by Tess Stimson
chapter 64
quinn
No one else makes the connection, but Quinn does.
A logo on a sweatshirt.
A child missing in Devon.
I’ve found her. I know where she is. I’m looking at her house right now.
‘What the fuck have you done, Alex?’ Quinn mutters, as the woman’s phone goes straight to voicemail yet again.
She leaves another message and shoves her phone into her jeans pocket. She’d love nothing more than to climb back into a bottle of Jack, but that’s not going to help her find Alexa and Lottie Martini. That’s not going to give her resolution on this motherfucking, screwed-up, bastard of a story. She’s got to see it through to the end and fuck the consequences.
Quinn might as well admit it: it’s not just about the story. She’s got a raging crush on Alexa Martini. The woman is difficult and damaged and fucking fixated on getting to the truth, and that’s enough to hook Quinn right there. Alexa’s been subjected to the kind of character assassination no man in her place would ever have had to endure and she just keeps right on going, unbroken and undaunted, sticking up two fingers to the world: You are the trailer park. I am the tornado.
Quinn throws the empty whiskey bottles into the recycling bin and cleans up the puddles of vomit on the sofa and beside her bed. She grimaces as she scrubs at the stains. Jesus, she really knocked it out of the park this time.
When she’s done, she makes herself a bowl of porridge – the only food in her flat – and grinds the last of her Panamanian beans. She sits back down at her computer, awkwardly cupping her good hand around her coffee as she thinks it through.
She has no idea if Alexa Martini has actually found her long-lost daughter or if she’s out-of-her-head crazy and has grabbed an innocent kid off the street. The photo of the missing child is similar enough to Lottie that it could be her, but it’s hard to be sure: the most recent pictures of Lottie are two years out of date now, and kids this young change so quickly. But right now, it doesn’t really matter. Clearly Alexa believes she’s found Lottie. She’s a smart woman. She must have a plan. She knows she can’t hide out forever, so what’s her endgame?
Quinn kicks herself for the umpteenth time for not answering the phone six days ago when Alexa called. She might have been able to talk her out of this. Or at least been part of the story, instead of playing catch-up. Alexa could be anywhere by now, though Quinn bets she’s probably still in the country.
Where would you go if you were on the run with a young child?
Quinn puts her coffee down. She’s looking at this from the wrong angle. Trying to find the particular hotel or B&B where Alexa has holed up is akin to looking for a needle in a haystack of needles. She’s learned from experience that tracking someone down is like playing tennis: you aim not for where the ball is, but where it will be.
If Quinn were in Alexa’s shoes, she’d want incontrovertible, DNA proof from a trusted testing centre if she was going to pull a stunt like this.
Find the lab and she’ll find Alexa.
There are only a dozen reputable, government-accredited DNA test centres in the UK. It’s a slow, tedious trawl, but this is the kind of tradecraft Quinn specialises in. It takes her three days and costs her £500 in backhanders to underpaid record clerks, but eventually she hits the jackpot.
Like everything else about this story, it comes with a twist that’s even more fucked-up than she could’ve imagined.
chapter 65
alex
At first, Lottie thinks it’s an adventure. She’s excited when I tell her we’re going to play a game and hide from everybody until my special surprise for her is ready. I say we need to cut her beautiful, distinctive blonde hair and, instead of objecting, she asks me if she can do it herself. I hand her the scissors and she hacks off a huge hunk and flings it on the floor, laughing.
‘When are we going to see the surprise?’ she asks.
‘Soon,’ I tell her.
My plan was to stay at the hotel for a few days and then explain to Lottie who I really am, and take her home with me.
But to my shock, the woman who calls herself Lottie’s mother does go to the police. Her name is Helen Birch, and she says she adopted Lottie – she calls her Flora – from Poland two years ago, when the little girl was four.
I don’t know if she’s lying or if somehow my daughter was traded to an intermediary and Helen Birch is a victim, just as I am.
This changes everything. Even though I knew it might happen in theory, I never really thought it’d come to this.
