She lay for a while, waiting for someone to come and tell her she couldn't sleep there. But no one did. The only sounds she heard were the muted ding-dongs heralding the passenger announcements, followed by various unintelligible speeches in the soothing tones the announcers always seemed to use. It was comforting. Peaceful. It felt right to be here. Closer, in a way, to France than to London.
Emma closed her eyes.
She was the first passenger to board the next morning. The plane filled up behind her with couples and families, children dressed in shorts and sandals, with jumpers on top as they were still in England. The windows were squares of white, watery light. The air from the doors was crisp and cool.
The plane took off five minutes early. Emma felt a surge of control. She was in an aisle seat this time. The stewardess bumped her shoulder, rather painfully, with her metal trolley a couple of times as she passed. A woman leaned across the aisle to ask if she could borrow Emma's in-flight magazine. The man beside her knocked his laptop against a pile of papers, sending them slithering off his fold-down table on to the floor. Emma bent to help him to pick them up. When you were in the aisle seat, rather than the window, you had no choice but to be part of what was going on around you, instead of a little mote, floating by yourself in the clouds.
All of these people, united on the plane, suspended for a time from carrying out their real purpose.
And her, one of them, with her purpose too.
Very calm.
I know what I'm doing now.
At the car-hire desk in Bergerac, she had her driver's licence out and the correct money ready before the man could even ask her.
The car was similar to the one she and Rafe had had the last time. Out of habit, Emma went to the passenger door. She was actually sitting in the seat, wondering where the steering wheel was, before she remembered that she should be on the other side. She got out again and swapped over, and spent a few minutes in the driver's seat, adjusting the mirrors, checking to make sure she knew where everything was. She folded open the map to the right page and located the green twisty line representing the road to St-Bourdain. Then she pulled the seatbelt around her, and started up the engine.
'Keep the bitch in the ditch,' she said nervously to herself a few times as she drove out of the car park, reminding herself to keep on the correct side of the road. The town of Bergerac was busier than it had been the last time. More people in the shops and on the pavements, more cars and bustle about the squares. Maybe because today was Tuesday instead of Sunday. Emma made her way cautiously through the traffic, only stalling once at a left turn, and was soon on her way to St-Bourdain.
The weather was more changeable this time, the fields overhung by low, grey clouds. Now she was here, and so close, the house couldn't come quick enough. She refused to let herself think that the Hunts might no longer be there. Antonia had told Rafe they weren't moving for another week or so, but there was a high chance she was lying. Even with the DNA on their side, time was running out for the Hunt family. They must know that Emma wasn't going to give up. They must know she'd be back. Come on, house, come on. The green and yellow fields flew past. The tyres hummed and swished on the road. In Emma's pack on the seat beside her, her phone began to ring.
Keeping her eyes on the road, Emma felt about in the pack with one hand. The ring tone grew louder, then softer, as the phone kept pushing into things. She got it out before the ringing stopped, and switched it to her left hand, so she could keep the steering wheel in her right.
'Hello?'
'Emma!' It was Rafe.
'What's happening?' Emma was suddenly tense. 'Is the DNA back?'
'If it is, I haven't heard,' Rafe said calmly. 'The police would have called you.'
'Oh.'
'Not that they'd have been able to reach you,' Rafe added. 'I was trying you earlier. Your phone kept saying "Out of range."'
'Er . . . did it?'
There was a pause.
'You're there, aren't you?' Rafe said. 'You're in France.'
'How did you guess?' Emma found she was smiling at the phone.
Rafe said something, swore or something, she couldn't make it out. She thought he might have been smiling too. But when he spoke again, it was in a serious voice.
'Emma, what are you doing?'
Emma concentrated on a tight bend in the road.
'All I know,' she said when the car had straightened out again, 'is that I need to be near him. Not hundreds of miles away in another country.'
'Don't antagonize them, Emma. You need to wait for the DNA result. Your case will be a lot stronger then. You'll have the police on your side. Don't give the Hunts an excuse to disappear.'
