by T. M. Logan
‘It was like being in Charlie’s Angels,’ she says, clearly still buzzing with the thrill of the chase. ‘Almost lost you when you were speeding but it turns out I’m really good at following people. Discreet.’
‘Apart from that last bit, with the squealing tyres.’
‘Sorry about that. I lost you on the high street then had to check every single floor of the car park. When I realised he’d got you on the top floor I freaked out a little bit. God, I was worried about you, and when I saw—’
‘Listen,’ I say, ‘you need to do something for me right now, I will tell you why in a minute. You need to call Noah’s school, and the nursery.’
The smile slides off her face, muscles slackening in alarm.
‘Why?’
‘Just do it, just check they’re all OK.’
‘You’re scaring me, Ellen,’ she says, blinking fast. ‘What’s happened, what are you talking about?’
‘Just to be safe. Call them.’ I put a hand on her arm. ‘Do it now.’
She’s torn between asking me more questions and making the calls. But after a moment she turns away from me, dials a number and puts the phone to her ear. I watch her talking urgently, waiting, pacing the concrete deck as the wind whips around us. Then she’s nodding, but I can’t quite hear what she’s saying. I hate myself for giving my friend this scare and I hate that everything seems to be spinning out of control, but I can’t ignore the threat.
When she turns back to me, her face is pale. She wraps her arms around herself.
‘They’re fine,’ she says quietly. ‘Noah’s about to go into lunch, Lucas and Charlie are having outdoor play. They’re all fine. What’s going on, Ellen? Should we call the police? Are they in danger?’
I explain to her what Dominic said to me, that he knew her boys’ names and where I was staying.
‘Then we should tell DI Gilbourne,’ she says. ‘You’ve got to report this, he’ll know what to—’
‘No,’ I say quickly, Dominic’s angry words still ringing in my head. ‘Not yet.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’m not sure who we can trust right now. Let’s just get back first, pick your boys up and take them home.’
Tara’s eyes are wide, phone still clutched in her hand as if she’s expecting it to ring at any moment. She looks at her watch.
‘Does this guy know where the school is? The nursery? Oh my God, was he the one who abducted you, the one with the gun?’ When she sees me nod, she adds, ‘We should definitely call someone.’
‘I’ll do it,’ I say. ‘I’ll speak to them. But let’s get out of here.’
‘I’ll pick up Lucas and Charlie first.’ She moves towards her car. ‘Then Noah.’
‘Come on,’ I say, reaching for my car keys. ‘Let’s go together.’
*
I dial Gilbourne on the hands-free as we’re driving back but get his voicemail. I remember the look of concern in the detective’s eyes last night and it occurs to me that he will probably be upset with me for going to the meeting on my own. Or for going at all. I also remember the fresh, clean smell of his aftershave, the way it felt when his hand was on my arm. The warmth of his touch.
I shake the thoughts away and concentrate on keeping up with Tara as she weaves in and out of traffic on the way to the boys’ nursery.
Little Charlie has to be roused from his post-lunch nap when we finally get there. As Tara carries him out he flops like an exhausted baby monkey, his head against her shoulder, unaware of any break in the normal routine. Lucas is delighted to be picked up from nursery early and even lets me hold his hand as we walk out to the car park. We make the five-minute drive to Noah’s infant school in three minutes and park up on the street next to the playground. Tara doesn’t want to let go of Charlie or leave him in the car for even a second, and he’s happy to be carried over to the tall slatted steel fence that separates the pupils from the outside world. Lucas wants to see as well so I lift him up onto my hip. He’s only four but he’s surprisingly chunky, nothing like the featherweight of having Mia nestled in the crook of my arm. The thought of her gives me a lurch of fear, the sense that she is somewhere out there, still vulnerable, exposed to a violent world. Unprotected from someone who wishes her harm.
