CHAPTER 10

i

Heather

‘Now, Mrs Norris…all right, love? Can you answer some questions? About what happened? Can you talk? We need you to tell us as much as possible.’

He was a policeman in plain clothes. Heather found that easier to cope with. At first the police uniforms had been reassuring. Authority, people who could put things right, make this nightmare go away. But then the uniforms just seemed to make it all seem more surreal. She could no longer tell what part she was supposed to be playing in all this.

She was in a house. How had she come to be here? Wide window with horizontal bars curving round the corner of the room. She could see through it the Buckingham Road gates of the park. This must be that weird cubist house she often saw from the bus, the sort they kept featuring in Poirot. Often wondered what it must be like inside—

Why was she thinking about architecture? For God’s sake! She should be thinking about Abigail. Except that she couldn’t think any more.

They had brought her here, the nearest place. A la-di-da woman, magistrate type, standing on the doorstep ushering them in, Heather and a policewoman. Other officers were in the park, questioning the man in the black coat. Where was the policewoman now? Oh, she was with Bibs.

‘Bibs. My son. Is he all right?’

‘Yes, Mrs Norris, he’s fine. WPC Line is looking after him.’

‘Don’t let him have any more biscuits. He’s had too many, they’re not good for him.’

‘Don’t worry, no more biscuits. Now, can you tell me about Abigail?’

He was very gentle, very kind. Like a doctor. She couldn’t remember his name. He had introduced himself but she just couldn’t remember.

‘Tell me what happened, Mrs Norris.’

For the hundredth time, and each time it became more unbelievable. Heather looked down at her hands in her lap. They were shaking. Not as badly as they had been, when she had collapsed in the park. ‘We missed the bus in town, so I thought we could catch one in Buckingham Road. We’d been at the playground. Keeping Bibs occupied. We were going, and Bibs saw the ducks on the lake. He ran away, down to the lake, do you see? And I didn’t want to push the pram through the mud, so I left it on the path. Abigail was all right. I swear, she was sleeping, she didn’t even notice I was gone.’

She put the back of her hand to her mouth, biting flesh and bone, hoping the pain would drive away that deeper agony. Abigail was gone and she hadn’t even said goodbye.

He leaned across and patted her hand. ‘All right, Mrs Norris.’

Parker. That was it. DC? DI? She couldn’t remember, but his name was Parker. Thunderbirds, Lady Penelope’s chauffeur. He did look a bit like him.

‘So you left Abigail asleep in her pram.’

‘It wasn’t far,’ she explained, trying to show with her hands how small the distance was from the path to the lakeside. ‘Just across the grass. I could still see the pram, always, when I looked back. But Bibs wanted to feed the ducks. We weren’t there long. I swear. A minute or two. He didn’t want to leave the ducks, you see. But I took him back in the end, and when we got back to the pram—’ She tried to get her mouth round the words and could not. She could not say it. She could feel the hysteria rising within her again.

‘And when you got back to the pram, the baby was gone,’ Parker prompted.

She could only nod.

He gave her a moment. ‘Now, try to think about this, Mrs Norris. Did you see anything?’

She shook her head, violently.

‘Anyone? No matter how innocent, how far away. There must have been other people in the park.’

‘No! There was no one! I looked. There was no one in sight. Just a couple of dogs. The dogs took my baby, didn’t they?’

‘I don’t think so, Mrs Norris. Just think once more. You are quite sure about this? You didn’t see anyone afterwards.’

‘Not until the man in the black coat.’

‘Alan Gregory, the man who called us after you found Abigail missing?’

‘Yes!’

‘What about before? Think, Mrs Norris. Try to think back. While you were pushing the pram along the path, before your son ran down to the lake, do you remember seeing anyone then?’

‘No.’ She did what he said, tried to think, dredging her memory. She hadn’t noticed anyone on the path. She had had Bibs and Abigail to concentrate on. ‘There might have been. I wasn’t looking! In the trees. Maybe. Something. I don’t know. I don’t know!’

‘All right.’ He patted her arm again. ‘Is there anything else you can tell us, anything at all?’

She shook her head, her shoulders heaving. How could something like this happen without any warning?

‘And you were down by the lake for no more than a minute or two, you say.’

‘Just time to feed the ducks. It couldn’t have been more than five. No, no, it couldn’t have been. It wasn’t ten.’

A door opened and Parker stood up. ‘All right, Mrs Norris, we’re going to get you home.’

‘But I can’t leave. You’ve got to find Abigail.’

