Lock the Door

by Jane Holland

  Emily sits back too. She looks stricken. ‘Meghan, this is me. I thought we were friends. Or becoming friends, at least. You really think I could steal a baby? Your baby? Take Harry away from you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She shakes her head vehemently. ‘Not me.’

  I study her face in silence for a moment, trying to read her expression, then nod. I’m still unconvinced. There’s something about her defensiveness . . . I can’t put my finger on it. But I’ll take it up with Paul Dryer after lunch. There’s no point pressing the point with Emily herself.

  ‘Sorry. When I saw that dummy, I thought . . .’ I shrug. ‘I shouldn’t have accused you like that. I’m not thinking straight at the moment.’

  ‘Forget it.’

  But I can hear the hurt and anger in her voice.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ I repeat.

  Emily looks away, her lips pressed tightly together.

  Nerves flutter in my stomach. Fuelled by paranoia and lack of sleep, I spoke without thinking, and have inadvertently caused a crisis between us. If I’m not careful, I may lose her friendship. And I could do with a good friend right now. I need Emily.

  I reach out and touch her hand. ‘Please, will you forgive me? That was a crazy thing to say. I know it wasn’t you who took Harry. And I should never have intercepted that call from Jon. That was what made my imagination start to work overtime. Though you did seem very taken with him at the dinner party.’

  There’s horror in her eyes now. ‘The dinner party? No, it was nothing like that. I would never touch someone else’s husband.’

  ‘What?’ For a moment, I’m confused. Then I realise her mistake. ‘No, I meant Harry. You seemed so taken with Harry.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I see her look away, a slight tinge of red in her cheeks.

  A sudden, horrible suspicion strikes me, and I stare at her averted profile. I force myself to say the words, though my lips feel numb. ‘Christ, I’ve hit the nail on the head. You’re having an affair with Jon, aren’t you?’

  Now she looks sick. ‘Absolutely not.’

  I hear truth behind that fervent denial. Maybe even a hint of repulsion. She doesn’t like Jon. Really doesn’t like him. Which makes me instantly suspicious.

  ‘Emily, what do you know?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Please don’t lie to me.’ I stare at her across the table. ‘Is Jon having an affair with someone behind my back? Maybe someone at work?’ I see her smile freeze in place, then begin to fade. ‘Please tell me if you know. I’m his wife, for God’s sake. Don’t I deserve the truth?’

  She swallows, then puts down her knife and fork. ‘I don’t know anything,’ she insists, but her voice is weaker now, the certainty gone from her expression.

  ‘But you have . . . suspicions?’

  ‘It’s only a few things Simon has said. I don’t have proof.’

  I think back over the past year, remember the phone calls and texts, the repeated excuses about missing dinner because of a demanding legal case. ‘All those times he said he was working late . . .’

  ‘I can’t be sure.’

  I push my plate away, no longer hungry. I don’t know why I feel so hurt. Perhaps because I’ve had suspicions before, when he’s stayed out late after a big case, or disappeared off at weekends on professional training courses, but decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Or perhaps because I stupidly thought, after Harry’s birth and the discovery of his auto-immune condition, that Jon was concentrating on us as a family at last.

  I allowed him to trick me, that’s what hurts.

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Honestly, I don’t know. And Simon would never tell me who it is, even if he knew. He and Jon are thick as thieves.’ Her lips tighten, and she looks away towards the river. ‘Sometimes I think he prefers Jon’s company to mine.’

  ‘I know the feeling.’

  ‘I thought if I tried hard to have a baby, that Simon would look at me differently. Ask me to marry him. But he’s not that kind of man, I suppose. Nothing’s as important to Simon as making partner at that damn law firm.’

  ‘You could be talking about me and Jon.’

  ‘Except Jon married you.’

  ‘I’m sure Simon will marry you,’ I tell her.

