by Jane Holland
‘Treve, I’ve been thinking,’ I say, feeling shaky and not sure that I want to go back to that house. ‘Perhaps we should just call the police.’
Slipping the phone into his back pocket, he considers that suggestion. ‘Better go round there first, talk to this guy, don’t you think? If, after that, you still have a reasonable suspicion that he’s got Harry hidden away in there, that would be the time to call the police. Otherwise, you risk . . .’
‘Looking stupid,’ I supply, finishing his thought.
He says nothing, but lifts his shoulders in a quick, ironic shrug.
‘Right,’ I mutter.
I shut the front door and check that it’s locked, then pocket my keys. I smile at him. He is very polite and does not comment on my change of clothes, though he must have got a good eyeful of my nipples when I was doing my Miss Wet T-shirt impression. It’s good to have his company. Now that I am not alone, I feel much calmer, more rational.
I say, ‘We’ll knock on the door and ask if he’s seen Harry, shall we?’
‘No harm in that,’ he agrees.
We walk together down to the house. It is spitting again now but the rainclouds are drifting over to the west of the city, and the sun has come out again. In the distance, a bright streak of colour above the rows of rooftops and satellite dishes shows me the rainbow I was eager for earlier. I look up at it dully now, and say nothing.
We get to the gate, and I come to a halt. ‘This is it,’ I say reluctantly. ‘This is the place.’
The curtains are still closed. The front door is shut. I imagine the man inside, how he will react when we knock on the door, when he sees me again. You crazy bitch. Is that what I’ve become?
Treve looks at me, his eyes sharp on my face. ‘So what made you suspect this guy in the first place?’
You crazy bitch.
‘No particular reason,’ I lie, and see at once that he does not believe me.
He raises his eyebrows. ‘That’s not much to go on.’
‘I . . . I thought I heard a baby crying inside the house,’ I say, this second lie even more ridiculous than the first, and then grimace at what’s happening to me. ‘No, I didn’t hear a sodding thing.’
He keeps looking at me, waiting for more.
‘He mentioned seeing me with Harry, then said I was too mad to have a baby. I just got a bad feeling about him. A sudden suspicion. Do you know what I mean?’
‘Absolutely.’
Now I do not believe him. He thinks I am completely round the bend too. How could anyone not, given what I just told him?
But I force a smile, and say, ‘Shall we knock, then?’
‘And run away?’
It’s meant to be a joke. Actually though, running away is precisely what I want to do. However, we’re here now, right in front of the house with the black door, and if I don’t go through with it, Treve will have his suspicion confirmed that I am crazy.
I march down the path and knock on the door. There isn’t a bell.
Nobody answers.
‘He’s not going to come,’ I say, staring at the shut door.
‘Okay, you want to call the police?’ Treve has his smartphone back in his hand, thumb poised over the screen as though ready to dial.
I look at him, and his phone, then shake my head.
He locks the phone without comment, then pushes it into his pocket. ‘You want to go back to the house, then?’ he asks mildly. ‘Maybe sit down, have a proper think about what to do next?’
I nod.
He takes my arm. ‘For what it’s worth, that man doesn’t speak English very well. I tried to talk to him about the recycling collection once, and it was pointless. We ended up agreeing that it was good weather. He probably didn’t have a clue what you were on about.’
As we walk away, I glance back at the house. I remember the way I yelled through the letterbox, the awful things I said, and shame runs hot into my face.
‘Poor man. He must have been terrified.’
‘Probably,’ Treve agrees, which does not help much.
‘If anyone should be calling the police, it’s him,’ I point out bitterly. ‘To arrest the crazy lady from down the road.’ A thought strikes me. ‘Oh God, perhaps he has already called them. That would be the icing on the cake.’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t let them drag you off to the cells without a fight.’ His flippancy is so warm and reassuring, his Cornish accent so strong, it’s hard not to smile. Though I only realise I am smiling through my tears when Treve reaches into his pocket and produces a clean, folded tissue. ‘Here, take this, and cheer up. Could have been worse.’
