by Lynne Lee
I try not to worry. Tell myself that, like Isabel, I mustn’t start flapping. That perhaps, these days, things are more fluid than I realise. Perhaps, on occasion now, Dillon doesn’t hurry home. Perhaps Isabel, who is in loco parentis, is more flexible – allows him a slightly longer leash. After all, managing independence is a continuous process. Perhaps sometimes half an hour in the park is allowed. How would I know? I think. When was the last time we had a conversation about coming-home logistics? November? October? September? I am out of this loop now, I remind myself. I mustn’t worry.
I go back into theatre to begin dismantling my patient’s hip so we can clear the way to insert a glinting metal new one. Sid assists, his natural competence outstripping his confidence, as always. Something I mentally file away to work on. And for most of the next hour I am free of anxiety, as between us we’re focused on the familiar choreography of surgery; the dance of scalpels and clamps. Of retractors, bone forceps, and chisels.
We’re almost done before Isabel rings again. I ask Terry to tell her I’ll call her back in five minutes, and once I’m happy that I can let Sid and the anaesthetist take over, I strip my gloves from my hands and return the call.
‘So we went to the park,’ Isabel says. ‘And everywhere else we could think of, and no joy, so we went back up to the school. Mrs Patterson had already left—’ Mrs Patterson, I think, Mrs Patterson. Who is Mrs Patterson? ‘But the secretary was still there, and said she’d ring around for me. So we headed back – she’s going to call me – in case Dill came home. But he hasn’t yet, and I was wondering if there was anyone I might have missed. I know he walks with Max and Thomas, but there’s that other boy he’s recently made friends with, isn’t there? The boy he went to tea with a couple of weeks back, remember? You picked him up from there, didn’t you? Is it Will?’
Mrs Patterson. It finally comes to me. Dillon’s temporary teacher. While Miss Kemp, his usual teacher, is on maternity leave. I should know this.
‘Yes, yes, it’s Will,’ I say. What the hell is his surname? But I know where he lives, at least. And perhaps Dillon’s there. Perhaps this is nothing. Maybe this is just him choosing today – of all days – to bust out of his shackles. Choosing today as the first of what will so surely be many in which my maternal patience, my maternal mettle, will be tested. No. Is being tested. ‘I’m on my way,’ I tell Isabel, already tugging my gown off. ‘If you hear anything, let me know, okay? I’ll be as quick as I can.’
Siddhant catches the end of this. ‘Is everything okay, Mrs Hamilton?’
‘I hope so, Sid. One of my boys has gone AWOL.’
He looks confused. ‘AWOL?’
‘Absent without leave,’ I explain. ‘He’s not come home from school yet.’
‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Troubling. Well, fingers crossed then.’
‘Indeed,’ I say. ‘Anyway, I’d better get going. I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t stay too late.’
And as he promises he won’t, it occurs to me why AWOL wouldn’t be in Siddhant’s personal vocabulary. It’s because – hanging around the hospital when he shouldn’t be aside – he doesn’t strike me as ever having been the kind of child who’d have been anywhere that wasn’t exactly where he was supposed to be.
But then, isn’t that also true of Dillon?
I don’t bother changing out of my scrubs. Just swap my theatre clogs for my boots, grab my bag and clothes and coat, and head straight down to my car, already cursing every other driver who I know is going to be on the road. It’s getting dark. And a hammering in my temple is starting up – a steady, insistent pulse. Please, I think, let this be something and nothing.
It takes me over half an hour to get home, to find Dillon still hasn’t. There’s just Isabel in the kitchen, on her mobile. ‘The school secretary,’ she mouths at me, as I put my bag and keys down on the worktop. ‘Okay, thank you,’ she continues, nodding. ‘Yes, we’ll obviously let you know if he does. His mum’s just come home now, so we’ll put our heads together and if we think of anyone else he might have gone home with, we’ll let you know . . . Yes, thanks,’ she then finishes. ‘Thanks again. Yes, this number.’
I slip my bag from my shoulder and pull my arms from my coat sleeves. The digital clock on the cooker says it’s ten to six. And getting darker.
