‘Yes, we’ve split up. He was staying overnight, that was all.’ Claire tried again to explain to the police officer who’d taken her call why she would be worried about her husband leaving in the middle of the night with her daughter.
‘And you’re concerned he might harm her?’ the officer asked.
‘No,’ she answered instinctively. Then, ‘Yes,’ she said, thoughts of his blackouts – if that was what they were – rushing to mind. ‘I don’t know. He attacked his mother’s partner, possibly his girlfriend. You arrested him, for God’s sake!’
‘Okay, calm down, Mrs Elliot,’ the officer tried to placate her. ‘I’m dispatching officers to your address now. It would be useful if you could have a recent photograph of your little girl to hand,’ he suggested, causing the harsh reality of what was happening to hit her. Her child was missing. Her husband had taken her.
Closing her eyes, she tried to focus, and then emitted a sob. ‘The only recent photographs I have are on my mobile,’ she said, her voice raw. ‘I can’t find it. I don’t know where it is.’
‘Do you have a paper photograph?’ he asked gently.
‘I…’ Claire tried to think, but her thoughts were leaping over each other, a jumbled mess in her head. ‘Yes.’ She remembered the photos they’d taken at Alton Towers. She’d printed some off. They were in her wardrobe. She was sure they were. ‘But they’re over a year old.’ Ella had grown so much since then.
‘I’m sure they’ll be fine,’ he assured her. ‘The officers will be with you shortly. Meanwhile, can you provide us with some details about your husband? His current address and—’
‘He hasn’t got one! It’s four thirty in the morning, he’s deranged, and he’s taken my daughter!’ Claire cried, and then banged the phone down, frustrated and sick with panic. She couldn’t stand here talking. She had to do something.
Where would he have taken her? She needed to ring Joyce. She couldn’t imagine he’d taken her there, but she needed to find out if his mother knew what might be going on in his head, because Claire certainly didn’t.
Reaching again for the phone, she stopped, her heart jolting as it rang, shrill and loud against the silence. She snatched it up. ‘Luke?’ She wouldn’t berate him, she wouldn’t scream at him, she would just ask him, beg him, to bring her baby back.
‘Claire? No, hi, it’s Amy.’
Amy? Claire racked her brains, agitated, desperate, hopeful. Please God this had something to do with where Ella was.
‘I’ve been trying to get in touch with you,’ the woman went on, ‘but Gemma’s phone was damaged in the accident and I couldn’t find your number.’
Accident? Claire’s throat constricted. ‘What accident?’
‘She’s okay,’ Amy said carefully. ‘Out of surgery. It was a hit-and-run. Some cowardly bastard knocked her over and then drove off without stopping. She has a fractured pelvis, cracked ribs. Her jaw’s broken too. I have no idea what kind of animal would…’
Claire’s head swam. Well, that was a really shitty thing to do, wasn’t it? Still your best friend, is she? She recalled what Luke had said when he’d learned it was Gemma who’d sent the photograph from the club. His tone had been full of contempt. He’d been drinking, consistently. Enough to fill a distillery, Joyce had said. He’d been volatile, aggressive, possessive; all the things Anna and Sophie had said he was. Unbalanced. He didn’t want to be in Claire’s life. He didn’t want her to have anyone else in her life. Not Sophie. Not Gemma. Not another man. Not even her father. It was as if he wanted her totally isolated. To have no one.
Oh God, please, no. A primal moan rose inside her. Don’t let him hurt my baby.