‘We will look for Abigail, Mrs Norris, don’t you worry. We’ve got men searching every inch of the park. The moment we have any news, you’ll be the first to know. But for now, it’s best if you go home. We’ve contacted your husband; he’s coming home to be with you. And a doctor. So you go with PCs Michaels and Line here and leave the searching to us.’

They took her and Bibs home in a police car. Bibs liked that. He liked it even more when PC Michaels put the siren on for him, just for a second. People in the street jumped, stopped and stared at the woman and her son being driven by in a police car. Under arrest, probably. Yesterday, she would have cared what they thought. Now she couldn’t care. Even so, she saw them all. One of them must have Abigail. Her eyes were fixed, waiting to focus on the one human form she sought. One glimpse of her baby would be enough.

Twice, her stomach rose, and her heart and lungs and liver, jolting upwards at the sight of a baby, only to plunge because it was the wrong baby. WPC Line kept talking to her but she didn’t listen. She had to concentrate.

Martin was already home. He looked ill, but he put his arms around her, led her into the house. ‘Jesus, Heather,’ he whispered. ‘How could this happen?’

‘She’s very distressed, sir, naturally,’ the policewoman explained. ‘We’ve called a doctor to give her a sedative.’

‘I don’t want a sedative, I want my baby,’ said Heather.

‘Yes, dear, of course you do.’

But when the doctor came, she let him give her something to calm her. Was this calm? This sluggish detachment? They were controlling her, so she wouldn’t make a fuss and embarrass everyone. The man in the park had been embarrassed. She was sorry if she was embarrassing people.

‘I just don’t understand,’ Martin said, to anyone who would listen. ‘How could someone just take our baby? What sort of monster would do this?’ He was pathetic and angry in turns. Mostly angry. That was the only way to deal with it. Be angry. Heather wanted to be angry but with whom? If only she’d seen someone. Again and again she ran it back, ran it back, ran it back. Office workers hurrying away after a late lunch. Who else? There must have been someone. In the trees. Surely she had seen movement. Someone lurking. If only she could think straight.

Barbara Norris. Where had she come from? Someone must have sent for her. ‘Martin! My poor boy, oh I can’t believe it. Where is little Bibs? Come to Grandma, darling. Oh you poor poor thing. Heather, Heather, why oh why would you not let me give you a lift this morning? Why did you have to insist on going alone? I just knew something like this would happen.’

‘Mum.’ Martin steered her away. ‘This won’t help.’

‘She just had to have her own way. Why are there so many police here?’ She turned on PC Michaels. ‘What are you doing, standing round here? Why aren’t you out there looking for my grandchild? Why isn’t anyone doing anything?’

It kept them occupied, heaping soothing reassurances on her. Leaving Heather to sink into the nightmare and disbelief. Oh God, oh God, whoever had Abigail, let her be all right. Let her still be alive.

ii

Lindy

Kelly was fretful. More fretful than she used to be. Like there was something she missed.

‘Here you are.’ Lindy crouched over her, waving the little pink mouse for her. She just wanted her baby to be happy. Mouse wasn’t good enough. Kelly’s face was still screwed up and troubled. Lindy picked her up to cuddle her. That would work, eventually. If she just sat here rocking her.

She could sense the door opening behind her, though it did so silently. Not Gary. He never did anything silently.

She turned. Carver was watching her like a statue. His eyes were very dark. Usually dark eyes were soft, but his were hard.

‘That woman,’ he said. He didn’t sound angry or anything, but Lindy knew trouble. ‘Who was she? What was she doing here?’

‘Social worker,’ said Lindy. ‘The hospital sent her to check up on the baby, make sure everything’s all right. And it is. She said I was doing fine. Said she’d let them know there was no need to keep checking on me, I was a good mother.’

Was that a smile in those black eyes? Possibly, but it wasn’t a smile Lindy found comforting. She watched Carver’s gaze move from her to the baby. Her flesh crawled.

‘This isn’t a suitable environment for a baby,’ said Carver. ‘You should find somewhere else to live.’

‘Yeah.’ She nodded agreement. ‘I’m going to have a council flat.’

Carver’s gaze was back on her. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Best thing.’ He pulled the door silently shut.

Lindy’s heart pattered. He hadn’t said anything bad. Hadn’t threatened her, or Kelly. Not with words. But there had always been something about Carver that terrified her, even when he was being nice. Perhaps even more when he was being nice.

He wanted her gone.

She really needed to think now. Carver had as good as ordered her out. She’d told the Rothsay woman she was going back to her family in Barking. Maybe she really could do that. Except that she didn’t know where any of her brothers and sisters were, not even Jimmy. She’d seen him once or twice after they were separated, but not for years now. She couldn’t be sure he was still alive.

