Кара Хантер: In the Dark

Woods picks up the pack and hands it to me. I turn it over and read the name on the foil, and take a deep breath. ‘The only way she can have got hold of this is on the internet. No legitimate doctor would have given it to her.’

‘What is it?’ asks Quinn.

I turn to look at him. ‘It’s misoprostol. To induce abortion.’

‘Shit,’ he says.

Woods’ face goes from red to white and he sits down heavily on the bed.

‘Get hold of Everett,’ I say to Quinn. ‘Tell her she can’t afford to let that girl out of her sight.’

But he’s anticipated me. He’s already dialling.

‘Ev? Quinn. Heads up – Pippa – whatever her name is –’ He looks up at me, listening, then makes a face. ‘OK, I’ll tell him. Phone me if you get anything.’

‘Too late,’ he says, closing the call. ‘She’s gone. She was in one of those cubicle things and she must have got out the back somehow –’

‘Jesus Christ, didn’t one of them stay with her?’

‘Apparently Somer was just outside. She thought the nurse was in there doing the examination, but she hadn’t arrived yet. It was just a cock-up. We’ve all done it.’

Of course we have. He certainly has; I have. Just not when it mattered so much.

‘Are they searching the hospital?’

Quinn nods. ‘But she had at least ten minutes’ head start. And you know what that place is like – it’s a sodding rabbit warren.’

‘Surely she won’t be able to get far – not in the state she’s in.’

Quinn makes a face. ‘I wouldn’t put it past her. After all, knowing her, she probably planned the whole bloody thing.’

I know. That’s what I’m afraid of.

***

BBC Midlands Today

Thursday 11 May 2017 | Last updated at 17:34

BREAKING: Cellar suspect released without charge

Thames Valley Police have released a statement confirming that the owner of a house in Frampton Road, Oxford, who was suspected of abducting and imprisoning a young girl, will not be facing any charges. The police have not revealed the identity of the suspected abductor, but he has been named locally as William Harper, a retired academic in his seventies. There is now speculation that Dr Harper, who suffers from Alzheimer’s, may have been the victim of a particularly callous scam.

Detective Inspector Adam Fawley declined to discuss rumours that the alleged abduction was connected in some way to the 2015 murder of Hannah Gardiner, and refused to be drawn on when charges might be brought in that case. ‘We have a suspect,’ he said. ‘But no arrest has yet been made.’

***

Everett turns off the news. It’s been wall to wall all day. TV, papers, online. ‘Fritzl fraud’: Girl faked false imprisonment for cash; Oxford case raises concerns about vulnerable elderly living alone. Journalists have been calling and doorstepping police officers, wanting a quote or access to the house or a picture of Vicky. Fawley turned them all down.

She looks at her cat, curled on her lap.

‘I’m going to shift you now, Hector. I need to make some dinner.’

The big tabby blinks at her, clearly unconvinced that this is a good enough reason to upend him. But then there’s a knock at the door.

‘Off you go, Hector,’ she says, lifting him on to the seat next to her.

She gets up and goes over to the door.

‘Oh,’ she says when she sees who it is.

Erica Somer is smiling tentatively and holding a bottle of Prosecco. She’s in civvies: a pair of pale jeans, a black T-shirt, a ponytail.

‘Sorry to surprise you like this. Your neighbour was just going out so he let me in.’

Everett is still holding the door.

‘Look, I just thought that perhaps you and I – that we might not have got off on the right foot.’ She holds out the bottle. ‘Fancy a drink?’

Everett still hasn’t said anything, but then Somer gasps, ‘Oh, is that your cat?’

She crouches down and lifts the cat into her arms and starts to stroke him behind the ears. He closes his eyes and purrs loudly, cat-blissing.

‘Careful – he’ll be your friend for life if you keep doing that,’ says Everett with a wry smile.

Somer grins up at her. ‘I want a cat, but they don’t allow pets in my block.’

Everett laughs drily. ‘I only chose this place because it has a fire escape so he can have a flap. It was half the price again of the others I looked at. Everyone thought I was mad. And now the lazy bugger hardly ever uses it.’

The two women hold each other’s gaze for a moment, then Everett steps back and opens the door.

‘Didn’t you say something about a drink?’

***

Three weeks later.

The garden.

My parents dressed stiffly in what they think you ought to wear for Sunday lunch with your son and daughter-in-law. Clothes that probably go straight back in the wardrobe as soon as they get home. A table piled with food they’ll probably only pick at. Smoked chicken, rocket salad, figs, raspberries, pecorino. Alex is down at the bottom with my mother and the boy, talking to next-door’s cat, a friendly ginger-and-white thing with a big plumy tail. Every now and again the boy reaches out to try to clutch at it, and Alex pulls him gently back.

My father joins me at the table.

‘You always do a nice spread.’

I smile. ‘Alex, not me. I think she bought the shop.’

There’s a silence. Neither of us ever really knows what to say.

‘So did you find that girl you were looking for? The one who killed that poor young woman?’

I shake my head. ‘No, not yet. We’ve been monitoring the ports and airports, but it’s possible she’s managed to leave the country.’

‘And what about the boy?’ he says, pouring himself another low-alcohol beer.

‘Toby? He’s fine. His father’s protecting him from all the furore.’

‘No, I mean that boy,’ he says, gesturing down the garden. ‘Is it really a good idea – having him here?’

‘Look, Dad –’

‘I’m just worried about you – after what happened with Jake – it’s not been easy, has it? For Alex, I mean. And you, of course,’ he adds quickly.

‘We’re OK. Really.’

It’s what I say. What I always say.

‘What will happen to him?’ he continues. The boy has started crying and Alex sweeps him up in her arms. I can see my mother looking concerned.

‘I don’t know. Social Services will have to decide.’

Alex has sat down with the boy on the bench. He’s still crying and my mother is hovering, not sure what to do.

‘It’s going to be tough for him, though,’ says my father, staring at the three of them. ‘Some day, someone’s going to have to tell that boy the truth. Who he is, I mean. Who his father is, what his mother did. It won’t be easy – living with that.’

I think about William Harper, who always wanted a son. Does he know yet, that he has one? Does he want to meet him? Or has the stress of the last few weeks pushed him further into the dark? Last time I drove down Frampton Road there was a For Sale sign outside. I try to tell myself he was on the point of going into a home anyway, but it’s an aspect of this case that’s never going to lie easy.

‘Sometimes it’s easier not to face something like that,’ I say, forcing myself back to the present. ‘Sometimes silence is kinder.’

He glances at me, and for a moment – just a moment – I think he’s going to say something. That the time has finally come when he will tell me the truth. About me. About them. About who I am.

But then my mother calls us from the garden and my father touches me gently on the shoulder and moves towards the door.