Her Sister's Child

by Alison James

  If this is intended to reassure, it falls wide of the mark. Charlie bursts into tears again, and she can tell her father is struggling to stay calm himself, still promising her that Bonnie will be returned soon. There’s nothing for them to do but drive back to Laurel Road with the car full of baby stuff, which feels horribly wrong.

  A few hours later, a female officer called Teresa Sanchez arrives at the house.

  ‘This is our family liaison officer,’ her mother says, bringing the woman into the kitchen.

  ‘No more police.’ Charlie buries her head in her arms. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘She needs to speak to all of us, darling. It’s important.’

  DC Sanchez tells them that they are still searching for Jake Palmer, but a visit to his mother’s flat has confirmed that Bonnie is not there. Jake’s friends vehemently deny any involvement, or any knowledge of where Jake is. According to DC Sanchez there is no evidence so far that leads them to believe Jake would want to arrange the abduction of the baby.

  ‘Except that the boy’s a thief and a fraud,’ Tom says hotly. ‘He took a large sum of money from my daughter and just disappeared.’

  ‘Exactly,’ says DC Sanchez. ‘From what we know so far, he’s not in the slightest bit interested in parenting Bonnie. Apparently he’s been in Ibiza for the past three months, partying. Only came back here when the funds dried up.’

  ‘So where does that leave us, if we can’t find Palmer?’

  Charlie’s level of fear is increasing rapidly. If the police don’t think it’s Jake, then the alternative is far worse. A random stranger walking in off the street, someone who will never be traced?

  ‘Well, we’re interviewing all the other residents of the block of flats, in case anyone saw anything, and examining as much CCTV footage of the area as we can. But obviously that takes time. In the meantime, Charlotte, we need you to think back, try and remember anyone else that might have given grounds for suspicion. Anyone acting strangely, taking an interest in the baby.’

  A different policeman arrives only an hour after Sanchez has left.

  Charlie has rushed down the stairs at the sound of the doorbell, and sees the man with the ginger hair who called on Friday morning. He’s holding up a warrant card. ‘DI Kevin Stratton. Could I come in for a minute?’

  ‘Is it about Bonnie?’ Charlie says, her hand flying to her chest. ‘Have you found her?’

  ‘Actually, I’m sorry but this is about a different matter. I’ve been needing to speak to your dad about something and I’m afraid it can’t wait.’

  ‘Come through.’ Her father beckons DI Stratton into the kitchen dining room at the back of the house and Charlie follows. Her mother has told her to go up to her room to rest but she can’t. She just can’t.

  ‘I’ve just made tea if you’re interested…?’ her father asks Stratton.

  ‘Thank you. White, one sugar.’

  He sits down at the large table, takes out a notebook and pen and waits for the tea to be poured.

  ‘How can I help you, DI…?’

  ‘Stratton. I’ll come straight to the point.’ His pale grey eyes are magnified by the horn-rimmed glasses, making him look like one of Charlie’s teachers rather than a detective. ‘You used to live in Ranmoor Road, N10, I believe?’

  ‘Yes, but ages ago. With my first wife.’

  The man glances at Charlie. ‘I’m not sure if it’s a good idea for your daughter to stay for this, in the circumstances. Given what she’s going through.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ says Charlie, heavily. ‘It’s not like I could get any more upset than I already am.’

  ‘Okay then… I want to speak to you about the discovery of a baby’s remains in the garden there. Historic remains, not recent,’ he adds quickly.

  ‘Dear God.’ Tom leans back, recoiling automatically. ‘I read something about that on the news but to be perfectly honest, it never occurred to me that it was my old house… Are you sure? That it’s a baby, I mean?’ He glances over at Charlie, who is pale but calm.

  Stratton avoids eye contact, keeping his voice neutral. ‘Yes, we’re quite sure. The body of a male infant. The forensic tests suggest that it was buried getting on for twenty years ago. Which means during the time when you and your former wife lived there.’

  Tom stares, rubbing his hand through his hair. ‘But that’s impossible.’

  ‘You and your ex-wife… you didn’t have any children?’

