The Night Away: An absolutely unputdownable psychological thriller Page 14

  ‘Polly told me she’d deliberately gone off the radar,’ says Amber. ‘I forgot to mention it last night.’

  ‘Yes, she told us that too,’ Sally replies. ‘It might mean something. Then again, it might not. It’s too early to say.’

  George casts a quick glance at Amber before speaking. ‘We’ve thought of a reason why she might have taken Mabel.’

  ‘George! We don’t know—’

  ‘Every little bit of information is useful,’ says Sally.

  ‘When Sonya lost her baby, Amber didn’t go and see her, but the other mums did. We think maybe she was hurt and angry. Wanted to get her own back?’

  ‘Okay. Interesting.’ Sally reaches into her bag for her notebook. ‘I’ll feed that in.’

  ‘She never said she was upset; we didn’t actually fall out,’ says Amber.

  ‘But it makes sense, doesn’t it?’ George presses.

  Sally writes her note then looks up. ‘Try not to get ahead of yourselves. We have to find Sonya first. If she has got Mabel – and that’s still an if – we will have to tread extremely carefully. Mabel’s safety comes first.’

  ‘Yes, of course, that goes without saying,’ says George.

  Vicky is hovering in the doorway, holding a mug of tea. ‘Mind if I come in?’ She enters anyway and sets the mug down on the glass table.

  ‘Thanks so much.’ Sally waits for her to leave, then draws a breath. ‘Now, um, Amber, DI Benedict would like to have another chat with you this morning. On your own.’

  ‘Oh.’ Amber feels her cheeks instantly heating up. She has been expecting this.

  ‘Why can’t he talk to us together?’ says George.

  ‘It’s normal practice to interview witnesses separately,’ Sally replies smoothly. ‘The boss has asked me to bring you down to the station.’

  Amber gulps. ‘Okay. What, right now?’

  Sally nods. ‘Can you be ready in ten minutes? I’ll just finish my tea.’

  Amber goes upstairs to brush her hair, and George follows. ‘I don’t like this,’ he says. ‘It makes me feel very uncomfortable.’

  ‘He probably just wants to know more about Sonya.’

  ‘Or he wants you to dish the dirt on me.’

  ‘Why would I do that, George?’ Amber turns to him. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong. I’m the one who offended Sonya so much she decided to steal our baby.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘You implied it.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. You asked for a reason and it was all I could think of,’ he protests.

  ‘If anyone should feel uncomfortable, it’s me.’

  His shoulders drop. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to … I’m just … I don’t know … Everything’s moving so slowly. Talking isn’t going to find Mabel. We need boots on the ground; the whole country should be out there looking for her. We need action!’

  Amber leaves George sitting on the bed, head in hands. She rushes downstairs and puts on her coat. Sally is already waiting for her.

  ‘Right. Stay close to me. Keep your head down, don’t respond to anything anyone says, not even with a look, okay? Neutral expression. Don’t give them anything they can use.’

  ‘If they see me getting into a police car, they’ll think I’m being arrested.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll make it clear you’re not.’

  Amber hesitates. ‘I’m not sure I can do this. Can’t DI Benedict come here instead?’

  ‘Not for this conversation,’ Sally replies, grasping the door handle. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

  Sally steps out and Amber falls in behind her. There are camera flashes and shouts from every corner as they walk the few metres to the waiting car. A uniformed officer has the rear passenger door already open. He guides Amber onto the back seat. Sally slides in next to her. Then the officer shuts the doors, gets in next to the driver and the car speeds off down the hill.

  Not for this conversation, Amber repeats silently. The police have worked it out, she thinks. They know she’s been lying. Her stomach roils with fear. She can’t do this. When the car stops at a traffic light, she wants to leap out and run away.

  The journey takes twenty minutes. As they reach the station, they’re met with another crowd of reporters and photographers. Amber slithers down in her seat and puts her hand against the side of her face.

  ‘Drop us off at the back entrance, please,’ says Sally.

  This is the beginning of the end, thinks Amber. I’ve lost my daughter, and by tonight, my marriage will be in tatters.