‘So, as far as she knows,’ Isabel says, once she’s finished the call, ‘he left school with his usual friends, just like normal. Not Thomas. He had the dentist this afternoon, so he left school at lunchtime. And she’s not had any luck getting hold of Will or Max’s mothers yet, but she’s left voicemails and is going to call as soon as one of them gets back to her. She thinks he might well be with one of them. That’s most likely, isn’t it? D’you want a tea? Coffee? Anything?’
‘No, no,’ I say. ‘I’m fine. And yes, you’re right. He probably is. Where’s Daniel?’
Isabel tilts her gaze towards the ceiling. ‘He’s just gone up to have a shower. He was still in his football kit when he got back from school, and of course we went straight back out again.’ She frowns. ‘He’s a bit upset. I think he’s worried it might be something to do with him. Because of the tiff they had this morning,’ she adds. And the fight they had yesterday, I think. ‘I keep telling him not to be silly,’ she goes on. ‘That Dill’s probably – ah.’ Her phone screen has lit up again. ‘Here we are. Any news?’ she says, as she accepts the call and puts it to her ear. ‘Actually, let me hand you over to Mrs Hamilton . . . It’s Mrs Gregg,’ she says to me. Another name that barely registers. I take the phone. Put her on loudspeaker. Say hello.
‘I’ve just heard back from Max’s mum,’ she says. ‘He’s gone to the Sea Life Centre with William and his mum and sister. He’s due to be dropped back any time now so she says she’ll let me know once he’s home, but she thinks Dillon might have gone with them as well?’
Without asking Isabel? Why would Dillon have done that? No, I correct myself, Dillon wouldn’t have done that.
‘Straight from school?’ I ask.
‘No, she said Max went home and changed first. Will’s mum picked him up around four.’
The pulse in my temple is growing more and more insistent. ‘But she didn’t know if Dillon was with them?’
‘No. She didn’t go out and speak to her, so she doesn’t know if he was in the car or not. But he might have been, mightn’t he? Anyway, if they’re on their way home we’ll know either way shortly, and as soon as I hear anything I’ll be back to you immediately, I promise. And in the meantime—’
‘Would you perhaps be able to give me William’s mum’s number?’
‘I’m sorry. I’m not allowed to. But, as I say, the very moment I hear anything, I’ll—’
‘No, I understand. Of course you can’t. Thank you. We’ll stay by the phone.’
‘But that’s mad,’ Isabel says, as I disconnect the call. ‘Dill would never do something like that. He would have come home first and asked me, and changed out of his uniform. He wouldn’t just go off . . .’ She looks exasperated. ‘And as if William’s mum would even let him, anyway! She’d have checked with me first. Oh God, this is awful. Where is he?’
I go over to the sink, run the tap, and pour myself a glass of water, my mouth suddenly dry. ‘I think you’re right,’ I say. ‘He’d never go off like that without asking. I think I’ll drive round to Will’s house and see if they’re home yet. Because if the boys left together, they might know something, mightn’t they?’ I grab my car keys. ‘Might have an idea where he might have gone.’
The pulse becomes a constant pressure, like the beginning of a migraine.
And who he might have gone with.
I’ve only been to Will’s house once before, and I can’t recall the number. Just the street and a general impression that it was one of a pair of semis at the far end of an avenue, on the left. But in the dark – it’s fully dark now – and with the houses all looking so similar, I’m struggling to remember which pair. I park the car on the road in what I hope i
s roughly the right spot, and am just climbing out when another car sweeps past, and then turns across the front of me, into a driveway on the left. And I’m in luck. I immediately recognise Will, tumbling out of the big 4x4 with typical ten-year-old insouciance.
‘Oh hi,’ he says, seeing me. ‘Mum, Dillon’s mum’s here.’
But Dillon clearly isn’t. The woman backs out from where she’s been unstrapping a toddler from a baby seat, her fair hair haloed by the security light that blazes above their garage door. I note her noting my scrubs. ‘I was just going to call you,’ she says. ‘I have literally, just this second, finished speaking to Mrs Gregg. I’m so sorry. I had my ringer off. I wouldn’t have even known she was trying to get hold of me if it hadn’t come through on CarPlay. He still hasn’t turned up then?’
Which renders my first question redundant. I shake my head. No, I think, no joy. Just fear. ‘Not yet. Mrs Gregg thought he might be with you.’
