‘It seems so dreadful, so - so ironic,’ said Octavia, her
voice very low suddenly, ‘that this happened while we were
- were quarrelling. If we hadn’t, if I’d been out there, finding Zoe, seeing if Minty was all right, if you’d been going over to the paddock — oh, God.’
‘Oh, Octavia,’ he said heavily, ‘if we’d left her at home,
if Caroline had been here … that way lies madness. In ifs
and if onlys. I should know.’
‘Yes,’ she said, looking at him soberly. ‘Yes, I suppose
so.’
‘So - what do we do? Go on looking? Go home? One of
us go home? In case she - well, tries to contact us.’
‘Why should she do that? That’s the last thing she’d do.’
‘You don’t know what she’d do,’ said Tom. ‘She’s mad.
Completely mad.’
‘Don’t keep saying that! It’s so frightening.’
‘Sorry.’
‘And anyway, I want us to stay together. I couldn’t bear
it on my own.’
He looked at her for a moment, his face very sombre.
They went over to the window together and stared down,
out of the control tower, helplessly, feebly, frantic, at the
milling crowds below them.
Marianne arrived at St Matthew’s Hospital in Hampstead
and ran into Reception.
‘I’ve come to see — to see how Mr Felix Miller is.’
‘Which ward is he on?’
‘I don’t know. He’s just been admitted.’
‘For?’
‘Heart attack.’
‘Probably still in Casualty.’
‘Oh, he can’t be. It was two hours ago, almost.’
‘Doesn’t mean much,’ said the woman, ‘not these days.’
‘It was a major heart attack.’
‘He’ll be in Coronary Care, in that case. What did you
say his name was?’
‘Miller. Felix Miller.’
‘Just wait.’
She turned to her computer: the inevitable endless
clicking went on. What did they do, these machines?
Marianne wondered, watching her, trying not to scream while she tapped, stared at the screen, tapped some more,
stared again, tutted, said aloud, ‘Let’s see if it’s this one,’
tapped yet again.
Finally she turned to her. ‘Yes, he’s in Coronary Care.’
‘Can I see him?’
‘Are you a relation?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘They usually only let in next-of-kin. But you could try.
Third floor, main building, turn right out of the lift, down
the end, then ask at the unit.’
She arrived at what they called the nursing station at the
Coronary Care Unit; a nurse who looked not a lot older
than Romilly asked if she could help.
‘I’ve come to see Mr Miller,’ said Marianne firmly.
‘Mr Miller. Let me see -‘ More tapping. ‘Oh, yes. Well,
I’ll have to ask Sister. Are you a relative?’
‘I …’ Marianne paused. She could see it was important
to give the right answer. ‘I’m his wife,’ she said firmly. It
was probably the first major lie she had told in twenty years.
Felix lay on a seemingly rather small bed in a small room, an
enormous number of machines bleeping all around him. He
was wired up to a drip. ‘That’s just for fluids,’ said the nurse,
‘to help him cope with the shock.’ There was a small
oxygen mask over his face. ‘We’re taking that off from time
to time, to see how he’s doing. He does seem to need it.’
‘How — how is he doing?’ said Marianne.
‘Oh — difficult to say. Yet. He’s holding his own. Excuse
me.’ She went over to one of the monitors, studied it
intently, adjusted it slightly. ‘This records his heart
rhythms.’
‘And …’
‘Not terribly steady, I’m afraid. But we’re giving him
anti-arrhythmic drugs, to control it, and betablockers to
reduce the loss of further muscle damage. The doctor will
be coming up shortly to assess him further, we’ll know a bit
more then.’
‘May I stay?’
‘Yes, of course. You can talk to him quietly, if you like.
Probably a good thing — he’s pretty well conscious — but
I’m sure you know not to do anything which might distress
or disturb him.’
‘I won’t have hysterics,’ said Marianne.
She stood by Felix’s bed, looking at him. His eyes were
closed, his colour very bad. She took his hand, stroked it
gently. ‘Felix,’ she said very quietly.