‘How could it have been worse?’
‘You could have run amok, attacked him with a rolling pin.’
‘I don’t have a rolling pin.’
‘Really?’ He makes a wry face. ‘Camilla has a large ceramic rolling pin. She’s always threatening me with it.’
‘I don’t make pastry.’ I blow my nose. ‘Don’t know how. Never learnt.’ Then what he said becomes clear to me. I remember the tension between them on the night Harry went missing. ‘You and Camilla, are you two okay?’
He looks sideways at me, hesitates, then pushes a clump of dark hair back from his forehead. There’s a look of frustration on his face. ‘To be honest, things haven’t been brilliant for a while. You know what I mean?’
I do know, and want to squeeze his arm, to show friendship and solidarity. But I don’t know Treve that well, and I am not sure if he would understand – or even appreciate – the gesture. Men often misinterpret things like that, I have to remind myself.
‘I understand.’
We are nearly at my front door. I reach for my keys, wondering if I should ask him in for coffee. Jon probably wouldn’t like that. Not when he’s at work. Treve isn’t exactly good-looking, but he does have something about him. He’s also our neighbour though, and he just helped me out in a very difficult situation. I don’t want to seem ungrateful.
Treve pauses. ‘I thought you would,’ he says, then adds slowly, ‘We hear things sometimes.’
I feel an icy cold at my core, spreading outwards.
‘Wh . . . what?’
‘The walls in these houses are too thin for secrets.’
He turns his head, looking at me intently. We are standing so close. Everything inside me feels jumbled up, chaotic, hurting.
I don’t want to meet Treve’s eyes. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Close up, I see he has tiny creases at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Tanned face, tanned throat, his body well built but sinewy, like one of these oaks you see stubbornly rooted in a Cornish hedgerow, too large for the space but enduring nonetheless.
‘Yes,’ Treve says, ‘you do.’
My eyes widen, catching on his. I’m finding it hard to breathe again, my heart beating against my ribcage like a wild bird.
What does he know?
Chapter Twenty-Two
Whatever Treve is about to reveal, he never gets the chance.
A car pulls up beside us with a sharp squeal of brakes, just squeezing into the space in front of Treve’s house, and I hear a shout.
Shaken, I turn and see Jon striding towards us.
Instinctively, Treve and I moved apart at the first sound of the car pulling up. But now I push the door open, the house keys still swinging in the lock. I suppose my first impulse is to get inside before Jon loses his temper . . .
But it is too late.
‘Fuck’s sake, Meghan!’ he exclaims on reaching us. ‘Have you been out somewhere? I’ve been calling and calling. Why the hell didn’t you answer the phone?’
I stare at him, my heart beating fast, my back pressed awkwardly against the door frame. ‘Why, what is it?’
But Jon is looking at Treve, frowning as he takes in the pair of us together, our general air of conspiracy, and my pink sweatshirt, an old, tight-fitting favourite. Now there’s a note of suspicion in his voice. ‘Treve? Why are you he
re? Has there been a problem?’
Too late, I see him glance at my face. His eyes narrow on my mouth.
I haven’t worn lipstick except for special occasions in ages. I gave up make-up in early pregnancy because the faint scent of the cosmetics made me feel sick, and simply haven’t started up again properly since Harry’s birth. I think the first time I made an effort with myself was the dinner party.
And now I’m with Treve, and wearing lipstick.
‘Meghan?’ The threat in his lowered tone is implicit, though perhaps only to me.
Or perhaps not.
I see a flicker of apprehension on Treve’s face, but also something else as he straightens, turning to face Jon, shoulders back, an almost martial glint in his eyes.
Treve wants to hit him.
I’m shocked at the realisation, and then secretly gratified. Then horribly, horribly guilty. Jon is my husband, for God’s sake. And he’s no match for Treve, physically at least. This could be disastrous.
