The Stolen Child

by Sanjida Kay

  There’s one more photo I haven’t looked at. It’s on the wall by Hannah’s bedroom door. I walk over to it. The sky is the same shade of cerulean-blue; there are orange flowers in the foreground. It’s the same photo as the last card Evie received, telling her to wait for the signal. I’m breathing hard now, as if I’ve been sprinting. This must be the connection. Haris knows Hajar Abyadh. Hajar Abyadh is the Muslim woman in our photograph. And Hannah must know her too. She may have lied to me about not knowing Haris. Did she introduce him to Hajar? Whatever the truth is, Haris and Hajar have taken my child and Hannah must know how to contact Hajar. But why use the Hardgraves’ car?

  I ring Hannah, but there’s still no answer. I hear Mrs Hardgrave come out of the kitchen. She’s standing, a cup of tea in each hand, looking down at the photograph. Carefully she sets the cups down.

  ‘Your tea,’ she says. She stops when she sees the photograph I’m looking at.

  ‘Do you know where Hannah is?’

  ‘No, of course not. She’s probably in that pharmacy on Valley Drive. I understand you’re agitated, but I don’t believe she’ll be long. It’s not like Hannah to take time off work. Do you take sugar?’

  ‘No, it’s not, is it?’ I say, because I suddenly have a stream of images of Hannah at the start of the school year: of her with a red nose, tissue in hand, her voice nasal; bent over double, coughing; pale and husky-voiced, sucking throat lozenges. There are so many bugs that you catch from children, particularly if you haven’t been a teacher for long, and Hannah struggled through all of them and came to work.

  ‘Why don’t you tell me what this is about?’ Mrs Hardgrave gestures to the photo and stands still, her feet in her orthotic shoes tight together, her gold-ringed hands clasped in front of her.

  I have a cold, sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. There’s something I’m not getting. There’s something I’m missing. This place gives me the creeps. It’s so unlike where I imagined Hannah would live...

  I wheel round and bang open the bathroom door. It’s empty. It’s small, with only a shower and a toilet. I catch sight of a chrome wire basket; not the kind of bin you’d normally find in a single woman’s apartment, where she’d want to hide the detritus of her life from view: all those cotton buds and make-up wipes and sanitary pads… There’s something in the bin. I lift it out. It’s an empty box of dark brown hair dye. I drop it immediately. I run into Hannah’s room. She’s not here. Of course she’s not here. I’m starting to feel really frightened. Because I know who Hannah really is and where she might be now.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ Mrs Hardgrave is behind me.

  The window is open a fraction and the net curtains are billowing; an icy breeze funnels through the gap so the room smells of frost; there’s not a trace of Hannah, of her beautiful lily perfume. The bed is made, the bedspread neatly folded, lilac cushions scattered across it. It’s not like the bed of someone who is ill and has crawled out to the nearest Boots for ibuprofen. There’s a wardrobe and a chest of drawers and two side tables with a lamp on either side. Above the chest is another photograph of a mountain range in Pakistan. I throw open the wardrobe door. There’s a shalwar kameez hanging up, slightly wrinkled as if it has been recently worn, the scarf puddled on the bottom of the wardrobe. I swing round and start yanking open all the drawers. In one of the side tables, in the drawer that normally holds a Gideon Bible in a hotel, there’s a book. It’s not the Bible. I take it out and turn it over in my hands. I’m trembling.

  ‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave,’ says Mrs Hardgrave.

  I hold it up so she can see it. It’s a red prayer book, the same as Evie’s. It’s not hers, though: there’s no inscription inside.

  Mrs Hardgrave’s face seems to cave in upon itself. She pauses for what feels like a long time and then she says, ‘In Pakistan they call her Hajar Abyadh. It was the name they chose when she converted to Islam. Abyadh means “white” and Hajar is “stone”. She had to be like a stone – hard and strong – to defeat her drug addiction.’ She’s pale and shrinks into herself.

  ‘Did you know?’