  Turning her head, Emily gives me a sad little smile. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure that I want him to. Not anymore.’ She frowns, then adds, ‘Look, I know this won’t make a lot of sense, but since we’re talking about your husband, I keep asking myself where Jon went last night, why he’s suddenly disappeared too.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m not really sure.’ Emily raises her gaze to my face, her look troubled. ‘But it feels like there’s a pattern to the way Jon’s suddenly gone AWOL. Or a connection, at least. And we’re just not seeing it.’

  ‘A connection to what?’

  She stares at me. ‘To Harry’s disappearance, of course.’

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  After lunch, we hug and say goodbye in the pub car park, then I wait until Emily has driven away before hunting through my bag for my mobile. I am determined to try Jon again, now that I’ve calmed down after our argument yesterday evening. I don’t want him back, but he needs to know what the Snatcher said. He can’t just walk away and pretend none of this is happening, that his son is not missing, that our marriage has not fallen apart.

  I keep asking myself where Jon went last night, why he’s suddenly disappeared too.

  I don’t believe Jon is connected to Harry’s disappearance. Not even remotely. But I am beginning to worry that something may have happened to him. I was angry and hurt when I thought he might be with someone else, though I was not sure it was true. Now I am a little uneasy as well.

  Could there be anything in what Emily said?

  I try Jon’s mobile again. All I get is a generic voicemail message, exactly as before, telling me to leave a message. This time I speak more urgently, hoping this will prompt him to get in touch.

  ‘Jon, it’s me again. Please call me back at once. It really is very important.’ I hesitate, then add, ‘There’s been a development with Harry.’

  I feel a little deceitful for saying that. But it’s important that he gets in touch.

  I stop, staring down at my phone. A voicemail notification is lit up on the screen.

  My heart jolts.

  Jon?

  Hurriedly, I retrieve the message and put my ear to the phone, frowning as I listen. I don’t recognise the number it came from, but it has a Truro prefix. So perhaps it is Jon, and he’s calling from his hotel. That would be a relief, at least.

  The message begins.

  Nobody speaks.

  I hear a long echoing silence, like whoever recorded the message was standing in a large, empty space. There’s a faint rushing sound in the background, like a train passing through a tunnel, punctuated by a few high-pitched noises.

  Birds?

  Then I hear a baby crying.

  I almost drop the phone, my hand shakes so hard. ‘Harry?’ The message is recorded, but I can’t help myself.

  It’s him; it’s Harry.

  It’s like that awful moment on Lemon Quay, when I heard a baby crying and knew it was my son, but couldn’t see where he was in the crowd.

  I know my own baby’s cry, and this is Harry. I want to reach through the phone line and grab hold of him, hug him close forever. But all I can do is stand there helplessly and listen to him cry.

  ‘Harry,’ I sob.

  To my relief he sounds hungry, a little petulant, perhaps, but – thank God – not hurt, not screaming in pain or for medication. He’s not being tortured, then. And he’s still alive. I cling to that idea with all my strength.

  My baby is alive.

  I wait, still listening, expecting to hear some kind of ransom message following his cry. But the message ends, and I moan out loud, rubbing the phone against my cheek, utterly distraught.


  ‘No, no. Where is he?’ The phone is silent. So I shout at nobody in particular, at the air around me, at the blue sky. ‘Please, for God’s sake, where is he? Where’s my baby?’

  An elderly couple getting into their car opposite cast doubtful looks in my direction.

  Turning my back on them, I thumb the keyboard and listen to the message again, this time memorising the telephone number it came from.

  I close my eyes, listening to that familiar cry again. A cloud moves over the sun as it finishes, chilling me. I can’t keep listening to the same message again and again, I realise. I need to act.

  Hurriedly, I scroll through my recent call list for Paul Dryer’s number. I hit it, and wait, tears running down my cheeks, my heart hammering loudly.

  The detective answers on about the fifth ring, sounding tired and impatient. ‘Dryer here.’

  ‘I just had a call on my mobile,’ I gasp, leaning against my car for support. ‘It was Harry. I heard him.’

  There’s a short silence.

