by Jane Holland
I feel again the emptiness, the terrible yawning absence of Harry at the centre of my life, like a black hole sucking everything of light and joy and hope into it.
I begin to panic.
‘So it wasn’t a television reporter, then?’ I ask hurriedly, gripping on to the known, on to what’s next, desperate to avoid the chaos in my head.
‘I think she mentioned a newspaper,’ he says vaguely, then shrugs. He thrusts his hands into his jeans pockets. ‘One of the tabloids. I don’t care which one, frankly. I’m not interested. Bloody vultures.’
‘But what did she want? What exactly did she say?’
‘God, I don’t know.’ He blinks, then looks blankly at the television too, as though it will help him recall the phone conversation. ‘Okay, she started off with her name, something Irish-sounding like O’Riley, then asked did we know a body had been found, that it was on the news?’ He grimaces. ‘Before I could even process that, she started making us an offer. For an exclusive. That’s when I hung up.’
‘Jesus.’
I think of the police, the phone call that came for DS Dryer before they left. ‘How the hell did a journalist know about us? Or our phone number?’
‘I don’t know,’ he repeats wearily.
Tears spring into my eyes again, but this time it’s anger, not grief. A deep, pounding anger that shocks me, that makes me want to smash something – or someone. I can’t believe it’s my precious boy they’ve found in some dirty patch of mud out in the back of beyond. I refuse to believe that. It’s the only way I can keep sane. But that does not mean we should have been kept in the dark over this poor child’s death. Our baby is missing too; we have a right to know everything that happens, and that means before the newspapers. We also have a right to privacy, to go through this agony without the eyes of the world on us.
‘I blame DS Dryer. Why didn’t he tell us what was going on? He got that phone call. Then both of them fucked off without another word. I bet that call was about the dead baby. That poor dead baby. What else could it have been about?’
‘Meghan.’
‘No, listen.’ I am ranting, my voice high-pitched, yet cannot seem to control myself. The tears are flowing freely now. ‘The police must have known what they’d found in that field. We should have been told. But they said nothing; they deliberately kept us out of the loop. They let us find out on the news, for God’s sake, like everybody else. Like ordinary people.’
‘I know.’
‘But why did they do that? It’s appalling. They’re treating us like—’
‘Suspects,’ Jon supplies flatly, and I stare at him, uncomprehending.
Jon sighs and reaches for the box of soft white tissues on the table. He drags out a generous handful, and passes them to me.
‘That’s what we are, Meghan,’ he explains gently. ‘I’ve seen it from the other side, remember, as a lawyer. Most murders are committed by someone close to the victim. Fact. Most children who are murdered are killed by one of their own parents. Fact. The police are simply doing their job by restricting information until they know for certain what’s going on here.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘I know you’re upset, and you have a right to be. But you have to look at this from their point of view. We’re not just parents of a missing child. Not anymore.’ He looks at me, and I hear something indefinable in his voice. Something that chills me. ‘We’re suspects.’
The doorbell rings.
‘Stay here.’ He leaves the room. I wait, listening, and hear some kind of altercation on the doorstep. I get up and stare round the door. There’s a man, looking in past Jon’s shoulder.
‘Meghan,’ he shouts as soon as he sees me, holding up a phone. Presumably he’s recording the whole thing on it. ‘Who do you think took your son last night? Is it his body out at Billing’s Farm?’
‘I’m sorry, but we’re not answering any questions from the press.’ Jon is trying to stay cool and professional, but I can hear the anger in his voice. ‘And I would appreciate it if you could respect our privacy—’
‘Why did you leave your baby unattended?’
‘He was not unattended. He was in his cot, here in our own home,’ Jon tells him sharply. ‘Now I’d like you to leave. There’s an officer parked down the road. I can summon him if you won’t leave.’
The man’s tone turns aggressive. ‘No need to be like that. I spoke to one of your neighbours this morning. She says you left the front door unlocked last night, that you didn’t check on the baby for hours, that you could be arrested for negligence . . .’