And it’s my fault. I’ve caused this conflict, and for no good reason. So it’s up to me to intervene. ‘I totally lost it with that guy down the road this morning,’ I tell Jon quickly, almost babbling, trying to distract him. ‘You know, the big Russian, or whatever he is. The one with the beard.’
Jon is still staring straight at Treve. Thinking, brooding, perhaps even speculating about what we’ve been doing while he was at work.
Desperately, I add, ‘I’m not sure I know why, or what on earth I was thinking, but I suddenly decided he was the one who took Harry.’
Jon’s head swings back towards me. ‘What?’
‘He isn’t the Cornish Snatcher, of course. I just went crazy. It was awful. I was yelling at the poor man, and then I ran back to call the police.’ I take a breath, slowing down now that I have his full attention. ‘Luckily, Treve was just coming back from the shops. He persuaded me to drop it, and not jump to stupid conclusions.’ I see his eyes narrow again, and add, ‘I was desperate for someone to blame. And that guy . . . Well, he’s different, isn’t he? So I blamed him.’
Much to my relief, Jon finally seems to have understood. He looks grudgingly at Treve. ‘Thanks.’
‘No problem. Look, I’d better go. I’ve left my shopping in the hall.’ With a casual air, Treve smiles at us both. ‘See you later.’
Once he’s gone, I look round at Jon, suddenly seeing the wild intensity in his face, the slight flush on his cheeks. Oh God, I think, does he suspect me of having an affair with Treve? I remember the last time he thought I might be interested in another man. How could I forget?
‘What is it?’ I ask, no longer sure if I want to go inside the house with him. I don’t like the look in his eyes. ‘What’s happened?’
‘You need to come with me right away.’ Jon grabs me by the shoulders, and I freeze, a statue in his arms, staring up at him. ‘They’ve found her,’ he explains. ‘I got a call at work about twenty minutes ago. I came straight home to fetch you.’
‘Found her?’ I wish his hands weren’t gripping me so tightly. ‘Found who?’
‘The baby snatcher.’
The Cornish Snatcher – as the papers insist on calling her – has been based all this time in some isolated farmhouse south of Truro. The police have been examining CCTV footage, piecing together different descriptions, and finally identified a suspect. Then they found a possible address, and sent a car out to investigate.
‘I don’t know what the police have found there,’ Jon tells me, ‘and all I got from DS Dryer’s mobile was his answering service. But the journalist who called me said we should probably get out there asap.’
Jon drives. I can see how much this news has animated him, made him hopeful that this may mean the end of our ordeal – for better or worse. His face is intent and frowning at the same time, his hands constantly moving: twisting the wheel, slamming the gearstick up and down through the gears, tapping restlessly on the window frame in the sunshine.
I watch him as I listen, and share some of his excitement – and his fear at what we may find when we get there.
The call he got was not from the police, I discover, but a freelance journalist. This is not what I expected, and makes me wonder why the police have not been in touch.
Jon is wondering that too, it seems. ‘The reporter didn’t give his name, just wanted to know if Harry was still alive. He sounded surprised that I didn’t know yet. That’s when he told me about the snatcher.’
The farmhouse is set deep in the woods, within sight of an inlet of the River Fal, the kind of rambling old place that those with a little money might hire for a family holiday, or buy as a second home. As we drive out there with guidance from our dashboard satnav, Jon relates what the anonymous caller told him, which is that several reports from the public had led the police there. To make enquiries at first, but later with growing suspicion. A patrol car was dispatched early that morning, but failed to gain access. Another police car followed it, and however it happened, maybe one officer taking matters into his own hands, maybe permission being given for a forced entry, a window was broken and they got inside.
I ask, ‘So a journalist told you all this on the phone? I hope it’s not a hoax.’
He stares at me sidelong, then looks back at the road. We are leaving Truro, heading out into open countryside, woods and fields on either side. ‘I didn’t think of that,’ he admits, and the relentless pace of the car slackens. ‘Shit, it never even occurred to me. He sounded totally on the level.’
‘But didn’t give his name?’
