Saturday 3 November, 9 p.m.
The antenatal ward, Royal Stoke Hospital
‘I will fucking kill you.’ Not Kath Whalley this time, but Matthew’s furious response.
‘I had a lead,’ sounded feeble. ‘I did take two other officers with me, Matt.’
They’d insisted she be ‘checked over’ in the hospital, and that was where her husband had finally caught up with her.
The midwife was rubbing her abdomen with clear gel, ready for the ultrasound. Matthew was staring at the screen. She could see the baby’s heart beating strongly, tiny legs folded up. Large head. Of course everything was all right, but right now she wasn’t absolutely certain she wouldn’t rather face Kath Whalley with her long knife than Matthew who was practically shaking with anger.
He continued watching the ultrasound and the heart which was beating with a new intensity, and she recalled his words that he would never forgive her if she had done anything to harm their baby. (His son.) That had been when she had simply fallen off her bike. This was just a little bit different.
‘Matt,’ she managed.
He was avoiding her eyes, continuing to watch the screen and the child.
It was going to take Matthew Levin a while to decide whether he was more angry than worried or more worried than angry. Maybe in a few days he would get there.
Zachary Foster, wrapped in a blanket, his confusion absolute, even when the officer assured him he was safe, repeating the phrase over and over again. All he said was, ‘Have you found my teddy?’
‘I’m sorry, mate.’
It was obvious from the old man’s eyes that he understood that. He looked sad. ‘That’s a shame,’ he said.
Finally, Matthew, sensing she was penitent and perhaps sensing something else had changed in his wife, wrapped her in his arms. She felt his pulse banging away, his heart rocking in his chest. ‘Jo,’ he managed. ‘Jo. Please – don’t ever …’ He couldn’t finish the sentence.
‘I’m sorry, Matt. I’m really sorry.’ Her apology inched towards mollifying him, but his mouth was still tight when he wasn’t kissing her hair, his hands feeling for the movements of the child. ‘I can’t believe that you put him at risk.’
She didn’t even have the fight in her to make her usual protest – it might not be …
She had completely flopped, lost all muscle tone, all will, all strength.
Chi and her new friend were on the train to London, passports in hand, money safe. But when they looked at each other they could read their own shame mirrored in the other’s eyes. They had already booked their tickets. By tomorrow they would be heading out of Heathrow Airport. Terminal Five. Next stop: Kingston, Jamaica.
To distract herself, Jubilee had brought her tablet. And there she read some text about a Titanic teddy bear that would soon be coming up for sale at a specialist toy sale, Christie’s in London, with a guide price of £110,000. She read the article out loud. ‘It says here the bears have a low survival rate because they were often destroyed after childhood epidemics of infectious diseases. Only a small number have survived. And that’s why they fetch so much money. Oh …’ She looked triumphant.
‘What?’
‘It says here in this article that the vendor remains anonymous.’