  DI Benedict is waiting for her. She’s hurried up the back steps and ushered into the family room, a calm, neutral space normally reserved for giving people bad news. The detective orders coffee and they sit down in tub chairs, facing each other.

  ‘Thanks for coming in,’ he says. ‘I thought you’d prefer the privacy.’

  ‘Yes,’ she replies, feeling as if she’s descending at speed in an elevator.

  Benedict fixes her with a blue-eyed gaze. ‘I’m going to come straight to it,’ he says. ‘We have a rapidly developing case here shooting off in a number of directions and I need to know exactly where to prioritise our investigation. It’s really important, for Mabel’s sake, that you don’t waste my time, do you understand?’ She nods. ‘Good … So, on Sunday, when you spoke to the family liaison officer, she asked you if your husband, George Walker, was Mabel’s biological father.’

  Amber twists her fingers together. ‘Yes, she did, and I answered to the best of my knowledge.’

  ‘To the best of your knowledge?’ he repeats. ‘Sally reported that you were adamant. In fact, you were very offended at any suggestion that he might not be Mabel’s father.’

  ‘Was I? I don’t remember, I was very stressed …’ Her cheeks burn with shame. She wants to sink into the tub chair and disappear.

  ‘It may not come as any surprise to you, then, that our DNA results show that your husband is not Mabel’s father – biologically speaking.’

  She hangs her head. ‘I didn’t know for sure. I hoped …’ Tears well in her throat. ‘I knew you’d find out. I thought if George was the father, then I wouldn’t need to say anything.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Things were bad enough without making it worse.’

  DI Benedict pauses to breathe slowly in and out. ‘Sally explained that in these cases, the abductor often turns out to be the biological father, or someone who believes they are the father. And yet you didn’t mention it.’ He pauses. ‘I find that extraordinary.’

  ‘I didn’t say anything because I know he didn’t do it.’

  ‘I see. And what makes you so sure? Were you with this man on Saturday night?’

  She squirms. ‘Please, you have to trust me on this. I know he has nothing to do with it. Sonya, that’s who you should be looking for; focus on Sonya.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’re exploring every possible scenario, including Sonya Garrick,’ Benedict assures her. ‘But I think we should check out this chap’s alibi, don’t you? Just to be sure.’

  She shakes her head. ‘There’s really no need.’

  ‘You seem very reluctant to give me his name.’

  Tears roll down her cheeks. ‘Please, I beg you, don’t do this. You’ll destroy us.’

  Benedict plucks a tissue from the box on the table and hands it over. ‘I do sympathise,’ he says. ‘You’re in a very difficult situation, trying to protect yourself and everyone around you, but—’

  ‘You can’t force me to tell you.’

  ‘No, that’s true.’ He sits back in his chair. ‘But to be honest, I don’t need you to tell me, because I already know.’

  She nearly chokes. ‘You know? How come?’

  He pauses, almost theatrically, before delivering the killer blow. ‘I’m afraid Mabel’s biological father is already on the national DNA database. He has a criminal record, Amber. Did you know that?’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Day Three with Mabel

>   I’m not sure what to do with Mabel – she’s being very fractious. I’m already giving her constant attention, changing her nappy regularly so she doesn’t feel uncomfortable for a moment, feeding her as soon as she’s hungry, playing games, singing songs, giving her exercises to develop her motor skills. Little by little I’m discovering her likes and dislikes – the smashed avocado didn’t go down at all well, but she adores porridge with banana. Yet despite all my considerable efforts, she doesn’t seem satisfied. I’ve barely had a smile out of her since we arrived at the bungalow. She gave me such an odd stare when I went to her this morning, as if I were a complete stranger she’d never seen before. Her bottom lip wobbled and she started to whimper. It was really hurtful.

  Surely she can’t be missing Amber, who as far as I could tell took no interest in her at all. I know we’ve only been together a few days, but I’m impatient for her to switch allegiances. I love her so much and can’t wait for her to love me back.