  ‘It was only a few minutes ago,’ I add. ‘Please, you have to find him.’

  ‘Slow down, Meghan. You’re not making any sense.’ He pauses, listening as I gulp. ‘Deep breaths, yeah?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s okay,’ he says calmly. ‘Now, where are you? No, hang on, let me get a pen. Okay, tell me everything. Start at the beginning.’

  Briefly, I tell him about my lunch with Emily, and explain where I am. He recognises the pub name at once. Then I describe the voicemail message, trying not to get too emotional about it. ‘It was Harry, I’m convinced of that. I’m not sure how to play it again while I’m on the phone to you,’ I say shakily, ‘but I can tell you the number it came from.’

  ‘Right, give it to me.’

  He takes down the telephone number I have memorised, and I wait while he keys it into his computer.

  ‘You need to hear this message,’ I insist.

  ‘I intend to,’ he agrees. ‘I have to do an interview in a few minutes, but come over to the station in an hour or so. Bring me the phone, I’ll sort it out.’

  I close my eyes. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘But listen, you’re absolutely sure it was Harry?’ He pauses again, as though he’s reading. I wonder what the computer screen is telling him. ‘It could have been a crank call. Maybe some other baby you heard crying. There are some sick types out there, the kind who take pleasure in tricking people in your situation.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  But I know from his tone that he’s remembering the Lemon Quay incident, and Jon’s dismissal of my maternal instincts.

  ‘I’m not mad,’ I add firmly. ‘It was Harry. I’d swear on my life.’

  Paul clears his throat. ‘Right.’

  I decide to change the subject.

  ‘Have you heard from Jon yet? I’ve been trying his phone but there’s still no answer.’

  ‘Same here. Apparently it’s been turned off.’

  I frown. ‘Why would he turn off his phone? It doesn’t add up.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ve just sent one of my sergeants round to his offices. We’ll run him to ground soon enough.’

  ‘He’s not there. Or that’s what I was told.’

  ‘Not there?’

  ‘He didn’t show for work today.’

  ‘Huh,’ is all he says, a note of surprise in his voice, then falls silent.

  I have a horrible suspicion there’s something he’s not telling me. ‘Paul, what is it?’

  ‘That phone number you gave me. It’s coming up as a public call box.’

  ‘In Truro?’

  ‘Truro, yes,’ Paul Dryer agrees, and I hear that odd note in his voice again. ‘In fact, it’s the number of the public call box at the end of your street.’

  ‘What?’

  For a few seconds I feel wild elation. That means Harry must be close at hand, probably still in the same street. Maybe one of my neighbours took him. I think of the large Russian and how I shouted through his letterbox. Was I wrong to walk away that day, to let Treve persuade me I was losing my sense of perspective?

  Then I remember the background sound in the voicemail message, and shake my head. ‘No, wait, that’s not possible. On the phone, it sounded like he was in a large space. The room was echoing and . . . I thought I could hear some kind of rushing noise too. Like a train, perhaps.’ I frown, briefly closing my eyes as I try to recapture the sound in my head. ‘Or maybe an airplane going over.’

  ‘I’m telling you, that’s the call box number.’

  ‘And I’m telling you, that’s impossible. I know what I heard.’

  ‘Then perhaps it was a recording, made elsewhere and played down the phone line to you. From the box at the end of your street.’

  ‘You mean . . .’

  ‘I mean the recording you heard of Harry crying – if it even was Harry, which isn’t certain – could have been made at any time. Not necessarily today.’

  I feel sick and dizzy as the realisation hits me. Of course he’s right. There was no ransom demand made, no voice spoke on the line. All I heard was my child crying.

  That’s not evidence that Harry’s still alive.

  It’s a taunt.

  ‘Do you think the Cornish Snatcher was telling the truth?’ I ask. ‘That she doesn’t have him?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think. Not yet, not until we’ve had time to go through every word of her statement and check the farm more thoroughly for any DNA that could link her to Harry.’ He pauses. ‘I don’t want you to give up hope, Meghan.’