The enormity of what I’ve done hits home for the first time. As far as the world’s concerned, I’ve kidnapped an innocent child from her mother. I’ve become the monster of my own nightmares. I can’t take Lottie home now until I can prove, beyond doubt, that she’s my daughter.
I go online and select a DNA testing centre accredited by the Ministry of Justice, which follows strict procedures to maintain chain of custody, meaning its results are court-approved and accepted by family law courts.
I bag up the toothbrush I bought Lottie, along with my own, and post them to the centre, using Jack’s office as the return address. Because of a backlog, it’ll take two weeks to get the results, but I want them in the public domain. It’s the only way I can show I’m telling the truth.
I follow every development in the story obsessively, waiting till Lottie’s asleep before going online and trawling through news sites and social media. The police parade Helen Birch on television, and she doesn’t come across well. It doesn’t take long for the press to turn on her, just as they did me.
A part of me feels sorry for her. I know what it’s like to blame yourself. I know what it’s like to tell yourself you only took your eyes off your child for a second, that it could’ve happened to anyone, even though you know it isn’t true. It didn’t happen to anyone, it happened to you, because you looked away.
But it’s not all plain sailing my end, either. As the novelty of our adventure wears off, Lottie starts to chafe against my rules, even though I explain they’re for her own good. I don’t risk taking her out in public, except when I’m forced to get food. She’s more of a handful than I expected and I find it harder to bond with her than I’d hoped. Stressed and confused, I lose my patience with her quite quickly.
‘Where’s my mummy?’ she demands, with increasing frequency.
My heart cracks open. I know it’s too early, that she’s not yet ready for me to tell her the truth, but in the end I can’t help myself.
‘I’m your mummy,’ I say.
She flies into a rage, kicking and biting. My legs are soon covered with bruises and I give her my iPad to placate her. She plugs herself into YouTube and watches Minecraft videos for hours on end. She never used to like watching TV; she always had too much energy to sit still for anything.
It makes me realise anew how much I’ve missed, how much has been stolen from me. The child I knew has gone. This girl is like a stranger to me.
None of this is going the way I thought it would. I expected Lottie to be upset at first, but surely she realises by now I’m doing this for her? I know it’s foolish to expect her to remember me, but it hurts she can’t see how much I love her.
Her precious ‘mummy’ wasn’t any kind of real mother to her. I watched them together for several days before I finally made my move. Helen Birch didn’t pay any attention to Lottie, letting her play on the beach alone for hours at a time. I doubt she even misses her now she’s gone.
Whereas I’ve proven my devotion. I’ve risked everything for her.
But Lottie doesn’t make it easy. She’s sulky and rude, and throws a tantrum whenever she doesn’t get her own way. She behaves like the three-year-old toddler she was when she was taken from me, rather than like a child of nearly six, and I wonder if, by taking her, I’ve caused her to regress. She seems well-cared-for, but I’ve no idea what she’s been through in the last two years. And we’re both suffering from cab
in fever, trapped within the same four walls day after day.
So I try to make allowances, but when I give an inch, she demands a mile. I feel as if I’m failing her all over again. I’ve never been a hands-on mother before; Luca was the one who looked after Lottie. I’m building the plane as it flies.
I realise now I’ve constructed a rose-tinted view of my daughter, which is running up against hard reality. I tell myself this is good. This is what mothering is all about and I’m not going to run away from it this time.
Jack and Quinn keep calling, but I let my phone go to voicemail. They’re both smart enough to have made the connection between me and a missing child from South Weald. I’m gambling on their loyalty – to me, to the story – to stop them from going to the police until I’ve had a chance to explain myself. I need to keep them at bay for a while yet.
But I’m staying in constant touch with Dad. He wants me home, but I’ve told him I need some time on my own to process Mum’s death. Harriet’s with him; it’s about time she pulled her weight. He’s insisted on an autopsy, because he still refuses to accept there was nothing that could be done to save Mum, and while this breaks my heart, it buys me time, because a funeral can’t be held until it’s done. Lottie and I will be back home before then, once the fuss dies down and I have the DNA results.
