Under the noise, behind the door to Room Eleven, there was the muffled sound of Lauren crying and the low murmur of the nurse trying to comfort her, persuade her to stop.
Patrick’s eyes were filling up, too. Harper reached out and patted him on the shoulder. She felt for him then, witnessing his total powerlessness, his palpable sense of impotence. The noise of the twins’ crying went on and on.
“Right then,” said the nurse, taking the stroller by the handle and pointing it back the way they’d come, “I think these boys are a tad tired. Shall we all go for a little stroll?”
* * *
In the car on the way back, neither of them spoke until they reached the New Riverby reservoir, where the valley was filled with glittering silver to the horizon. The water level was low, after the month-long heatwave. Harper could see the stubby outlines of the remains of walls at the exposed edge of the lake, and in the centre the tip of the old Selverton Church tower, black and pointed like a blade pushing up through the surface.
To Harper, the inside of the car seemed a much calmer place without the twins. She relished the silence, the sense of peace. As the car travelled over the viaduct, Patrick lifted his head from where it rested on the passenger window. For a few moments he watched the landscape slip by.
“I should never have left the babies with her. They’re not safe.”
“I don’t think you need to worry,” said Harper. “They have procedures. Didn’t the doctor say that Morgan and Riley wouldn’t be left alone with Lauren, even for a moment, until they could be sure everything would be fine?”
“You saw what she was like.”
“Yes,” said Harper. “But they’re going to help her.”
“She’s not fit to look after them. I should have brought them home.”
“If you’d done that, they wouldn’t be able to treat her at Hope. She has to have the babies with her for that. Believe me,” said Harper, “you don’t want her to be transferred to the general ward. Hope Park might be a bit like a prison but the alternative is … well. You don’t want to know.”
“Why?” said Patrick. “What’s it like?”
She’d only had to go into the Selver General unit once, for an interview. There’d been a confession by an inmate to a historic murder case. Inmate, she chided herself. She meant patient, of course, though the unit was worse than any prison she’d been inside. For Harper it was always the small details that held the most power: the porcelain-and-meat sound of teeth knocked askew on metal bed rails; the pop of ligaments stretched to breaking as arms were expertly twisted back in restraint; the moment, hours later in her own bathroom, when she reached forward to rub at the mirror, thinking it was dirty, but no, there on her face and over her white shirt a light splattering of pink, a man’s saliva mixed with his blood, which must have sprayed over her as he was carried past, choking.
“Don’t think about that now,” said Harper, wondering, if it came to it, what favours she could pull in to keep Lauren away from that place. “It won’t happen. She’ll come around. She loves those boys.”
“Yeah,” said Patrick, sounding lost, “I thought she did, too.”
Patrick directed Harper to drop him off at his sister’s house. She pulled up outside and turned off the engine.
He smiled weakly as he thanked her and opened the car door. “You’re all right, Harper. I know we’ve had our differences. But I couldn’t have got through today without you.”
Harper nodded in acknowledgement. “I’ll be in touch, about your interview.”
“My interview? Why do you need to question me?”
“Because I think you know the suspect. A young woman, with long dark hair. Very slim. Rather uncooperative. Sound like a friend of yours?”
“No.”
But the shock of realisation on his face told a different story. In that moment, Harper knew that they were both thinking of the same thing: the day that Harper had followed him, seen him—caught him—in the car park with the young woman with the red-rimmed eyes, the very same young woman who turned up again today in the river with his babies. The way that, before he knew he was being watched, he’d taken that woman by the elbow as if he wanted to be rid of her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The interview room was hot despite the noisy buzz and flap of the fan unit, which must have had something caught in it to be making that much racket. James Crace, the duty solicitor, a young man with thick lenses in his fashionably geeky spectacles, held a tissue over his mouth and nose like a Victorian dandy. The reason he was doing this became clear before Harper had even sat down—there was a strong smell of body odour and river mud coming from the suspect, who slumped in the chair, eyes half closed, hair lank and drooping. Someone had placed a white plastic cup of tea on the table in front of her. The camera in the corner displayed a steady red light to show that it was recording.
“First things first,” said Harper. “We ran your fingerprints through our system, and it seems that you are a citizen of previously good conduct. The computer didn’t recognise you.”
The suspect said nothing.
“We also ran your number plates. The DVLA knows who you are. For the tape, please. Can you confirm your name?”
When she still said nothing, Harper said, “If you want to keep that clean record, then I suggest you confirm your identity. I’m perfectly happy to charge you with obstructing an investigation, if that’s how you want to play it.”
Harper waited for a minute, then made to get up. The solicitor sat forward. “Wait,” he said. “She’ll cooperate. Won’t you, Natasha?”
The woman mumbled something incomprehensible.
“Speak up,” said Harper.
“I’m Natasha Dowling.”
“Excellent,” said Harper. “Not too difficult, was it? Now then, Ms Dowling. Can you tell me what you were doing when we met earlier today, please?”
It seemed the suspect had clammed up once more. She remained silent.