  ‘No. We tried, but it didn’t happen.’ He flushes slightly, glancing at Charlie again. ‘It was me. Me that couldn’t have them. We considered adopting, but then I met my second wife and moved out.’

  ‘And when was that, exactly?’

  He thinks for a moment. ‘It would have been in the July of 2003.’

  ‘But your wife was still living there?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, she stayed on until the house was sold, around October I think.’

  Stratton sips his coffee and picks up his pen again. ‘And… this might sound like an odd question… When you moved out, is there any chance your wife could have been pregnant?’

  ‘Well, if she was, it wasn’t by me…’ He shakes his head ruefully. ‘But no, surely not. Although…’ He pauses, looks up at the ceiling.

  ‘Go on,’ Stratton prompts.

  ‘Well, I do remember she was behaving very oddly at the time. Of course the separation was upsetting for her, but it seemed like more than that.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘She seemed unfocused, distracted. And she looked awful, as though she never slept.’

  ‘And if she wasn’t pregnant, was there someone else she was close to who might have had a new baby that she was looking after? We spoke to a Mrs Maud Pinker, who recalls seeing her carrying a baby into the house. And a former next-door neighbour, Kate Fletcher, has given a statement about hearing a young baby crying. Inside your house. This was around August or September of that year.’

  Charlie is staring at her father intently. He shakes his head slowly, shocked. ‘I know nothing about anyone having a baby there. Hold on…’ He pauses, remembering.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘There was this weird thing with the cat.’

  ‘A cat?’

  ‘Yes, I went round to speak to my ex-wife after I’d moved out and I heard a strange screeching sound. She told me it was a neighbour’s cat, but it sounded like a baby.’

  ‘I see.’ Stratton makes a note.

  ‘Surely you’ve asked her about all this?’

  Stratton gives a rueful shake of the head. ‘I was just coming to that… I’m afraid your ex-wife has gone missing. She’s not at her home in Sussex, and so far we’ve not been able to find anyone who knows where she is. I don’t suppose you would know where she might have gone?’

  Tom sighs, standing up to clear away the tea mugs. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t. We’ve not had any contact since the divorce; I don’t even have a mobile number for her any more; she changed it years back and didn’t give me the new one. My friends Gareth and Farzeen Coker might know it; you could ask them.’

  ‘Do you have any recent photos of her?’

  ‘Not recent ones, no. I’m happy to show you what I have got.’

  Tom disappears into the study and comes back with a sheaf of photos, which he spreads out on the kitchen table.

  ‘To be honest, I’m surprised I still even have these. This is our wedding photo… this was one Christmas towards the end of our marriage… and these were taken on the last holiday we ever had together, in Kefalonia.’

  Charlie is looking at the photos too, and her heart rate speeds up, so fast that she can hear it. She points, her finger shaking.

  ‘That’s her! The woman in the yellow coat!’

  ‘Which woman?’ Tom asks.

  ‘I’ve been so completely out of my mind I forgot all about it… it was a couple of days ago, just after Lucy left, when I was making a start on packing. This woman knocked on the door of the flat and wanted to come in, said something ab
out being from the council. Checking up on teens who didn’t live with their parents. I told her I was moving out, and got rid of her. But that’ – she stabs the photos with her forefinger – ‘that’s her. She had on lipstick and her hair was different… blonde… but it’s definitely the same woman.’

  47

  Marian

  At the hotel, Marian wheels the buggy quickly into the lift.

  The bored girl on reception glances in her direction.

  ‘My godchild,’ Marian says. ‘I’m babysitting for a couple of hours.’

  The girl just grunts and goes back to looking at her phone.

  In her room, Marian examines the contents of the changing bag. There’s one bottle of what appears to be expressed breast milk, some muslins and wipes, a few spare nappies. There’s a towelling bib with ‘Bonnie’ embroidered on it. Marian looks at it with distaste and throws it into the bathroom bin, setting the bottle in a sink full of hot water to warm it.

  Saffron is stirring now, so Marian picks her up.

  ‘Hello, beautiful girl. Remember me?’

