'Sit down? Sit down? Sure.'
Emma almost ran over to the couch. She plopped down on to it. Lindsay sat beside her, looking grave.
'Emma, it's not him.'
'It's not . . . ?' Emma stared, uncomprehending. 'Sorry. I'm not with you.'
'The little boy you saw at the airport. It's not Ritchie.'
'But—'
'Interpol have made some enquiries. They're an English family who've lived in France for several years. They'd spent some time abroad and were passing through London on their way home to France. I know the child looked like Ritchie, but it wasn't a good view.'
Emma couldn't believe it. She felt stunned. Sick.
'I . . .' she kept saying in a little gaspy voice that didn't sound like her own. 'I . . .'
'I'm so, so sorry, Emma,' Lindsay was saying.
She'd been so sure. The fringe. It was him.
'It is him,' she said. 'It is Ritchie. I know it is.'
'Emma, I hoped it was too, I really did. But the fact is, the passports all check out and not only that, the family is well known in their neighbourhood in France. They had the baby there in the local hospital. Everybody knows him. The husband's parents live in the same village. The neighbours. The local English-speaking family doctor. It all checks out.'
'No. No. You don't understand. I don't care what checks you've done. It is him. It is Ritchie.'
'We can't take it any further, Emma. But listen to me . . . no, listen. We've still got plenty of other options. Several people have called in after reading the news stories about him. We've had a possible sighting in Manchester, we're following all—'
'Please. Please. That was him in the airport. You have to believe me.'
'When you want something so much you can convince yourself.' Lindsay looked distressed. 'I'm sorry, but we can't take this any further.'
'Where is he? I want to see him. I want to see him for myself.'
'We can't tell you that.'
'Well then, get out.'
'Emma—'
'Get out!'
Emma sobbed, rocking herself back and forward, cradling the empty space in her arms.
Chapter Ten
Lindsay refused to leave the flat. She spent the next twenty minutes trying to persuade Emma to let her call someone.
'You shouldn't be here on your own,' she insisted. 'You need someone with you.'
And Emma kept repeating in a blank, dead voice, 'I'll be all right. Just go.'
Lindsay tutted, then sighed. She went out to the hall to use her phone. She closed the door behind her, but Emma could still hear what she was saying.
'She wants me to . . . I know. I know. I feel bad for her, but I'm meant to be . . . Well, am I going to get overtime for this?'
After a few minutes, she came back in.
'I can't leave you,' she said flatly. 'You really shouldn't be on your own. Can't I call a social worker? Someone from Victim Support? They're a charity that helps people in your situation. They could send someone to be with you while all of this is going on.'
'I don't want anyone.'
'Emma.' Lindsay was beginning to sound desperate. 'Listen to me. You're not making any sense.'
Emma put the tips of her fingers to her eyes, circling them around and around. When she pressed them inwards, she thought she was going to faint.
'I'll call Rafe,' she said at last.
'Rafe?'
'The man who found my bags.'
'But, Emma.' Lindsay looked perplexed. 'You hardly know him. It's one o'clock in the morning.'
'Well, that's the person I want.'
She wouldn't have called him, of course; she was only saying it to make Lindsay leave. But Lindsay, raising her eyebrows at Emma between digits, as if to say, 'Are you sure about this?' went ahead and dialled Rafe's number herself. And in what seemed like a very short space of time, the intercom buzzed again and it was him.
Lindsay went to let him in. Once again, urgent whispers emanated from the hall. Then Rafe spoke in his normal tone.
'It's all right,' he said, his voice sounding very loud after all the whispering. 'I'll stay with her.'
'You don't mind?' Lindsay's relief couldn't have been more plain.
Emma stayed where she was, hunched in a chair by the window. She heard the front door close behind Lindsay. As soon as Rafe came into the room, she said, 'I'm sorry she called you. You don't need to stay. You can turn around again and go home.'
'But I don't want to,' he said. He was wearing a bright blue rain-jacket, zipped up over his jeans. His eyes were small. His hair was pushed-back and messy, as if he'd just got out of bed. 'I'm glad I'm here. I'm glad she called me.'