She hefts the toddler – nearing three, I estimate – higher on her hip. Now she shakes her head. Frowns. ‘Sorry, no, he isn’t.’ She turns to Will then. ‘Did you walk home from school with Dillon?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘Well, for a little bit. He got a lift.’
His mother is half a second ahead of me. ‘A lift from who, Will?’
Magician-like, he then conjures up my fear and lets it fly. ‘Just some old lady,’ he says, shrugging. ‘I think it was his granny.’
Chapter 23
I sit in the car for a few moments, both hands holding the wheel, temporarily overcome by a kind of mental paralysis; held vice-like in the iron grip of terror.
Thankfully, then, adrenaline starts doing its work, and the rational me, long practised in harnessing it, takes over. Though it’s unconscious, it’s a process that’s wholly instinctive, formed over years of having to respond to clinical emergencies. For almost every one of which there is a protocol to turn to. Protocols run my life. And for very good reason. There are few crises that aren’t made at least a little less frightening by being broken down into a series of practical steps. There are options I can choose over succumbing to panic. Decisions I can take, plans I can follow, things I can do. Because anything is better than being consumed by the monster that is hysterical, impotent fear.
I think hard, as if trying to stare down a bear. Because if I can focus every vestige of my attention on the doing part, I can beat back my imagination, dampen down its frenetic image-making. Then, a strategy decided upon, I start the engine and drive home.
I find Isabel and Daniel in the utility room, busy clearing up after having cleaned out Mr Weasley. The fluorescent strip light is on the blink, and I’ve not yet found a moment to buy a new one, and both look at me, owl-like, when I appear.
‘So,’ I say. ‘It looks like one of Nanna’s friends might have picked Dillon up from school. So that’s good, isn’t it?’ I add immediately, registering their relief at these words. And relieved myself, because my strategy seems the right one. ‘She’s probably got it into her head that she needed to see him for whatever reason, and asked one of her friends to go and pick him up from school. So at least we know he isn’t wandering around in the dark.’
‘Which friend?’ Daniel asks. And though she doesn’t say anything, I can tell Isabel is asking herself the same question; in her case, zipping through a mental file of potential contenders, and no doubt wrestling with multiple questions of her own.
‘I think a friend of hers called Mary,’ I say, watching Daniel’s face carefully. And though I can tell Isabel is trying to recollect if it’s familiar, Daniel’s expression seems to indicate it’s not. At least, not rung any bells for him yet. ‘So I’m going to see what I can find out,’ I hurry on briskly. ‘Which means I’m going to need to make a few phone calls. So I was thinking, while I’m doing that, assuming Isabel doesn’t have to be anywhere—’ (I glance hopefully at Isabel as I say this.) ‘—I thought maybe the two of you could drive down to McDonald’s, or Domino’s, or wherever you fancy, and get us all something to eat? And get something for Dad, too, because I expect he’s going to be home soon as well.’
‘Dad is?’ Daniel asks.
Of course he asks that. It’s Monday. Matt’s not due back till Friday. ‘Yes, he’s, er, got to work from home tomorrow, so he’s coming home tonight. And he’s bound to be starving. Does that sound like a plan?’
‘But wouldn’t Dillon—’ Daniel begins.
‘An excellent plan,’ Isabel says. ‘Come on, DI Dan, let’s go and get our coats, yeah?’ And while I rummage in my bag for my purse, we lock eyes. She has no idea what’s going on, but she knows something is. She waggles her mobile. Raises her eyebrows a touch. ‘Keep us posted, yeah?’
I promise I will. And I curse myself for not having told her more earlier. ‘I’ll text you,’ I promise. She understands.
My first call once they’ve gone isn’t to Matt, but to Jessica Kennedy. I spend the time it takes for the kettle to boil agonising over making it, but the protocol devotee in me knows I can’t not. She might have information that could be vital to the police, after all. She’ll almost certainly know what colour of car Norma drives, and I need to know that more than anything. But as soon as I think that, my imagination shifts gear. Which I can’t afford to happen. I grab my phone and make the call.
I don’t know where she is, but I can hear a child crying.
‘I am so sorry to bother you today of all days,’ I tell her. ‘I know this is the worst time, and this is going to seem so insensitive, but I just wondered if you knew where Aidan’s mother is.’
‘Norma?’ she says. ‘No, sorry, I don’t. Why?’