  It’s only 11 a.m., but I seem to have run out of steam. ‘Let’s see if we can spot some birdies,’ I say, picking Mabel up and carrying her over to the lounge window. It’s a mild February day and there’s a strip of sunshine running down the left side of the lawn. The stubby tree in the centre is threatening to burst into leaf; an empty feeder hangs from one of its branches, swaying in the breeze. None of it looks very inviting.

  ‘No birdies today,’ I say. ‘We must buy them some food. Then they’ll come back, you’ll see.’

  I point out things in the garden, repeating their names several times. I know it’s too early for her to talk, but it’s important to get her familiar with the concept of language. Repetition is the only way to learn.

  ‘Tree, tree, tree … lots of trees. Lots of weeds, too. That thing over there is a shed. See? Shed. Haven’t looked in there yet. Maybe Great-Aunt Dolly left some gardening tools. Or maybe there’s a lawnmower. I’m going to need to cut the grass at some point, I suppose.’

  Mabel wriggles in my arms, bored with the nature lesson. ‘Had enough?’ I say, taking her away from the window and depositing her in the baby recliner. She’s momentarily distracted by the row of plastic teddies across the front, then resumes her restless kicking.

  ‘What is it, Mabel? Are you fed up with being indoors? Do you want to go out?’ She stills her feet for a few moments and gazes up at me.

  I bite my lip. Dare we? A quick stroll up and down the lane, perhaps? It’s extremely quiet around here. Cars hardly ever drive past and I haven’t seen anyone walking their dog. The bungalow sits on the very edge of a small village. It’s bound to be a close-knit community, where everyone knows everyone else. A newcomer will stand out, especially somebody with a pushchair. What if people have been asked to look out for us?

  I listened to the news this morning on Great-Aunt Dolly’s ancient transistor radio. Officers have expanded the search from the park to nearby canals and wetlands, presumably for Mabel’s dead body, as she couldn’t possibly survive in this weather. Meanwhile, locals are tying lilac ribbons to their front gates – what’s the point of that? I will not succumb to the pressure of other people’s sympathy for Amber and George. If the public knew about all their lies and secrets, they would realise that I’m by far the better parent for Mabel.

  If only I could access social media. Twitter will be buzzing with gossip and theories, most of them wildly off the mark, but there’s a chance someone has put two and two together and come up with my name. The thought of it makes me shiver. Perhaps the police have already visited the flat and realised I’m no longer living there. They could already be checking the records of my credit card and mobile phone. When they discover I haven’t used either since Mabel was taken, they’ll be even more suspicious and their search will intensify. But will they find out about this place? It’s hard to say.

  A sustained whine from Mabel cuts into my worried musings. ‘All right,’ I say, bending down to remove her from the chair, ‘let’s risk it.’ I carry her into the bedroom and lay her on the spare bed. ‘You can wear your new pink snowsuit. We’ll take the car and drive somewhere remote, then if you’re a good girl, I’ll take you out in the pushchair. Maybe we’ll even go as far as the sea. I don’t suppose you’ve seen the sea yet. It’ll be too cold to play on the sand, but it’ll be fun to see the waves.’

  I pack a bottle and some healthy snacks, then assemble her changing bag with a set of spare clothes in case she’s sick or does a nasty poo. Such a lot of fuss to go out for the day! Once we’re in a proper routine, we’ll be fine, but at the moment I’m spending more time getting ready to do things than actually doing them.

  ‘Come on, sweetie.’ I open the front door to be greeted by a blast of cold air. ‘Oh dear, let’s get you into the car straight away.’ I strap her into the seat, put the changing bag next to her, then get in myself. Before reversing out of the gravel driveway, I pull a silly face at her in the rear mirror, hoping for a smile, but she’s staring out of the window, her young mind elsewhere.

  ‘Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside!’ I warble, driving along the twisty lanes. It’s a song my grandmother used to sing when I visited her in Brighton. My parents liked to dump me with her in the school holidays so they could carry on working. ‘Oh, I do like to be beside the sea!’ I didn’t particularly like it, as it happens. Grandma used to make me swim in the freezing grey waters of the English Channel, whatever the weather. Afterwards, I’d sit on the beach, a damp towel around my shoulders, eating gritty sandwiches with blue lips.

