8.03 a.m.
I’m in London. It’s hot, but I don’t have time to get my water bottle from my bag and take a swig.
Number 11F. Where is it? Where is it?
Olly Kinnock’s flat is somewhere on this lovely, tree-lined road of red-brick Victorian townhouses and I have approximately five minutes to find it.
Then I need to run back to the train station. Really run. Tessa expressly forbade me from going to London today.
I find it impossible to lie, so I will tell her the truth if she asks. But I’ve done a lot of paperwork on the train so, as long as I catch the 8.40 a.m. back, she will be none the wiser.
Number eleven … there!
I jog up the sandy-coloured steps and press the buzzer for 11F, which is the penthouse. No reply.
I press again, this time more aggressively. After another minute, I press all the neighbours’ buzzers and wait.
I expect the intercom to crackle and ask who I am, but instead a giant shadow appears behind the frosted glass.
The front door opens. ‘Can I help you?’ The man is tall, with a Scottish accent and a tight rugby shirt that shows off his muscular shoulders. He wears a straw hat and behind him, by an open door, is a stack of moving boxes.
‘I’m Kate Noble,’ I announce. ‘From Child Services. I’m looking for Olly Kinnock.’
‘That bastard?’ the man says. ‘He left a long time ago. Good riddance.’
‘I don’t suppose you have a forwarding address for him?’
‘I heard he moved in with his mother, the cowardly little weasel. She used to visit him here. Margaret, her name is.’
‘So you haven’t seen him?’
The man shakes his head. ‘I don’t associate with men like that. Any post for Olly Kinnock goes straight in the bin. I just hope Lizzie is doing okay.’ He eyes me hopefully. ‘Have you seen her?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t—’
‘You tell her if she ever needs anything, all she has to do is call. Tell her Stuart said hello. And the offer’s still there. She can come live with me in the Shetlands. It’s a good place for young Tom to grow up. I’ll get her ferry tickets. Pay moving costs. Everything.’
He slides open a drawer, takes out a blue Shetland ferry leaflet, scribbles on it, then hands it to me. ‘Give this to her. If you see her.’
I take the glossy paper, seeing an illustration of Saint Nicholas, the patron saint of sailors, printed above a ferry timetable.
Saint Nicholas has a golden halo around his white hair and angel wings – which isn’t strictly accurate. Saint Nicholas was a human who performed miracles, not an angel as such. But I suppose everyone feels reassured by angel wings.
The offer still stands, Stuart has written, next to his phone number, name and five kisses.
‘I’ll give it to her.’
‘That bastard should have been locked up for what he did,’ says Stuart. ‘If you do find him, tell him to watch his back.’
‘I don’t suppose you know his mother’s address?’
‘No, I bloody don’t.’
Stuart slams the door in my face.