After quite a long time, he turned his head, and very
slowly opened his eyes and looked at her. It seemed to take
a moment or two for him to focus and then to register who
she was; then there was a squeeze on her hand and he tried
to smile at her.
‘I’m here,’ she said rather unnecessarily. He nodded
feebly and closed his eyes again.
She sat and talked to him, quietly and gently, as she had
heard you should. She told him he was doing very well, and
that the medical staff were pleased with him; that everything
was fine, that Octavia had no idea there was anything
wrong — Mrs Harrington had impressed this upon her — that
Zoe had gone to Brands Hatch looking after Minty, that it
was all going splendidly. ‘When you’re better, she can tell
you all about it.’ She began to run out of things to say, and began at the beginning again. She was very worried about not telling Octavia; but he had seemed so pleased when she
had said that, had even managed to smile very weakly.
Once the day at Brands Hatch was over, then she could
ring. She might even ring Tom, talk to him…
A doctor appeared. He nodded to her, didn’t introduce
himself, checked all the monitors, stood looking at Felix.
‘How is he?’ she said.
‘Holding his own,’ he said briefly. ‘Too early to say.’
‘Will you be operating on him, or anything like that?’
‘Hopefully not,’ he said. ‘Certainly not yet.’
‘What — what has actually happened?’
‘He’s had what we call a myocardial infarction. In plain
language, a heart attack. It means there’s been the death of
part of the heart muscle. So the heart simply isn’t functioning properly. But the treatment we are giving him
will hopefully compensate for that. I really can’t tell you any
more now. Except that the next few hours are crucial.’
‘Is it all right if I stay?’
‘Yes. Of course. Don’t tire him, though.’
Marianne wondered how on earth she would tire Felix.
Force him into a political debate, or try and make him sing?
‘I won’t,’ she said humbly.
Minty was asleep now; she had taken the drink greedily,
and then eaten a biscuit Louise had given her. She had
started to cry again after that. Louise had longed to cuddle
her, to comfort her, but didn’t dare, and pulled back on to
the motorway; the rhythm of the car had soothed her back
into sleep.
Her nappy needed changing; Louise could smell it. She’d
have to leave it for now; she wanted to get off the M25, she
was too visible, take to the side roads. Then she could
change the nappy at a garage toilet, give Minty some milk,
try to reassure her. Not for too long though, they had a
very long way to go. Her plan was to turn off on to the
Reigate road, make her way towards Dorking, then
Guildford and across to the M3 and then to the M4 via
Newbury. It was a long way round, but it was much safer.
The temptation to go faster was intense; but she didn’t
dare. She must just trundle along at seventy, and pray. The
thought of praying amused her: asking God for help with
her kidnapping. She almost giggled. Her mood of elation
had held; she still felt absolutely clear headed, calm, not in
the least tired. And very very pleased with herself; they
might now realise what she had done, indeed they must do.
But they had no idea, they couldn’t possibly have any idea,
where she was going.
That was her trump card. Nobody could possibly know
that.I
Felix seemed a little better. There was more colour in his
face, and he was breathing slightly more easily. The nurse
had taken his oxygen mask off.
He had been sleeping; he opened his eyes and looked at
Marianne. ‘Hallo, Marianne …’ His voice was very faint
and slurry.
‘Hallo, Felix. How are you?’ She hoped that didn’t come
under the heading of tiring him.
‘All right. Yes. Thank you. Thank you for coming.’
‘Felix, it’s all right. I’m so glad I - so glad to be here.’
There was a long silence; then, ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
Marianne felt as if she might have a heart attack herself.
In all their years together she had never heard Felix say he
was sorry about anything.
‘Sorry about - when you came. So sorry.’
‘Felix, it’s all right. I - I understood.’
‘Mmm …’ He nodded, closed his eyes again for a while.
‘Missed you,’ he said. ‘Very much.’
‘Oh, Felix.’ She felt a sob rising in her throat. ‘Felix, I
missed you too.’
Another silence, and then he said, ‘Tonight. You must
‘I will. Of course I will.’ To what, for God’s sake? Then
she remembered. Music for Children in Hospital. ‘Yes,
Felix, I’ll be there.’