  I glance in the mirror, hoping for a glimmer of enthusiasm from Mabel for my singing, but she’s already fallen asleep. ‘Come on, it wasn’t that bad,’ I laugh, shifting down a gear to navigate a sharp bend.

  As we journey southwards, taking the back roads towards the coast, I start to relax a little. When all the fuss is over and everyone’s given up looking for her, we’ll have more freedom to go out and about. We’ll head west, where there’s more sand and the temperatures are milder. I’ll let her toddle around on the beach, and when she’s a little older, we’ll dig holes to jump over and build sandcastles, decorating them with shells. We’ll hunt for shrimps in the rock pools and we won’t put even our toes in the water unless it’s baking hot. I’ll buy her ice-cream cornets with a chocolate flake and we’ll stop for fish and chips on the way home. Warm Mediterranean waters and supper in a Greek taverna is more my style, but sadly, I’ll never be able to take her abroad. Not without a passport.

  All of which reminds me that I’m going to have to change her name. I look at her in the rear mirror again, wondering what on earth to choose. I should start using her new name now, so that she gets used to it. I’ve always wanted to call my daughter Miranda. Or Sophia. Or Imogen. Would any of those suit her? Difficult to decide when I’m so used to thinking of her as Mabel, even though I never would have chosen it myself. I need something more personal, more appropriate.

  ‘What name would you like?’ I ask her. ‘How about Dolly, after my dear old great-aunt who gave us her home? What do you think? Would you like to be called Dolly, or would you prefer Dorothy? Or Dotty. Or even Dot?’ Mabel doesn’t respond. I chatter on regardless, posing the advantages and disadvantages of the various shortenings, but she remains resolutely asleep and uninterested.

  We’re only about five miles from our destination when I notice that we’re very low on petrol. My stomach knots at the thought of stopping at a filling station. I can pay with cash, but it’s the security cameras that concern me. Maybe they don’t bother with them in rural locations …

  I drive on, eyes peeled for possibilities. The roads are becoming narrower and narrower, twisting ever downwards towards the coast. We enter a small chocolate-box village full of immaculate thatched cottages. A sign flashes at me to slow down to the thirty-miles-an-hour speed limit. Not that there are any pedestrians to run over. We pass an ancient pub and a beautiful old stone church, but there are no shops and definitely no petrol station.

  ‘What are we go
ing to do if we run out?’ I say to Mabel. ‘I can’t call out the breakdown service.’ I thump my fist on the steering wheel. ‘I should never have come out. I’m so stupid!’ Her eyelids don’t even flicker.

  Pulling into a small lay-by, I programme the sat nav to direct me to the nearest filling station. It is four miles away, heading back inland. I groan loudly. ‘Sorry about this, sweetie.’ I reverse, almost hitting a large gate behind me, then swing the car around and off we go, back in the direction we came from.

  A few minutes later, I’m pulling up at the pumps. As soon as I turn off the engine, Mabel begins to stir.

  ‘Won’t be long.’ I get out, pulling my hood over my head and tucking my chin beneath my scarf. At least it’s cold and windy, so it won’t look too obvious that I’m trying to cover my face. Fortunately, it’s not one of those petrol stations where you have to pay in advance by card. I stand very close to the car as I fill up, eyes glued to the ground. I put the nozzle back and lock the car doors, then walk quickly into the shop.

  There are two people in front of me in the queue. I stand behind them, keeping my head down, glancing out of the corner of my eye towards the rack of magazines and newspapers. All the tabloids are running a story about missing Mabel, using the same photo. What are they saying? Am I mentioned anywhere?

  I have this incredible urge to run out of the shop and drive away before anyone spots us and calls the police, but I know that would be the biggest giveaway of all. I have to stay here, patiently waiting for my turn to pay. Mustn’t fumble with the cash, mustn’t tell them to keep the change, mustn’t look nervous, say too much or too little. Just have to keep calm.

  The man in front of me is making a fuss because his chocolate bar has been put on his VAT receipt. I feel my knees starting to wobble and casually place my hand on the counter for support. But eventually he goes and it’s my turn to be served.

  ‘Number three,’ I say, trying to keep my accent neutral.