by Jane Holland
I keep my gaze on the patch of sunshine beside the sofa. I can see dust spinning in it. Does he resent having to work while I stay home with Harry? I thought we had decided that was best for now, until we know more about how to cope with his condition. It’s a little alarming to think he may be harbouring some secret resentment. Then his actual words go round inside my head, and I listen more carefully this time.
I was in the office all day.
I remember staring into the jeweller’s window, studying rows of expensive watches and gold-plated clocks, and seeing Simon’s reflection in the glass beside me. I asked him not to mention to Jon that I was in town, and he denied that Jon was even in the office yesterday afternoon.
Susan sent him on some kind of errand.
I don’t look at him. He is my husband; I would not dream of giving him away. But my hand clenches slowly into a fist. He was not in the office all day. Simon told me as much when I saw him.
Why is he lying?
Chapter Eleven
‘Right.’ Dryer is scribbling all this down in a hurry. He is left-handed, I realise, watching his hand curve across the notebook. Then he looks up at me, taking me off guard. ‘And you went shopping in the supermarket, I think you said? You did mention it briefly last night, but we didn’t go into details.’
‘I took Harry in the buggy and walked into town,’ I tell him. ‘It would have been late morning by the time we left, after his medication and feed. It’s not far to walk, about fifteen minutes at a good pace. And I had plenty of things to do yesterday, so I don’t think I dawdled.’
‘You said you have a car though, didn’t you? A Ford Focus.’
‘Meghan prefers to walk,’ Jon says before I can answer. He puts a supportive hand on my shoulder. I want to look round at it, at him, but keep my eyes fixed on the police. ‘Since Harry’s birth. It’s a cheap and easy form of exercise. She’s trying to lose weight, you see.’
DC Gerent turns her incisive gaze on me, as though hunting for rolls of flab. Her smile is sympathetic.
My cheeks grow hot, but I say nothing.
‘Very well, tell me more about this supermarket visit,’ Dryer says to me, not looking at Jon.
With gratitude I refocus on him.
‘The supermarket,’ I say slowly, thinking.
I remember the black-haired woman bending over Harry. My angry questions, her aggressive response, the way the other shoppers were staring at us.
I don’t want Jon to hear about that embarrassing incident. Or the police to think I’m flaky. I’m already worried that they suspect me of something, the way they keep asking about what I did yesterday, the times and details, as though I’m hiding something.
‘There’s nothing to tell, really. Harry and I went round the aisles, did some shopping, mostly for the party, then walked home. It was such a lovely day.’ I hear myself give a little gasp at the end. It’s hard to keep control. I am remembering Harry’s flushed face in the sunshine, his small, compact body, the way he gurgled and kicked as I changed him in the supermarket baby-changing room. My empty arms yearn to hold him, to grab him up and breathe in his delicious baby scent, to feel his warmth against my chest. ‘Harry likes being outdoors. He was content.’
Jon’s hand tightens on my shoulder. I look up at him, and see that he is suffering too. He’s pale again, his lips drawn back slightly from his teeth, eyes narrowed.
I remember how we made love in the shower after he came home from work yesterday. How his touch and kisses made me feel like I was boneless. Everything seemed so perfect at that moment. Like nothing could touch us.
‘What about the woman?’
I look back at Dryer. ‘Sorry, what woman?’
‘The woman in the supermarket.’ He consults his notebook again, frowning. ‘DC Gerent spoke to the supermarket manager before coming here, to check what you told us about your movements yesterday. He told her there was some kind of misunderstanding in the shampoo aisle. That you had an altercation with another woman.’ He glances at Gerent. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sarge,’ she agrees. ‘The assistant manager remembered her from the photo I showed him.’
Jon is staring at me now. He releases my shoulder. The absence of his hand is somehow more disturbing than its weight.
‘What other woman?’ he repeats, directing the question at me. His voice is sharp, almost suspicious. I cannot imagine what Jon has to be suspicious about, and turn my head, looking up at him in surprise. ‘Meghan? You didn’t mention any of this to me. Who was this woman?’
