Mary Clark: Where are the children?

'Then we have only your statement that she enjoyed the kiss you forced on her.'

'Believe me, I can tell a receptive babe when I'm with one.'

And Nancy 's sworn testimony when asked about that incident: 'Yes, he did kiss me. Yes, I believe that I knew he was going to and I let him.'

'Do you also remember making the statement that your children were going to be smothered?'

'Yes, I do.'

'What did you mean by that statement?'

According to the article, Nancy simply looked past her attorney and stared unseeingly over the faces in the courtroom. 'I don't know,' she said in a dreamy voice.

Jonathan shook his head and swore silently. That girl should never have been permitted to take the witness stand. She did nothing except damage her own case. He continued reading and winced as he came to the description of the finding of those pathetic children. Washed in, both of them, two weeks and fifty miles apart. Bodies badly swollen, seaweed clinging to them, the little girl's body savagely mutilated – probably by shark bites; the hand-made bright red sweaters with the white design still miraculously colourful against the small bodies.

After he'd finished reading the article, Jonathan turned his attention to the voluminous file Kevin had sent him. Leaning back in his chair, he began to read through it, starting with the first newspaper clipping headlining the disappearance of the Harmon children from their mother's automobile while she was shopping. Blow-ups of fuzzy snapshots of both of the children; a minutely detailed description of their weight and size and what they were wearing; anyone with any information please call this special number. With his carefully trained mind and eyes, Jonathan read rapidly, assorting and assimilating information, lightly underlining cogent facts he wanted to refer to later. When he began reading the transcript of the trial, he understood why Kevin had referred to Nancy Harmon as a sitting duck for the prosecutor. The girl didn't even make sense. She had played so completely into the prosecutor's hands the way she testified – without fight; her protestations of innocence sounding perfunctory and emotionless.

What had been the matter with her? Jonathan wondered. It was almost as though she didn't want to get off. At one point she'd even said to the husband right from the witness stand, 'Oh Carl, can you forgive me?'

The creases along Jonathan's forehead deepened as he recalled that just a few hours before he'd passed the Eldredges' house and glanced in at that young family around the breakfast table. He'd compared them with his own solitary state and had been envious. Now their life was ripped apart. They'd never be able to stay in as insular a community as the Cape, knowing that everywhere they went people were pointing and talking. Anyone would instantly recognize Nancy from that one picture. Even he remembered her wearing that tweed suit – and recently, too.

Suddenly, Jonathan recalled the occasion. It had been at Lowery's Market. He'd run into Nancy when they were both shopping and they'd stopped for a few minutes to talk. He'd admired the suit, telling her that there was nothing better-looking than a good tweed – and pure wool, of course; none of that synthetic junk that had no depth or sheen.

Nancy had looked very pretty. A yellow scarf knotted casually at her neck had picked up the glint of yellow in the predominantly brown and rust-coloured material. She'd smiled – a warm, lovely smile that wrapped you in it. The children were with her – nice, polite children, both of them. Then the boy had said, 'Oh, Mommy, I'll get the cereal,' and as he reached for it he knocked over a pyramid of soup cans.

The clatter had brought everyone in the store running, including Lowery himself, who was a sour, disagreeable man. Many young mothers might have been embarrassed and started berating the child. Jonathan had admired the way Nancy said very quietly, 'We're sorry, Mr Lowery. It was an accident. We'll take care of it.'

Then she said to the little boy, who looked stricken and worried, 'Don't be upset, Mike. You didn't mean it. Come on. Let's pile them back up.'

Jonathan had helped with the restacking, after first shooting a menacing glare at Lowery, who'd obviously been about to make some kind of remark. It seemed so hard to believe that seven years ago today that same considerate young woman could have deliberately taken the life of two other children – children she had brought into life.

But passion was a powerful motive, and she had been young. Maybe her very indifference at her trial had been acceptance of guilt, even though she couldn't publicly bring herself to admit such a heinous crime. He'd seen that kind of thing happen too.

The doorbell rang. Jonathan got up from his chair, surprised. Few people visited unannounced at the Cape, and any door-to-door selling was absolutely forbidden.

As he walked to the door, Jonathan realized how stiff he'd become from sitting. To his amazement, his visitor was a policeman, a young man whose face he only vaguely recognized from seeing him in a squad car. Selling some kind of tickets was Jonathan's immediate thought, but he discarded that idea at once. The young officer accepted his invitation to step inside. There was something crisply efficient and serious about his demeanour. 'Sir, I'm sorry to bother you but we're investigating the disappearance of the Eldredge children.'

Then, while Jonathan stared at him, he pulled out a notebook. His eyes darting around the orderly house, he began his questions. 'You live alone here, sir, do you not?'

Without answering, Jonathan reached past him and opened the massive front door. At last he became aware of the presence of unfamiliar cars driving down the road towards the lake and the sight of grim-faced men in heavy rain gear swarming through the neighbourhood.

'Just sip this, Nancy. Your hands are so cold. It will help you. You need your strength.' Dorothy's voice was cajoling. Nancy shook her head. Dorothy set the cup on the table, hoping the aroma of the fresh vegetables, bubbling in a spicy base of tomato soup, might tempt her.

'I made that yesterday,' Nancy said tonelessly, 'for the children's lunch. The children must be hungry.'

Ray was sitting next to her, his arm slung protectively across the back of her chair, an ashtray filled high with ground-out cigarettes in front of him.

'Don't torture yourself, dear,' he said quietly.

Outside, over the rattling of the shutters and window-panes, they could hear the staccato sound of helicopters flying low.

Ray answered the question he saw on Nancy 's face. 'They've got three helicopters scanning the area. They'll spot the kids if they just wandered away. They've got volunteers from every town on the Cape. There are two planes over the bay and sound. Everyone's helping.'

'And there are divers in the lake,' Nancy said, 'looking for my children's bodies.' Her voice was a remote monotone.

After giving the statement to the news media, Chief Coffin had gone back to the police station to make a series of phone calls. When they were completed he returned to the Eldredge house, coming in just in time to hear Nancy 's words. His practised glance took in the staring quality of the eyes, the ominous stillness of her hands and body, the facile expression and voice. Approaching a state of shock again, and they'd be lucky if she was able to answer to her own name before long.

He looked past her, his eyes seeking Bernie Miles, the policeman he'd left on duty in the house. Bernie was standing at the doorway of the kitchen poised to pick up the telephone if it rang. Bernie's sandy hair was plastered neatly over his bony skull. His prominent eyes, softened by short, blond lashes, moved horizontally. Accepting the signalled message, Chief Coffin looked again at the three people around the table. Ray got up, walked behind his wife's chair and put his hands on her shoulders.