She might try it though. Hitch a lift into London. Easy to get lost in London. Not that she fancied living rough again, not with a baby. It was getting dark outside, reminding her of nights on the street, of how much safer this room was.

No, not really. Shelter from the rain, that’s all it was. Not safer. Not with Gary. Not with Carver upstairs.

Street lights on. Nightlife creeping out, Nelson Road creaking open its coffin. A yellow glow from the Duke of Wellington. A few voices raised, a long way off the sound of shattering glass. But no sound in the house. It was like everyone in it had been told to stand still and hold their breath. No trouble, Carver had said, and everyone obeyed him, always.

It was going to be tonight then. She should go to bed and pretend not to notice anything. Innocent as little Kelly. No, she couldn’t hide under the quilt yet. She had to wait up for Gary. She always waited up for Gary.

Nearly eleven.

‘Out of my fucking way.’ Gary’s voice, slightly slurred, from the hallway. Never any trouble hearing him coming. She could always tell what sort of a mood he was in from his footsteps. Sometimes they staggered, sometimes they were, like, frisky. Today they were fast, heavy, like he was playing a tough guy. Trying really hard to convince himself. She’d seen him shouldering people off the pavement in the street, because he wanted to act like a gangster. Most people were convinced. She’d watched them step out of his way before he reached them. She knew better though. She had heard him whimper in his dreams.

He shouldered open the door. She’d be nice to him, get him something to eat, and maybe he’d settle down.

‘Geroff me.’ He shook her off, turning to shut the door as if there were werewolves out there. She could see sweat on his neck.

‘I got you a beer, Gary.’

‘No time—’ He changed his mind. ‘Yeah, give me a beer. I need my gear. Going out, all right? No need for you to fucking fuss over me. I’ve got—’

The noise woke Kelly. She gave a little gurgle and began to cry. She would keep crying.

Gary froze in his tracks. He stared at the baby in her basket.

‘It’s all right, Gary, she just needs a feed. I’ll keep her quiet.’

‘You… You…’ He was lost for words. The words he usually used were so overworked, they had no value left. He could do nothing but mouth silently.

He was petrified.

‘What have you done, you stupid bitch?’ His voice was a squeak. ‘What have you done?’ He shook her by the arms.

‘Nothing, Gary. I didn’t do nothing.’

‘Where did you get that from?’

‘My Kelly?’

‘She’s not your baby. Are you mental or something? You dumped your baby in the shopping centre!’

‘Yeah but it was a mistake. I didn’t mean it.’

‘What the fuck do you mean, you didn’t mean it?’

‘I got her back.’

‘It’s not the same fucking baby! It can’t be! You stupid—’ His voice rose, his hand entwining in her hair, ready to hit her. Then he froze, as his terror overwhelmed his anger. He mustn’t raise his voice, or hit her, or do anything to make a fuss. Keep it quiet. He released her, pushing her away like she had leprosy. ‘Jesus, Jesus. You’re going to kill me, you know that? Are you so fucking thick that—’ He had his face in his hands.

Then he pulled himself together. ‘You keep it quiet, right. For tonight. You keep it quiet and you keep your head down and you don’t say nothing to no one. Carver’s not going to know about this. All right? You hear me?’

She nodded.

‘All right. Just shut it.’ He turned away, wiping his mouth, packing his gear, pretending that his hand wasn’t shaking. His leather jacket and his baseball cap. The bag that he’d kept stashed under the sink, telling her not to touch it. She hadn’t touched it. If it terrified Gary so much, it wasn’t something she wanted to know about.

He was running cold water in the sink, splashing his face with it. Then he finished his beer, opened another, swigged hard. Turned to look a fleeting second at the baby cradled in Lindy’s arms, then screwed his eyes up and turned away. He really was shaking.

The door opened.

‘Ready?’

‘Yeah. Sure, Carver.’

‘You’ve got it?’

‘Yeah. Here, safe and sound.’ Gary patted the bag, hoisting it up, putting the beer can down and missing the cupboard, so it fell to the floor, its contents foaming over the threadbare carpet.

Lindy moved.

‘Leave it,’ snapped Gary.

‘No,’ said Carver. ‘Let her clean it up. Do what she does. Come on.’

‘Right, Carver.’

Lindy put Kelly back in her basket and reached for a cloth in the sink. She dropped to her knees to mop up the spilt beer.

The front door clicked quietly shut, and she could hear Gary’s heavy boots in the street. She couldn’t hear Carver’s at all. He walked like a cat. She heard muffled voices though, several of them. A couple of doors shutting, engines revving, cars moving off. Then silence.