  ‘No, I did not,’ she says, attempting to muster some spirit, but she can’t meet my eye. She pulls her baby-pink cardigan tightly around herself.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘What you don’t seem to understand is that I lost my daughter when she was eighteen and became a drug addict. She left home. Moved in with some degenerates in a squat in Leeds... I didn’t hear from her for two years. Two years! Your daughter has been missing for five days!’

  I want to shake her. The need to find Evie, to find Hannah, is overwhelming.

  ‘Hannah only contacted us when she was twenty to tell us that she was pregnant,’ continues Mrs Hardgrave.

  She’s gazing out of the window at the Wool Secretariat. She misses my murderous look.

  ‘She was still on drugs. I advised her to give the baby up for adoption and, at first, she was happy to go along with that. She could barely care for herself, let alone a child, and she was so young. But when her daughter was born, she fell in love with her. She called her Mary.’ She frowns and the lines around her lips deepen, her face sags. ‘She changed her mind about the adoption at the last minute, but I wouldn’t let her. She’s never forgiven me.’ She looks at me then, her pale grey eyes full of loathing. ‘After you took her daughter, I suggested she change her name, make a fresh start. That’s when she became Hannah White. We’ve become accustomed to it now. It’s been seven years. She lived with us for a short time but it was extremely difficult. She was still on drugs, stealing from us, selling our possessions to fund her habit. She hated me and Geoffrey – well, the two of them have never seen eye to eye. She read somewhere about this Shangri-La, this community in Pakistan, where everyone is healthy and lives until they’re at least a hundred. They only eat organic food. The water is pure – straight from the heart of the glacier. The Hunza Valley. Of course, when she got there, she saw it wasn’t like that at all. They were like any developing country – in need of better education, health care and more to eat. But those people cured her, you know.’

  She picks up her cup of tea and takes a sip. I want to knock it out of her hands.

  ‘My husband and I didn’t see Hannah again until she turned up on our doorstep two years ago, saying she’d trained as a teacher. We were delighted, of course. She’d been drug-free for years. She’d taken her A levels, done a PGCE. It was a new beginning. We offered her the flat in our house, rent-free. We thanked God for returning our daughter to us. I didn’t realize she was a Muslim.’ She holds up one thin, lined hand. ‘But I’m not surprised she converted to Islam. That community helped her when no one else could or would. I don’t agree with it – we brought her up as strictly C of E – but she always was rebellious. She refused to go to church from the age of thirteen. My husband still doesn’t know. He’d have disowned her. I told her to keep it a secret. A few weeks ago, she said she couldn’t hide her true self any more. I begged her not to tell anyone, particularly not Geoffrey. We had a huge row and she moved out. That’s the last time I saw her.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ I say. ‘How does she know Haris? Why does he have the same photographs in his house?’

  ‘They’re stunning pictures, aren’t they? I’m afraid I don’t know anyone called Haris. Hannah was trying to raise money to support herself while she was applying to work as a teaching assistant at Evie’s school. She took her photographs along to a Ms Jennifer Lockwood who owns the gallery in Ilkley. Ms Lockwood said she wouldn’t represent her – but she bought a full set of her pictures. Maybe she sold them to the gentleman you mentioned.’

  I see it now – the landscapes of the Hunza Valley that would make Haris’s lie look compelling and safeguard Jenny’s reputation.

  ‘But how did she find us? How did she find Evie?’

  Mrs Hardgrave looks ashamed for a moment, but then she rallies. ‘You and I had an appointment,’ she says. ‘It was short
ly after Evie was born.’

  I remember now. We’d wanted to learn something – anything – about Evie’s family, so that we would have a story to tell her about where she’d come from. The social worker had set up a meeting with Evie’s grandmother.

  ‘But you never showed up!’

  ‘I discovered that Hannah hadn’t told the truth about where she was from on the forms. She’d said she grew up near Bolton in Lancashire. The social workers thought that was far enough away from Ilkley, where you were from originally, for the adoption to go ahead. I didn’t want them to know she’d lied. I thought I might accidentally give her away. In any case, I couldn’t bear to meet you. I didn’t want any kind of emotional tie or connection to you. But you’re wrong. I did go to the meeting. I saw you through the half-open door. I stayed for a couple of minutes and listened. When Hannah was at her lowest, her most despairing, I told her what I’d seen.’

