Ann Cleeves - The Baby-Snatcher

It occurred to him that he should get someone round to the Headland in case Paul turned up there looking for Kim, and even that he should go himself to warn her. She might invite him in. In the end he didn’t do anything. He was supposed to be off duty. He was tired and he was, he realized now, still pissed. All he wanted was to get home without bother and go to bed.

When his mam heard his key in the lock she got up to make him cocoa. He took it to bed with him and swore out loud because she’d forgotten to turn on his electric blanket.

Kim Houghton started on the vodka as soon as she’d put Kirsty to bed. It was a present from a security alarm salesman who travelled abroad a lot with his work. She didn’t usually like drinking alone but tonight she was so fed up that she thought she deserved a treat. She wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway. The music from the club would keep her awake. And the thought of all those people having a good time.

Kim watched the late film on the television and then went upstairs. She was standing at the window, about to draw the curtains when she saw a car she didn’t recognize parked on the other side of the street, outside Bella Charlton’s house. Bella’s nephew and his family must have come to visit her at last. It annoyed Kim to imagine the old witch still up, having a party, while she was on her way to bed. Alone.

Emma woke with a start to the sound of Brian’s alarm. She’d taken a pill the night before and hadn’t even heard Brian come in. Probably just as well, she thought, looking at him. He scarcely stirred when the alarm went off and the smell of beer and stale cigarette smoke still clung to the clothes he’d folded up on the chair.

She got up to make tea and found that the boys were already out of their rooms. They were sitting on the kitchen floor surrounded by string and brown paper. They’d unearthed the kites which Brian had bought and hoped to keep for a surprise until the following day. Owen was looking at the picture on the box.

‘Can we fly them?’

‘Not today. You’ll have to make them first and Dad’s going to work.’

‘He’s not gone to work yet?’

‘No. He’s still in bed.’

When she took a cup of tea to Brian, with the usual couple of paracetamol, they were sitting on the bed. Owen was fixing together lengths of bamboo cane and Brian was propped on one elbow, bleary-eyed, supervising the construction.

‘ Dad says we can fly them.’ Owen was triumphant. He’d already got the hang of playing one off against the other.

‘Did you?’ she asked.

Brian shrugged. She could tell he was disappointed but he hadn’t been able to refuse.

‘Do you have to go to work?’ At weekends he didn’t make appointments. It was just a matter of catching up. She held her breath, wondering what she’d do about Mark if he decided to stay.

He hesitated.

‘Yeah, I do. Something important. You know.’

She went downstairs without answering.

After days of gloomy drizzle it was perfect weather for kite flying. The sun was shining and there was a blustery wind. Emma put out a line of washing and the sheets flapped and swooped, so bright in the morning sunshine that they hurt her eyes.

Brian came down. He was wearing jeans and an open-necked shirt and she wondered if he’d changed his mind and decided to stay. It seemed, though, that the pull of business was too great in the end. She watched him drive off with mixed feelings. As the time to meet Mark got nearer she realized she would have been glad of an excuse not to go.

She told the boys firmly that they would have to wait until after lunch to play outside. Claire would be looking after them then. It would be something for them to do. She thought it would be good for Claire too, to wrap up warm and get some fresh air. Constructive play was important and recently the nanny seemed to have lost her enthusiasm for the job. It was almost as if she resented the time she spent with the children.

Emma was already planning how to give Claire the sack. She knew now wouldn’t be a good time. It would be insensitive, to say the least, so close to Kath’s death. But for all sorts of reasons she’d made up her mind that the girl would have to leave.

Claire was predictably grumpy when Emma told her about the plans for flying kites.

‘What about Helen?’ she asked.

‘It’s not cold outside. She’ll be fine in her pushchair.’

‘I’m not sure I can cope with them all. You know what David’s like if he gets in a strop.’

‘Nonsense!’ Emma, who was already irritated by the demands being placed on her by Mark, felt like giving the girl a shake.

‘Where are you off to, then?’ Claire demanded. She watched Emma button her smart coat and take her car keys from the hook on the kitchen wall.

‘I’m meeting a friend for lunch,’ Emma said snootily, implying, Not that it’s any business of yours, anyway.

‘You won’t be back late, then?’

‘No,’ Emma said. ‘I won’t be back late.’

But then, just as she was on her way through the door, the misgivings which had been troubling her all morning made her reconsider. Why did she have to meet Mark? When they were together he was too persuasive. She could say all she wanted on the phone. Ignoring Claire’s curiosity, she turned back into the house.

She took the phone into, her bedroom and pushed the buttons impatiently. The line was engaged. She waited for a couple of minutes and tried again. This time she got through. It rang three times then switched on to his answering machine. She didn’t bother leaving a message. He’d be on his way to the pub. She called goodbye to the children and went out to her car. Whatever Mark had done she couldn’t leave him sitting there, waiting for her.

She drove slowly down Cotter’s Row. At the weekends there were lots of parked cars. Some of them were pulled on to the narrow pavement but still there was only just enough room to get through. As she approached the club she saw Marilyn Howe walking back up the Headland towards her home. She was striding purposefully as she always had done when she walked with her mother, her eyes fixed ahead of her.

Emma arrived at the pub in Puddywell exactly on time. She had expected Mark to be there already. He should have been if he had set off from Otterbridge when she had phoned and he had seemed so insistent when he had arranged the meeting that she had not contemplated that he might be late. But his car was not parked in the road outside and there was no sign of him in either of the bars.

She bought a bottle of mineral water and took it to a table with a view of the road. Sunlight filtered through the dusty window and showed up the grime on the floor. She had dressed carefully for the meeting. Smart clothes always gave her confidence. Now she wished she had worn something more suitable, less conspicuous. The pub was almost empty and the barmaid, a large, jolly girl who seemed scarcely old enough to serve, was inclined to chat.

‘Are you waiting for someone?’

Emma pretended she had not heard and the girl disappeared into a room at the back to make a toasted sandwich for a big man in overalls and wellingtons.

The door opened and Emma turned, her recriminations already prepared, expecting apologies and excuses. But Mark did not come in. She watched a young couple in black leather, crash helmets under their arms, go to the bar and order drinks. They switched on the juke box and the room was filled with the same repetitive electronic music which had been coming from the club the night before.

Emma stood up and went to the phone. The barmaid had returned to her post and watched her with sympathy. Emma dropped her purse, scattering change all over the floor, retrieved ten pence and dialled. The phone rang. The answering machine switched on. She spoke as much for the watching barmaid as in the hope that Mark would respond.