Until You're Mine

by Samantha Hayes

  ‘But it’s important,’ she said in response to being told that he was busy for the next few days. ‘I need to speak to him urgently about my daughter.’ Lorraine sighed heavily. ‘Yes, Grace Scott.’ There was a pause, and Lorraine thought she heard the woman cover the phone and speak in a low voice. ‘Thank you, I appreciate that,’ she said finally and hung up with an appointment at nine-forty the next morning. She texted the details to Grace in the hope she would come along too.

  ‘Get a move on,’ Adam said, catching up with Lorraine in the corridor. ‘We’re going back to St Hilda’s Road. I’m not convinced we can’t find our Miss Paige.’

  ‘You seem in a good mood,’ Lorraine said sourly, feeling the exact opposite.

  ‘You’d know why, if you’d been in the briefing,’ he said, quickening his pace.

  Adam jangled his car keys inside his pocket as they entered the underground car park.

  ‘Put me out of my misery then,’ she said, knowing he enjoyed keeping her waiting.

  It wasn’t until they’d pulled up outside the big Georgian house in Edgbaston, wipers arcing furiously across the windscreen, smudging the sleet that was now falling, that Adam divulged what had lent the urgency to his driving. Lorraine knew better than to press him. He was punishing her for putting their personal life – their daughter’s welfare – before work. She’d never change that ethic and didn’t think, if really pushed, he would either. The acknowledgement of that was strangely comforting, that between them, somehow, they were still a team.

  ‘There’s a DNA match between the Sally-Ann and Carla samples,’ he said perfunctorily. ‘It’s the same person for both cases and confirmed female. Carla was talking sense.’ Adam wrenched on the handbrake and hitched up his collar in readiness for the grim weather.

  ‘Jesus Christ, why didn’t you say before?’ Lorraine’s voice squeaked in disbelief and anger.

  ‘Because you were on the phone.’

  ‘I was sorting out an appointment with Grace’s head-master,’ Lorraine snapped back. ‘Someone has to convince her to stay on at school.’

  ‘Not on police time,’ Adam retorted. ‘And she doesn’t want to stay at school.’

  ‘There is no other time,’ Lorraine was quick to say. ‘All our bloody time is police time, whether I’m cooking dinner, taking Stella to ballet, or fucking well trying to take a piss. Do not ever, ever, make me feel guilty for looking after my family, Adam. Just because you . . . you feel able to . . .’ Lorraine checked herself with a particularly weak-sounding and feminine oh before diving out of the car headfirst into the full-blown snow that was now falling. Everything she’d just said was not how she felt in the slightest.

  Within moments, they were back in the car. Apart from the cleaning lady, there was no one home, and she’d confirmed that there wasn’t a Heather Paige living at the address. Lorraine complained to Adam that they’d wasted their time, that Claudia had already told them no one by that name lived there.

  ‘The only other person is the nanny,’ the cleaner had said, leaning on the upright hose of the vacuum that she’d dragged to the door. ‘But she’s out too. Gone to help out with the nativity play at school.’ She’d seemed happy to divulge almost anything at the flash of their ID.

  ‘Is it worth going to see Zoe Harper?’ Lorraine asked Adam as she buckled up. ‘She might know where we can find Heather Paige. Perhaps Heather was visiting Zoe and that’s what Cecilia saw when she followed her.’

  She snapped down the sun visor and looked in the mirror, wiping water off her face with a tissue. She brushed snowflakes off her shoulders. Adam was already searching for the primary school address from the name the cleaner had readily told them and, moments later, they were on the way.

  Millpond Heath Primary School was a newly built, low-level school on the edge of a quickly whitening park. The secure grounds were surrounded by trees on one side and a number of pleasant semi-detached houses curving down the quiet road in an understated arc of middle-class existence on the other. The tarmac playground was already painted with a layer of overnight frost, and the snow was quick to settle on top. The festive Christmas card effect was somehow spoilt by the erratic trails of small slushy footprints zig-zagging between the various buildings that made up the school, as if the ground had been roughly tacked on to the earth by a careless seamstress. Stop-start music emanated from one part of the school and Lorraine scanned the rows of steamed-up windows hoping it was the nativity play rehearsals, which would lead them to Zoe Harper without too much fuss.

