Her Sister's Child

by Alison James

  ‘No,’ Charlie insists, her eyes widening. ‘Whatever she’s going to say, I want to hear it.’ She follows her mother and Teresa Sanchez into the kitchen.

  ‘Just a quick update,’ Sanchez says, refusing the offer of a hot drink and remaining on her feet. ‘Sussex Police have found Marian Glynn’s car, parked near her flat. We’ve also heard from her insurers – some bright spark at their office recognised the name from a news report and had the sense to call the incident line.’

  ‘That’s good,’ says Vanessa, managing a weak smile.

  ‘Apparently she reported her car stolen on Sunday, and was provided with a courtesy car, which was delivered to her in central London.’ She smiles at their uncertain expressions. ‘Trust me, this is a good development. We’ve now got the details of the vehicle she’s using.’

  ‘So why can’t you bloody find it?’ Charlie demands hotly. ‘If you’ve got the car’s number then why can’t you pick it up on your cameras?’

  ‘Well, that’s just it.’ Sanchez pulls her bag tighter against her body as though protecting herself from Charlie’s fury. ‘The cameras can only pick up a vehicle that’s mobile. It may be off the road somewhere. But we’ll be giving out the details of the car to the press and as soon as it’s public, someone will spot it. It’s only a matter of time.’

  ‘And in the meantime that madwoman has got our granddaughter,’ Vanessa snaps.

  ‘I know this is hard, but in the case of women abducting newborns, it’s highly unusual for the baby to be harmed in any way. Usually they take them because they have an overwhelming want – or need – for a child to care for. Chances are, Bonnie is perfectly safe.’

  ‘You are kidding, aren’t you?’ Charlie stomps around the kitchen, pulling at her hair. ‘Safe? Jesus Christ!’

  Sanchez flushes. ‘By that I mean she’s probably being very well cared for. I know that’s hard to hear, even so.’

  Vanessa sighs heavily, and covers her face with her hands. ‘We. Just. Want. Her. Back.’

  ‘There is something else…’ Sanchez hesitates and looks from Vanessa to Charlie, as though weighing up whether the information should be introduced into this fraught atmosphere.

  ‘Go on.’ Charlie stops pacing.

  ‘Uniformed officers from Sussex Police returned to your dad’s ex-wife’s flat in the early hours of Tuesday morning.’

  ‘And?’

  Sanchez flushes. ‘There was evidence she had been there very recently. The bed had been slept in and there were used nappies in the bin.’

  ‘Dear God, and they missed her?’ Vanessa shares a look of disbelief with her daughter, shaking her head. ‘They should have been watching the place, waiting for her to go back there!’

  ‘I can only assume they thought the chance of her returning home was non-existent. Since the appeal had gone out on TV, it would have been very risky behaviour. And at that point they didn’t have intel on the car Mrs Glynn… the former Mrs Glynn… was driving. We found that out a few hours later.’

  ‘But surely they can access footage that shows where she went next?’ Vanessa reasons.

  ‘Exactly.’ Sanchez adopts a positive tone. ‘Tech support are examining footage from all the routes out of Hove, and they will find something. And at least we know that she’s stayed relatively local. I know it’s disappointing that they just missed her, but it means she hasn’t had the chance to go very far. That’s a positive thing. We are getting closer. We’re starting to build up a picture of Marian’s recent movements.’

  ‘If you say so,’ Charlie mutters darkly, as her mother shows Sanchez to the front door.

  She flicks on the TV news again, but her mother comes back into the kitchen and switches it off.

  ‘I meant it: you need to take a break. I’m running you a bath and then I’m going to ask Hannah to come over.’

  ‘They missed her, Mum,’ Charlie says, bleakly. ‘They almost found her, and then they missed her.’

  ‘I know it’s frustrating, but DC Sanchez is right, it’s a good thing. They are getting closer.’

  Charlie chews the side of her thumb. ‘Do you really believe that, though?’

  ‘I have to. And you have to, too. Otherwise you’re going to completely fall apart.’

  55

  Paula

  Paula stares at what she now privately calls ‘the Spider phone’, but it doesn’t ring.

