Motherlove (36 page)

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.