Kelly was still stirring, still wanting something. Attention. Lindy picked her up again, rocking her back and forth. Just letting instinct take over. That bag of dirty nappies up in the bathroom. She should chuck it, and all the other crap in the flat, empty cans, old newspaper and such. Letting Kelly lie on the empty mattress, she gathered up every scrap of rubbish that she could find, fetched the bag from the bathroom with its smelly load of strange baby clothes, crushed in the other trash and took it down to the front step. Tied a knot so it wouldn’t spill out. Pushed it into the skip blocking the pavement, in amongst the broken tiles and rubble, an old suitcase and a dead cat. Everyone dumped stuff in it.

She went back upstairs to her baby. Lay down beside her. It was her home, this place. Crappy though it was, it was all she had. But Carver had told her to go. If she refused, she’d finish up floating in the sewer, and Kelly with her. She didn’t want to lose Gary; he was her man. But Kelly was her baby. She didn’t want anything happening to Kelly.

Besides, if Carver’s job went wrong, this place would be swarming with police, asking questions, turning everything upside down, and they’d bring in the social workers again, and Kelly would be gone. Better to go now, before the whole world of Nelson Road came crashing down. How long could she leave it? She didn’t want to go out into that dark night, but she couldn’t stay until morning. Another hour or so, maybe, here in the warmth of what had been home.

She could pack. Kelly’s things, mostly, and some of her own clothes, into a carrier bag and the big canvas shoulder bag she’d nicked last year. Some food. Hitchhiking could take forever. A packet of biscuits, that would do, and a bottle of coke and a bar of chocolate. It would see her through till she got to London. What else? What about cash? She had three pounds fifty, but Gary had some. Never gave her any, but he had some somewhere. She’d seen him flashing notes around.

Probably had it on him, but you never know. She searched the pockets of his abandoned clothes, struck lucky. There was a fiver in his jeans pocket, so dirty and crumpled people would think twice about accepting it, but it was money, wasn’t it? A few pennies, a bit of silver. And then, joy, a crisp new tenner and a fifty pence piece in the pocket of his denim jacket.

A car screeched down the road. She rushed to the window. Was it Gary and Carver back already? No, it couldn’t be. Just a joyrider out to annoy the area. The streets were more or less clear now. Silence, except for a dog barking. Lights out at the Duke of Wellington.

Half two. Could she risk staying for another hour? Back on the mattress with Kelly. Just a little longer—

She must have dozed off. Woke with a start, hearing a siren. Just a quick blast, a long way off, but it made her jump. What time was it? Gone four. She scrambled up in a panic. They could be back any moment. She had to be gone before they came back.

And Kelly was waking. Another feed? Now? Well, the baby didn’t know better, did she? Better now than out in the dark. Then she had to be changed again, but that was all right, best to start off clean and dry. Just as long as Carver didn’t come back. Lindy’s fingers moved like greased lightning.

‘There’s my little girl.’ Into the Moses basket. It would be a bit awkward to carry far, but it held most of Kelly’s stuff, as well as the baby.

Down the dark dirty stairs one last time. She met the cold blast of night air, and out into deserted Nelson Road.

A long walk, across to Moreton Road, past the foundry, and the garages, under the railway bridge, down Weston road, skirting the council estate, out to the edge of town. Not so long ago it had petered out into open fields with a few trees. Now the bypass cut across the farmland, a tarmac girdle for Lyford, sweeping lorries and commuters down towards the motorway.

The sky was grey in the east by the time she got there. Even under the yellow lights of the intersection, she could see the silhouette of distant downs and trees.

Weary now, ankle sore, she stood at the slip road, thumbing hopefully at the passing traffic, but no one stopped. A lorry slowed, but then accelerated past her. She saw one car hesitate, a driver in shirtsleeves. Then he passed her by.

It was Kelly. Lindy had never had trouble cadging a lift before. Had to fight the drivers off sometimes, and once or twice she’d failed, but that risk went with the territory. Usually, if they made eye contact, they’d stop. Girl on her own, they’d stop without a second thought. But now she had a baby with her. That must be putting them off.

Traffic thundered past. Where did they all come from? Mostly trucks and vans, but the cars were starting. Commuters in their posh saloons, some of them shaving at the wheel, or tuning their radios, none of them pausing for a girl and her baby basket. Every passing lorry enveloped her in a mini-hurricane. Kelly was beginning to cry.

Maybe Lindy should play it the other way. Flaunt Kelly, look like a plaintive mum, and hope someone would take pity on her. She picked the baby up and cuddled her.