Emma didn't have the energy to argue. She sank her head on to her arms.
'I can't bear this,' she said into the table. 'I can't. I can't take this any more.'
'I'm sure you can't.' Rafe was grim.
'What can I do?' Emma asked. 'What can I do?'
'Don't blame yourself,' Rafe advised. 'I've seen those kind of tapes. It can be hard to see faces properly.'
Emma interrupted him with her hands, lifting them up and spreading her fingers in the air around her head.
'There was no problem with the tape. I know it was Ritchie.'
'But—'
'Listen to me.' She turned on him. 'I've been thinking about this. I've worked it out. That couple are lying. They're family members, those people in France, of course they'd back them up.'
'But the police spoke to the neighbours as well. And their doctor—'
'I'm not interested in the neighbours. Or their bloody doctor. There must be a way to prove this. We don't have long. Those people must know now that the police have been asking about them. They'll move on and we'll lose them.'
'You could be right, but—'
'I know I'm right,' Emma hissed. 'Jesus, you think I don't know my own child?'
Rafe was silent.
'What kind of a country is this anyway?' Emma slammed her hands on the table. 'I'm looking at a film of someone kidnapping my child – I'm watching them taking my child in front of my nose – and you're all telling me it's in my head. Telling me it's someone else's child. You were in the police. You must know some way. You said you felt guilty about Ritchie; well, now's your chance to do something. Oh!' She turned away, rigid with frustration. 'Forget it. You don't believe me.'
Through the haze of anger and self-pity and pain, she heard Rafe's voice.
'I do believe you.'
It took a second for that to get through.
'You do?'
He shrugged. 'Sure. You said it yourself. You know your own child. If you say it's him, then it must be.'
How weird. How weird, after all this time, to have a conversation like this with a person who actually seemed to believe what she was saying. A person who didn't think she was delusional. Emma had been beginning to seriously wonder if she was going mad, and she was the only one who couldn't see it.
But what was the point? It wasn't as if Rafe believing her was going to get her anywhere. Bitterly, Emma slumped back on to her arms. She said, 'What can you do about it anyway?'
She didn't expect an answer. But when, a few seconds later, Rafe still hadn't responded, something made her look up. Rafe was squinting slightly, looking off to the left, as if in thought.
'What?' Emma said. 'What?'
Rafe said, 'A mate of mine's a cop.'
'So?'
'So, maybe it's time to bring in your private detective. If I talked to my mate, and he could get us the address where Ritchie is—'
'Excuse me?' Emma thought she'd heard him wrong. 'What did you say? Get Ritchie's address?'
'Well, yeah. It'll have to be somewhere; on a computer; somewhere. It's just a matter of—' 'Hang on a minute.' Emma still couldn't believe her ears. 'You're saying you could tell me where Ritchie is? You're telling me I could see him?'
'Look.' Rafe sounded alarmed. 'I didn't say that. I can't promise anything. My mate might not a
gree to help. And if we did get the address, you'd have to be careful. You'd have to go about this the right way.'
'What? What do you mean?'
'If you're thinking of trying to snatch him, you could get yourself arrested.'
'Do you think I'd care?' Emma's voice had risen to a squeak. She was on her feet now, clutching the back of her chair.
'Listen to me, Emma.' Rafe stood up straight. He spoke very firmly. 'For a start, just getting the address would be against the law. My mate owes me a couple of favours, but I can't guarantee he'd do something like this. And just say you found Ritchie – and I'm not saying you will, but just if. And if you went to see him, and they saw you. They'd take Ritchie and run. You might never find him again.'
Emma hadn't thought of that. For a moment, she was still. Then she said in a quieter voice, 'I wouldn't try to snatch him.'
'What would you do, then?'
'I . . . I . . .'
What would she do? Never mind that now. She had to convince Rafe to get her the address. The rest she'd worry about later.
'I just want to see him,' she said. 'Just to prove it's him. They'd have to believe me if I saw his face. I wouldn't touch him. I swear.'
Rafe seemed to still be hesitating.