I do not know what to say. I look from one face to another, and see nothing there to make me feel better. ‘Nobody. It was just a misunderstanding.’
‘The manager said you claimed the woman touched Harry. Maybe tried to take him out of the buggy?’
‘No, no,’ I stammer. ‘She . . . I didn’t see exactly . . .’
‘Meghan?’
I do not look at Jon again, but fix my gaze on DS Dryer’s face. Like I’m drowning and he will save me.
‘I made a mistake,’ I tell him urgently.
‘Did you know her?’ DS Dryer raises his eyebrows when I don’t reply. ‘This woman, did you know her? Recognise her, maybe?’
I shake my head.
He consults his notebook again. ‘This woman said she wanted to make a complaint against you. But when the assistant manager went back to speak to her, she had left the store. Apparently didn’t even buy any shopping.’
Jon is disturbed. I can hear it in his voice. ‘What kind of complaint?’
‘She accused your wife of erratic behaviour, I believe.’ Dryer looks down, then reads out loud, ‘Mad. That was the word she used to the assistant manager.’
Jerry. I remember looking at his name badge.
‘She was going to touch Harry. I told her not to, that’s all. Then I left.’ My voice sounds very high in the silence. ‘There was nothing else to it.’
‘And you didn’t know this woman?’
‘No.’
‘Can you describe her?’
‘Glasses,’ I say, thinking back. ‘Black hair, probably waist-long. Quite a big woman too. She was wearing a duffel coat, which struck me as odd.’
‘How so?’
‘Well, it was a very warm day.’ I bite my lip, remembering the glorious weather and how happy I was in the sunshine, pushing my son in his buggy. ‘I’m really sorry, I can’t remember much else about her.’
Dryer nods. More scribbling in his notebook. ‘Don’t worry. We’ve asked to look at the supermarket camera feeds. I’ll send DC Gerent over later.’
‘She had a Cornish accent too. For what it’s worth. I remember thinking she must be a local.’
‘Thank you, that’s helpful.’
It’s important to me that they understand what happened. ‘I didn’t mean to lose my temper with her. She didn’t do anything wrong, now I think about it. But it’s hard work, shopping with a baby. Very stressful. I only left him for a few seconds—’
Sharply, Jon exclaims, ‘What?’ and I feel my cheeks flare with heat again under his accusing stare. ‘You left Harry alone in the supermarket?’
‘I had to go back down the aisle, that’s all. A few steps. He was asleep; I didn’t want to turn the buggy.’ My eyes pleading, I turn to DS Dryer again. ‘Do you have children, Detective Sergeant?’
‘A boy and a girl. Both teenagers.’
‘Then I’m sure you remember how difficult it can be, trying to shop when they’re so very young. If he had started to cry . . .’
‘Of course. Nobody’s accusing you of anything.’
I look at Jon, thinking bitterly, he is. But I manage a smile for the policeman’s benefit and say merely, ‘Thank you. Anyway, it was a mistake. Nothing that has anything to do with Harry’s disappearance, I’m sure. She was a woman in the supermarket who stopped to admire Harry, that’s all.’ I swallow, then add humbly, ‘I overreacted.’
‘You do that a lot,’ Jon mutters.
‘But in my defence,’ I continue, not looking at my husband, ‘there’s a baby snatcher out there.’ I close my eyes, feeling the hot tears come suddenly and without warning. My last words are a choking stammer, ‘And I was right to be c . . . c . . . cautious, because someone’s taken him, haven’t they? My baby’s g . . . gone.’
Jon sits on the arm of the chair, hugs me silently. I suppose he does not want to look too unforgiving in front of our guests.
Thankful for his support, I nuzzle against his side, looking away from the police. I’m the victim here, surely? Yet their questioning makes me feel like I’m a criminal, like I have something to hide.
It’s not true though. I have nothing to hide, I tell myself fiercely. Nothing.
Dryer says, more gently, ‘We may need some of Harry’s things at some point. Not immediately, but if you could provide a small selection, it could prove useful later. Forensics last night said they’d finished with their examination, but it’s probably best not to tidy his room for the time being. Don’t clean it, you know.’
