle down to read, but I just can’t concentrate. I want another cup of tea. Out on the landing, I hear one of the boys stirring so I poke my head round their door. Oscar has thrown off his duvet and his
hand is feeling around for it in his sleep. I rearrange his bed, plant another kiss on each twin and leave the room, pulling the door closed.
Back out on the landing, the house is still and quiet. Has Zoe gone out already? I’m not sure. I wonder if she’d like a cup of tea, too, but don’t want to call out up the stairs to the top floor in case I wake the boys. I brace myself for the strenuous climb, trying to convince myself it’s just because I want to be friendly, to offer her tea, not because I want to take a look at her stuff. I haven’t been up there since she moved in.
When I’m near the top, I whisper her name as loudly as I dare. There’s no response. Peering through the banisters, I see the small landing area of her quarters. The light has been left on. A pair of trainers has been discarded haphazardly on the carpet and a towel is draped over a chair. A strange scent hangs in the air – slightly floral, a little musky, but strangely sad and old-fashioned. It draws me up.
‘Zoe?’ I say again as I step up onto the landing. I clutch my lower back. ‘Are you up here?’
Nothing, so I peek into the room she uses as a living room. We put a TV in there for her and there’s an old sofa as well as a beanbag. We assumed she’d want guests round occasionally, although she hasn’t had yet. If she’s just split up with her boyfriend, she’s probably not feeling very sociable yet. She didn’t mention where she was going tonight.
I knock gently on her bedroom door but there’s no reply. I glance towards the stairs. I can hear one of the boys snoring softly. I know every sound in this house – every floorboard creak, each door’s peculiar noise, the pathways of the old clanking plumbing – and, after checking up here, listening carefully again, I’m now positive Zoe’s not home.
‘Are you in there, Zoe?’ I try once more, my obsessive nature getting the better of me. I would hate her to think I was spying, though if I’m honest with myself, I’m desperate to take a quick look in her bedroom. It’s our house, after all.
I ease the door open a little and look inside. It’s dark and I can’t see much, even with the landing light seeping in. My eyes widen. At first glance it appears there’s a figure lying on the bed, but when I swing the door fully open I see it’s only a heap of clothes and a suitcase. It almost looks as if she’d been packing up her stuff and thought better of it.
What if she comes back? I stop and listen for noises but can only hear the sound of my breath and the whoosh of fear in my ears. If Zoe returns, I won’t be able to escape quickly.
‘Oh stop it,’ I whisper out loud. ‘You’re overreacting.’ It’s my house, I can come up here if I wish. I might simply be looking for something – there’s a bookcase on the landing, after all, with some of my old university text books in it. I’ll tell her I’m searching for a title.
I lift some of the clothes that are strewn about – there’s a whole tangle of stuff I’ve seen her wearing recently. T-shirts, jeans, cotton shirts and a couple of cardigans have been thrown onto the bed, which is unmade and just as much of a mess. Perhaps this is her dirty washing. Maybe she was going to bring the whole lot down to the laundry room in the suitcase, although it’s rather large to transport just a few items.
The sight of blood makes me catch my breath. I recoil and gasp but then lean closer to inspect the rust-brown stain smeared on the inside of a sweatshirt. It’s turned the wrong way round and part of the woolly fleece lining is encrusted with something that certainly looks like blood. I run my forefinger over the stain. It feels dry and congealed. I lift the garment to my nose. There is a stale metallic tang. I feel slightly nauseous, but then stop myself from being ridiculous, from becoming even more paranoid about Zoe. She probably just cut herself, I decide, though it must have been a bad gash if this was the result. As I lay the sweatshirt back down, I notice the small tear on the shoulder and the dark ring of blood around that.
I pick it up again and dangle it between finger and thumb. I try to swallow but my mouth is dry. Oh God, what if she hurt one of the boys. My mind races but I soon realise I’m being irrational. If she’d done that then their clothes would have been bloody too and I’d have surely noticed. Unless she washed it off before I spotted it . . .
‘Oscar and Noah would have told me,’ I say out loud, forgetting that Zoe could come up at any moment. Noah’s not exactly the passive type.
Nevertheless, I can’t help feeling concerned. I’ve become so paranoid recently and I don’t like it one bit. James would say it’s my hormones getting the better of me, that my body is awash with ungovernable feelings. I would say it’s me being protective of my family – overprotective, I realise, but I can’t help it. Once my baby’s here, our unit will be complete and I’ll be the fiercest mother around. How can I trust Zoe now I’ve seen this?