'What if they already have?'
That threw him, she could tell.
He said, 'They didn't seem in any rush when I was there.'
'Yeah, well, I doubt if they'd have filled you in on their plans.'
She was here. There was the sign for St-Bourdain, tilted sideways into a hedge. Beyond it, the trees rose on the hill. The red roof of the house was just visible at the top. Emma slowed, a short distance from the gates. She brought the car to rest in a lay-by behind the hedge. Were the Hunts still there? You couldn't tell, just from looking at the roof. It wasn't as if they'd have covered the house in a dust sheet if they'd left.
'Where are you now?' Rafe asked.
'At the house.'
'Man.' He swore again.
Emma pulled up the handbrake. The engine idled, grumbling into the road. She turned the key and the engine shuddered into silence.
'I need to see him,' she said. 'Anything else isn't an option. I need to be where he is.'
'I'm not going to talk you out of this, am I?'
Emma said simply, 'What else can I do?'
There was a pause.
'Nothing,' Rafe said at last. 'Nothing at all.'
'So, then.'
'Yeah.' A long, heavy sigh. 'So, then. I see your point. All right, good luck with your watch. But Emma, please try to stay out of sight. Don't confront them on your own.'
'I know.'
When she'd hung up, she sat and waited. Gaps opened in the clouds. The light slanted through them in bright, straight lines, like ramps down to the fields.
If the Hunts were there, they'd have to show themselves some time. She was going to wait here until they did. One more glimpse of him. And then, when she'd seen him, she'd . . . well. What would she do? Start up her car again, and go. Drive away from here. Sit in a room somewhere, and twiddle her fingers, and wait until the police got around to giving her a call.
Rafe had said to follow the rules. He'd said that she had to, because she had no choice. So she'd done as he suggested, and she'd played their game, and in the end it had got her nowhere. Rafe had been wrong.
The sun was out properly now. The car grew warm. Sweat trickled from under her arms. Emma rolled down the window and pushed her seat back from the steering wheel to give herself more space.
If the Hunts were out somewhere, they'd have to come back. If they were in, they'd have to go out. If they drove past her in a car, it might be hard to get a proper look at Ritchie. But perhaps they'd take him out for a walk. Even just on to the driveway, like last time. Every time an engine sounded on the road, she twisted to see if it was them, but it was always some man in a tractor, or a tourist people-carrier, packed with children and tents.
She waited.
After what seemed a long time, movement flickered at the top of the drive. Emma sat up. A man, passing between a gap in the trees, carrying something in his arms. Antonia's husband? Emma leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. Too far to see his face. But he was carrying a box of some kind. Heavy looking. He had to use both arms. He went to a car and did something to the back of it, turning sideways to jab at it with his elbow. The boot of the car sprang open. The man loaded the box inside.
Emma thought hard. If that was Antonia's husband, what was he doing loading things into a car? She watched
the man as he passed back behind the trees.
She kept her gaze fixed on the exact branch where he'd disappeared, waiting to see if anyone else came out. Nothing.
The car was very warm now. The backs of Emma's legs itched and stuck to her jeans. She rolled the window the rest of the way down. The smell of grass floated through the window. A dove or wood-pigeon cooed in the fields.
Here came the man again. Emma stiffened. Heading for the car on the drive. With a suitcase this time.
And then a woman. Carrying a child.
Emma took a sharp breath in. It was a child! Ritchie! It had to be! Oh, thank God. Thank God he was still here. What were they doing now? Christ, she really needed a pair of binoculars. She leaned forward again. The man hoisted the suitcase into the boot, and the woman went to the side of the car. She opened the door and leaned in, still with the child in her arms. She fiddled about for a minute or two, then stood back. Her arms were empty.
Ritchie was in that car now. Definitely.
The car with all those boxes loaded into it.