‘Dillon has gone missing. He didn’t return home from school earlier, and his friends say he was picked up by a lady in a white car. Does Norma have a white car?’
She answers immediately. ‘Yes. Yes, she does. She drives a white Renault. But – sorry. I mean, you think it might be her? That she’s abducted him or something?’
I have a new, chilling word in my day-to-day vocabulary. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘That’s exactly what I think.’
‘Oh my God,’ she says. ‘Really?’
‘It was an elderly lady with black hair, in a white car. That’s what I’ve been told. So I don’t know what else to think. I mean, has she said anything to you? Because under the circumstances . . . with Aidan . . . I’m so sorry, I truly am. I feel terrible bothering you with this, but did she—’
‘She won’t hurt him,’ she cuts in. ‘I mean, if it is her . . . I mean, I don’t know why she would do something like that, but she just wouldn’t. That at least I do know. She wouldn’t harm a hair on his head.’
How? I think. How can she possibly know that? But I’m at least comforted by the conviction with which she says it. ‘That’s reassuring,’ I say. ‘But, look, if you can think of anything, if you hear anything . . .’
‘I can try her mobile. Shall I do that?’
‘Or give me the number?’
‘Of course. I’ll ping it across, and—’ The crying is getting louder. ‘Look, I have to go, but I’ll do that right away, okay?’
‘And can I give the police your number, just in case they—’
‘Yes, of course. I’ll get back to you. Shh, Polly, no! Okay, bye now.’
My call to the police – the first time I’ve dialled 999 ever – feels interminable. The dispatcher, once I’ve been triaged to the local police switchboard, seems to want to know every last detail about me before she will even countenance discussing the reason for my call. And when she starts going through her list, I have to will myself to keep calm. To just answer all her questions in the order she asks them. This is a system. This is a protocol. There is a reason for it all.
Finally, when she’s satisfied she has everything she needs, from a description right through to any reason I can think of – however random – why Dillon might have felt unhappy at home, why he might have run away, she is happy to listen to my hypothesis about who took him. And to reassu
re me that, being the age he is, he’s definitely considered vulnerable and that she’ll dispatch someone to come to the house as soon as possible.
‘As in now?’ I ask. ‘Because—’
‘As soon as possible,’ she says again.
Which makes me feel vulnerable as well. I’m not used to there being nothing I can do. There is always something I can do, isn’t there? But what?
I have to brace myself again, then, to call Matt and tell him. He’s driving home to the flat, which suddenly feels much too far away; I can hear his indicator plink-plonking in the background.
‘I think Norma Kennedy has taken Dillon.’
‘Jesus. What?’ He’s on loudspeaker, and his voice sounds all echoey. ‘Taken where? Taken when?’
I tell him what I know, and what I’ve found out from Jessica. Black hair. White car. Black and white, I think. Just like Cruella De Vil. And Dillon got into her car. Of course he did. Because he thought he had nothing to fear. Please, I think. Please let that be true. ‘I’ve just called the police. They’re going to send someone round as soon as they can. Can you come home?’
Only then, once he’s checked his satnav and given me an ETA, do I allow the battle that’s been raging in my head to spill out; let the fear grab the victory it was always going to have, and submit to a torrent of tears.
And once that’s done with, I lay the kitchen table.
By the time Isabel and Daniel return, some twenty minutes later, I have changed out of my scrubs and into jeans and a sweater, and put my head back together too, at least to some extent. I’ve had a text from Jessica Kennedy, sharing her mother-in-law’s number, which predictably has gone straight to voicemail. I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that Norma has taken Dillon, because he would never get into a stranger’s car. Ever. And though I know the pointlessness of speculating what her motives are in doing so, I’ve fashioned a theory even so – I can’t help it. Aidan’s life-support machine was switched off today. His life is over. And I can certainly imagine what a maelstrom of emotions must be swirling around inside Norma’s head. In my theory, in that maelstrom in which she’s currently being tossed, she is desperate, distraught, in an intense mental storm, and has it in her head that she needs one thing above any other – to have her still-beloved grandson to herself. In my theory, all thoughts of me, and of vengeance, are forgotten – all subsumed beneath that one simple primeval need. So in my theory, Jessica’s right. She will not hurt him.