  As they walked across the playground to the entrance marked Reception/All Visitors, Lorraine felt overly conspic-uous in her dark tweed jacket, yet somehow not as misplaced as Adam appeared in his long black overcoat as it swept behind him. Neither of them looked as if they were there on school business.

  ‘Detective Inspectors Scott and Fisher,’ Adam said gruffly to the school receptionist. She was young and immediately became nervous in their presence. No one liked to see the police in a school, not unless they’d come to give a talk to the youngsters on road safety or community crime prevention, and that didn’t fall within their remit.

  ‘Oh,’ the receptionist said, her fingers still poised over the keyboard.

  ‘We’re here to talk to a woman who’s helping out here today. Her name’s Zoe Harper.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said again. This time she managed to take a visitors’ book off the shelf on the open glass window that separated her from the school foyer. She scanned down the list of names signed in for the day’s date and eventually looked up. ‘Yes, she’s in class 1B doing donkey stuffing,’ the young woman said, taking off a pair of glasses. Her eyes suddenly appeared much smaller. She said ‘donkey stuffing’ as if it was a known activity, and the detectives should respect its importance and not interrupt her.

  ‘Where would we find class 1B?’ Lorraine asked.

  ‘Oh.’ It seemed everything was preceded by this single syllable. ‘Across the playground and over to the art and music block. Go in the main door and it’s down the corridor and second on the left. You’ll need to sign in and take this swipe pass.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Lorraine said, doing as she was instructed. A minute later they were walking down an empty corridor to the smell of powder paint and the sound of ‘Oh Little Town of Bethlehem’ ringing out of a classroom.

  ‘Does it take you back?’ Lorraine asked, peering in through the glass square in the door. About thirty children sat cross-legged on the floor. Some held tambourines while others dangled triangles. One or two children were picking their noses or biting their nails, staring out of the window or, now, at the strange face that had appeared at their classroom door. A dark-haired teacher struck up on the piano again, nodding her head at the disinterested bunch of children in her care.

  Lorraine and Adam walked on and arrived at class 1B. Through the window in the door, the room looked empty at first until Lorraine spotted a group of three women crouched in a corner wrestling a grotesque-looking creature with four gangly legs sticking in the air.

  As soon as they went in the women turned, and Lorraine immediately recognised one of them to be the nanny she’d spoken to briefly at the St Hilda’s Road address. She coloured scarlet at the sight of them.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt your festive activities, ladies,’ Adam boomed more enthusiastically than was necessary, glaring at the nanny.

  He’s over-compensating for something, Lorraine thought, although she had no idea what. It was a voice he usually reserved for raids or serious situations that demanded instant clarity and understanding. Three women man-handling a . . . oh God, what was it? . . . was hardly cause for an approach like that.

  ‘We’re Detective Inspectors Fisher and Scott,’ Lorraine said, putting her name first for a change. She flashed her ID. ‘Miss Harper?’ she said to the youngest of the women. ‘So sorry to bother you when you’re clearly . . .’ Lorraine glanced at the mess on the floor and the reams of fake donkey skin and hoof that lay in a road-acc
ident-style arrangement at their feet. ‘We just want to have a quick word with you if we could.’

  Zoe Harper straightened up. She was ankle deep in foam stuffing. Clumps of the fibres were clinging on to the baggy grey cardigan she wore over skinny black jeans. She brushed off her hands, which were daubed with brown paint, no doubt from painting the creature’s cardboard head that lay gawping up at the snowflake-bedecked ceiling. ‘I know, horrid, isn’t it?’ she said with a cheerful laugh. Rather over-zealous, too, Lorraine thought. ‘The kids are going to have nightmares for ever.’ The other two women laughed.

  ‘Is there somewhere we could talk privately? We have one or two quick questions to ask you.’

  Lorraine stared hard at Zoe Harper. What was it about her that stirred her curiosity? Was it the cropped blonde hair, jagged at the edges and darker at the roots, or the vibrant blue eyes that flicked about nervously between her and Adam; or was it the slight yet muscular body, or the practical lace-up worker boots that looked like something a man would wear rather than the nanny of a well-to-do family? No, it was something else. Something caught in the periphery of her consciousness, yet it was screaming out a warning to her. She still had no idea what it was.

