The phone rings. Jack answers and puts MacAteer on the speakerphone. The DCS sounds energized, as though the previous weeks have been a warm-up. Now we’re into the main game.
“We know Agatha Fyfle traveled to Leeds by train on December fourth, but have found no evidence of her giving birth,” he says, his voice sounding hollow and metallic through the speakerphone. “At midday on December sixth, she caught a bus from Central Leeds to London Victoria. CCTV footage shows her holding a baby carrier, but doesn’t show an actual baby. According to her fiancé, she didn’t spend that night at her flat in Fulham, which means she may have somewhere else to go—a friend’s house or accommodation, perhaps a hostel or a hotel. This puts her in London before you went into hospital.”
“She called me that night,” I say. “She said she was in Leeds.”
“That was seven fifty-five p.m. Technicians have triangulated Agatha’s mobile signal. The call came from London—somewhere quite close to you.”
“How close?” asks Cyrus.
“Best estimate—the back garden.”
Something seems to shake loose and drop into my stomach. I glance out the French doors and remember the conversation. I was in the kitchen, making a cup of tea. Agatha told me all about her baby and the birth. I pictured her in her mother’s house in Leeds, but in reality she was outside, looking at me through the glass doors. We both heard the same train.
“Why us?” I whisper.
“She couldn’t have her own child,” says the DCS. “Her mother confirmed it.”
“But why us?” I ask, louder this time. “I only met her two months ago.”
“I think she saw you a lot earlier,” says Cyrus. “I suspect Agatha thought very carefully about what baby she wanted. It helped her to rationalize what she planned to do.”
“There is nothing rational about any of this,” says Jack, who is scornful of giving Agatha any motive or justification.
“She idolized you,” says Cyrus. “You were successful, wealthy, well liked. You have two children already—a boy and a girl. Agatha would have seen you as having the ideal life.”
If only she knew the truth.
MacAteer’s call has been interrupted. He apologizes and makes us wait while he’s briefed. We can’t hear the other side of his conversation.
“Are you sure? How many? . . . OK. . . . Get forensics. I want the scene locked down and sealed off.”
He comes back on the speakerphone, but I hear something new in his voice, an added gravity that makes me frightened.
“Our technicians have been tracing Agatha Fyfle’s movements in the days leading up to the abduction. She traveled by train to Leeds on December fourth and went to her mother’s house. The following day, she woke early and traveled to the outskirts of the city where she walked along a canal into the woods. The technicians have identified where she stopped by triangulating signals from her mobile phone. A team of police reached the location twenty minutes ago—a ruined farmhouse in a clearing above a weir.” The detective hesitates. “They discovered three stone cairns arranged around the clearing.”
My hand flies to my mouth as my mind collapses inwards like a house of cards accosted by an open door.
“Graves,” I whisper.
“It’s too early to speculate.” says MacAteer. “Forensic teams are on their way.”
“She’s taken other babies,” I say, looking at Cyrus. “You predicted this.”
“We shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”
My mouth has gone dry. “Is she going to kill Ben?”
“They may be miscarriages.”
“Three of them?”
“Christ!” says Jack, leaning his head against the wall.
My mood has been swinging wildly between elation and despair. Suddenly it plunges again. We must find her. We have to get Ben back.
At the same time, I’m torn between two opposing desires. One part of me wants to force Agatha to run, giving her nowhere to hide. Another part of me knows that she needs to find somewhere warm and safe to shelter my baby for another night.
I am trapped between these two thoughts—willing her onwards, yet hoping she fails.
AGATHA
* * *
December cold, I shiver through the last hour, hugging Rory tightly to my chest, keeping him warm. Crouching behind rubbish bins, I watch Mr. Patel lock up the supermarket and leave through the rear door, twirling his keys on his forefinger as he walks down the alleyway to his Mercedes.
A dark-colored cat streaks out from behind the bins, chasing something smaller and equally dark. I almost scream and drop Rory, whose eyes pop open. He doesn’t cry. Such a good boy. I’ve given him another dose of antibiotics, squirting the medicine in the back of his mouth so he didn’t cough it up. He’s hungry, but I have nothing to feed him unless I get inside.
Keeping to the shadows, I reach the dead-bolted door and lift a loose brick at the base of the wall. The key is attached to a plastic fob and is meant for whichever employee is tasked with opening up each morning.
Feeling for the lock, I stab at it blindly, knowing that once inside I will have about twenty seconds to get to the control panel and punch in the code to deactivate the alarm.
The key slides into place and turns. The door opens and I hear the first shrill pre-alarm beeps, getting louder as I approach the panel. My hands are so cold I hit the wrong code. I cancel the attempt and try again. How long do I have left? Ten seconds? Five? Unless the code has been changed?
I’m halfway through the sequence of numbers when sound explodes around me and the lights begin flashing, illuminating every aisle of the supermarket. I hit the last number. Enter. Silence. I must have woken half of Barnes.
I look down an aisle through the front windows at the street beyond. A red bus passes. An elderly couple, out walking their dog, glance into the supermarket and keep going.
Rory lets out a muffled sob from beneath my coat. I carry him inside and lock the door. The heating has gone off but there’s enough residual warmth in the supermarket to shrug off my coat. Lifting Rory out of the sling, I rock him back and forth, making shushing sounds, telling him it’s all right. He settles by sucking on my little finger.
The aisles of the supermarket are lit by low-watt security lights, which give everything a yellow-green tinge. I’m going to be visible to anyone passing outside. I get changed into a smock left behind by one of the staff and move along the aisles, collecting nappies, wipes, baby powder, formula, and bottles. It’s not until I see the shelves full of crisps, biscuits, and chocolate bars that I realize my own hunger.
Using the staff kettle to boil water, I sterilize two bottles and make up formula, wedging a bottle in the freezer between the frozen peas and oven chips, trying to cool it down. I check on it every few minutes, testing the temperature.