It worked. Eventually. Daylight now, and at last a lorry stopped, edging in onto the curb ahead of her. She hoisted up the basket again, her carrier and her canvas bag, adjusting her balance, and scrambled for the lorry.

The driver had the passenger door open.

‘This is no place for a little babby, girl. You’d best get in here.’ He looked OK, burly like truckers were, but pretty old, grey hair and all. Someone’s granddad; that’s why he’d stopped. ‘Where’re you going?’

‘London. See my brother.’

‘You’d be better off on the train, thought of that?’

‘Ain’t got no money for the train.’ That wouldn’t have stopped her, but hitching was a habit. She always hitched.

‘Well, I’m heading for Oxford, but I can’t leave you standing there. I’ll take you to the lay-by, drop you there. At least you can get yourself a nice cuppa.’

‘Thanks.’ She was ready to struggle up into the cab, with the baby and all, but he jumped down to help. Yeah, someone’s granddad, no doubt about that.

‘So, you’re off to the big city then,’ he said, checking his mirrors and back into the traffic. ‘Show the little one the sights, eh? What is it, boy or girl?’

‘Girl.’

Kelly blew a raspberry.

‘She got a name?’

‘Kelly Crowe.’ Lindy felt her. Kelly needed changing again.

‘Well, little Kelly, you listen to Freddy here, and you tell your Mum it’s a dangerous world and she shouldn’t be hitching rides with a babby.’

‘Just to London,’ insisted Lindy. ‘Then I’ll be all right.’

He shook his head, but it wasn’t really his concern. They were coming to the lay-by. He’d done his bit, getting her off the slip road.

It was a big lay-by, with toilets at one end and a kiosk selling hot tea and sausage and bacon butties at the other. A couple of cars and half a dozen big lorries already parked up. Freddy drew up alongside and she opened the door.

‘You take care now,’ said Freddy. ‘Don’t you go climbing in with just anyone.’

‘Thanks,’ said Lindy, dropping down, taking her bags from him, moving out of the way as he drove off again, still shaking his head.

The smell of frying, over the diesel fumes, drew Lindy like a magnet. She could afford a bite, couldn’t she? Wouldn’t cost the earth, not in a place like this.

But Kelly came first, before she started bawling in earnest. Change her in the toilets that stank of pee and disinfectant. Pathetic little steel basins and no hot water, but it was all there was. Lindy gave her the bottle she’d brought with her in the basket.

Then she bought herself a bacon bun. Great, the warm grease dribbling down her chin. All she had to do was wait for the next lift that would take her the twenty odd miles to London.

But no one was offering. Not even when she asked them direct. It was the baby, no doubt about it.

She had been there nearly two hours when they arrived. A camper van, painted with leaves, like it was advertising a garden centre. Or just gipsies. Lindy watched a man get out, long hair tied in a ponytail, embroidered waistcoat. Then a woman, long hair, long skirt, helping a toddler out and a little boy, shepherding them to the toilets. The man went round the back, prodding at the exhaust. It had been making a racket as the van had pulled in.

Lindy sidled towards them. A family with children, safe enough. She was fed up with drivers looking at Kelly like she was some alien. And she needed the bog. That bacon bun had got her insides churning.

The man smiled at her as she carried Kelly past. In the toilets, the woman was wiping the toddler’s bare bum. She smiled too. ‘Hi.’

Lindy chewed her lip, dropped her bags and then laid the basket down. ‘Can you watch her while I go in?’

‘Surely.’

Sitting in the stinking cubicle, looking at the scratched steel door, Lindy could hear the woman talking. ‘Aren’t you a sweet little thing then? Come on, come to Mandy. Let’s give you a cuddle.’

She could hear Kelly’s gurgle. Contented. There was this great upheaval inside Lindy. All sorts of feelings fighting each other. Jealousy that Kelly was responding to someone else. Anger and worry, that gut terror that someone else was going to take her away. And this strange warm longing, to have someone just smile at her and Kelly.

She emerged, to find the woman crouching on the floor, long skirt splayed out, showing Kelly to the two kids. The toddler was reaching out to touch her.

The woman smiled at Lindy, and laid the baby back in the basket. ‘She’s lovely. I love kids. Is she yours?’

Lindy snatched the baby up. ‘Course she’s mine. She’s my Kelly. I got the papers to prove it.’

The woman put her arm round Lindy. ‘Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t mean… I just thought how young you were, her big sister maybe. I do apologise.’

She spoke posh, weird with her looking like a gipsy.

The little toddler was still reaching up to the baby. As a token of forgiveness, Lindy let her touch.

‘Tanja likes her too,’ said the woman.

‘Where you heading then?’