  I say nothing, staring across the pub gardens at where the river threads noisily through the valley bottom.

  ‘We’re doing our best to get your son back, do you hear me?’

  ‘I hear you.’

  ‘Now I need you to bring me your phone. Are you able to do that straightaway?’ He hesitates. ‘Or I can send someone out to pick you up.’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I’ll bring it to you at the station.’

  ‘That’s the spirit.’ I can hear the forced cheerfulness in his voice. ‘Try not to worry about Jon. I’ve got people looking out for him across town. We’ll find him soon enough, and let him know what’s happening.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Everything’s going to be all right,’ he tells me.

  Again, I say nothing.

  ‘Meghan?’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  I end the call and climb into the driver’s seat, trying to remain optimistic. I don’t want you to give up hope. It’s hard not to fear the worst though, and somehow hearing Harry’s cry has made everything feel a thousand times more urgent and dangerous.

  As I’m closing the door, my hand knocks clumsily against the steering wheel and I drop the mobile somewhere between my feet.

  ‘Shit.’

  Shakily, I climb out of the car again and crouch, fumbling for my mobile under the driver’s seat. Something plastic comes to hand first, a wrapper of some kind, and I drag it out, frowning.

  It’s a condom wrapper. Ribbed for extra sensation, it says.

  I stare in disbelief. My hand trembles as I turn the plastic wrapper over in my hand, examining it. Torn across in a hurry, empty now, the condom itself gone. The inside of the packet is still a little greasy with lubricant.

  Recently used.

  I force myself to grope about under the seat for the actual condom itself. To my relief I find nothing else under there except my mobile, which I throw on to the passenger seat in disgust.

  But the empty wrapper is incriminating enough.

  We don’t use condoms. I had a coil fitted at my six-week postnatal check, though we’d not had sex since before the birth. And before that I was pregnant. The only possible reason for Jon to open a condom packet would be to have sex with someone else.

  So he’s had sex. With another woman. In our family car.

  The same car I take during the day when Harry and I are doing the week
ly shopping trip, or to go for a drive in the country, or for one of his scheduled hospital appointments. On longer journeys, I have often had to stop and change Harry’s nappy in the back.

  Without thinking, I glance automatically towards the back seats, and imagine some late-night encounter, all the windows steamed-up, with Jon and some unknown lover writhing about in the back of our car, while I was waiting at home for him with Harry . . .

  ‘Oh God,’ I choke, and rock back and forth. ‘Oh God, no.’

  When I’ve stopped shaking enough to concentrate, I decide to drive home and check today’s post before heading to the police station to hand over my phone. Since Harry’s disappearance, a few handwritten letters have arrived every day, some from anonymous crackpots, others from concerned friends and well-wishers. I have been putting aside the letters from well-wishers, to be answered later, when I have more time and emotional strength. But now we know the Cornish Snatcher did not take Harry, I think the police ought to study the ones that sound a little crazy, in case any of them hold a clue to his whereabouts.

  Glancing at myself in the rear-view mirror, I’m horrified to see thick, black smudges of mascara under both eyes. That’s what crying does to you.

  ‘Shit.’ I lick my fingertips, trying to wipe away the smudges one-handed while I drive, but only manage to make things worse. ‘Wonderful.’

  I look like a panda.

  Definitely a good idea to go home before taking my mobile to the police station. Then at least I can spend five minutes in front of the bathroom mirror making myself look human again.

  I turn into our street, and slow down as I pass the phone box.

  That’s where the call came from.

  I clutch the wheel, staring at the empty phone box as if it can answer all my questions. It looks innocent enough: an ordinary phone box.

  Who used it today to send that recording to my phone?

  I remember my confusion as I listened to the echoing silence. The dead air. Then I noticed that faint rushing sound in the background. I’m still not sure what it signified, but perhaps the police will be able to clean it up and pinpoint the location where the call was recorded.

  A flash of gold further up the street catches my eye.