The Tube journey takes less than fifteen minutes but each minute feels like an hour. I stand next to the doors, paralytic with fear, as the train jolts and rattles its way through the blackened tunnels. At every stop – Russell Square, King’s Cross, Caledonian Road – I count the seconds, willing the doors to hurry up and close so that the train can start moving again. Finally, at Holloway Road, I leap out and along the platform. I run up the emergency stairs, clutching at the handrail to stop myself falling backwards, my legs numb, rubbery, ready to give way with every step.
As soon as I’m out on the street, my signal returned, I call Amy from the after-school club. My heart sinks in despair as she confirms what I already know to be true: that Alex collected Ben – early, in fact – at around five o’clock. I immediately call 999 and ask the operator for the police. I talk as I walk, then stride, then run the rest of the way back to my flat.
As I suspected, there’s no sign of Alex’s car outside. I shakily put my key into the lock and let myself in. I pace up and down the hallway from the front room to the kitchen and back again, intermittently stopping to pull back the curtains and peer out into the darkness of the empty street. I try Alex’s number again, but it goes straight to voicemail. It’s the standard message from the phone provider, telling me that the person I’ve called is not available. For the first time since I’ve known him, I realise that I’ve no evidence that Alex exists: he’s never recorded a voicemail message. I’ve never met a friend or a flatmate. I’ve never seen an email or a letter addressed to him, no envelope with his name on the front.
An icy chill runs through me. I move over to the mantelpiece and pick up the framed photograph of Ben, a head and shoulders shot that was taken at school at the beginning of term. I start to cry, uncontrollably, as I hold him in my hands, studying every inch of his little face, his mouth, his eyes, the eyes that look up at me so trustingly, giving me the look he always gives me: I may not know much, but I know that you’re my mum. I know that you’ll take care of me, that you won’t let me come to any harm.
I sink to my knees on the floor, repeatedly kissing Ben’s face in the photo frame. My baby. My darling boy. Please, God, please don’t let this be it. Don’t let this be the end.
I hear the noise of a car engine and leap up off the floor. I run over to the window to see a police car pulling up outside. My heart hammers against my chest at the sight of the vehicle, its fluorescent blue-and-yellow chequered bodywork clearly visible in the dark. Seeing the car parked outside my house, seeing the uniformed officers getting out and walking towards my front door, is like an omen. This is real; this is not just something that’s happening in my imagination. The police are here because something serious has happened to Ben.
I move quickly out into the hallway and open the door to let them in. I instantly recognise them – one male, one female – as a response team I’ve met before, although their names escape me, and as soon as they’ve said them, I instantly forget them again. Too many thoughts – a zillion thoughts – are already crashing round my fevered brain.
I show the officers into the living room and offer them a cup of tea.
‘In a moment, perhaps,’ says the female, looking at my tear-streaked face and placing a reassuring hand on my heaving shoulder. She can see that I’m desperate, too desperate to be making tea. She walks ahead of me into the living room, sits down on the sofa and takes out a notebook. The male officer follows and sits down next to her. I fall into the armchair opposite, near the door, ready to leap up the second the phone rings or a car pulls up outside.
‘So,’ says the female officer. Her eyes spark with recognition. ‘It’s Sarah, isn’t? When did you last see your son, Sarah?’
‘This morning,’ I tell her. I sit my mobile phone on my lap and spread my fingers out on the armrests of my chair, gripping them tightly. ‘When I dropped him off at school.’
‘Which school is that?’ she asks.
‘Samuel Watson. The special school up on Tollington Road. But... he’s not there now. They won’t know anything. He goes to an after-school club. I’ve phoned them. They say that Alex... my partner... picked him up early, at five o’clock.’
‘And have you spoken to your partner?’
I shake my head. My forehead prickles; I feel faint with terror. Keep breathing, I remind myself. Deep breaths, in and out. ‘No. That’s the problem, PC...’
‘Hindley.’
‘PC Hindley,’ I repeat. I shake my head again. ‘He’s not answering. If he picked him up at five, they should have been home by five fifteen at the latest. They should be here now. I don’t know where they are.’
PC Hindley looks at her watch. ‘Well, it’s only a quarter past eight. Maybe they went out somewhere? Maybe your partner lost your door key and has taken Ben to his house instead?’
‘You don’t understand,’ I protest, my voice shaking. I put my hands onto my trembling knees and hold them still. ‘He’s not who he says he is. My partner – he’s crazy. He’s dangerous... I think he tried to kill his own baby, and now he’s got mine.’