‘Get lost!’ Jon sounds furious now. ‘You’re trespassing.’
I come further into the hall, not sure if I should lend a hand or not. The way the journalist is grinning makes me hate him. Vile man!
Suddenly, a few feet behind him, a second man appears out of nowhere, as though he has been hiding, waiting for his chance. A man holding something up over his colleague’s shoulder.
I blink as a flash goes off, illuminating the hall and presumably my startled face too. A photographer, I realise too late.
Jon wrestles the door shut, then shuttles the chain across. ‘Bastards!’
‘They took a picture of me. Oh my God. For the papers.’
‘It’s not important.’
I stare at him, suddenly cold. ‘Jon, they must know something. Something about that body. Why . . . Why else take a photo of me?’
He takes me by the shoulders, looks into my face. ‘I told you, it’s not important. If it was Harry, we would know by now. You heard the news report. The families of the missing children have been told.’ He pauses significantly, holding my gaze. ‘We haven’t been told though, have we? So they can’t think it’s Harry.’
I lean my forehead on his chest, listen to the rapid thud of his heart. He’s as wound up as me, I realise.
‘I love you,’ I say brokenly.
His arms come round me. ‘Meghan, darling,’ he says deeply. ‘You’re upset, and no one blames you for that. But we’ve got to hold it together. For Harry’s sake, yes?’
I think about what he’s said, then nod. ‘For Harry’s sake.’
‘That’s my girl.’ He tips up my face, a finger under my chin, then kisses me briefly on the lips. ‘Now I have to ring Sue about taking Monday off.’
‘Do you think he meant it?’
‘Did who mean what?’
‘That journalist. He said we’d been negligent. That we left Harry alone too long, that we could be . . . arrested.’
‘He was trying to get a rise out of us, that’s all.’
‘You really think so?’
‘Of course. Look, while I call work, why don’t you go upstairs and put some of Harry’s things together in a bag, like DS Dryer asked?’
‘I want to meet the other parents,’ I whisper. ‘The other parents whose babies have been abducted.’
‘That doesn’t sound like a good idea. You’ll only get upset.’
‘I want to meet them,’ I insist.
He closes his eyes briefly, then nods. ‘I’ll mention it to DS Dryer. Though there’s no reason to think the cases are related. Not until the police tell us they are. Now up you go, and let me make my call to the office.’
Numbly, I go upstairs and he watches me go.
I stand outside the closed door to Harry’s nursery for a long time, then finally find the courage to turn the handle and go inside.
The forensics officer has not moved anything, as far as I can tell. Yet somehow I can still tell that people have been in here: walking about, studying the store of pre-filled syringes in the mini-fridge, touching Harry’s cot and his changing mat and his brightly coloured mobile, looking at his belongings, maybe checking the wall for fingerprints where the medication chart was ripped away.
The nursery feels both invaded and horribly empty at the same time. My gaze keeps being drawn back to the cot, as though I may suddenly see Harry lying there, as though it’s possible al
l of us somehow failed to spot him during the search. The human mind is a peculiar machine, I think; so good at self-healing, it keeps attempting the impossible again and again, even when hope is gone.
I stand there silently. I can hear Jon on the phone to Susan downstairs. He sounds almost relieved to be talking to his boss instead of me, back to professional mode, his voice calm and even, discussing with the senior partner how long he may be away from the office, how things should be handled in his absence.
I was in the office all day.
That was what he had told DS Dryer. Only he wasn’t, was he? He lied to the police. He was not in the office yesterday afternoon because, according to Simon, ‘Susan sent him on some kind of errand’.
Stop it, I tell myself sternly. Running an errand for a senior partner is part of his job. So in Jon’s mind, he probably considers that as having been at work all day. And if I ask him directly about it, it will only cause another argument.
I bend and rifle through the fridge, counting how many syringes are left, taking some comfort in the monotonous task until I stop, frowning.