Lucas gives me a shy smile as I hoist him up and we all look into the playground filled with sturdy outdoor play equipment and a couple of hundred small children wearing coats over forest green jumpers, with dark grey trousers and skirts. The sun has come out and the crisp autumn air is full of the excited shouts and squeals of young voices, an excited hubbub of sound as if everyone’s trying to be heard above everyone else.
‘Are we looking for Noah?’ Lucas says.
‘Yes, can you see him?’
‘Has he been bad? Is he in trouble?’
‘No.’ I manage a smile. ‘He’s not been bad.’
The three of us scan the playground, children running and playing, weaving in and out, jumping and stepping over complicated shapes and numbers painted onto the tarmac. A handful of adults on patrol amid the throng of small people. A couple of times I think I spot Noah’s red coat but it’s not him. I can’t see him anywhere.
A block of dread is growing in my chest, a solid mass expanding with every second that I scan the playground. Trying to process it, to figure out how this can have happened if we drove straight here? How can Dominic have got here before us? What did he do?
Because Noah is not here.
44
A voice in my head whispers: this is your fault.
‘Where is he, Ellen?’ An edge of panic is creeping into Tara’s voice. ‘I called the school literally half an hour ago, why isn’t he out here? He should be here.’
‘Maybe he’s inside?’
She shakes her head.
‘Not on a day like this, when the sun’s out. I’m going to find a teacher,’ Tara says, hurrying away towards the school’s front entrance. ‘Call the police, Ellen, we need to—’
‘There.’ Lucas points over to the far side of the playground, into the furthest corner. ‘Over there, look.’
We both turn to see where his little finger is pointing. Two small figures sitting on a white-painted log near the kitchen block. Noah with his friend Rakim. They appear to be playing some kind of card game, two small bespectacled boys facing each other, laying cards in the space between them. Relief floods through me like a shot of morphine.
‘Your eyes are better than mine, Lucas,’ I say. ‘You’ve got eagle eyes.’
He grins up at me, pleased to be the one to spot his brother first. Tara hurries back to the fence, not satisfied until she’s laid eyes on her oldest son herself. She turns to me, her face still white with fear, and I can tell she doesn’t want to frighten the younger boys.
‘I could say he’s got a doctor’s appointment,’ she says quietly.
‘Looks like he’s OK,’ I say. ‘He’s safe here, isn’t he?’
Lucas says: ‘Has Noah got to go to the doctor’s, mummy?’
‘Shush a minute, darling.’ Tara stares for a moment longer, studying her son as he plays, checking the side gates, studying the adults in the playground, teachers and lunch-time supervisors on patrol. The familiar faces of people she knows, people she has chatted to at parents’ evenings, in the supermarket or on the street. Everything seems to be as it should be. ‘We’ll pick Noah up at normal time,’ she says finally. ‘Hey, who wants strawberry milkshake when we get home?’
When we get back to her house, she makes drinks for the two younger boys, and I sit making Lego spaceships with Lucas while Charlie plays a complicated toddler game with various teddies, action men and uncannily real-looking dolls unloaded from a box in the corner of the lounge, burbling to himself all the while. I can’t stop thinking about Mia, what she’ll be like when she’s their age. Wondering whether she will be serious like Noah, competitive like Lucas or a little comedian like Charlie. Wondering whether she will even have that chance.
<
br /> Dominic’s chilling words won’t leave me alone.
There’s someone out there who will kill her. Who will make her disappear.
I stay with the boys while Tara collects Noah from school. When they return, I go upstairs to the spare bedroom and call Gilbourne again but his phone is still going straight to voicemail. Dizzy is curled up on one of my jumpers at the end of the bed, one eye opening as I sit down next to him. The sound of the TV in the lounge floats up the stairs and a few minutes later Tara appears in the doorway, a cup of tea in each hand. I’m just about finished packing the few clothes that I have into my overnight bag.
‘What are you doing?’ she says.
I take one of the teas from her, steam curling from the mug.
‘I need to go, Tara.’
‘Where? What are you talking about?’