But the fuss doesn’t die down.
Flora Birch’s name is on everyone’s lips. I see her photograph everywhere. I move us to a B&B in a rundown part of Barnstaple and pay cash in hand. Our room smells damp and musty, and Lottie complains the sheets feel slimy. She’s fractious and complaining, and constantly, constantly hungry.
I realise I’ve made a mistake: we stand out like sore thumbs in this sketchy part of town, with our clean hair and white faces. We need to blend in with people who look like us.
We drive north to Manchester and I check into a smart hotel in Didsbury. No one gives us a second glance but Lottie is restless and bored, cooped up inside all the time. I take her on a few day trips around the city, risking the crowds and anonymity of the train, but it’s not enough. If we’re going to make this work, she needs to be outside every day, somewhere she can run around and play. She’s starting to look peaky.
So I take her to Anglesey and rent a cottage near Traeth Mawr, on the coast in the middle of nowhere, paying three months upfront in cash. The skinny kid at the lettings agent doesn’t even ask for ID. He’s too busy counting bank notes.
Lottie seems a little happier here, but it’s been too long since she had playmates. She requires constant attention, constant entertainment. I worry she’s been irrevocably damaged by everything that’s happened to her.
I worry I’ve made everything worse.
After ten days together, she’s finally grown used to me – she even calls me Mummy. But there’s a fear in her eyes, a wariness, no child should have. Something’s wrong between us and, despite my best efforts, it grows with every passing day. I want to show her I trust her so I let her play on the beach below our cottage without me, and sometimes I take her to a café in the village where she makes friends with the owner’s dog.
But then one day a woman stares at us a little too hard in the café, and I’m sure I see her watching us again later, when we’re walking back home.
I decide we’ll drive to Scotland in the morning. I know Edinburgh well; it’ll be easy to lose ourselves there. It’s only another week or so until the DNA results come back. Then Quinn can run the story and it’ll be safe for me to bring Lottie home. No one will take my child from me again.
But the next morning, Lottie’s running a temperature. She’s tired and listless, clearly too sick to travel. She needs rest and sleep and plenty of liquids. We can leave in a day or two, when she’s feeling better.
Except she doesn’t get better. She gets worse.
two years and thirty-five days missing
chapter 66
alex
When Lottie tells me she loves me, it’s like a bucket of iced water has been flung over me, sobering me in an instant.
What does it matter if I’m arrested? I’d rather the court returns Lottie to Helen Birch and lose her forever than have anything happen to her. It doesn’t matter if they fling me in jail. Saving my daughter is all that matters.
We’re less than forty minutes from the hospital at Bangor, but it’s the longest forty minutes of my life.
I can’t believe how quickly Lottie deteriorates. She’s been listless and running a temperature for several days, but in just the last hour her fever has rocketed to 41°C. As I buckle her into the car, she vomits a dark, seaweed-green bile that fills me with terror. Her pallid skin has an unhealthy sheen to it, giving her an eerie luminescence, and her cropped blonde hair is plastered to her skull with sweat. She can’t bear the brightness of daylight, so I cocoon her in a blanket and drive as fast as I dare.
What was I thinking, feeding her out-of-date penicillin and crushed paracetamol? She needs expert care – specialised antibiotics, intravenous fluids, oxygen, steroids – not tepid baths! I should never have left it this long to seek help. I know about meningitis; a child at Lottie’s playgroup nearly died from it. One of the teachers recognised the signs and called an ambulance; her quick thinking saved the little boy’s life, but sepsis ravaged his small body and cost him both his feet. If my delay robs Lottie of her limbs, if anything happens to her, God forbid, I’ll never be able to forgive myself.
I’m just minutes away from the hospital when I check on Lottie in the rear-view mirror and see her suddenly go rigid, her body stiffening like a marionette. Then she starts to convulse, thrashing against the confines of the car. I realise she’s having a seizure.
Every second counts now.