I turn away from the bed, feeling dizzy, and Zoe’s room becomes a blur as if I’m on a speeding merry-go-round. There are tears in my eyes and I know they’re there for no good reason but I just can’t help it. What is she hiding from me? I’m certain there’s something.
In a fit of recklessness, I fling open her wardrobe doors. It’s apparent that my nanny doesn’t have good organisational skills when it comes to her own possessions. It’s as much of a mess as the rest of the room. And then I see the pregnancy testing kit – the same one that fell out of her bag when she first arrived. The box is lying beside a pair of boots on the floor of the cupboard as if it’s been chucked down there. I pick it up. The cellophane wrapper has been removed. I open it to find one of the two white plastic wands is missing and the remaining one is snapped in half. It appears to be unused. Why would Zoe take this job if she thought she was pregnant?
‘I wonder if this is to do with her breaking up with her boyfriend,’ I say quietly, although it’s really none of my business. But I suppose it is my business if the result was positive.
I put the pieces of wand back in the box. Why did she break it? Was she angry at the result? Perhaps she wanted to be pregnant – or not. It’s no good second-guessing Zoe’s personal life. The only way to find out for certain is to ask her. But then she’ll know I’ve been snooping.
My heart flutters with curiosity when I see the camera – a small digital one that looks as if it’s either been dumped on the floor of the wardrobe or it fell from a jacket. It’s compact enough to fit in a pocket. My mouth salivates at the thought of flicking through her photos while my heart protests with guilty palpitations. It’s only because I feel there’s more to Zoe than I know about. That’s what I tell myself anyway.
I creep towards the door and listen again. The snoring has stopped and the house is completely silent apart from the tick-tick of a radiator as the central heating kicks back into action. I know I have to do this, even though James would say I was mad. ‘Oh Claudia, let it rest. Come and sit with me beside the fire.’ I can almost hear his exasperated voice.
I pick up the camera and remove it from its slim case. It’s expensive-looking and a newer model of the one James and I use. I turn it on, thankful that it works in the same way. I move closer to the door, one ear straining for sounds. Would I hear the front door from up here?
I toggle through Zoe’s pictures and smile at the first few. She has snapped Oscar and Noah at Tumblz Play Zone and Lilly is in some of them. The next dozen or so are of Pip from across the room. It doesn’t look as if Pip knows she’s being photographed. Then there are a few from our aquarium visit, though they’re dark and out of focus. Then there are pictures of our street. It’s as if she’s photographed it from each end as well as focusing on our house in some of the shots. No doubt to send to family or friends, I assume, to show them where she works. That’s normal, I tell myself. We’re lucky to live in such a lovely neighbourhood.
My brain doesn’t assimilate the next few pictures immediately, so I flip back and forth through them. They appear to be photographs of documents. I can’t make them out exactly, but there are loads, and each one is the same . . . yet subtly different. My fingers hover over the camera buttons, momentarily unsure which
one is for zooming in, but then I remember. I enlarge an image at random and my mouth goes dry and my heart races so much I think it might fly up my throat. I put a hand on the wall to steady myself.
‘Oh my God,’ I say as the photographed text resolves. ‘What on earth . . .’
I strain my eyes to read the writing, even though I don’t need to. The name at the top of the page tells me exactly what she’s been taking pictures of.
Then I hear it – the familiar sound of the heavy front door banging shut. The noise funnels up the stairwells, reverberating through the silent house.
Shit, shit, shit.
My hands fumble with the camera, desperate to turn it off and get it back in its case. I try to fasten it but the zip gets stuck. I drop it back in the bottom of the wardrobe and waddle as fast as my body will allow towards the stairs, closing her door behind me. I can hear Zoe’s footsteps approaching. She’s humming a soft tune, as if she’s happy. I’m too slow. I’ll never make it down even to the first-floor landing without being caught along the way so I lower myself onto my knees in front of the bookshelves. I try to stifle my breathlessness.
‘Zoe, don’t jump,’ I call out as normally as I can without actually yelling. I don’t want to wake the boys. ‘I’m up here looking for a book.’
‘Oh,’ Zoe sings back, sounding intrigued. Her head appears behind the banister spindles. We are close, and it’s as if one of us is in a cage. I have a feeling it’s me.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘It’s called Social Work and the Law and I can’t find it anywhere.’ I run my finger along all the spines of my old textbooks. I know exactly where it is but pretend not to see it.
Zoe comes up and crouches down beside me. She turns her head sideways. ‘Here it is.’ I can feel her stare burning my cheek.
Until You're Mine Page 20