“Natasha,” said Harper, more softly, “it’s in your interest to talk to me. At the moment it looks very bad for you. You’ve been arrested on suspicion of abduction, but the charges could be much worse, in a case like this, involving babies.”
The voice, when it came, was deeper and louder than before. “You were there,” she said, “why don’t you tell me what I was doing.”
“I only know what I saw. I want you to tell me what happened, from your side.”
“It won’t make a difference,” said Natasha, reaching for the drink in front of her. “You’ve already made up your mind about me. Haven’t you?” She sipped the liquid, spat it back. “That’s disgusting,” she said, dropping the cup back on the table between them so that some of it spilled, a pale pool on the grey plastic laminate. The whitish film of cold milk that had formed on the surface of the beverage slipped up the side of the cup and hung there, dead sagging skin made of lactose, proving her point. Harper frowned at it for a second.
“I’ll tell you my theory, if you like,” she said.
“I can’t wait,” said Natasha, crossing her arms.
“I think you’ve got a grudge against Patrick. I think you took his kids to get back at him.”
“Who’s Patrick?”
“You know who he is. I saw you together, at his office, a couple of weeks ago.”
Natasha said nothing for a long time. The solicitor blew his nose repeatedly, coughing, apologising, coughing again. Harper sighed, looked at her watch. She was about to get up and leave when the suspect spoke. The voice was suddenly small and girlish.
“I told you at the time. I knew you wouldn’t believe me. Nothing I say makes any difference.”
“I need you to tell me again. For the record.”
Natasha’s voice was so quiet then that Harper had to lean in to hear the words.
“I was saving them.”
“Saving them.”
Natasha nodded. One dark eyebrow twitched. “That’s the truth. I thought I’d be thanke
d for it, not arrested.”
“What do you mean, you were saving them?”
“I mean, I didn’t take them. I found them in the stroller in the woods, hidden out of sight. I was trying to bring them back to where the police were and I took a short cut across the river, only, I got stuck. And then you came.”
“Did anyone see you? See you find them, I mean. Can anyone corroborate your story?”
She shook her head. “No. I was alone. And that’s why it doesn’t matter what I say. Does it?”
Harper thought about it. Could that have been the truth? Could it have been someone else who took the stroller? She tried to look at it objectively. There’d been no other suspects identified as yet, and no witnesses, apart from herself, unless there were any yet to come forward. All she had to go on was what she’d seen in those few seconds immediately after she’d come around that corner, spotted this woman in the river with the stroller, shouted stop, police, and ran towards her. Natasha had let go of the stroller and scrambled out, trying to get away, almost as quick as the lightning that flashed in that moment, just as if she were guilty.
“So why did you run, if you were trying to bring them to safety? You left them there and tried to leg it. Doesn’t make you look like much of a hero.”
Natasha dropped her eyes. “It’s true, I panicked. I knew you were police, and I knew what it would look like, me with the pushchair, in the water, when everyone had been searching for those babies all over.” She looked back up into Harper’s eyes. “And I wasn’t wrong, was I?”
“Why were you even in the valley? What were you doing there, in the first place?”
“Walking. It’s a nice place for a walk.”
One of the most obvious of the lies. But to show disbelief in an interview was a powerful weapon that needed to be withheld, so she simply said, “Where did you walk from?”
“I drove from town. I parked nearby.”
“But you didn’t park by the millpond, or at the cafe.”
“So?”
“So, that’s where most people park, when they’re walking. We found your car at the edge of the woods, further out towards the peaks. Just past where you were arrested, in fact.”
The two women stared at each other. Natasha said nothing.
“Did you follow Lauren to the valley today?”
“No. I told you. I was walking. I would never follow her. I had no idea she’d be there.”
“So,” said Harper, “you don’t know who Patrick is, but you know who Lauren is?”
Crace rolled his eyes, blew his nose and began to make frantic notes on his pad.
Natasha looked over at him and the lawyer made a chopping motion with his hand, stop talking. She looked back at Harper.
“I … no comment.”
“On the subject of not knowing who Patrick Tranter is, for the tape, I am showing the suspect a transcript of a text-message conversation.”
Harper placed the tablet on the table so that it faced Natasha.
“Also for the tape, I’m going to read out the transcript. Tell me if I get any of it wrong.”
From her printed copy, Harper started to read out the relevant section. Natasha stared at the screen in front of her.
Natasha Dowling’s phone
TO PATRICK TRANTER (PT), FROM NATASHA DOWLING (ND)
July 21st, 1:45 a.m.
How would you feel if I killed myself? Would you even care?
7:51 a.m.
I’m really sorry about that last text. I promise I won’t send any more. I’m just feeling really down
12:03 p.m.
I know you might say no to this but would you meet me for coffee? Just for a chat. I really need to see you
11:34 p.m.
I don’t know how you can just switch off your feelings like this Patrick. I can’t do it. I need to see you
July 22nd, 12:09 a.m.
You’re a fucking bastard and I hate you I hope you die
TO ND, FROM PT:
July 22nd, 12:10 a.m.
