by Alison James
‘Yes,’ the girl is saying, ‘I’m just on my way to see Charlie.’
Charlie is probably a boyfriend, Marian reasons. She’s decided she has no choice but to head back to the tube station. Lucy also appears to be catching the tube, so they continue walking the same way.
But at the intersection by the station, Lucy keeps going along Tufnell Park Road. Instinctively Marian continues to follow as she turns left and comes to a stop at a large council block; the sort that is now largely privately owned and has been smartened up a little. Lucy goes into the lobby and calls the lift. Pressing one of the top buttons, Marian notes.
Her need to empty her bladder is now extremely urgent. Reasoning that there is probably a toilet for the cleaning staff or caretaker, she goes into the building and through the door at the back of the lobby. To the right is the access to the emergency stairs, and next to that a locked door with a sign saying: ‘Private – staff only’. At the very end of the corridor is the fire door to the outside, and just before that, to the left, is an unmarked door. To Marian’s relief it contains a sluice with buckets, broom and mop, and a toilet.
On her way out of the building, something catches her eye as she passes the row of mailboxes. The postman has inserted mail haphazardly, and where the tenant hasn’t bothered to empty their box, letters and flyers are spilling out. Protruding from the box for flat 504 is a white, typed envelope. The name startles Marian so much that her heart jumps in her chest.
Miss C. S. Glynn
Marian rips open the envelope. It’s a promotional offer from a mobile phone provider.
Dear Charlotte…
Charlotte. Charlie. That must be the Charlie Lucy was referring to. Her younger sister. And if Tom is a father to three, and the youngest is a boy, then Charlotte can only be the baby he and Vanessa adopted when Lucy was a few years old.
The baby once known as Saffron.
But why on earth is she living here, away from her family, if she only turned seventeen a few months ago? It makes no sense. Marian flicks through the rest of the bunch of mail and finds what looks like a bill, addressed to a Mr Jake Palmer. Is that why she’s left home, to live with a boyfriend? She makes an involuntary scoffing noise in her throat. How typical of Tom and his laissez-faire attitude. She, Marian, would never have allowed Saffron to do that. Never.
The lift shaft clanks, and Marian darts back into the rear passage just before it arrives on the ground floor. When she emerges, she sees Lucy Glynn – or is she still Lucy Rowley? – leaving the building. She takes a few steps out of the passage, and presses the button marked 5.
‘Hello?’
The voice, heard before the door is fully opened, sounds annoyed.
The girl who eventually stands in front of her is of medium height, with light brown wavy hair worn very long, as teenagers do these days. The hair is similar to Lizzie Armitage’s, but Marian can see no further resemblance. The dark eyes and the olive skin must come from her birth father, who Marian remembers was of mixed heritage. She’s wearing far too much make-up, but she’s very pretty.
She’s Saffron.
Marian rehearsed what she was going to say while in the lift, but the reality of seeing her child in the flesh leaves her mouth dry. ‘Um…’
‘Can I help you?’ The enquiry is polite but impatient.
‘My name’s Angela Dixon. I’m from Haringey Council.’
Saffron doesn’t ask for her ID, which an adult would probably do. But she frowns. ‘I’m a bit busy.’
‘The thing is, we routinely follow up on all children under eighteen living apart from their parents. To assess—’
‘No offence, but I’m about to move back in with my parents anyway, so…’ She gives a pretty shrug.
‘May I ask when?’
‘This weekend. Sunday probably.’
Saffron steps back and opens the door wider, waving her hand in the direction of empty cardboard boxes. ‘I’m supposed to be packing, only my sister called round to see the baby and distracted me.’
The blood rushes from Marian’s face, and her fingers turn numb. ‘The baby?’
Only then does she notice the array of pink-themed cards on the windowsill: ‘Welcome to your baby girl’, ‘Congratulations, it’s a girl!’ At the centre of the open-plan living area is a little crib on a stand. A white-wrapped bundle. And Saffron’s own fluffy yellow duckling. The bundle emits a little sound. She flinches visibly.