  Saffron screws up her face at the unfamiliar voice, the unfamiliar scent. Her mouth opens in a howl of protest. Marian reaches for the bottle and inserts it into the baby’s mouth. Instantly she latches on and sucks hungrily, draining all the milk in a few minutes. She allows Marian to wind and change her and put her down again, with no further complaint. Almost immediately, she is asleep.

  ‘Such a good girl,’ Marian murmurs, before pulling out her phone. She knows she has to act quickly, before anyone has the chance to take Saffron away from her. She needs a car, but she can’t use her own in case it’s recognised, and she can’t go to a car rental because that will involve producing her driving licence and giving personal details that match them. It won’t be how it was when she arrived at the bed and breakfast, where they didn’t bother to check.

  She phones the number for her motor insurers.

  ‘Hi… I need to report my car stolen.’

  She gives the details of her own car, still parked in the street behind her flat in Hove. It will be found soon enough, no doubt, but by then she’ll be long gone.

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I’ve filled in a police incident form online… yes, I have a crime number.’

  She reads out the number the local police had given her a couple of years ago when one of her car windows was smashed, saved on her phone. ‘The thing is, I’ve got the extra cover that allows me a courtesy car straight away, delivered to my home… only I’m in London on business… would it be okay for it to be brought to my hotel?’

  The woman on the other end of the phone assures her that it will, but that since it’s Sunday, a vehicle won’t be available until first thing Monday morning. Will that be all right? Marian, who has little choice in the matter, assures her that it will.

  She has no option now but to stay here with Saffron for another sixteen hours or so. Leaving the baby sleeping peacefully, she hurries to the nearest supermarket and buys some formula, boiling the flimsy plastic kettle in the hotel room to make up some more bottles. She could perform this task in her sleep, having already made so many bottles of milk for the twins.

  Saffron wakes at intervals to be fed and changed, but otherwise displays an extraordinarily placid temperament. This is the baby I was supposed to have, Marian tells herself. This one. That is why this all makes the most perfect sense.

  She’s well rested in the morning, but restless, pacing the small, womblike room while Saffron lies on the duvet waving her little hands at the ceiling. The breakfast news programme says nothing about a missing baby. Quite right too, thinks Marian, since she’s really only back where she belongs. Eventually, at nine thirty, there’s a call from reception.

  ‘Car for you,’ the bored girl says.

  Marian puts on the blonde wig and hurries down to reception where a courtesy driver is waiting for her. She signs the paperwork and takes the keys, and within ten minutes she has loaded the buggy and their luggage into the car. The top part of the buggy is strapped in, after a few minutes of fiddling and swearing, to form a rear-facing child seat.

  ‘Nice and safe for you,’ she tells Saffron. She pulls off the wig and throws it onto the passenger seat before turning round in the driver’s seat to look at her. ‘We’ve not got far to go. Not long till you reach your new home.’

  48

  Charlie

  DI Stratton returns to the house the next day with a colleague in tow – a petite woman with ginger hair tied up in a high ponytail. Charlie wonders if he chose her for this reason: that her hair is the same colour as his. The two detectives looked like a matched pair.

  ‘This is DS Emma Ross,’ he says, ‘one of the team that’s been working on the Ranmoor Road case. After Charlotte identified Mrs Glynn – Marian Glynn – as the woman who came to her flat, we’re combining that enquiry with the search for Bonnie.’

  ‘Are you going to be okay to talk?’ her mother asks her. ‘You look wrung out.’

  Charlie, who has not slept a wink and feels torn up with fear and anxiety, nods mechanically. ‘Of course. If it’s about Bonnie. I need to know. I need to know everything.’

  They sit down at the kitchen table as before, and Vanessa makes coffee.

  ‘First of all,’ says Stratton, ‘although we’d more or less ruled him out at this point anyway, I ought to tell you that we’ve tracked down Jake Palmer. We had an alert on all the airports, and his name came up on a flight manifest to Ibiza. Interpol arranged for the local police to check on him, and he doesn’t have Bonnie. He’s just there to party.’

  Tom rolls his eyes in disgust.

  ‘Secondly, I think your FLO was planning to come and talk to you about doing an appeal on TV. Do you think you’d be up to that, Charlotte? If not, your dad could do it, or your mum. Or we could do it ourselves. Either way, we want to get something on the news this evening. It’s vital to get the help of the public in this sort of situation.’