She nods, slowly. ‘OK. Tell me about his baby,’ she says.
‘He was in hospital. He got hurt – poisoned – and then he was nearly killed, and... the baby’s mother’s on trial for his attempted murder, but I don’t think it was her... I think it was him.’ My words tumble out rapidly, one after the other.
‘And why do you think it was him, not her?’
‘Because he’s not who I thought he was. I saw a photo of him in a magazine on my way home tonight; that’s when I realised. He’s lied to me about who he is for months. Everything he’s told me is a pack of lies.’
PC Hindley nods. ‘OK. What’s your partner’s name?’
‘Alex. At least,’ I correct myself, ‘I thought his name was Alex. That’s what he told me. But it’s not. His name’s Jay. James. James Barrington-Brown.’
‘Ballington?’ The officer frowns. She stops writing and looks up.
‘Barrington,’ I correct her, trying to keep my impatience in check. My mouth is dry. I lick my lips. ‘B-a-double-r. Barrington-Brown. It’s double-barrelled, hyphenated. Look, I know what you’re thinking,’ I add. ‘I asked him to collect Ben, it’s only been a couple of hours... he’s taken Ben out, his phone’s died. But you have to believe me, it’s far worse than that – I know. I know something’s wrong. He’s done this before.’
‘Done what before?’ The officer shifts a little in her seat and leans back, frowning.
‘He’s gone missing with Ben, twice before. He told me Ben was sick... and then there’s his son. He made him sick too. He poisoned him.’
This is coming out all wrong. I’m not sure if I’m making any sense.
The male officer stands and picks up the photo frame from where I’ve left it, lying on the coffee table. ‘Is this Ben?’
I nod. ‘Yes.’
He lifts his radio. I can hear him giving his call sign, the case reference number, my address while the female officer continues talking to me at the same time, asking me about Ben, his age, his medical history. I explain about Ben’s vulnerability, his history of chest problems, his epilepsy. The male officer radios it all through.
‘So, your partner.’ PC Hindley reads from her notebook. ‘James Barrington-Brown. What’s his address? And his date of birth?’
‘I don’t know.’ I shake my head, despairingly. ‘He told me his name was Alex White and that he lived at a flat in Lewisham, but that’s obviously not true; none of it’s true. His name’s James Alexander Barrington-Brown and he’s a doctor, a neurologist. His family are millionaires and he lives in Richmond... or Chelsea. Markham Square. Yes, that’s it. He owns a flat in Markham Square. But he spends a lot of time with his parents at the family home in Richmond. He told me his birthday was in August. Nineteen seventy-four, he said, but I don’t know if that’s true, I don’t know if anything he told me was true...’
‘What’s his phone number?’ she asks me. I pick up my phone and find Alex’s number at the top of my call log. With shaking fingers, I then hand it to her. She takes down the number, then calls it from her own phone. I wait with bated breath; perhaps it’s just me he’s ignoring. Maybe he’ll answer for someone else.
But the call rings out, as it did for me. I can hear the vibration next to her ear, the pleasant woman from the phone company announcing, yet again, that he’s unavailable.
The officer leaves a brief message with her phone number and then ends the call. ‘CRO check,’ she says to the male officer.
‘We want a CRO check on a James Alexander Barrington-Brown,’ I hear him say. ‘It’s a misper. Possibly a domestic.’ He pauses. ‘Partner’s gone to kindergarten to pick up son and hasn’t returned on time.’ He pauses again. ‘Routine,’ he says. ‘She knows him.’
‘No, I don’t,’ I scream at him. ‘I don’t know him at all. He’s a stranger to me, a complete stranger, and he’s got my son!’
The female officer puts a hand on my arm. ‘But he’s your partner? You did ask him to collect Ben for you?’
‘Before I realised!’ I protest, tears filling my eyes again. ‘Before I found out who he really was!’
‘A doctor.’ She nods. ‘A millionaire doctor.’
‘Yes.’ This is hopeless. They don’t believe me. They think I’m just a neurotic parent who’s fallen out with her boyfriend, who’s let him go off with her son and now wants him back.
The officer nods slowly, then looks up at her colleague. ‘We’ll need to do a check on you too,’ he says.
‘You know who I am. I’m a defence lawyer. You’ve seen me at the police station.’
‘Of course. But it’s standard to do background checks. We have to cover all angles. We’ll also need to search your home.’