Oh, she had a bad feeling about this. Stones crunched on the road behind her. A car was slowing down. Emma twisted to see. A black jeep drove around her, flashing its indicator, then sped up again, whizzing over the hill. Oh, bloody hell. Even if the DNA came through right now, the police would still take for ever to get here. There'd have to be phone calls between England and France, everyone talking to each other in broken language. It could take hours. And would the police take it seriously enough to send a proper number of people and cars to the house? Or would it be the local junior constable, ambling along to ask a couple of questions when he'd finished his morning croissant?
Another car. Not the police.
Ritchie was there. He was there right now. And if she didn't do something soon, he wasn't going to be there any more.
Emma opened the door of the car. She climbed out, into the grass-smelling morning. Refreshing, after the rubbery heat. The air cleared her mind. She closed the door, but didn't latch it. Then she stole across the road to the gate. She began to walk up the drive, quietly at first, avoiding obvious patches of crackly stones. And then, all of a sudden, she didn't care any more. So what if they heard her? Time to put an end to this.
In her pocket, her phone began to ring. She pressed the stop button, and walked on.
At the top of the drive, Antonia was leaning into the car again, rearranging something on the seat. Her back was to Emma, her fawn-clad bottom moving from side to side. More boxes were stacked around the car. Her husband was nowhere to be seen. A bird chattered somewhere, ack-ack-ack, and the sun filtered through the trees. Branch-shadows rippled and dappled the golden walls of the house. Ritchie was in the car, up high in a seat. He was facing away from her. Emma could see the top of his head.
'Hello,' Emma said.
Antonia tried to spin and jump backwards at the same time. Her head knocked off the top of the car. When she saw who it was who had spoken, her mouth opened. She staggered back, the colour flying from her face.
'I'd like my child back now,' Emma said.
Antonia was chalk-white.
'David,' she called in a high-pitched voice. 'David.'
She said to Emma, 'What are you doing here again? This has gone far enough. We'll get the police back here.'
'You do that,' Emma said. She was staring beyond Antonia, trying to see Ritchie in the car. Footsteps crunched on the stones. Emma spun around. A tall man in long shorts, coming around the side of the house. She recognized him at once. The man who had said sorry to her, and closed the door in her face.
'Pip?' the tall man said. 'Pip, are you all—'
Then he saw Emma and slowed.
'Oh,' he said. 'Oh.'
His face gave nothing away. He came to a stop a few feet from the car.
Emma turned back to Antonia.
'I'm going to take him now,' she said.
She stepped forward. Antonia moved quickly. She slammed the door of the car and placed herself directly in front of it.
'Hold on,' she said. 'Hold on just a minute. You leave my son alone.'
'He's not your son,' Emma said. She kept her eyes on the car. The child in the back sat facing away from them. The windows were tinted. All she could see was his hair. She longed to call him, longed for him to twist around and beam his wide melon grin when he saw her. But she didn't want to frighten him before she could reach him.
She was going to have to get past Antonia first.
She made herself focus properly on Antonia for the first time. You had to hand it to the bitch, her grooming was as immaculate as ever. The hair freshly washed and smooth, all strands moving together as one. The shirt and trousers, ironed and matching. Cream, of course. The lipstick, frosted pink, perfectly applied.
'I can understand.' Emma forced herself to speak as calmly as possible. 'I can understand why you want him. I'm not trying to take him away from you. You can still see him. We can work something out.'
'You're insane,' Antonia sputtered. 'You need help. Why have you attached yourself to our family like this? I know your son has disappeared, but why don't you just go and look for him? Why do you have to fixate on our child?'
'How can you lie like that?' Emma was amazed. 'You know perfectly well that this isn't your child. You took him from me at the tube station.'
'I haven't been in a tube station for years,' Antonia sounded exasperated. 'The only thing David or I did wrong was to take a simple flight home through London after a holiday. And now we find ourselves caught up in all of this. For God's sake.' Her voice shook. 'We've had every sympathy for you. We even had that DNA test done, at great inconvenience, I might add, but we did it to help you. To help you! But enough, now, please. Enough. Just go away, and leave us alone.'