‘Oh, west. We’re going to join friends over in Wales.’

‘Right.’ If only they had been going to London. Lindy could have asked them for a lift and she was sure they’d have said yes.

‘And what about you and Kelly?’

‘London. Don’t know when though. I’m not getting much luck with lifts.’

A flash of alarm, hastily stifled. ‘You’re trying to hitch-hike with a baby? That can’t be easy. Sorry, I assumed you were with someone.’

‘Going to stay with my brother.’ With Jimmy, who might or might not be in London, who might or might not remember her. ‘If I can find him. Got to go somewhere, haven’t I?’

The woman looked at her in sympathy and concern, then she smiled. Not a social worker’s smile at all. ‘Sure you wouldn’t prefer to come with us to Wales?’

It was like balancing on the middle of the see-saw back in the park. One step to the left and it tilted one way, to the right and it went the other. She didn’t have to go to London. She could do anything she liked. Head off with this woman and her family. A real family.

‘Yeah, all right.’

iii

Heather

One second of bliss, emerging from drugged slumber. Then something gnawing within her, even though she couldn’t remember what it was. Something was wrong. Maybe it had been a dream, and now she was waking and she’d find it wasn’t true…

Heather opened her eyes, willing the nightmare to be gone. Martin stood by the window, staring out at a grey dawn. He was going to turn and smile, and say, ‘Hello sleepyhead, ready for a cup of tea?’ And Bibs would come padding in with his blanket, and Abigail would give a little gurgle from the cot.

Martin turned, his face bleak and grey. He attempted a smile, so feeble it barely gasped for air before dying. But he wasn’t looking at her. Not quite looking at her.

There was no gurgle. There was no cot. She struggled up. ‘Where’s the cot?’ Panic. ‘Where’s the cot gone!’

‘Ssh.’ Martin tried to calm her. ‘It’s in the spare room. They thought it would upset you.’

It vanished, the last shreds of that kind illusion of a dream. Her baby was gone. The memory came back and all the anguish and gut-churning terror. ‘No!’

Martin drew a deep breath, then put his arms round her. ‘Just…go back to sleep.’

‘How can I? My baby’s gone! I’ve got to do something, I’ve got to find her.’ She could hear the words clearly enough in her head, but she knew that mere gibberish and sobs came out.

She grabbed his arm. ‘Something’s happened, hasn’t it? There’s news. They’ve found her. She’s—’ She couldn’t say the word, couldn’t even think it.

‘There’s been no news,’ said Martin. ‘They’re still looking.’ He let go of her. ‘I’ll make us some tea.’ Eager to be gone.

Tea. Yes, she needed something to drink. Her mouth was like sawdust. She couldn’t lie here looking at the spot where Abigail’s cot had been. She groped for clothes, fresh ones, not the ones that someone had folded neatly and laid on the chair. She never wanted to wear those clothes again. They could go in the incinerator, along with all her memories of yesterday.

Maybe yesterday was the last day of her life with Abigail.

No, Abigail would be found. It couldn’t be much longer. Maybe they had already. Maybe the police were already bringing her home. Heather had to be ready for them.

She groped her way downstairs. Martin was in the sitting room holding the blue bear. He had been crying. She wanted to go to him, comfort him, but she had barely taken a step into the room when Barbara’s voice, gritty with anger, cut through from the kitchen. ‘Why wouldn’t she listen to me!’

Martin looked up sharply. ‘Mum, leave it. Heather, we’re just making tea.’

She took the bear from him, hugging it.

Barbara emerged with a tray. Silently, she laid it on the coffee table, pressed a mug into Martin’s hands, giving him a squeeze of sympathy, then handed one to Heather without looking at her.

‘Thanks,’ Heather whispered.

Martin sniffed, then picked up a plate and offered it to her. Chocolate digestives.

Heather picked one up, staring at it with loathing, crumbled it in her clenched fist. ‘Bloody bloody biscuits. Why didn’t I buy him sweets? We wouldn’t have fed the ducks sweets. Oh God! Oh God, oh God, oh God. It’s not happening. I only left her for a moment.’

‘A moment! What sort of a mother walks off and leaves—’ Barbara was hissing.

‘Mum, please…’ Martin guided her away. ‘This won’t help. Go and see to Bibs. I don’t want him frightened.’

Barbara was snorting. ‘I notice she hasn’t rushed to him.’

‘Please.’

‘Oh yes. I’ll go. You can rely on me to take care of my grandchildren.’

Martin watched her out then turned back to Heather. She had folded her arms round herself, rocking on her heels.

‘How could you do it, Heather? How could you just leave her?’