  She’s carried it with her constantly since she and Johnny returned from Stepney. She slept with it on her pillow, switched on and volume turned up, but it remains inert. Taking leave of absence from work now feels like a waste of time, when all she’s doing is staring at a cheap handset that, according to its label, was made in India.

  Finally, at five thirty on Wednesday it buzzes into life. A text arrives, then another, then another. Paula sits on the edge of the bed squinting at the poor quality screen and trying to make sense of what she’s reading. There’s no preamble, no ‘Hi, this is Spider.’ Just information.

  Vodaphone has contract phone registered to Mrs M. A. Glynn, 36 Cavendish Court, The Parade, Hove. Last used on Wednesday 27th November, then service discontinued.

  Paula scrolls to the second text.

  Have checked distributors of SIM-only packages within one mile of Cavendish Court, Hove. Nearest one is PayRite convenience store. My local contact spoke to employee Abshir Mahad. Claims to know Marian Glynn by sight, as she popped in frequently. Last saw her in the shop on Wednesday 27th.

  The text ends there. With shaking hands, Paula opens the next.

  She used the in-store ATM to withdraw a large amount of cash, and bought a SIM card. Mahad says she’d changed her appearance and thought this sufficiently unusual to keep a note of the phone number associated with that SIM. Have tracked that number to London, back to Hove on Monday evening, then to the Happy Lodge Motel on the A259 near Folkestone on Tuesday morning. The SIM went out of service at that location later on Tuesday and has not been used since. Given the route Glynn used, my guess is that she is somewhere in Kent.

  After reading and rereading the messages, Paula summons Johnny, who arrives at her house just after the children have returned from school.

  ‘Bloody hell, he’s good, isn’t he, this Spider?’ Johnny says, once he’s read the texts. He’s brought the obligatory bottle of red wine with him, and pours them both a glass. ‘The Old Bill could do worse than to employ him.’

  ‘Somehow I don’t really think that’s his style,’ Paula says, drily. ‘But do you think we should share this with the police? I was thinking I should call Detective Inspector Stratton.’

  She walks over to the stove and stirs the beef chilli she started making to distract herself.

  Johnny is shaking his head vehemently. ‘No. Not right now. Apart from anything else, Spider doing what he’s doing without authorisation and for financial gain is illegal. And by procuring his services, I reckon we could be charged with a crime too. Though, honestly, I doubt in the circumstances it would come to that.’ He helps himself to some of the garlic bread Paula has just taken out of the oven. Biscuit hovers at his side, waiting to scoop up any crumbs. ‘But I know I don’t want to risk it. Do you?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘Anyway, his guess that she’s in Kent is just that: a guess. With her phone off, the only chance of tracking her is going to be picking up the car on ANPR. Which means the police still have the edge over us. They’ll probably get to her first anyway.’

  Paula sighs, pushing a hank of wavy hair off her face. ‘It’s not a race, Johnny. There’s a baby’s life at risk.’

  She puts packets of instant rice in the microwave to heat and goes into the hall to shout upstairs to Ben and Jessica.

  ‘Tea in ten minutes, kids!’

  When she comes back into the kitchen, Johnny is holding up the Spider phone with a look of triumph. ‘We just got another message!’

  They read it together.

  Marian Glynn background: parents both dead; one sister, Caroly
n, emigrated to New Zealand 1992. Social media and networking sites show zero active accounts but have recovered a deleted Facebook account, used sporadically between 2007 and 2010. Very little online interaction, other than occasional messages between her and a Lilian Hadfield, born in 1954. In comments they address one another as ‘cousin’. Search of GRO records proves they are first cousins: Lilian’s mother was Priscilla Webber, Marian’s paternal aunt, and she married a John Hadfield. Lilian Hadfield address: 9 Ashleigh Gardens, Woking, Surrey.

  ‘Is that it?’ Paula asks, disappointed. ‘An address for a cousin she hasn’t been in touch with for a decade? How’s that going to help?’

  ‘It’s something, though, isn’t it?’ Johnny asks. ‘A family member, someone who knows the woman. Surely it’s worth trying to speak to her.’