Saffron. The memories flood her brain, making her almost giddy.
Baby Saffron. There she is, and she’s well, thriving.
She tries to step closer, but the girl blocks her path. ‘If you don’t mind, I really need to get on before she wakes for a feed.’
‘Of course… I’ll call back another time.’
‘No offence, but there’s really no need. I won’t be here from the day after tomorrow.’
Marian gives what she hopes is a reassuringly official nod, and turns to go, but only after she has craned her neck and caught the most tantalising glimpse of the infant’s sleeping face.
44
Charlie
At nine on Sunday morning, her father arrives in the family estate, which he manages to park directly in front of the building.
Charlie has been up several times in the night to feed and settle Bonnie, and is feeling lacklustre and heavy-footed.
‘Can’t we just have a coffee before we start?’ she wheedles. ‘I’ve been awake since five.’ The baby is in her arms, twisting her head restlessly in the quest for milk.
‘Sure,’ Tom says, ruffling her hair. ‘You get madam here fed and off to sleep and I’ll shoot to the coffee shop on Tufnell Park Road and get us caffeine. Caramel latte? That still your favourite?’
By the time he returns with two takeaway cups, Bonnie is sleeping peacefully in her crib, and Charlie is in rubber gloves, wiping down the kitchen countertops.
‘We’ll put Bonnie in the car last, save disturbing her,’ Tom says, as they both drink their coffee. ‘It shouldn’t take us too long to load up the rest of your stuff.’ He surveys the massed bags and boxes. ‘I’m not sure we’re going to get all of this in the boot in one go, but we can always come back for the rest another time. Just make sure we have everything you need for the next day or so.’
They start the laborious process of taking the boxes down to the ground floor. The lift is tiny, so they have to travel separately and with one box at a time. Once most of Charlie’s belongings are in the lobby of the building, her father starts packing them into the boot of the car while she returns to the top floor to bring more bags and boxes.
‘Baby still asleep?’ he asks over his shoulder when Charlie comes through the entrance door with her laptop bag and make-up case.
‘Out like a light, thank God.’
‘She’d sleep through a marching band, that one – like your brother. You’re lucky.’
Charlie is about to head back to the lift when she sees a familiar figure. The hat throws her at first: a baseball cap pulled low. But the hovering figures behind him are the giveaway. His henchmen, Mikey Tomas and Scott King.
She’s too numb with shock to speak, but her father has no such inhibition.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he asks Jake.
Jake shrugs. ‘My name’s on the lease, I’ve got every right to be here.’
‘Not after you stole my daughter’s money, you don’t.’ Her father steps forward aggressively.
‘Dad, don’t,’ Charlie pleads. She can’t bring herself to look directly at her former boyfriend. The father of her child. A complex array of emotions fights for space in her brain. She’s longed for him to return, but now he has, is she pleased to see him or not? She doesn’t know. The surge of adrenalin makes her stomach do somersaults.
‘I didn’t steal nothing,’ Jake says. ‘That money was legit mine, yeah?’ He glances around, looks into the back seat of the Subaru. ‘Where’s the kid?’ he asks accusingly.
Neither Charlie nor
her father answer.
‘Where is she?’ Jake snarls. ‘Where’s my little girl?’
‘Oh, so she’s your little girl all of a sudden,’ Tom sneers.
‘He’s got the right to see his own kid,’ Scott grunts.
‘Piss off!’ Her father advances threateningly. ‘This is a family matter, nothing to do with you.’
Jake makes a gesture with his head and Mikey and Scott obediently slope off. ‘Come back to the flat in a bit, yeah?’ Jake says, looking at Charlie as he speaks. I’m still in control, the look says.
Seeing his daughter’s look of confusion and doubt, Tom snaps. He lunges at Jake, grabbing the collar of his T-shirt and twisting it, lifting Jake off his feet. Jake fights back, bringing his fists up and jabbing at the older man’s face. He’s fended off and within seconds they are in a full-on brawl, with Jake being knocked off his feet and Tom on top of him, pummelling him.