  ‘You can go in the staff room,’ one of the other women suggested, clearly trying not to sound interested in what was going on. Lorraine assumed her to be a teacher. ‘It’ll be quiet until the bell rings in fifteen minutes,’ she added.

  Zoe Harper tentatively led the way to the empty room, and they sat in low chairs around a coffee table piled with Rich Tea biscuits and custard creams. Half a dozen dirty coffee cups littered the table along with copies of the Daily Mail and heat magazine.

  ‘You were at the house the other day, weren’t you?’ Zoe said to Lorraine while picking at her short fingernails.

  ‘I was indeed.’

  ‘My colleague here was talking to your employer about someone she’s been working with. Someone who was brutally attacked, actually.’ Adam’s voice was still booming and inappropriate. Lorraine had no idea what had got into him.

  Zoe coloured raspberry again and stared at her feet as if she’d rather be anywhere else than there, talking to them.

  ‘We wondered if you know anyone called Heather Paige,’ Lorraine said. ‘We would like to talk to her and have reason to believe she’s been at your employer’s address.’

  Zoe looked up, finding some confidence from somewhere. ‘Sorry, never heard of her.’

  ‘Heather Paige’s partner gave us the address so we’re pretty certain she’s been there. Can you think very hard if there have been any visitors in the last few days?’

  ‘Her partner?’ A small frown formed then disappeared just as quickly. ‘Not while I’ve been there,’ Zoe replied. ‘Only Jan, the cleaner, and Claudia’s friend Pip, plus a couple of deliveries, the plumber and . . .’ She was about to say something else but stopped. ‘Sorry I can’t help you more than that.’

  ‘Do you know anyone called Cecelia Paige?’ Lorraine asked.

  Zoe pulled a surprised face. ‘Nope. Sorry.’ Then the raspberry again.

  ‘Not a very good liar, are you, Miss Harper?’ Lorraine said wearily.

  ‘I don’t think you’re in a position to judge that,’ Zoe snapped back at them both.

  ‘Your ring,’ Lorraine continued, noticing the flash of it as Zoe brought her hand to her face. She flicked at an errant tuft of hair. At the mention of it, Zoe tucked her hand back on her lap. ‘It’s very unusual.’

  ‘It was a present,’ she said.

  ‘Who from?’ Lorraine asked.

  Zoe shrugged. ‘A friend.’

  ‘It must have been a very special friend to buy a present like that for you. Those are expensive.’

  ‘Look, I don’t know, I’m afraid,’ Zoe said. ‘Was that all you wanted to ask me? I should be helping with the donkey.’

  ‘Do you know anyone called Carla Davis?’ Lorraine asked.

  ‘We should go,’ Adam said quietly. He was fidgeting.

  What the hell was wrong with him? Lorraine wondered.

  ‘Sorry, no,’ Zoe said.

  ‘Or Sally-Ann Frith?’

  This was going nowhere, although she, and supposedly Adam, could tell that Zoe Harper was hiding something. Or perhaps it was just what Claudia Morgan-Brown had said about her nanny and the dead girl’s file that was influencing their thoughts. She tried to remain impartial, but it was hard, no thanks to Adam’s weird behaviour. She decided that was unsettling her more than anything.

  ‘No, sorry. I’d tell you if I did.’

  ‘So maybe you’d like to explain why you had a photograph of Carla Davis’s confidential details on your camera?’ Lorraine said. She wondered if Adam was actually going to bring any of this up. As far as she could tell, all he wanted to do was leave.

  Zoe pulled a face. ‘I have no idea,’ she said convincingly. ‘I’ve certainly never taken pictures of any file. Last thing I remember photographing was when I took the twins to the park. I thought I’d shoot some video for their mum to watch. It’s what nannies do.’

  ‘We’re going to need to take the camera in for a look, I’m afraid,’ Lorraine stated sympathetically.

  Zoe shrugged. ‘Fine. It’s in my room at the Morgan-Browns’ house. Help yourselves.’

  ‘Adam?’ Lorraine hoped a prompt might get him to ask something expedient.

  ‘Are you sure you didn’t photograph Carla Davis’s personal information?’ he said uselessly.

  ‘I am certain, DI Scott,’ Zoe said. ‘Why would I do something like that? I’m a nanny.’