'Please.' Emma's voice crumpled. 'Please. I have to do this. You don't know how much I need to see him.'
Her distress was beginning to get to him now, she saw. He was taking deep breaths. Scratching the side of his head. Emma kept her eyes fixed on his. It seemed like a long time since she'd done that. Stared someone in the face and not backed down.
In the end, it was Rafe who looked away first.
'I'll need your crime reference number,' he said.
'My . . . ?'
'The police would have given you one. So they can look up your details on the computer when you phone them.'
It sounded vaguely familiar. Emma went to scrabble amongst the pieces of paper by her phone. Near the top was the Post-it Lindsay had left with her contact details. Emma hadn't noticed it before, but there was the crime reference number, neatly printed underneath.
'I'll need to take this home,' Rafe said, copying the number on to a separate piece of paper. 'Make a few calls. I'll phone you as soon as I know anything.'
He rang her as the sun came up. Emma hadn't moved from her place at the table. The sky was pink. The streets below were quiet. The drunken teenagers had smashed their last beer bottles and gone home; the early traffic had yet to clog the roads.
She only realized how cold she was when she went to pick up the phone and felt the little shocks in her fingers.
'Hello?'
He'd hardly have heard anything. It was too soon. The only question was whether his mate had agreed to help. If he'd even managed to reach him yet.
So she was stunned when Rafe announced, 'I have an address.'
An address!
Emma felt for her chair, and sat down.
'Where?' she asked.
She heard a papery, rustling sound.
'According to this,' Rafe said, 'the people in the airport are a married couple. David and Philippa Hunt. The child's name is . . . um . . . X . . . Exa . . .' He spelled it out.
'Xavier,' Emma said. She twisted at the shirt button near her throat.
'Zah-vee-ay.' Rafe repeated. 'OK. Zah-vee-ay Hunt. Aged fifteen months.'
Xavier Hunt. Xavier Hunt. Emma pictured Ritchie's fringe; his new top and trousers. The way he slept so tightly curled into the woman in the airport.
'Should I go on?' Rafe asked.
'Please.'
'They're in a place called St-Bourdain,' Rafe said. 'I've a map up on the screen here, and it's about forty kilometres outside Bergerac. It's a tiny village. Outsiders will stick out, so we'll need to be careful.'
'We?'
'I'll be honest here, Emma. My friend was very reluctant to give out the info. If there's any trouble, his job could be on the line. He was only happy to pass on the address if I promised I'd go with you. In case you were a loony or something.'
'Oh.'
'I know you're not,' Rafe added. 'But I told him I would.'
'I want to go straight away,' Emma said flatly. 'Haven't you got work?'
'I was finishing at the end of the week anyway. I can take the last few days off. It's not a problem.'
He still thought she was going to make a grab for Ritchie. Well, she'd worry about that later. She could shake Rafe if she had to.
'How do we get there?' she asked.
'We can fly to Bergerac, or to one of the other airports near there. Bordeaux, I think. Whichever is quickest. Do you want me to book the flights?'
'I'll do it.' Emma had the phone book open already and was fumbling through it. She didn't know where she was looking. She opened it at the beginning, and started at A, for Airlines.
Sunday, 24 September
Day Eight
Passport. Check. There in her bag. The flight numbers were written on a piece of paper, safely tucked into her back pocket. The only clothes she was bringing were the ones she was wearing: jeans, plain T-shirt, navy fleece. She'd flung her toothbrush, deodorant and a change of underwear in her backpack. And in a separate compartment, carefully zipped, was Gribbit, his long legs folded neatly over his shoulders.
That was it then. She had everything.
Just as Emma closed the door of the flat, the phone in the sitting-room started to ring.
Shit! Emma scrabbled to get the key back out of her bag. Don't say it was Rafe, phoning to say he'd be late. It was after twelve already. They were supposed to be meeting at Liverpool Street station at one.
She let herself back in and flew to the phone.
'Hello?'
'Emma.' It was Lindsay. 'You weren't asleep, were you?'
'No. I was up.'