I pull out into the oncoming lane, my hand on the horn, my foot to the floor. My urgency must convey itself: cars pull onto the hard shoulder in both directions, letting me through. I drive straight up to the ambulance bay outside A&E, ignoring the yellow cross-hatching telling me not to park there, and leap out, yanking open the door to the back seat.
‘My daughter’s having a seizure!’ I shout, as a paramedic climbs out of a stationary ambulance parked nearby and runs towards me.
I unbuckle Lottie and lift her out. I’m shocked by how light she suddenly seems.
‘I think it’s meningitis,’ I say, panic making me breathless. ‘Her temperature’s forty-one degrees and she’s got this strange purple rash all over her chest.’
The paramedic pulls up the sleeve of her sweatshirt. ‘It’s spread to her arms,’ he says. Even as we look, more dots appear on the insides of her wrists, the rash spreading literally before our eyes.
‘She’s burning up,’ the paramedic says, scooping her out of my arms. ‘You did the right thing bringing her in so quickly.’
He’s already striding into A&E and I jog to keep pace alongside him. Lottie’s limp in his arms, her eyes rolling to the back of her head. There’s a sudden storm of activity as medical personnel in scrubs converge on us from all directions. The paramedic transfers Lottie to a trolley and a doctor is already tapping the inside of her forearm to insert an IV line as she’s whisked away along a corridor and through a pair of sliding doors.
I try to go after her, but the paramedic puts a detaining hand on my shoulder.
‘Can’t go back there, love,’ he says. ‘Try not to worry. She’s in good hands. The best there is. Someone will take you through to her as soon as she’s stable.’
As he returns to the ambulance bay, the doors swoosh open again and a nurse in primrose-yellow scrubs appears, holding a computer tablet. ‘Are you Mum?’
‘Yes. Is she going to be OK?’
‘She’s in excellent hands.’ The nurse pecks at her screen. ‘I just need to take some details. What’s your daughter’s name?’
I hesitate only briefly. ‘Charlotte. Lottie.’
‘Last name?’
There’s a sudden commotion behind us: shouts for help, crying, running feet.
&
nbsp; The sound of glass breaking, of chairs being overturned.
A fight has broken out in the waiting room. Two men in their early twenties are aggressively squaring off, both already bleeding from split lips and broken noses. Each is backed by a cluster of two or three friends, some nursing injuries of their own, all yelling abuse and encouragement. A couple of young women wearing identikit gold hoop earrings, high heels and toothpick jeans are ineffectually trying to calm them down.
A deafening alarm suddenly blares, cutting off all conversation. Two burly security guards wade into the fracas, forcibly separating the lads from each other.
‘Sorry about that,’ the nurse shouts, over the din. ‘Security alarm. Happens all the time. Can you tell me your daughter’s last name again?’
I could lie. Use the name and birth date on her false ID, fabricate a home address. In this chaos, maybe it’d go unnoticed. For now. But sooner or later, the hospital will discover the child with the fictional name I’ve given them has no medical records, and that there’s no National Insurance number attached to her date of birth. I’m tired of running. Lottie’s my daughter. The DNA test will prove that. Why should I have to hide it?
The alarm stops abruptly.
‘Martini,’ I say, my voice loud in the sudden silence.
The nurse doesn’t even look up. If Lottie’s name means anything to her, she gives no sign. ‘Any allergies?’ she asks. ‘Penicillin, anything like that?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘No allergies.’
She asks for details of Lottie’s vaccinations, how long she’s been sick, when she last ate. Has she visited a farm in the last two weeks? Been exposed to any chemicals? Travelled to sub-Saharan Africa?
I answer every question, trying to conceal my mounting frustration.
‘When can I see my daughter?’ I say, finally.
‘The doctor will come through and update you soon.’
Order has finally been restored in the waiting room and the two young men are now sitting on opposite sides of it, glowering at each other. I take a seat as the nurse suggests, but I’m soon back on my feet again, pacing the corridor. My little girl is fighting for her life in there and I’ve no idea what’s going on.