‘She was there! I didn’t go far, just after Bibs. I could see the pram.’

He clenched his fists to keep control. ‘You didn’t see, though.’

‘I’ve got to do something.’

‘What?’

‘What are the police doing?’

‘Searching. With dogs. Door to door enquiries.’ He turned away. ‘They’re going to dredge the lake.’

She pictured the lake, the wide water with its ducks, and its mud and garbage, the willows brushing the scum of cigarette butts and used condoms. She wanted to be sick.

‘He wouldn’t have done that.’

‘Who wouldn’t have done what?’

‘The man who took her.’

‘You said you didn’t see anyone. That’s what you claimed.’

‘I didn’t. But someone took her. He wouldn’t harm her, would he? No one would take a baby just to harm her.’

‘How would I know? I don’t understand any of it. All I know is that you took Abigail to the park and turned your back on her, and now she’s gone.’

‘Yes! And I wish I was dead!’

At last she had broken through his anger to his compassion. His arms were round her, holding her, hugging her to him.

‘What are we going to do, Heather? What the hell are we going to do?’

They stood together for a while, trying to block the world out. Then she felt his grip loosen. She felt his chest rise as he drew in breath, in preparation.

‘Heather. Listen. You would say, wouldn’t you, if something happened?’

‘Say what? What do you mean?’

‘If something had happened to the baby. If there had been an accident or something. If you’d done something to her—’

She stood back, pushing him away, not believing what he was saying. Already his face was contrite, wanting to take the words back. But it was too late. They were said.

iv

Heather

Lyford Police station. Always busy. It would be. Lyford was a typically dysfunctional town. ‘A regrettable lack of social cohesion,’ the vicar of St. Bartholomew’s had said recently, after his church had been torched. Racial tension increasing daily, drugs and football hooliganism, unemployment at dangerous levels, one pub a known haunt of IRA activists, crime spiralling out of control according to the local press; all the usual urban stuff. Most of it finishing up here, pinned on the walls of incident rooms.

‘Are we definitely discounting the girl seen in the park?’ Inspector Trip scratched his head, looking at the board. Not puzzlement, just dandruff.

‘Fraid so, sir. Wrong time.’ DS Parker yawned, desperate to get off early for once. ‘Definitely seen on the swings with a baby, between twelve and one. That was at least an hour before Heather Norris was anywhere near the park.’

‘What about this woman, hitchhiking on the ring road with an infant?’

‘Another dead end, sir. A lorry driver’s come forward. Fred Ableman. Says he gave her a lift, and she told him the baby’s name. Kelly Crowe. We checked with the hospital and they’ve got her on their radar. So have social services. Juvenile mother, talked about heading for London, apparently. She was visited a couple of times and it was all regular and above board. Passed the notes on to Carradine.’

‘Carradine? He’s not on this case.’

‘No, sir, but he’s liaising on the Watford warehouse job.’

‘Armed robbery, fatal shooting? What’s he want with the girl?’

‘Seems the girl, Rosalind Crowe, was shacked up with one of the gang. The one that got shot, Gary Bagley. She probably knew there was going to be trouble, legged it before the shit hit the fan. Anyway, if they want her, she’s their baby now.’

‘While ours is still missing. We’re not getting anywhere with this, are we?’

‘Not anything tangible as yet sir, no.’

‘Beginning to look as if we’re left with one obvious conclusion, doesn’t it.’

‘I’m afraid so, sir.’

‘Better have her in, then.’

‘Thank you for coming in, Mrs Norris. We need to go over the details of the day Abigail went missing, one more time. You left the pram on the path, and you followed your son down to the lakeside. Is that what you’re still claiming? How long were you there, Mrs Norris? Two minutes? Five? Ten? You don’t seem to be able to decide.

‘You say you saw no one in the park. Then you thought perhaps you did see someone in the trees. Which was it, Mrs Norris?

‘You claimed dogs had taken her. Then you changed your mind.

‘What really happened, Mrs Norris? An accident, was that it? You didn’t mean it. Abigail fell, perhaps, or the blanket smothered her and suddenly she wasn’t breathing? You were frightened, you didn’t know what to do, so you hid her body, and told everyone she’d been snatched.

‘You have to see it from our point of view, Mrs Norris. It’s a question of evidence. And there is no evidence that anyone took Abigail. Just your word. Very distressing, having a baby snatched, but Alan Gregory tells us you didn’t seem at all distressed – not until you’d stopped him and got his attention. Then you turned the waterworks on. His words, Mrs Norris. There was no abduction, was there? The truth is, you killed your baby.