  Paula shakes her head firmly, sticking her head out into the hall again. ‘Kids! Wash your hands, please!’ She looks back at Johnny. ‘Waste of time, if you ask me.’

  ‘That’s as may be, but right now it’s all we’ve got.’

  At ten thirty the following morning, Johnny’s car turns off the M25 into Woking, with a sullen Paula sitting in the passenger seat.

  ‘Ashleigh Gardens… can you find it on your phone? Paul?’

  She squints at the screen reluctantly. ‘Carry on down the A320 till you get to the common, then turn right and it’s on your left.’

  Ashleigh Gardens turns out to be the epitome of Home Counties respectability, with deep grassy verges, manicured hedges and off-street parking. They knock on the front door of number nine – a trim red-brick semi – but there’s no reply.

  ‘See, I told you this was a waste of time.’ Paula sighs. She waits a few seconds and knocks again, as though this will prove her point. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

  ‘No, wait a sec.’ Johnny points up the street. ‘Someone’s coming.’

  A tall woman is approaching on foot, carrying two shopping bags. She has highlighted blonde hair that doesn’t quite disguise the grey underneath, and is dressed in tailored wool trousers, a camel coat and what Paula thinks of as ‘sensible’ shoes. A pair of glasses hangs on a cord around her neck.

  ‘Hi.’ Johnny steps into her path, flashing his most charming smile. ‘Are you Lilian Hadfield?’

  ‘Yes.’ She seems flustered, and a little annoyed. ‘Are you from the estate agents? Only I asked for an appointment this afternoon, and I was told—’

  ‘No, we’re not the estate agents.’

  Her frown deepens. ‘Good God, please don’t tell me you’re from the press. Because I’ve no comment to make.’ She turns away abruptly and hurries up the path to the front door.

  Of course, thinks Paula, the poor woman’s seeing her cousin all over the national news. She’s the type who would find the public shame deeply humiliating. She had mentally rehearsed a speech on the car journey, but it deserts her now.

  ‘Please, please can we talk to you?’ She reaches out and catches the hem of Lilian’s coat sleeve. ‘Please, this is really important.’

  Lilian pulls away angrily, but Johnny has moved deftly around her, intercepting her before she can reach the front door. ‘Just give us a few seconds of your time, that’s all we ask. I swear we’re not from the newspapers.’

  ‘I’m not asking you in.’ Lilian’s tone is still wary, but she stops and turns to face them.

  ‘I’m related to Bonnie Glynn,’ Paula tells her, a sudden rush of emotion making her voice quiver slightly. It’s so strange to be saying those words out loud to a stranger. ‘The baby that’s been taken by Marian. By your cousin. I’m her mum’s aunt.’

  ‘They don’t know that for certain,’ Lilian snaps. ‘That Marian is responsible. That’s just supposition.’

  ‘I think it’s a little more than that,’ Johnny says, trying to keep his tone neutral.

  ‘Well, I can’t help you anyway, I’m sorry. I haven’t been in contact with Marian for years, and I’ve barely seen her since we were children. And even then we weren’t all that close. She’s quite a bit younger than me. We saw each other for Christmas sometimes, that’s all. And spent part of the summer together, at our grandparents’ holiday place.’

  ‘So you don’t know where she might be now?’ Paula presses.

  ‘No, I’m sorry, I have no idea. And even if I did, it would be the police I would share that information with, not complete strangers.’ She brushes Johnny aside and puts her key in the front door. ‘Now, if you’ll please excuse me…’

  The door is slammed in their faces.

  ‘Now what?’ Paula asks Johnny. ‘This is all we had to go on. Where do we go now?’

  He shrugs. ‘The way I see it, there’s only one place we can go.’

  The door to Spider’s flat is inched open a crack. ‘Hello?’ The voice, unexpectedly, is high and female.

  ‘Um, is Spider there?’

  The door is opened a little further, admitting just enough light from the communal stairwell for Paula and Johnny to see who they’re talking to. She’s petite, of Korean or Japanese descent. Her hair hangs in a glossy dark bob and she’s dressed only in a T-shirt. The cats snake between her bare legs.

  ‘Are you his girlfriend?’ Paula asks.

  ‘His wife.’