This is the last message I’m going to send. My wife is ill. I have newborn twins. I’m sorry if I hurt you but I don’t have time for this. Please leave me alone now. I hope you get the help you need
TO PT, FROM ND:
July 22nd, 12:39 a.m.
You’re going to be sorry you said that. Really, really sorry.
1:44 a.m.
Why should you be happy when you’ve destroyed my life? Why should you get to keep what you have?
7:48 a.m.
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I really miss you. Call me anytime. Or I could meet you from work, go for a coffee?
Harper put the papers down on the table.
“In light of this evidence, would you like to tell me how you know Patrick Tranter?”
Natasha glanced at the solicitor, who nodded. Wearily, she looked back at Harper, then dropped her eyes.
“He was my boyfriend. Or, I thought he was. We met in a bar, around four months ago.”
“And he tried to end it recently?”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t want it to end.”
“I suppose.”
“If you threaten to hurt a man’s family, do you think that will make him love you back?”
“I didn’t threaten him.”
“Look,” said Harper, pointing at the words on the screen, “you said, among other things, why should you get to keep what you have. Looks like a legitimate threat to me. It could easily be construed, in hindsight, as a threat to take Patrick’s children. To hurt him, the way he hurt you.”
Natasha pushed the tablet away with one finger. “I did say that. I also said, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. I didn’t do what you say.”
“Patrick’s a married man. You must have known that when you got involved with him. What did you think would happen?”
“He said he was separated, and that his wife had serious mental problems. He said he still lived with her because he was basically her carer, and he needed time to get her sorted out with someone to look after her. I didn’t know about the babies until they were almost born.” She was tense, her lips puckered into a mean little o.
“You didn’t know about the fact that his wife was pregnant?”
“No. Not until she was almost ready to pop.”
“Anyone would be angry.”
“Yes.”
“It’s understandable to want to try to get at him.”
“Well, yes, but not like this.”
“Lauren’s an easy target. And she’s the one who gets to keep him. I can see why you might lash out at her, at the babies. They’re all that’s standing between you and a happy life with Patrick.”
Natasha laughed mirthlessly. “This is stupid. Anyway, I don’t know her. I’ve never met her. I don’t even know what she looks like.”
“You’ve never seen a photo of her and Patrick together? You’ve never searched her name on social media? These are things I can easily check, on your phone and your laptop.”
Natasha stuck her lip out, a petulant child. “Fine. I know what she looks like.”
“So you saw her in the valley today? You recognised her?”
Natasha didn’t respond. Crace whispered something in her ear. “No comment,” she mumbled.
“You followed her in your car, didn’t you?”
“No comment.”
“Where were you on the thirteenth of July?”
“No … July? Why are you asking me about July?”
“The date means nothing to you?”
“I don’t know. It was ages ago.”
“According to the messages on your phone, Patrick dumped you that night. It was also the day his twins were born.”
“Well, you know already then. I was being dumped. Drowning my sorrows, if I remember rightly.”
“In the text messages there’s a conversation where you threaten to go to his house. He says he’s at the hospital. You say, and I quote, well maybe I’ll come there the
n.”
“I didn’t go there, of course I didn’t. Is that what you think?”
“Patrick’s wife thinks someone came on to the maternity ward that night and threatened her. I’ve heard evidence that backs up that claim, and I’ll be getting it analysed very soon. Whose voice do you think I’ll find on that tape, Natasha?”
“From what Patrick’s told me about his nutjob of a wife,” said Natasha, “I couldn’t say. I expect you’ll find that it’s a figment of her crazy imagination.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
In the moments before the door opened she’d been ready, she thought, but the sight of the stroller winded her. That fluorescent green she’d chosen, suddenly the colour of river-weed. And there was Patrick, usually so confident, seeming hesitant and uncertain; his frightened eyes tore away her mask. She thought she could feel them, the things in the stroller, wanting her, wanting something and she couldn’t stop herself trying to get away from them; the reflex was too strong to fight. But, a split second later, when the door closed and she felt the shards of paint under her fingernails from where she’d been scrabbling at the window bars, she knew she’d made a huge mistake.
She heard the babies crying outside in the corridor and the sound was not Morgan and Riley. When her own babies cried, the frequency of it was so hard-wired into her brain that it tugged her from her thoughts, and milk would immediately begin to leak from her nipples. This new sound was high and hard, the same sound twice where Morgan and Riley were each distinctive. It sharpened her thoughts instead of muddying them. Her breasts remained indifferent. It was confirmation: they are not my boys. My mind knows, and so does my body. But both had betrayed her in the moment, as she’d panicked and screamed and clawed at the barred and bolted window, trying to flee when she should have been pretending all was fine, smoothing things over, allowing the staff to believe she ought to be released.
The crying sound faded as it got further away. Then Pauline was telling her, in a very parental tone, to calm down because everything was all right. Lauren stopped crying very quickly and sat back down in the chair. I’ve blown it, she thought, desperate to collapse inwardly with despair. But no. She had no time for that. Morgan and Riley were still missing. And she was not mad, no matter what they thought.
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