  ‘No one implied you were anything else,’ Adam said thoughtfully.

  *

  ‘How did she know your name?’ Lorraine asked. She hugged her jacket around her and pulled her scarf up over her ears, determined not to let Adam know she was freezing. The last thing she wanted was him offering her his overcoat. Not that there was much chance he’d do that. Any last remnants of chivalry had long been gobbled up by the marriage-eating monster.

  ‘Because you told it to her, stupid.’ Adam gulped his coffee greedily.

  ‘No. I told her both our names. She assumed which was which.’ Lorraine took Adam’s paper cup and chucked it into a bin as they walked past. ‘Don’t know what’s got into you, Adam Scott. You know you can’t take caffeine.’

  ‘Then it must have been a lucky guess.’

  ‘I suppose,’ Lorraine said, though she didn’t believe that for one minute. There was something more astute about Zoe Harper than that, as if she’d been interviewing the pair of them, not the other way around.

  They’d wasted no time in flicking through the pictures on the camera that Zoe had willingly handed over when they took her back to the house on St Hilda’s Road to fetch it. As she’d already told them, there was nothing more incriminating on it than a few pictures of the twins in a ball pit, and a badly shot video of a sibling fight taking place on the swings.

  ‘Forensics can still take a look,’ Lorraine had said, bagging the item. ‘They might dig up something.’

  Adam had agreed.

  ‘Hurry up, I’m freezing,’ Lorraine said. She could tell Adam was deep in thought about something, she just wished he’d do it in the car with the heater on. ‘By the way, about that ring Zoe was wearing. I recognised it.’

  He glanced sideways at her as they strode along the pavement. ‘It looked a bit tasteless if you ask me.’

  ‘I wasn’t asking you what you thought of it. It’s incredibly similar to the ones Cecelia Paige makes. Unmistakably so, in fact. I saw lots of her work when I went to her flat. It was like a magpie’s nest or Aladdin’s cave. Stuffed full of . . . crap, basically, apart from this amazing jewellery that she makes. She might seem a bit unhinged but she’s really talented.’

  ‘So you think Zoe does know Cecelia then?’

  ‘I’m certain of it.’ Lorraine got into the car. She’d never felt so cold.

  ‘Me too,’ Adam said, getting in the driver’s side
. Lorraine wondered why he sounded so dejected about the revelation.

  ‘Which means?’ Lorraine said, wanting Adam to offer up his thoughts first. When he didn’t, she continued, ‘If you ask me, Zoe Harper’s not quite who she says she is.’ Lorraine pulled off her gloves and took out her phone. She was going to get some checks done. ‘And if you asked me again, I’d put my money on Zoe Harper being Heather Paige.’

  38

  EVERY TIME I lost a pregnancy, a little part of me died too. I don’t think Martin ever understood this, or my friends, or the obstetricians and the nurses who picked up the immediate pieces of my life. Three times I’ve given birth to a stillborn foetus, and I’ve pretty much given up counting the number of times that a tiny life has dribbled into my underwear.

  All in all, it’s made me feel like an unworthy shell of a woman over the years, a freak incapable of carrying a live baby full term; and, after so much internal anguish and pain, I came to the conclusion that it was a conspiracy, an unwritten warning emblazoned on my soul to all potential sons and daughters: stay away from this woman. She is not a good mother.

  I was in Debenhams. I’d gone to get a few items for the twins and a dress for me. James and I had been invited to a christening, and I had nothing suitable to wear. The thought of spending a morning in church while everyone cooed over someone else’s baby was abhorrent, but James and the father had been friends since their schooldays so I knew I would have to go. I tried not to be affected by other people’s good fortune and their perfect families, but the plain fact was, jealousy stuck in my craw like a bowlful of mud shoved down my throat.

  I found new sweaters and trainers for the boys no problem. They were at playgroup for the morning so I’d taken the opportunity to dash out to the shops. Besides, it was part distraction therapy. The day before, my period had come. Once again, I wasn’t going to be a mother. I was a couple of weeks late and my breathless hope had been shattered. Something deep inside me told me it was more than my regular monthly cycle, that I had indeed conceived James’s baby before he’d gone off on a short mission, and now it had spontaneously aborted, I’d not be able to welcome him home with a tiny pair of baby bootees placed on his pillow as I’d planned.