Jon blinks, then says with fresh conviction, ‘Actually, I didn’t ask. But he did mention one or two papers he works for. I can’t recall which ones. Maybe The Times?’ He shrugs, and the car picks up pace again. He has done with feeling guilty and is already rewriting the situation in his head, making things acceptable again. ‘It doesn’t matter. We get there and nothing’s happening, we’ll know for sure it’s a hoax.’
I hang on to the handgrip as he corners at speed, my heart beating fast. I want to ask him to slow down, but dare not. Not when he’s in this dangerous mood. Mania, I think they call it. He might do anything. Even crash the car.
I try not to think about what is waiting for us at our destination. But it’s impossible not to allow myself at least a tiny flicker of hope. Within less than half an hour, I could be holding Harry again, kissing his soft cheek, snuggling him against my chest, breathing in his gorgeous baby smell.
But perhaps all that lies ahead is his cold, stiff body.
I put a hand to my mouth, everything in me rebelling against that image, but not before a sob escapes.
Jon glances at me, misinterpreting my gesture. ‘I’m telling you, it’s not a hoax. Look,’ he says, and points ahead. There is a police car coming towards us along the woodland road, no sirens, no lights, but at a good pace, the driver looking determined. ‘See, I told you.’
I watch the police car in my wing mirror until it disappears. I feel ill and have to battle against a sudden light-headed sensation, like I’m going to faint.
Everything is about Harry now.
I focus on the road ahead, the woodland trees, the strips of sunlight and shade the car is passing through, one after the other, flash, shadow, flash, shadow.
I need to be strong, to think of Harry and not myself. What I feel is unimportant, because what happens to me doesn’t matter, not even if I end up ripped apart by this hope and fear, their terrible alternating highs and lows.
The relentless trees part for a few seconds.
A sunlit meadow flashes past.
I turn my head, momentarily blinded. I suddenly remember lying in a field as a child, tearing petals from a daisy. He loves me, he loves me not; he loves me, he loves me not.
The black-and-white chequered flag pops up on the satnav screen. According to the display, we are due to arrive at our final destination in three minutes.
He’s alive, he’s not alive; he’s alive, he’s not alive.
/> There are police cars on the road ahead. A track leads to a small, dirty-looking farmhouse, a glimpse of water through the trees. A bird flies across the road right in front of the car bonnet. Sturdy brown tapering wings, and the hint of a sharp beak.
I stare after it until the bird vanishes into the trees.
A falcon?
Jon slows to a crawl as he approaches the turn. I hear him muttering under his breath, ‘Yes, this has to be it. We’re here.’
He’s in his work suit, but the tie is askew, his top button undone. That’s not like him, even on a warm day like this. I imagine him getting that call in the office, his face filled with elation, then rushing for the lift, tearing at his top button, loosening his tie . . .
‘Did he call you on your mobile?’
‘What?’ He is opening his window; a male police officer is flagging us down, trying to stop us turning into the farmhouse track.
‘The journalist. You were at the office when he called, weren’t you?’
Jon hesitates, frowning. ‘Yes.’
‘So did he call you on your mobile or on the office phone?’
‘Mobile.’
‘How did he get your number?’
‘No idea.’
‘Can you call him back?’
‘Number withheld.’
The police officer looks in at us, assessing who we are, public or plain-clothes police service. I do not know him. He’s a young man, friendly smile, but clearly unwelcoming.
‘I’m sorry, sir, madam,’ he says politely, presumably having satisfied himself that we are members of the public, ‘but you can’t stop here.’
‘I need to get down to the farmhouse,’ Jon tells him, that crisp lawyer’s authority in his voice, the kind that makes me shrink when he uses it on me. ‘It’s urgent.’
The officer studies us both again. More suspiciously this time. ‘Press?’
‘No.’
‘I’m afraid you can’t come down here,’ the officer says, then glances at my face. ‘Do you have any connection to the owner?’
Jon is frowning. ‘Of course not. Look, I need to speak to whoever’s in charge.’