‘You never wanted this baby, did you? You’ve been stressed. Money worries. Your father a bit of a burden, isn’t he? Must be a terrible strain. And now a new baby. Screamed your head off in a supermarket at Christmas, telling everyone how much you didn’t want it. You resented her, isn’t that true? Hated being left to cope with screaming kids. You refused to get up to change her, just left her to cry.

‘Your mother-in-law offered you a lift into town that day, didn’t she, Mrs Norris? Offered to take you to the dentist, offered to look after the children for you. But you insisted on going alone. On the bus, with a toddler and a month old baby in a pram. You chose to do that rather than accept a lift. Why was that, Mrs Norris? Why did you walk through the park, Mrs Norris? Your bus stops in Williams Street. That’s the nearest stop to your dentist. Why did you choose to walk another half a mile instead, through the park?

‘Where is Abigail, Mrs Norris? What did you do with her?’

There wasn’t anything she could say. Nothing to be said except an endless repetition of all she could recall. The trouble was, the recollection was so indistinct, because there was nothing to give it substance. Abigail had been there in her pram and then she had been gone. Nothing else, except Heather’s imagination painting in horrors, and as the days passed, she found it more and more difficult to be sure what was real memory and what was imagination. What she had seen and what she had feared were so muddled, she could no longer be sure of anything. No longer certain in her own head, and there was no one to reassure her. Only a husband who looked at her with doubt in his eyes.

They were hammering her, these men, with accusations she could not refute. Not even to herself. Was it as they had said? Had she killed her child? She wanted to shout at them. She wanted to reach across the desk and seize their lapels and shake them. No! We were in the park, feeding the ducks and she vanished! But all the while, there was this little voice in her head, this little cold sharp pinprick, whispering, ‘Maybe it’s true. Maybe you did kill her.’

vi

Lindy

Wet grass under foot. Olive green hills rolling on in all directions. Fir forests like that ought to have wolves in them. Sheep. Birds that looked like eagles up in the sky. When it was night, away from the sparking campfire, there weren’t any street lights. Just stars, like she’d never seen before.

With bare feet, Lindy splashed in the ice-cold foaming water of the stream. No, not Lindy. She was Rosalind from now on. A new name for a new world. And she liked the way Roger said it, though she couldn’t understand half of what he said. Talked about her Orlando and the forest of Arden and laughed. He was probably making fun of her a bit, she could tell from the way Mandy scowled at him, but she didn’t mind. She didn’t mind anything any more. She’d never even imagined a world and people like this, but she had dreamed of a family, and this was a real family, for her and Kelly. It was going to be all right.

vii

Gillian

‘Mrs Wendle? Gillian! This is Claire Dexter. I think we may have some good news for you…’

Gillian was trying to jot details down, but she couldn’t hold the pencil. She held the banister instead, gripping it to stop herself sliding to the floor. Was she dreaming this? No, it was Claire’s voice, loud and clear, even if Gillian couldn’t make out the words.

Why hadn’t she had more faith? She had been waiting for this, ever since that first article in the paper about the abandoned baby. She had sensed, deep down, that this was it. Her destiny. God answering her prayers. The baby had been abandoned for a purpose.

‘…so we’ll see you and Terry this afternoon?’

‘Yes,’ whispered Gillian. ‘Yes.’ She had to gasp for breath. She put the phone down, forced another deep breath, picked up the receiver again. Rang the works.

‘It’s Gillian Wendle. Can I speak to my husband, Terry? Is it possible? It’s quite urgent. I wouldn’t ring but—’

They weren’t worried about her excuses. It must be a good day at the plant. Someone was going off to find him.

Keep breathing. And keep calm. She couldn’t be a gibbering idiot when he came on the phone.

‘Terry here. That you, Gill? What’s up? Something wrong?’

‘Terry, they’ve got a baby for us.’

Silence. Oh God. Terror gripped her. Why was he silent? Did he no longer want a child? Was this the final twist of fate?

‘I’m coming home,’ he said, indistinctly.

He was coming home. Home. From now on it was going to be a real home. A home with parents and a child. She had been right to decorate the little room, to buy the cot, the teddy bear, the mobiles, the pretty curtains. She hadn’t been mad. She had known, deep down, this was it.

All her prayers answered.

Joan was standing in the living room doorway, fag in hand as usual. ‘Just remember whose house this is,’ she said. ‘Don’t except me to babysit. I’m not holding some snivelling brat while you two go off and enjoy yourself.’

Gillian laughed. Blissful release. Chains falling off her. ‘Don’t worry, Mum. I’ll take care of my own baby. It’s the only thing I want to do. I promise you’ll never have to babysit.’