I do a more careful recount.
Same result.
There seems to be less medication in the fridge than there should be.
I rub my forehead, stressed.
I ought to know, but I can’t remember exactly how many syringes we had at the start of this course or how many should be left in the fridge. But then, I kept the chart on the wall precisely so I would not need to remember. Maybe Dr Shiva will know how many pre-filled syringes were prescribed for this most recent course of medication, and how many should be left. Though, of course, it hardly matters now. Harry’s not here anymore, and he’s already missed this morning’s injection. Then he’ll miss the next one, and the one after that . . .
Suddenly, I shake the fridge violently, tipping it forward so that the door tilts open, throwing its contents to the floor. I am breathing hard, my chest heaving.
I bite my lip, struggle to hold my breath.
Stop it, stop it, stop it.
Several moments pass while I stand there, staring blindly at the fallen fridge, and the jumble of syringes and other packets on the floor. There seems to be some significance in the scattered mess, like it’s a metaphor for what’s going on inside my head.
I love you.
I stoop and tidy up the mess I’ve made, then restock the fridge with the remaining syringes and reposition it on the cabinet.
Thankfully, it still seems to be working.
I’m not surprised the mother of that other missing baby has become depressed. I have not been myself since the birth, often muddled, sometimes miserable or stressed, even hysterical at times, and now this. Our lives have been torn apart. Yes, I think, looking around the silent room once more before I leave. It feels like my heart has been ripped out, and I do not know how I am going to survive. Not like this, not on my own.
I love you.
Jon did not say, ‘I love you,’ in return, did he?
Chapter Thirteen
When I finally come downstairs again, I find Camilla and Treve sitting together on the sofa in the lounge, talking to Jon in low, concerned voices. All three look round when I walk in, and their conversation dies away to silence.
It’s hard not to feel awkward as I meet their stares. Clearly they were discussing me in my absence, and not in a positive way. They could not have made it more obvious if they had tried, I think, but restrain myself from demanding to know what has been said. That will only make them all the more convinced of my fragility.
Camilla looks beautiful in a striking Japanese top, decorated with red flowers and worn loose over white leggings. Her neat feet are encased in white ballet pumps, her make-up light and perfect, hair hanging smoothly golden. Beside her slender figure, Treve looks almost overweight, yet somehow healthy at the same time; he always reminds me of a rugby player, large without looking unfit, his eyes watching kindly as I hesitate in the doorway.
‘Hello,’ I say, and have to suppress an impulse to burst out in laughter at how ridiculously inadequate that greeting has become.
Jon would understand. But our glamorous next-door neighbours would not.
Hello, I am broken. Hello, my life is a howling pit of despair. Hello, my gorgeous baby boy may be dead, and I do not know where to look or how to speak or even if I shall ever be whole again.
Camilla jumps up from the sofa first. ‘Darling,’ she says, and hugs me tightly. I glance at Jon over her shoulder, but he’s turned away, looking out of the window. His profile is tense, mouth compressed. ‘I saw the news this morning, and knew we had to come round. How are you?’
‘It’s not him.’
She steps back, studying my face. ‘The police have been in touch, then? Jon said . . .’
‘It’s not him,’ I insist.
Treve stands up and hugs me too. ‘So dreadful, Meghan. I can’t begin to imagine how you’re feeling,’ he tells me, his Cornish voice rumbling against me. ‘We’re both very sorry. Very sorry indeed. How are you coping?’
I manage a shaky smile when he releases me.
‘Oh, you know . . . Surviving.’
‘Aren’t we all?’ he quips, but his answering smile is warm and understanding. ‘Now listen, if there’s anything you need, anything either of us can do, you only have to ask. Isn’t that right, Camilla?’
‘Absolutely,’ she agrees.
‘Thank you.’
I feel a little weepy faced with such kindness, and have to battle the temptation to dissolve into tears again. It would be so easy to give up and cry on their shoulders. To let tears be my habitual expression from now on until the worst possible news arrives, the words I never want to hear. Nobody would blame me, everyone would understand.
