But Daisy’s displeasure finally forces me into action. Breathing heavily, I carry her into the kitchen and place her in her high chair and put her favourite set of plastic keys on her tray. She instantly stops crying and shoves one of the oversized keys into her mouth. I stumble over to the back doors, relieved to find them closed and locked. I wish we had blinds or curtains that I could pull across to block the vast expanse of glass. Next, I check the kitchen windows, my fingers shaking as I test each handle in turn. But I won’t be able to leave it there. I’m going to have to check the whole house, top to bottom. For a brief second, I toy with leaving Daisy in her high chair while I check, but I dismiss the thought straight away. I’ll have to bring her with me.
As I make my way from room to room, I try to marshal my thoughts. To think logically about what I just saw at Martin’s house combined with everything else. Fact: I heard a baby crying the other night. Fact: it wasn’t Daisy who was crying. Fact: Martin has several Toy Shack carrier bags in his house. Possibility: they could contain baby paraphernalia. Fact: Martin has a basement in his house. Possibility: the crying could have come from Martin’s basement – maybe there are windows or vents down there. Or maybe Martin brought the baby into the main part of the house during the evening, which is how I heard it crying.
Why would he have a baby in his house and then lie about it to the police? Could he be keeping the baby’s mother down there against her will? Worse still, is the baby his offspring, the result of keeping a woman prisoner down there, like some Dorset version of Josef Fritzl?
Having finished my checks, I stand at Daisy’s bedroom window, staring out across the fields at the back of the house. I realise that I have no proof of anything. Just a gut feeling that something is terribly off. But can I trust my gut? With all the doors and windows finally secured, I should be able to relax, safe in the knowledge that no one can get in. Instead, I feel more terrified than ever. Like a prisoner. Like the outside world is pushing up against the boundaries of our house, closing in, squeezing the air from the rooms, from my lungs. I can’t see anyone out there. Just a distant dog-walker at the far treeline. I glance across to Martin’s garden, but I can’t see him out there either. Maybe he’s gone next door to number six. Or maybe he had no intention of going over there in the first place. The whole thing could have been a ruse to get us over to his house. I shudder.
If only Dominic were here with me. If only he hadn’t gone off for the day. I don’t even know what time he’s coming back. No. I don’t want to be this pathetic woman, desperate for the support and comfort of her husband. I’m stronger than that, aren’t I? I want to be a good role model for my daughter. To teach her independence and self-reliance. I’ve always been proud of my career, of the fact that I have a strong mind, separate to Dominic’s. I’m not meek and mild. So why am I desperate for my husband to be here right now? Why am I this quivering mess when he’s not home?
I can’t call my parents; they would only worry and fuss. I don’t want to tell Mel; she would dismiss it as me having an overactive imagination. She would tease me about it, and I couldn’t bear that. My mind is too fragile for teasing today. And anyway, we’re still not on the best of terms after the other day. No. I’ll have to deal with this on my own. I won’t be able to relax until I know exactly what is down in that cellar.
A movement outside makes me start. There’s someone leaning over the Parkfields’ back fence. A man. Not Stephen Parkfield, not Martin either – someone slimmer, younger, with dark hair. I press my nose up to the window and try to see if I recognise who it is, but there are too many trees and bushes in the way. I can’t get a clear enough look at their face. What if they’re trying to break in?
I can’t stand here and do nothing. Am I brave enough to go out there? Not really. The thought makes my palms sweat and my head swim, but I can’t ignore it. I could call the police, but I’m hesitant to do so after last time. If I can just summon up the courage to go into the garden, maybe I can scare off whoever it is.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I hurry down the stairs and into the kitchen with Daisy and open the bifold doors. The warm air and openness makes me instantly regret my decision. I feel as though I’m about to pass out. I pull the doors closed again and stand for a moment, trying to calm my panic.
What am I scared of? Martin? What if his face appears over the fence again? But what can he do? He can’t drag me over the fence. Not without a fight. Not without me kicking and screaming. He’s not a big, strapping man. He could snatch Daisy. But he would have to come into my garden to do that. And then he would have to climb back over the fence with her in his arms. That’s not likely. I decide to lock Daisy in the house. At least she will be safe inside. I strap her into her high chair, and place several of her toys on the tray. I won’t be outside for long. Just a few minutes at most.
I slide open the doors once again and remove the key. I take a deep breath, feeling unsteady as I place my foot over the threshold. Then I slide the doors closed behind me and turn the key in the lock. The air is still and sweet. Birds sing and a dog barks in the distance, setting off a volley of other dog barks. A bluebottle buzzes around my head but I barely register it as I walk across the yellowing grass, dislodging puffs of dusty earth. Maybe whoever it was has gone. I hope they’re not already in the Parkfields’ garden, sizing up the house. Maybe if they can’t break in next door, they’ll try my house. The thought stops me in my tracks for a moment. But I can’t just wait around inside to be burgled or worse.
Once I reach the back fence, I peer over, instantly shrinking back down. The man is still out there, his arms resting on next door’s back fence. It looks like he’s just staring up at the house. Maybe he’s casing it. Checking for weaknesses. I need to scare him away.
‘Hey!’ I call out in my sternest voice, even though I’m still hidden behind the fence. ‘What are you doing out there? This is private property.’
I cock my ear, but there’s no reply, no sound or movement. Maybe he’s gone. I peer over the fence once more and find myself staring directly into a familiar pair of eyes, and a face framed by chocolate-brown curls. I give a start, almost crying out in shock.
‘Hi, miss,’ the boy says, his voice deep and scratchy. Although, I guess he’s more of a young man than a boy. A name surfaces from my memory. It’s Callum Carson. He used to be one of my students, but he left school at the end of last term. He was a promising artist but he didn’t want to pursue it. He said there was no way he was going to art college, that he wanted to start earning money, not racking up debt. I don’t suppose I can blame him, but it’s a shame when talent isn’t allowed to blossom due to a lack of funding.
‘You scared me, Callum. What on earth are you doing back here?’
His eyes dart away to the ground before he looks back up at me. He kicks at the grass with the toe of his trainer. ‘My football went into their garden. I was just looking for it.’
‘Do you want me to go and ask them for you?’ I offer.
‘Nah, that’s okay. I’m gonna head off.’
Something occurs to me. ‘Callum…’
‘Yeah?’
‘Your second name is Carson, isn’t it? Is your dad Rob Carson, the site manager at number six?’
‘Yeah. I started working with him over the summer.’
‘Do you like it?’
‘S’all right I suppose.’
‘Day off today?’
‘Yeah, Dad’s a bit of a slave driver, but even he lets me have Sundays off. Just thought I’d have a kick about on the field.’
‘Okay, well, nice to see you again.’
‘You too, miss.’ He turns and walks away, his hands stuck in his jeans’ pockets, shoulders hunched.