  ‘What did you tell her?’ I whisper.

  ‘I described you. I’d overheard that you were an artist. I recognized your accent. It wasn’t hard for a clever girl like Hannah to find out who you were.’

  ‘My God! She engineered the entire thing!’ I scream into Mrs Hardgrave’s face, unable to contain myself for a second longer. ‘She sent Evie presents and cards from “her daddy” so everyone would think Evie’s father took her.’

  ‘You can’t blame her for wanting to give her only child a present!’ says Mrs Hardgrave.

  She’s animated and, for a moment, I see what she’d have been like as a younger woman, how she must have looked when her cheeks were firm and unlined and there were no shadows beneath those large, grey eyes; I see her daughter in her features.

  ‘She manipulated us all! She poisoned our son, Ben! She needed a diversion so she could take Evie – she used the berries from the spindle tree in your garden.’

  ‘You have no proof of that! Hannah loves children.’

  I can see it now. Haris had nothing to do it with it; the fact he’d been stalking me was a helpful coincidence for Hannah. He created a diversion. But didn’t she use that time well! Looking after Ben for us, so she’d know exactly what stage the investigation had reached – and getting close to us so no one would suspect her. And once Haris was released, she knew it was time to leave with Evie. She could be fleeing the country right now.

  ‘And you helped her,’ I say, as I push past her.

  Where are you going?’ The surety in her voice has gone.

  ‘I’m going to find her.’

  ‘Let me come with you,’ she says.

  ‘No.’

  I open the front door and I’m about to run down the stairs, when she hobbles towards me. ‘Please. I want to help you find her.’

  ‘Then tell me where she is,’ I say.

  She hesitates for a moment. ‘The airport. She’s taking Evie to Pakistan.’

  And even though this is what I suspected, I’m frozen with fear. If Hannah takes Evie with her, we may never find her again.

  ‘It looks like a wonderful place: the Hunza Valley.’ She sounds wistful, as if, in spite of her tweed skirt and sensible shoes, she wished she too could have trekked through a glacial valley and eaten apricots picked fresh from the tree.

  ‘Not for my daughter! You have to tell me when she’s leaving.’

  Mrs Hardgrave glances at her watch. It’s on a thin gold chain and the face is minute. She peers at the hands and I want to slap her.

  ‘It depends which flight she managed to book. The next one’s in forty minutes.’

  I race out of the flat. She’s slower than me. She clutches the bannister rail to help her down the stairs.

  ‘Please,’ she calls again. ‘Wait for me. I can help.’

  I ring Ollie and explain as fast as I can what’s happened, then tell him to ring Collier. I’m still speaking when Mrs Hardgrave eases herself into the front seat of the car. ‘Bring Ben. Don’t let him out of your sight. I’ll see you there.’

  Mrs Hardgrave glances at me. Her face is pale and a layer of powder cakes her skin.

  The one advantage of Hannah’s flat is that it’s close to the A65. It’s mid-morning and the traffic is light. I can get to the airport in twenty minutes if I put my foot down. It’s twenty minutes more time than I’ve got. I feel sick with fear that I’ll be too late. The roads are icy – they haven’t been gritted yet – but I have to hope that enough traffic has passed to keep us from skidding. Mrs Hardgrave’s knuckles are white. I press the accelerator to the floor as the car struggles up the steep climb below Otley Chevin. I glance up at the lowering grey sky, heavy with the threat of snow. Above us great grey granite rocks are lined up on the skyline; so similar to the Cow and Calf, these massive outcrops look as though they too might tumble down this treacherously steep hill and smash us to smithereens.

  ‘Hannah kept Evie in your flat, while she waited for the right time to take her out of the country,’ I say.

  ‘Why would she do that when she had a place of her own?’ Mrs Hardgrave says.

  ‘Because it diverted suspicion away from her. She couldn’t take a child to her flat – it’s overlooked by all those other apartments and by the Wool Secretariat. And the neighbours living below her would have heard Evie during the day. But it was a fantastic alibi – coming and going from her new place without a child. And she could easily hide Evie in your house.’