  ‘No. I’ll do it,’ Charlie says, firmly. ‘That will work best, won’t it? And I need to do whatever will give us the best chance. Of finding her.’

  Tears fill her eyes again and she brushes them away angrily. Her dad closes his hand over hers.

  ‘Obviously we want to know if you’d made progress in finding my ex-wife.’

  DI Stratton shoots him a sharp look, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses. It’s DS Ross who speaks, with a distinct West Midlands twang. ‘Right, so… I’ve been liaising with DC Khatri down in Brighton. They’ve not located her car via ANPR, and I’m afraid an extensive trawl through CCTV at both Brighton and Hove stations hasn’t picked up anyone matching Mrs Glynn’s description.’

  Vanessa gives a little frown of displeasure as she puts the tray on the table. DS Ross flushes slightly. ‘The former Mrs Glynn, I mean, obviously… And we have spoken to Angela Dixon and your friend’ – she pulls out a notebook and checks it – ‘Mrs Farzeen Coker.’

  Tom raises an eyebrow. ‘And?’

  ‘Mrs Coker had a mobile number for Marian, but it’s an old one, no longer in service. That leaves us at the mercy of all the mobile providers, trying to trace her phone via their records. Obviously we’ve flagged it as urgent, and we hope to get a result soon. Angela Dixon saw Mrs… Marian… fairly recently in Brighton, but said she seemed fine. There was nothing in Marian’s demeanour that disturbed her, apart from one thing.’

  ‘Which was?’ demands Tom.

  DS Ross glances in Vanessa’s direction. ‘She said she mentioned to Marian that you and Mrs Glynn had adopted two children together, assuming she knew, but apparently she didn’t. And she seemed upset by it, cut their meeting short.’

  ‘Well, there we are then.’ Tom leans back in his chair, his tone grim. ‘That sounds as though it could have triggered something.’

  ‘We need to take another statement from you, Charlotte, with a full description of Marian’s appearance, get it circulated. Maybe think of getting a composite sketch done. Someone
may have seen her. You never know.’

  ‘No,’ agrees Tom heavily. ‘You don’t.’

  The press conference is filmed that afternoon at the Metropolitan Police Communications Centre, with a strained but composed Charlie wearing a plain white shirt and clutching one of Bonnie’s teddy bears. Tom and Vanessa flank her on either side, sitting at a temporary trestle table in front of a Metropolitan Police poster. DI Stratton is to Tom’s right. Three plastic cups of water sit untouched in front of them.

  ‘Yesterday morning, my life was changed forever,’ Charlie begins, her voice trembling. ‘Someone went into my flat while I was carrying something out to the car, and took my two-week-old baby daughter, Bonnie.’ She stifles a sob. Vanessa reaches over and squeezes her hand. ‘I’m asking, if anyone knows who did this, or has any information that could help, to please come forward. Thank you.’

  ‘I know that was hard,’ DC Sanchez says, as the family is led away to a waiting unmarked car. ‘But witnessing Charlie’s distress first hand will be by far the most compelling way to get people to think, and to act.’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ says Tom grimly. ‘Let’s bloody hope so.’

  49

  Marian

  ‘Here we are, my angel.’ Marian speaks in a soothing tone, even though the baby is fast asleep.

  It’s mid-afternoon, and the light is just starting to fade. She parks the car on the Hove promenade and sits in silence watching the horizon streak pink then purple over the dark sea. Saffron sleeps on, her perfect rosebud lips twitching slightly. My girl is so good, Marian thinks with profound satisfaction. Truly, this is the child she was meant to have.

  Only when it is completely dark does she drive to her flat, leaving the hire car in a visitor parking space.

  ‘Home!’ Marian exclaims, as she carries Saffron over the threshold. Her neighbours are engrossed in their evening television viewing; there’s nobody about. ‘I’m afraid we can’t stay here very long this time, but we will be able to come back eventually. This is our proper home.’ She thinks suddenly of the little blue-painted villa in Brighton she had coveted so much. ‘Until you’re toddling around anyway, and then we’ll have to find somewhere with a garden for you.’