Jon queries, ‘Things?’
‘Maybe a baby toothbrush? Some of his hairs, if you have any. In the cot, perhaps. A used nappy.’
I stare. ‘Why on earth—?’
A phone begins to ring, shrill and disturbing.
Dryer hooks a mobile out of his jacket pocket, then grimaces down at the screen. ‘I have to answer this, sorry.’ He gets up and leaves the room, pulling the door shut behind him. We hear his voice in the hall, deep and murmuring.
Gerent closes her notebook and puts it away. Her smile is bland as she surveys my face, and the ring I’m twisting round and round on my finger.
‘Don’t worry, Meghan. I expect it’s just something to do with the press release. DS Dryer is supposed to be coordinating that.’ She turns her attention to Jon. It is definitely not my imagination that her smile broadens and grows warmer. ‘This is a lovely house. Have you lived here long?’
‘Three years.’ His arm tightens about me. ‘We moved in after the honeymoon. It was a stretch for us financially. But it seemed like a good way to start married life.’
‘And you’re happy here? Nice neighbourhood, good people?’
‘You get one or two that cause trouble, but overall . . .’ He looks down at me, and I meet his gaze. ‘Yes, we’re very happy here.’
‘My uncle lives a few streets from here. You can see the cathedral from his house.’
Jon smiles back at her easily. ‘Sounds idyllic.’
The door opens again. It’s DS Dryer, and he’s looking very sombre. He nods to his constable. ‘Time to go.’ He shakes our hands, managing a smile for me. ‘Thank you for your hospitality. Someone will be in touch later.’
‘What is it?’ I can’t help asking as the two police officers head for the door. ‘What aren’t you telling us? Is it the door-to-door enquiries? Have you found Harry?’
But he does not answer, striding from the house in a hurry, leaving DC Gerent to look back at us apologetically.
‘I promise,’ she insists, following her boss rapidly to the car, ‘as soon as we know anything concrete, you’ll know too.’
The car engine revs loudly, then they drive away, Dryer at the wheel, staring straight ahead. There’s been some urgent development that we are not permitted to know about. What other explan-ation can there be?
Left alone, we stand on the doorstep in the sunshine, watching the car head to the corner at speed, then disappear. I reach for Jon’s hand, and he accepts it.
‘I wish I knew what’s going on,’ I say.
On instinct, I glance down the street. There is still a police car parked a few doors down, the dark blur of a uniformed officer behind the wheel, watching us in his turn.
We are not quite alone, then.
Behind us, in the hall, the telephone begins to ring.
Chapter Twelve
Jon gets there first, and lifts the handset. ‘Hello?’ His voice is cautious, almost wary. He pauses, frowning, then says more naturally, ‘Yes, speaking.’
I stand beside him, waiting while he listens to whoever is on the other end. It’s difficult to be patient. I cannot hear the caller’s voice; the front door is still wide open, and there’s a faint noise of traffic as a car slows down outside. Cars often slow down when passing our house, probably in anticipation of the speed bumps at the other end of the road. But this driver stops right outside and sits there, engine running noisily.
I go back and shut the front door, muffling the sound of the car engine.
‘What?’ Jon exclaims suddenly, and I look at him in surprise. His brows jerk together. He listens some more, and his eyes widen. ‘When?’
I know better than to interrupt Jon when he’s on the phone – he hates that – so try instead to gauge what is being said by his facial expressions. At first I think he’s angry. Then I realise it’s a look of horror. His mouth flattens to a straight line, then abruptly he ends the call and thrusts the handset back into its charging cradle.
My heart begins to thud. ‘Who was it?’ I ask urgently. ‘The police? Was it about Harry? Have they found him?’
He looks at me strangely, then turns and strides into the lounge.
I remain where I am, staring after him. What the bloody hell is going on? Why won’t he talk to me? For a moment I want to go upstairs and pack a bag, get the fuck away from him. But that would be ludicrous. It’s the situation I can’t handle, not him. I’m behaving childishly and I know it.