‘Dad! Stop!’ Charlie shrieks at the top of her voice. She grabs at the back of her father’s jacket and attempts to pull him off. Passers-by in the street are slowing down to stare, one of them pulling out a mobile phone as though to call the police.
Thinking better of assaulting a teenager, Tom stands up, smoothing down his shirt and wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Jake rolls around on the ground melodramatically, clutching his jaw.
‘That’s assault, mate,’ he groans. He spits on the pavement and it’s streaked pink with blood. ‘I ought to get the filth on you.’
Tom hauls him to his feet. ‘What you need to do – mate – is clear off sharpish and stay well away from my daughter.’
‘I live here,’ Jake whines.
Tom indicates the boxes he’s cramming into the boot. ‘Well, as you can see, from today, Charlotte doesn’t. What you do after she’s left is up to you, given the flat’s paid for until next spring. But for now, until she’s gone, please do us a favour and stay away.’
Jakes spits again, but he picks up the baseball cap from the pavement and slopes off. Charlie and her father watch until he’s disappeared from sight.
‘Right.’ He sighs heavily. ‘You’d better go back up and fetch Bonnie, then we’ll get going. Make sure you don’t leave anything that you don’t want him’ – he jerks his head in the direction Jake went – ‘getting his hands on.’
Charlie takes the lift up to the fifth floor, her legs still shaking as she walks back into her flat. She’d left the heavy front door of the flat propped open with a box of books, because the spring closure is impossible to negotiate while carrying an armful of belongings. She reaches for the changing bag that she left hung over the back of a dining chair. It’s not there. Her father has probably taken it down without her noticing, and stowed it in the car. She goes into the bedroom.
The crib is there, exactly as she left it, but the baby and her stuffed yellow duckling are gone.
She looks around wildly, as though she might mistakenly have put her daughter somewhere else: the bed, the floor, the changing table. She runs back into the living room, murmuring ‘No, no, no, no, no…’
Bonnie’s not there.
Her heart is hammering with panic, but she places her hands on her knees and takes slow breaths to try and calm her racing mind.
Think. Think clearly.
Her father must have moved her, is the thought that comes. That’s the only logical explanation. He probably put her into her buggy and wheeled it out of the way of all the toing and froing. That must be it. She darts out to the lift, jabbing at the buttons, hyperventilating at the slowness with which it ascends to the fifth floor.
Outside, her father is yet again leaning into the open hatchback, moving boxes and bags to pack them more efficiently.
‘Dad, where’ve you put Bonnie?’
He twists round, alarmed. ‘What d’you mean? She was upstairs with you.’
‘You haven’t moved her?’
He shakes his head, taking a step towards her as her face crumples. ‘Lottie—’
A scream pierces the cold air. It takes a couple of seconds for Charlie to grasp that it’s coming from her.
Her father looks genuinely frightened now. ‘What the hell’s happened?’
He’s already running back into the building, Charlie stumbling behind him. Her voice comes out as a gasp.
‘She’s gone! Somebody must have taken her while I was down here!’
Tom ignores the lift and races up the back stairs, taking them two at the time.
‘The door was open?’ he demands, when they reach the flat.
‘I propped it, just while I went down. I thought I’d only be gone thirty seconds, then I’d be straight back up, but then Jake came…’
‘He’s got something to do with this,’ Tom snarls. He’s checked the bedroom and the bathroom, fruitlessly. There’s no baby. ‘He picked a fight with me as a diversion tactic, while those gormless friends of his went round to the back of the block, went in and took Bonnie. That has to be it.’
‘You picked the fight, Dad, not him.’ Charlie’s face is ghostly white, streaked with tears and dust.
But he already has his phone out and is dialling 999. ‘Police, please, quickly… my baby granddaughter’s been abducted.’ He gives the address and hangs up. ‘They’re on their way.’