Emma was astonished. What was going on here? Antonia was behaving as if there was a microphone nearby recording everything she said. What was the point of this ridiculous denial? Surely she must see that Emma knew what she'd done. Lying to Emma like this was like lying to herself.
She looked again. She wasn't imagining things. This was Antonia. Wasn't it? This was the woman who'd been in Mr Bap's that evening and disappeared with Ritchie. Her hair had been blonder then, but everything else was the same. If you were really pushing it, perhaps, there was a difference under her eyes. If you looked closely, the skin below them seemed older than she remembered. Baggy and shadowed. The areas around her nose and mouth were yellowish in colour.
Rafe's voice: I've seen these DNA tests done. No one can tamper with them.
This was crazy. This was crazy. That was Ritchie, right there in the car. All right, so she couldn't see him so well right this minute, but she'd seen him on the tape from the airport, she'd seen him here the last time, right here on the driveway. The car windows were dark, and he was facing away. That was his hair, though. Browner, as well, but Antonia had dyed it. Those were his ears. She knew him. All she had to do was push past Antonia and go to him and she'd—
Footsteps again behind her. Emma swung to face David Hunt. But it wasn't her he was looking at.
'Pippa,' he said. 'Pip.'
'Call the police,' Antonia snapped at him.
'Pip,' David said again. He was holding out his hand. 'Let it go, Pip,' he said.
'What are you talking about?' Antonia snarled.
'It was never going to work. My mother's been asking a hundred questions since we brought him here, and she's not the only—'
'Shut up,' Antonia screamed at him. 'Shut up, you fool. Do you want them to take Xavier?'
David's eyebrows lowered. His face shrank on itself, a paper bag, crumpling in a fist.
'Xavier's dead,' he said.
'What are you saying?' Antonia's voice broke in a squeak.
'He's dead,' David shouted. All of a sudden, his teeth were clenched. The muscles in his neck stood out. 'Do you hear me? He's dead, and he's not coming back.'
'Shut up. Shut up.' Antonia backed away, her hands to her
face. Emma's phone was ringing but she hardly heard it. From the car floated a child's fretful wail.
'Our son . . .' David looked at Emma. He could hardly say it. 'Our son died. In India, four months ago.'
'No, he didn't,' Antonia yelled at him. 'No, he didn't.'
'Yes, he did.'
Ritchie's hot, despondent wail tugged at Emma like a wire, pulling her towards him. She took another step, but Antonia was still between her and the car.
'She wouldn't let me tell anyone,' David whispered, twisting the ring on his wedding finger. 'She said if we didn't say it, then it hadn't happened. I went along with it. She was so . . . I couldn't get her to come home. She wouldn't leave him in India on his own. Then when I finally persuaded her to come to London, she met you and said you couldn't look after your child properly and begged me to take him away with us and I . . . God help me, I . . .'
Antonia hissed at Emma, 'You weren't fit to look after him. For God's sake, you let him get trapped on a train. When I met you at that tube station you were a mess. Filthy clothes, hardly able to speak. You looked like you should be in a hospital. I had to get him away from you.'
'That's not your decision to make,' Emma shouted. She'd forgotten to keep quiet so as not to upset Ritchie. The crying from the car stopped, as abruptly as if a switch had been pressed. Then Ritchie gave a shrill scream.
'Muh,' he shrieked. 'Muh.'
Emma couldn't hold herself back any more.
'Ritchie. Oh, Ritchie, sweetheart, I'm here.'
She rushed towards the car. Ritchie was twisting and wriggling, struggling to free himself from his seat.
'Get back,' Antonia cried.
Emma didn't quite catch what happened next. Antonia was reaching somewhere – into the car, a box, wherever – but the next thing she was up again, holding her arm out, and something long and pointed gleamed in her hand.
'Get. Back,' she said.
Emma's reflexes had jerked her back against her will, even before she knew what the gleam was. Then she realized, and felt an eerie horror. Antonia had a knife, and she was pointing it straight at her.
Emma's Baby Page 26