‘It’s not right, me staying here. I’m putting you and your family in danger. I shouldn’t have come,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘There’s nothing to be sorry for.’
‘I hadn’t realised before, but I can see it now.’
‘But . . . your house is still a mess, isn’t it? I thought they wanted you to leave it until they could check for fingerprints or whatever?’
‘I’m going to a hotel for a few days. I know Noah was OK earlier but just the thought of him, you know, of something happening to him . . . I couldn’t bear it.’
She nods, pulls me into a hug.
‘Dave’s on his way back from work early,’ she says. ‘I’m glad it’s the weekend. I might keep them off school and nursery next week. Keep them here with me.’
‘I’ll tell the inspector what Dominic said today, maybe they can send someone to keep an eye on the house, get a patrol car to drive by or something.’
‘How long will you be in the hotel?’
‘Just for a few days I think, until the house is sorted out.’ I want to say until this is over. ‘Until . . . everything is back to normal.’
She releases me from the hug but keeps her hands on my shoulders.
‘Are you sure about this? I don’t think you should be on your own, Ellen.’
‘It’s only a mile down the road. Not far.’
‘I’m worried about you.’
‘It’ll be all right. The boys have to be your priority.’
I put my jacket on and carry my bags downstairs into the hall, retrieving the cat box from the cupboard under the stairs and whistling for Dizzy. It’s nearly food time so it’s only a moment before his little face appears at the top of the stairs and he begins descending, keeping a cautious eye on the nearest small boy as he gets to the bottom.
‘Where are you going with the cat box?’ Tara says.
‘I need to take this young man to the cattery.’
‘Rubbish, he can stay with us. The boys love him, don’t you boys?’
Noah gives a double thumbs-up. ‘Can we keep him forever?’ he says.
‘Not forever, Noah,’ Tara says gently. ‘Just a few days.’
I give Dizzy a scratch on the top of his big solid head. ‘Be good,’ I say to him.
He blinks up at me, purring his deep rumbling purr. I crouch down to Tara’s eldest son.
‘Noah, I need you to do something for me, OK? I need you to look after Dizzy until I can take him back to my house. Make sure everyone is nice to him. Can you do that?’
‘Doesn’t he want to go with you?’
‘Yes, but I’m going to stay in a hotel for a few days, and cats aren’t allowed. I need someone to make sure he has two sachets of his food every day and a little dry food for lunch. Will you remind your mum to give him his lunch?’
‘OK.’
‘Promise?’
He nods solemnly, eyes wide behind his red and black Spiderman glasses. ‘Cross my heart,’ he traces a shape over his little chest, ‘and hope to die.’
‘Thank you, Noah. You’re a good boy.’
I kiss the top of his head and stand up. At the front door, Tara puts a hand on my arm, her face still full of concern.
‘Are you sure about this?’
‘It’s the way it has to be, Tara.’
‘Text me when you get settled in.’
‘Will do.’
‘Hey, I nearly forgot,’ Tara says, lowering her voice and checking that her boys are safely out of earshot. ‘While I was waiting at the school gates, I had a call back from my guy at the Daily Mail. Bit of a sleazebag but he’s got some good contacts in the Met. He was rather cryptic on the phone, said Kathryn Clifton’s sister had lifetime anonymity because of what happened to her. Does that make sense to you?’
‘Not sure. What else did he say?’
‘That he would deny ever having the conversation with me if I mentioned it to anyone else. But he said there was something I might want to see, promised he’d email a link through when he had a minute. Sounds interesting. I’ll forward the email to you when I get it.’
45
Leon
Leon counted only one camera at the entrance. Directly over the keypad where the intercom was housed in a small steel box, looking directly into the driver’s side window of any vehicle pulled up at the gate. Any serious system would cover multiple angles but this one was typical of the kind of thing installed on a house like this: mostly for show. It was an even bet, he thought, whether that single camera even worked. From his vantage point he had a partial view of the front of the house, and inspection through the telephoto lens had not revealed any further cameras over the front door.