'That's good,' Lindsay said. 'I was just calling to say I'll be over later this afternoon, if that's all right with you? I've got some things we need to discuss.'
'I'm going out,' Emma said.
'Where?' Lindsay sounded surprised.
'I'll have my mobile with me.' Emma was desperate to get off the phone. She couldn't hang up too quickly though, or Lindsay might get suspicious.
'I see,' Lindsay said. 'Well, it was really to discuss how you might feel about appearing on TV. To give a press conference. It sounds intimidating, I know, but you'd have a chance to appeal directly to the people who took Ritchie. Also to anyone who might know them or live near them who might—'
'It sounds like a great idea,' Emma interrupted. 'Let me know when it's happening.'
She ended the call and grabbed her backpack off the table. She glanced at her watch. Twelve fifteen. She left the flat and ran all the way down the stairs, not bothering to wait for the lift.
Hammersmith was its usual grey, chilly self as Emma hurried past Charing Cross Hospital and down the ramp to the underground walkway into Hammersmith Broadway. Then out again the other side, to the old station on the corner, looking, with its old-fashioned blue sign and Victorian clock on the top, utterly quaint and out of place in the midst of all the double-decker buses and flyovers. Emma waited for the lights to change, drumming her fingers on the traffic-light pole. By the time she reached the station, she was sweating. A train pulled in just as she arrived on the platform.
Liverpool Street station was white and high-ceilinged and jammed. People in suits strode around with briefcases. Every route seemed blocked by gangs of teenage tourists with puffa jackets and very hairy eyebrows, loaded down with giant rucksacks and chattering incomprehensibly. Emma, pausing by a bench to look for Rafe, felt a sharp blow to her ankle. She turned to see a jowly man wheel his case past her, clicking his tongue with annoyance.
She spotted Rafe beside a large board with an 'i' on the top, wearing his blue rain-jacket and reading the announcements on the board. As she watched, he tipped his head back and took a long gulp of water from a bottle. His black rucksack, bulgier than before, hung by its strap from his hand. He f
inished his drink and started to wipe his mouth with his hand. Midway through, he caught Emma's eye. He raised the bottle towards her and smiled. Emma tightened her lips in return. She wasn't quite sure what to say. It was odd, them meeting like this, away from the flat.
'The train for the airport's leaving in five minutes,' Rafe said as she reached him.
'I have my ticket.'
'Then let's go.'
They ducked and zigzagged through the crowds, Emma following the blue flash of Rafe's jacket. Announcements dinged over the loudspeaker: 'The. Next. Train. From. Platform. Three. Will be the—'
The whistle blew just as they stepped on to the train.
'Perfect timing.' Rafe grinned, dumping his rucksack on the floor between his feet.
'A good omen, maybe?' Emma tried to return the smile.
The train was full; they had to stand. A woman who looked to be in her thirties appeared at the door and lifted a small boy into the carriage. The woman held the child's hand and remained on the platform to continue a conversation with someone on the other side of the turnstile. The boy was about two years old, with thin curly hair and bright red cheeks. He seemed very excited to be on the train. His eyes almost popped out of his head as he swivelled from side to side, anchored by the woman's hand, trying to see everything at once. Then he froze, clearly spotting something of interest further down the crowded carriage; Emma couldn't see what it was. The woman on the platform was still chatting. The boy gritted his tiny teeth and hauled himself from her grip. A second later, he was free. He took off down the carriage, disappearing into a forest of legs. Emma looked quickly at the woman. She didn't seem to have noticed.
'Definitely,' she was saying in a loud voice to her friend. 'Well, as soon as I hear from Barbara, we'll arrange—'
Beep-beep-beep. The carriage doors sounded their warning. Emma's heart pounded. She stepped forward. At the last second, just before the doors whipped shut, the woman turned, hoisted her straw shopping bag higher on to her shoulder, and stepped on to the train.
'James,' she called. 'James.'
The little boy reappeared, poking his chubby face around a metallic wheelie-case.
'There you are, darling,' the woman said. 'What did Mummy tell you about keeping close?'
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