I take a deep breath and follow him into the lounge.
He’s turned on the television and is flicking rapidly from one news channel to the next, as though searching for something.
‘Jon? Talk to me. Who was that on the phone?’
He stops on one news channel and stares. Then presses the volume button until the sound is right up.
‘For God’s sake, turn that down. Have you gone mad? What are you doing?’
Silently, Jon points with the remote, and I turn to look at the television screen, wincing at the high volume. Then I stop worrying about the sound, and focus instead on the picture and what is being said.
The news presenter is a middle-aged woman in a mustard-coloured blouse with gold buttons. Her face is immaculately made-up, her hair perfectly coiffured. She has kind eyes, but a calm, matter-of-fact tone that undermines any impression of empathy.
To the right of her head, in a square screen insert, one segment of film is playing over and over.
I study it wordlessly.
It’s a loop of footage taken in a narrow country lane so generic, it could be anywhere in rural England. The road itself is cordoned off with ribbons of yellow-and-black POLICE DO NOT CROSS tape, two police cars parked aslant the road with flashing lights, one male officer directing drivers away from the scene. Beyond them, through a half-open five-bar gate, several people in white forensic suits are crouching over something in a muddy field. Something too small to be seen from that distance.
As one of the forensic team straightens, the film snaps back to the beginning, to the officer bending to speak to a driver through his open window. Then loops through it again. The segment itself lasts maybe thirty seconds.
Frowning, I watch it through twice before I begin to fully comprehend what I am seeing.
‘The body, wrapped in black plastic, and believed to be that of a young baby,’ the news presenter is telling us in her mild, dispassionate voice, ‘was found by a local resident earlier this morning while walking his dog. Police at the scene, which is a rural location only a few miles outside Truro, have so far refused to comment on speculation that the body could be one of three young infants reported missing in recent weeks from that area. Our reporter understands an official statement to the press will be made later today.’
The news presenter pauses there before adding, with a slight softening of her voice, ‘It is believed the families of the missing children have been informed of this discovery. Now, in international news, the summit
meeting has—’
Jon mutes the sound, throws the remote aside and walks to the window. The television report continues in silence behind him. He has not said a word since putting down the phone.
‘Oh my God,’ I say, my voice thick with terror, unrecognisable. I sink numbly on to the sofa, still staring at the screen. ‘No, no.’
Jon makes a noise under his breath.
‘It’s not Harry, Jon. It can’t be Harry.’ I repeat this several times, round and round, like the looping segment of film we saw. ‘The police would have said something if they thought . . .’
But the words sound horribly thin and false, like I’ve been asked for my name and given someone else’s instead. I fall silent, remembering instead the people in their white forensic suits, stooping to look at something on the ground. Something nobody but them could see. The police cars with their blue lights flashing. The cordoned-off road. The clinical impersonality of it all.
I hear myself say, ‘That poor, poor baby. Poor little soul. But it’s not Harry. It’s not our baby,’ and feel immediate guilt.
Because it’s somebody’s baby, isn’t it? Somebody’s child has died and been left in a field for men in white suits to pick over.
Jon runs a hand abruptly over his eyes, then turns to face me, his face ashen but surprisingly composed. ‘You’re right, of course,’ he says briskly. Trying to make me feel better, I think. ‘It can’t be Harry. Still a shock though.’
I look at him closely. A memory breaks through the deadening fog of denial and disbelief. ‘Who was that on the phone?’
‘Some reporter,’ he says dismissively.
‘Shit.’ I stare at him. ‘The papers know? They know already?’
‘Apparently so.’
I look back at the television screen, as though drawn to it magnetically. The report has moved on. Now we have various heads of state in some lavish meeting room, smiling at each other, shaking hands around a table. I can name our Prime Minister, and recognise a few other familiar faces, but the reason for their big summit meeting is lost to me. Global warming? Terrorism? Something to do with Europe? I lost interest in following current affairs around the time Harry was born. There are only so many hours in the day.