The front gate was wrought iron – eight feet of curved metal topped with a row of spearpoints – set in concrete posts that formed part of the perimeter wall running around the entire property. The wall was visible on Google Maps but he’d checked it out anyway, walking the outer rim at dusk. It was in reasonably good repair without any obvious weak spots but there was one section at the back, well away from the road, where trees had grown up too close on both sides and a couple of oaks offered a way over.
He had always liked to climb.
There were a number of other weaknesses in the system. The gate opened via an infrared sensor activated by dashboard transmitters mounted in the three cars, the husband’s Range Rover, her Mercedes A-Class and the little Toyota that belonged to Mrs Kelsall, the help. There was also a coded keypad below the intercom and of course a remote gate release that could be activated from anywhere with a phone signal, via a security app. All three of them had the app on their phones, which was a mistake because it opened the whole system up to human frailty – in this case, a re-used password that almost made it too easy once he’d found his way into Mrs Kelsall’s mobile.
Any security system was only as strong as its weakest link.
So the gate itself was not a problem. The camera wouldn’t help them much. But that still left the dogs, which made it tricky for any approach on foot. Two Doberman Pinschers that roamed the grounds inside the eight-foot walls at night and most of the daytime, too. Leon hated animals. Hated them. And he hated dogs most of all, big, stupid bastards with their oily, greasy fur, their dripping saliva and foul, stinking breath.
That was why he was grateful to Detective Sergeant Holt; seeing him loitering around the house had given Leon an idea.
46
I go by my house for fresh clothes on the way to the hotel, filling a carrier bag with food, a pint of milk, some fruit, biscuits and energy bars. I step carefully around the mess in the kitchen, taking care not to touch any surfaces, pulling my sleeve over my hand to open the fridge. I’ve been told to leave things as they are until the police can come around to dust for fingerprints and look for other physical evidence.
The house seems both familiar and foreign, a place I used to know better than any other that now bears a permanent stain of intrusion. Another harsh lesson on top of the one I’ve already learned these last few years: what you yearn for, you cannot have. And what you have can be taken from you in an instant.
The Premier Inn is on the ed
ge of a small retail park off the north circular, a bland newbuild for business travellers and people on their way to or from somewhere more interesting. I check in with the bored twenty-something guy on reception and take my things up to a small, boxy room on the first floor. Purple and cream décor, a bed, a desk, a low table and an armchair by the window. Functional. Just the basics, nothing more.
I pull the heavy curtain open. The view is of a small windswept car park, two-thirds empty, chain-link fence backing onto a railway embankment. A white plastic bag circling, tossed around by the wind. The first spots of rain darkening the tarmac. First Tara’s house, now here, every step taking me further from what I know, further from home, from my routine, my life. But I can’t go back, not yet. I have to move forwards, push through and keep on going. Until Mia is safe. Until I’m sure she’s safe.
Unpacking my overnight bag, I lay out what I have on the double bed. Three changes of clothes, a second pair of shoes, phone, charger, a small toiletries bag, my handbag and its various contents. I check through the handbag, pull out the folded muslin cloth and hold it to my nose. Her scent is still there, that beautiful sweet baby smell that makes my chest ache. It’s fading though, and I wonder how much longer it will be before it’s gone for good.
I plug my phone in to charge and type ‘Prestwood Ash’ into Google Maps. The image zooms into south Buckinghamshire, a small collection of streets around a village green, not far from Little Missenden. I switch to satellite view and pinch the screen to zoom out. It’s surrounded by woods and fields, nestled deep in the heart of the Chiltern Hills. Forty minutes by car. Away from London, away from noise and traffic and people. But is it safe? Can it be safe if Dominic knows she’s there, if he’s already tried to get to her? Who else knows?
I need to speak to Dominic again, assuming he hasn’t switched to a new phone already. He told me he was going to dump it but I find the number for his burner phone anyway, the one he used earlier today, and spend a few minutes composing a text, something that might persuade him that he can trust me.