  ‘Well, well, well.’ Johnny is amused. ‘The bloke is full of surprises, I’ll give him that.’

  Behind her, a door opens and Spider emerges into the semi-darkness of the flat’s hallway, wearing nothing but a pair of orange boxer shorts. Although it’s now after midday, it’s clear that Spider’s day has yet to start. Nor is he happy at their arrival.

  ‘Not much point you being here, unless it’s to pay me. I’ve done all I can with the information that’s out there on Marian Glynn.’ His deep voice and middle-class vowels are at odds with the squalor and stale air of the flat.

  ‘Please, Spider.’ Having just driven for an hour and a half from Woking to Stepney, bickering with Johnny most of the way, Paula is quite prepared to beg. ‘We spoke to Marian’s cousin, but she hasn’t seen her in a long time and knows nothing. She really only knew her when they were both children, and had summer holidays together.’

  Spider’s eyes glint in the darkness. ‘Where?’

  ‘Where what?’

  ‘Where did they go on holiday?’

  Johnny and Paula exchange a glance. ‘She didn’t say, mate,’ Johnny tells him. ‘Just that it was at their grandparents’ place.’

  Spider has already turned and is heading back to the bedroom, pulling his tiny wife by the wrist. ‘Leave the phone on. I’ll get back to you.’

  Johnny has a business meeting in Watford that afternoon, and after a fractious and frustrating day, he and Paula mutually agree that they will not meet up that evening.

  Instead, she takes the children bowling and buys them burgers for tea as a treat. They both go up to bed early, leaving Paula to a welcome hour alone with her thoughts.

  ‘On the fifth day since baby Bonnie Glynn was snatched from a North London flat, police say an expanded task force is actively following up crucial leads…’

  She has just switched off the TV in disgust when the Spider phone buzzes with a text.

  Land Registry search shows a property called Wader’s End, in Stodmarsh, Kent, belonged to Mr Ernest Webber between 1955 and 1983. Earnest Webber was father of Norman and Priscilla Webber, Marian Glynn’s father and aunt. Ordnance Survey reference for the property is latitude 51.300553, longitude 1.1832079. It was compulsorily purchased to form part of the Stodmarsh National Nature Reserve, now unoccupied apart from occasional use for birdwatching.

  A second text arrives, giving bank sort and account codes, and naming an eye-wateringly large fee for Spider’s services. I guess that means he’s done, Paula thinks.

  She spends a couple of minutes reading and rereading the first text, then fetches her laptop from the kitchen and opens Google Earth, inputting the coordinates. She wasn’t particularly good at geography at school, but from only a brief glance a
t the map she can see that there’s a logical line east from Hove, to Folkestone to Stodmarsh. It makes sense as a journey. Paula’s heart quickens. Could Wader’s End be Marian Glynn’s destination?

  She copies and pastes the content of the text to Johnny. He replies with one word.

  Bingo

  56

  Marian

  On Friday, Marian has to drive to the nearest town again.

  She has already run out of firewood, which has to be burned constantly day and night in an attempt to keep their accommodation heated. And this time she needs to visit a pharmacy too. Saffron has developed a snuffle and a slight temperature, so she urgently needs to buy some Calpol.

  Her hat is pulled down and her scarf pulled up as she pushes the buggy along the high street but, even so, she is convinced that everyone is staring at her. They try to peep into the buggy too, usually beaming in that indulgent way people do when they see an angelic new baby, but Marian refuses to slow down or make eye contact. Sometimes she is convinced they stare after her and whisper, and that makes her fearful.

  She has started to wonder how long they will be able to stay in this place. The constant battle against the cold is starting to wear her down, and she can’t ignore the possibility that it’s affecting Saffron’s health. They need to be somewhere warmer, at least until the winter is over. The ideal would be to go abroad, to France perhaps, or even Spain. Using her passport is out of the question though, and she would have no idea how to obtain one in a different name. She’s sure she read somewhere that if you take a ferry crossing to Ireland, you’re not required to show a passport. So perhaps Ireland is a possibility. Research is needed, and for that she will have to switch on her phone again. Trying to solve one problem always creates a new one.