But I’ve made my decision.
I say to Jon, ‘I want to go and speak to that officer parked outside. I can’t sit here uselessly anymore. I need to know.’
Without even waiting to hear his response, I turn and leave the room. Jon will be furious, of course. His instinct is always to behave conservatively, and he will not like me approaching the police instead of waiting for them to come back to us. But a wild impatience has got its teeth into me, and I find myself marching down the street in the spring sunshine, my arms folded, my face set.
I hear Jon’s voice behind me and ignore him.
The police officer is a dark-haired man, gazing down at his smartphone, his expression distracted as he flicks from one screen to another. He’s not one of the team DS Dryer introduced us to last night, so I don’t know his name. I do have a vague memory of seeing him on the front path though, talking to DS Dryer, probably somewhere around midnight. I wonder if he was on the night shift too, or if someone else has recently handed over to him.
He looks round, startled, when I rap sharply on the passenger window.
‘Hello? I’m Meghan Smith,’ I say through the glass. ‘I need to talk to you. Or to DS Dryer. It’s important.’
The policeman gets out of his car immediately, coming round towards me. The sun is dazzling off the windscreen, but I squint at him, arms still folded.
‘Is there a problem?’
‘Much good you are, sitting here,’ I say accusingly. ‘We had a newspaper reporter round the house just before, and a photographer. He got a picture of us before Jon closed the door.’
The man looks worried. ‘I wasn’t aware of that, I’m sorry. I had to take a call from the station a short while ago. That could have been why—’
‘Was it about my son?’ I interrupt him.
Jon has come up behind me. He tries to pull me away, making some apologetic noises at the policeman, but I shake off his hand.
‘The baby they found in the field,’ I insist, my voice rising. ‘Whose baby is it? Do they know yet? Why haven’t we been told? I saw on the news just now that the families of the three other missing babies had been informed about the . . . the body.’ I swallow hard, my voice breaking on that word. I force mys
elf to continue though. ‘But nobody’s saying a word to us.’
‘Meghan, please.’ Jon is angry. I can hear it in the way he says my name. ‘Look, come back inside. This isn’t doing any good.’
‘I want answers.’
‘And you’ll get them,’ the police officer assures me, but he is looking at Jon over my head. Like a silent conspiracy, man to man. ‘Though I think it would probably be a good idea to continue this discussion inside your house.’
‘I agree.’ Jon smiles. ‘Sorry, I don’t think I know your name.’
‘PC Turner. Or just plain Pete, if you prefer.’ He turns to lock the vehicle. ‘I’m happy to wait inside with you, if you like. Or just outside the front door, if you’d prefer to have privacy. I’m very sorry about the journalist and photographer; I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen again. If you give me their names, I can report them for misconduct.’
Jon shakes his head. ‘They didn’t give their names. Couple of freelancers, I expect. Hoping for a story to sell to the nationals.’
‘Excuse me,’ I say sharply as they turn towards the house.
Both men look round at me, surprise in their faces.
‘Do you mind speaking to me, not just to my husband?’ I ask, my voice shaking with annoyance, and wonder if I’ve gone too far when I see Jon’s brows jerk together. ‘I exist too, you know.’
PC Turner hesitates, his gaze searching my face. ‘Of course you do. I’m very sorry if you thought I was ignoring you, Meghan. Do you mind if I call you Meghan?’ Without waiting for an answer, he gestures me to walk ahead of him. ‘Shall we go inside?’
I hate the silence now that Harry isn’t here.
Just walking into the empty house reminds me of his absence. For months now, my entire life has revolved around Harry: his feeding times, his bath times, his medication and special care, only a few snatched moments on my own while he was sleeping, to put on a wash or sit down with a coffee. Even before he came home from the hospital, the nurses set up a trestle bed for me beside his cot, I was there so often, every day, most nights, Jon unable to make the time as frequently as I could.