‘What for?’ I ask, bewildered.
‘As I say, it’s standard.’ PC Hindley smiles. ‘You’d be surprised how many missing children turn up in a cupboard or an attic.’
‘This isn’t a game of hide-and-seek!’ I cry out in exasperation. ‘My son is severely learning disabled. He wouldn’t know how to hide in a cupboard, or what the point would be. I told you, he’s with my... he’s with Alex. Jay,’ I correct myself again, shaking my head. ‘They could be anywhere by now. But one thing’s for certain, they’re not here!’
‘All the same. If you don’t mind?’ The female officer gets up and follows her colleague out to the hallway and into the kitchen. I follow behind them and watch in despair, the minutes ticking away, as they search through each room, opening doors, rooting through cupboards, looking under beds.
‘Please,’ I beg them, following them back into the hallway, watching as they turn my under-stairs cupboard inside out. ‘You have to believe me. You have to circulate this as an abduction – a high priority. I’m begging you. You have to get someone out there now, looking for him. I can give you his vehicle registration. He’ll have triggered an ANPR camera somewhere... he can’t be too hard to find. And you need to check on his son, too. He might have tried to kill him again.’
‘Why do you think he tried to kill his son?’
‘Because he’s crazy! Please, PC...’ I turn to the male officer, who’s now standing back up again, his hand on his radio.
‘Hood,’ he reminds me.
‘PC Hood, please run a check and you’ll see that I’m telling you the truth. His son is called Finn Stephens and someone tried to kill him on the twenty-fifth of July last year. The case is at the Old Bailey – it’s in court next week for trial.’
PC Hindley stands up and shuts the cupboard door. ‘But you said the baby’s mother has already been charged?’
‘Yes. But they’ve got the wrong person. It’s Alex. Jay,’ I correct myself for the millionth time, clapping my hand to my head. ‘It’s Jay who’s done this. James Barrington-Brown.’
PC Hindley eyes me suspiciously. She walks back into the living room and I follow her. ‘So, what’s your involvement with this case?’ she asks.
I sink down into a chair and put my head in my hands. I know exactly where this is going. I know how this is going to sound. ‘I represent the mother. Ellis Stephens.’
There’s silence in the room. PC Hood’s radio has gone quiet. I lift my head up and look at them both. PC Hood sits down on the sofa.
PC Hindley is still frowning. ‘So, you represent the mother... but you’ve been having a relationship with the father. Your relationship with the father is now over, and you’re now saying that he, not your client, is responsible for attempting to kill their child?’
I nod and lift my hands up, helplessly. ‘Yes. Look, I know how that sounds...’
‘Isn’t that something of a conflict of interest?’ asks PC Hood.
I sigh. ‘Yes. Of course it is. It’s a huge conflict of interest. Only I didn’t know; that’s my point. I didn’t know who he was. I found out today – this evening – on my way home. That’s when I realised that Ben was in danger. Like I said, it’s happened before. Twice before. He was looking after Ben, both times, and then Ben got ill... sick, and he took him to hospital, and—’
‘He took him to hospital,’ PC Hindley interrupts me. ‘So, what you’re telling me is that, both times before, when your partner and your son went “missing”’ – she puts air quotes around the word ‘missing’ – ‘what had actually happened was that your son had fallen ill. He’d needed medical attention – and your partner got that for him?’
‘Yes, but... now I’m wondering if my son was really ill. I don’t know if he was really ill, or if Alex— Jay. I mean, Jay...’
The female officer puts her head to one side.
‘I think Jay might have done something to him,’ I finish. I take a deep breath in. ‘I know it sounds a bit... a bit crazy. But I think he might have made him ill and then...’
‘And then taken him to hospital?’ PC Hindley has stopped writing down what I’m telling her.
‘Yes,’ I say, weakly.
‘But you told me your son has a long history of medical problems. That he has epilepsy?’
‘Yes.’ I nod.
‘And last time... last time, they’d just gone to A&E?’
‘Yes...’
‘So... is it possible that your son has fallen ill again?’ she asks. ‘That your partner has taken him to A&E again?’
‘Yes.’ I nod. Oh my God. Why didn’t I think of this? I’ve been too busy panicking to think of this. The nearest hospital; that’s where they’ll be. ‘The Whittington,’ I say. I leap up. ‘We need to go to the Whittington.’
The male officer speaks into his radio. ‘Whittington Hospital Accident and Emergency department.’ He looks at his colleague and she nods.
‘Let’s go.’