Charlie shakes her head mutely, tears coursing down her face. Her father gathers her into a tight hug. ‘Try not to worry, she can’t have gone very far. They’ll find her, I promise.’
45
Marian
Marian pushes the buggy down Kentish Town Road, pausing occasionally to tuck the pink blanket more tightly.
She’s brought a pacifier with her just in case the baby is hungry or fretful, but she sleeps on, her perfect rosebud mouth pursed.
‘You’re such a good baby, Saffron,’ Marian murmurs. ‘Such a perfect little angel.’
In the end, buying the buggy had proved a very good idea. Someone carrying a small infant in their arms would instantly draw attention, where a woman pushing a buggy does not. She toyed with the idea of carrying Saffron in one of those very large, PVC-coated zipped laundry bags, but if she started crying, that would have been a problem. She also considered walking with her just as far as Highgate Road and flagging a cab. The risk then would be the taxi driver remembering her in the event of an appeal for a missing baby.
So instead, on Saturday afternoon, she walked down from the hotel to Oxford Street and bought a trendy all-terrain buggy in one of the department stores; the type that doubles as a car seat. She paid with cash and insisted on taking one of the display models rather than waiting for a delivery. While they removed the buggy from the display stand and got it ready, she browsed the department and picked up a few essentials: nappies, clothes, bottles, a baby blanket in pale pink. Saffron’s blanket.
On Sunday morning, very early, she took the bus to Tufnell Park and left the buggy a few yards from the rear of the building. At that point there was no plan, other than a vague one to persuade Saffron’s mother that the child needed to be taken for a health check, or to try to get her out of the flat on some pretence for a minute or two. When she called at the flat on Friday, the girl had told her she was about to move, and sure enough, from the lobby, she glimpsed her ex-husband’s estate car parked outside the front door. He was loading, while the girl was making repeated trips from the fifth floor to the ground.
Marian went up the emergency stairs from the rear lobby and waited on the fifth-floor staircase, peering through the fire door’s small glazed pane onto the corridor. After a few minutes, the girl went into the flat and emerged with a couple of small cases, leaving the front door propped open. As soon as the lift door had slid shut behind her, Marian hurried into the flat, her eyes scanning the living room. There was a baby’s changing bag, conveniently packed and hung on a chair. She slung it over her shoulder and continued into the hall. The smaller bedroom to the left of the front door was empty apart from a single bed and a few boxes. The larger bedroom had j
ust a stripped double bed, and on top of it a bassinet. Saffron lay sleeping peacefully inside it.
‘Hello, my darling,’ Marian whispered. ‘Have you been left all alone?’
Very carefully, and with the utmost tenderness, she scooped up the white bundle and cradled her. That new baby smell transported her instantly to another time and place.
But there was no time to waste. She grabbed Saffron’s yellow duckling and shoved it into her coat pocket, then walked quickly out of the flat and down the emergency stairs, through the fire door and out of the back of the building. She had to climb over a low railing and a two-foot-high privet hedge, before emerging onto the street at the back of the apartment complex.
It was still early on Sunday morning, and none of the residents were about. It took a mere twenty seconds to reach the bush where she had hidden the brand-new buggy from view and place Saffron in it, tucking the pink blanket over her to keep out the wintry drizzle that had just started to fall. Then she started walking briskly in the direction of Bloomsbury, via Kentish Town and Camden. She was not in the yellow coat this time, but her drab, formless blue anorak, with the hood pulled up to obscure her face. Nobody spoke to her. Nobody noticed her.
46
Charlie
The uniformed officers who arrive at the flat in Tufnell Park mean well, but they’re young and hopelessly out of their depth.
Charlie is too traumatised, too paralysed with fear to make much sense, but her father manages to give them Jake’s details and his mother’s address. Along with the number plate for the Audi TT, which disappeared when Jake did.
‘We’ll put out an APB, and liaise with the major incident team,’ the fresh-faced constable tells them. ‘Don’t worry, we see this happen all the time with separated dads. They decide they want some time with their kid, but quickly change their mind when they realise there’s work involved.’