‘Good. I’m — rather tired.’
‘Yes, you must rest. Don’t talk any more.’
He didn’t, for over an hour. Marianne decided she
couldn’t put off phoning Tom any longer.
It was still very hot: in the car at least. The late afternoon
sun, beating in at the windows, slanting in through the
windscreen as they drove westward, was unpleasant. Minty
was awake, miserable, crying again. Her nappy smelt awful.
She’d have to stop.
She pulled into a garage, lifted Minty out of the car. She
felt very hot, damp with sweat. Her dark curls were stuck to
her head. She looked at Louise and started to cry.
‘Shush, darling, shush. Don’t cry. Here, have your nice
drink.’
Minty shook her head violently, lashed out with her little
fist, knocked the cup on the floor.
‘All right. I’ll get you something else. Ice cream? Ice
lolly, how about that?’ Juliet had loved ice lollies, especially
when she was teething. That was a good idea.
She carried Minty into the ladies’, armed with her nappy,
nappy sack, baby wipes, all in a neat plastic bag. How lovely
it was, to be doing all this again. Even in her anxiety, her
fear, she felt happy, soothed.
‘Come on, poppet.’ She gave her a kiss.
‘Isn’t she lovely?’ said a woman in front of her in the
queue. ‘Here, you go first, love, get her sorted. I know
what it’s like. How old is she?’
‘Ten months,’ said Louise. She smiled at the woman; this
was wonderful. This was what she had dreamed of. This
made it all worth while.
‘Minty’s what? Been kidnapped? How, why — Oh, my
God, Tom. Was Zoe — oh, no. Let me speak to her, will
you?’
Zoe was subdued, but calm. ‘It was my fault. I know it
was. But Octavia and Tom have been so good about it.
Both of them. And Nico’s been great. He’s going to bring me home, quite soon, I think. He’s so nice, Mum. So really nice.’
‘Can I — speak to him?’
‘Yes, sure.’
This really was a nightmare; now what did she do? How
could Octavia stand more bad news, more tragedy?
Nico listened to her carefully; he was absolutely calm,
behaved as if the situation between them was quite normal,
that of two friends discussing a problem, not as if the life of
the man who had come between them hung in the balance.
‘I’ll talk to Tom,’ he said finally, ‘see what he thinks. And
then ring you back. You say he’s all right at the moment?’
‘Well, not all right. But he’s not in imminent danger. As
far as they know. He’s stabilising, with all the drugs.’
‘All right, I’ll ring you back.’
‘You can’t. I’ll ring you in five minutes.’
When she rang back, Tom was on Nico’s mobile. He
sounded dreadful, his voice heavy, lifeless.
‘Nico’s put me in the picture. I don’t know what to
think, I really don’t. I don’t know how Octavia would take
it, how she’d cope. What does the doctor say?’
‘Oh — you know. They won’t ever say much. They
can’t. Just that he’s holding his own. No more than that.’
‘I think,’ said Tom finally, ‘I’ll have to tell her. I can’t
not. Maybe she could talk to the medical staff herself. Do
you think that’s possible?’
‘Yes, I’m sure it is.’
‘Right. Well, give me the name of the ward. I mean, I’d
like to come back to London, but she wants to stay here.
They’re setting up some sort of an incident centre here.
Interviewing people who might have seen anything, that
sort of thing. And they’re searching the woods now.’
‘Oh, Tom, I’m sorry. So dreadfully sorry. You must be
beside yourselves. But …’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, I really don’t think Louise could possibly mean
Minty any harm. I don’t want to sound like an amateur
psychologist, but I’m sure she just wants a substitute baby.
That’s why she’s taken her.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I hope you’re right. I do hope you’re
right.’
The police had set up what they called their incident centre
in one of the hospitality suites. Octavia and Tom had been
interviewed: so had Zoe. A large number of people had
responded to their plea for information: people who said
they had seen Louise with the baby, without the baby,
driving away. Most of it was probably useless, one of the