9.37 p.m.
‘They were here.’ The young nurse is breathless, holding the curtain back. ‘Right here.’
We all stare at Tom’s empty bed.
‘She must have taken him,’ says Sergeant Leach, putting a hand to his radio. ‘I’ll go out the front. Constable, search the ward. Check the toilets.’
The police officers peel off in different directions, Sergeant Leach calling into his radio.
I stand, impotent, by Tom’s rumpled sheets.
Where could they have gone?
In the next bed, the little girl, Charlotte, pulls herself up. ‘Oh, hello. You’re the lady who talked about My Little Pony.’
‘I’m looking for Tom,’ I say. ‘Have you seen him?’
‘He went with his mummy. That way.’ She points to double fire-escape doors.
‘Thank you.’ I look around for the police, then, not seeing them, run to the doors.
‘My mummy is coming tomorrow,’ the girl says.
‘Oh, lovely!’ I call back, pausing at the fire exit, noticing the ‘Emergency Use Only’ sign.
For a split second, I debate whether this counts as the right sort of emergency. I mean, there isn’t a fire. Then I shove open the doors and run down the wrought-iron staircase.
It’s dark outside. Bright buses cruise past the hospital entrance.
One flight.
Two.
Lizzie is stronger than she looks if she carried Tom down these stairs.
Or maybe she didn’t go this way.
I’m on tarmac now, running towards the bus stop.
A bus is just pulling away, and I ask an old lady with a shopping trolley: ‘Excuse me. Have you seen a woman and a little boy?’
‘Yes,’ says the woman. ‘Blond hair, both of them? Yes. They got on the last bus.’
‘Do you remember the number?’
She shakes her head. ‘It wasn’t my one. I want the sixty-one. Do you know when it’s coming?’
‘No, sorry.’ I spot Sergeant Leach at the hospital entrance and wave him over. He jogs towards me.
‘This lady saw a woman and small boy catch a bus,’ I tell him.
Sergeant Leach takes off his cap, rubbing his damp hair. ‘Hello, madam – what can you tell me?’
‘Oh yes, officer. Well, there was a woman and a little boy. Both very fair-haired. Are they in trouble, officer?’
Sergeant Leach turns to me. ‘You may as well head home, Kate. We’ll get a search underway. I’ll call when we find them.’
If you find them.
Because Lizzie Kinnock is very good at staying hidden.
I head towards the car park, thoughts racing.
Where could they be going?
My phone rings and I see Tessa’s number flash up yet again.
Go away, Tessa.
As I rummage in my bag for my keys, lost in thought, I nearly walk in front of another vehicle – a large green camper van.
Beep! Beep!
Chest tight with shock, I hold up a hand, mouthing, ‘Sorry, sorry.’
The driver is a scruffy-looking man. Handsome, in a way. Nice white teeth. His forehead is knotted with stress, which I suppose is typical of anyone visiting a hospital. But he looks familiar.
I remember a black-and-white photocopy, bunged in among some court documents. A passport.
The driver … it’s Tom’s father.
Oliver Kinnock.