  ‘She was not in our house!’

  ‘With the moor behind you, the reservoir next to you, a wood in front – no one would have noticed Hannah taking Evie there, or heard any noise during the day when she was at work or at our house. She borrowed your car to pick Evie up from school. As you said, she could come and go as she pleased. And how else to explain the scrap of fabric on the moor? Jack lent Evie a Frozen costume, and Hannah must have taken it to make her feel at home. Evie escaped, wearing her princess outfit. But Hannah found her and brought her back. She never meant Evie to stay in your flat on the edge of the moor for so long – she thought she’d be flying to Pakistan at the weekend. But Evie was there for four whole days. Your husband wouldn’t have heard her, particularly not if his hearing aid wasn’t working properly. Or if you broke it. But there’s nothing wrong with your hearing. Once you realized that Evie was there, you helped Hannah. You covered for her. You thought you could win your daughter back.’

  Mrs Hardgrave twists the gold crucifix on the chain round her neck. We pull up at the traffic lights at the top and I drum my fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. I hope to God that Collier and Clegg, with their flashing blue light, reach the airport before I do.

  ‘May I see a picture of her? Of Evie?’ she asks.

  ‘There’s one in my purse,’ I say through gritted teeth.

  It can hardly matter now. It might even do some good – win Mrs Hardgrave over so that she helps us find Hannah in time.

  My handbag is in the footwell; she opens it and looks inside without touching anything, then delicately takes the photo out of my purse. She holds it with both hands and strokes the picture with her thumbs. The gesture reminds me of when Evie went on a school trip to Hesketh Farm Park. She’d come home, brimming with excitement, and described how you have to hold a baby chick, cupping it in the palms of your hands, leaving your thumbs free to caress its feathers.

  ‘She’s beautiful,’ Mrs Hardgrave says. She continues to hold the photograph and wipes away a tear with her handkerchief.

  We’re here. I screech to a halt outside the entrance. I abandon the car and Hannah’s mother and run inside. How can I find Evie? I can’t get through Security. I scan the departures board of Leeds Bradford Airport but there are no direct flights to Pakistan. Hannah would have to get a connecting flight but I don’t know where to. If you were going to the Hunza Valley, which airport is nearest? I have no idea. Would Mrs Hardgrave have told me if I’d asked her? The only place I’ve ever heard of in Pakistan is Karachi. My only hope is that they haven’t left yet.

  Once Haris was released without charge and
the alert on the airports scaled down, Hannah would only have had a small window of time to book tickets, so she might not have been able to fly yet. Even so, no one has been looking for a woman travelling with a small girl. I run over to the nearest security guard.

  ‘I think my daughter is being smuggled out of the country. I need you to check the records, see who is booked in to fly or if anyone has already flown to Pakistan. A woman with a small girl, about seven years old.’

  ‘We don’t fly to Pakistan,’ he says.

  ‘I can see that! But you must have a list of connecting flights.’

  ‘Which airport?’

  He’s young, with a broad, Bradford accent. His name tag reads ‘Jareed Akbhar’.

  ‘I’ve no fucking idea, Mr Akbhar! You might have heard about her on the news. Evie Morley. She’s been missing since Friday. I believe she’s been or is about to be smuggled out of the country. I need you to start looking for all the connecting flights to any city in Pakistan.’

  Jareed, who is tall, with a buzz cut and close-cropped facial hair, bends slightly towards me. ‘Ma’am… checking all the women with small children who have flown or are about to fly to any airport in Pakistan on any connecting flight—’

  ‘Peshwar or Islamabad,’ says a voice behind me. ‘They’re the nearest international airports to the Hunza Valley. Start there.’

  I swing round. It’s Clegg. Collier is a few paces away, lumbering towards us, a man whose girth doesn’t make running easy. He’s on his mobile. Clegg jerks his thumb at him.

  ‘He’s on the phone to the airport police. Won’t be long. And Ruby is on her way.’