Jaime Raven - The Mother - A shocking thriller about every mother’s worst fear…

Thought you might like to see your daughter settling into her new home.

The message totally threw me.

As usual, my fifteen-month-old daughter was supposed to be spending the day with her grandparents. But the picture had not been taken at their house in Streatham.

The white leather sofa that Molly was sitting on was unfamiliar to me. And so too was the room she was in. I was absolutely certain that I’d never set foot in it before. I didn’t recognise the red cushions either side of Molly, or the framed print on the wall behind her. It looked like a sailboat on water.

I used my finger and thumb to expand the image and saw what appeared to be a startled look on Molly’s face. She was staring directly into the camera, her large brown eyes wide as saucers.

I didn’t doubt that the picture had been taken this morning. She was wearing the same pale green dress she’d had on when I’d dropped her off at my parents’ house before coming to the office. And her shiny fair hair was just as it had been then, swept away from her face and held in place at the back with a grip, the fringe hanging down across her forehead.

Was this someone’s idea of a joke? I wondered. And if so who? It certainly wouldn’t be my parents, and I couldn’t think of anyone else who’d think it was funny.

Panic churned in my belly as I looked again at the photograph and thought back to what Mum had said about her plans for the day. She was going to take Molly to the park this morning because the weather was set to be warm and sunny. My father was spending a few hours at his allotment and they were going to meet up later and have lunch together in a pub garden.

I looked at my watch. It was just after ten-fifteen, about the time I would have expected Molly to be enjoying herself on the park swings and slide and roundabout. But the photo suggested she was somewhere else.

Thought you might like to see your daughter settling into her new home.

What the hell did that mean? Molly’s home was in Dulwich where she lived with me. So why had she been photographed sitting in what appeared to be a stranger’s house?

I tapped out a short reply to the message – Who are you? – but three seconds after I sent it I got a message back: The recipient you’re sending to has chosen not to receive messages.

I needed to halt the rising sense of alarm so I speed-dialled my mother’s mobile number. But after a couple of rings it went to voicemail. I then rang my parents’ landline. My heart leapt when no one answered.

I would have called my father next but he didn’t have a phone of his own. He’d always insisted that he didn’t need one.

The ball of anxiety grew in my chest as my eyes were drawn back to the photograph. I wanted desperately to believe that it was nothing more than a misguided prank and that Molly was perfectly safe. But surely if there was an innocent explanation then my mother would have answered the phone. Did that mean she was in trouble? Was Molly still with her?

‘Oh, Jesus.’

The words tumbled out of my mouth and fear flooded through me like acid. I had to find out what was going on and I needed to be reassured that Molly was OK.

I took a moment to get my thoughts together, then dashed towards the front of the room to where my boss stood surrounded by a small bunch of detectives. I forced my way between them and seized Brennan’s attention by addressing him in a voice that was charged with emotion.

‘You’ll have to get someone else to visit the hospital,’ I said. ‘I need to leave right away.’

He arched his brow at me. ‘Bloody hell, Sarah. Whatever’s happened? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

I took a deep, faltering breath. ‘It’s my daughter. I have to find out if she’s all right.’

‘Well I’m sure she’s fine,’ he said with a hesitant smile. ‘Why wouldn’t she be?’

I held my phone up in front of his face.

‘Because someone just sent this photo to me,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a really bad feeling about it.’

Brennan took the phone from me and squinted at the photo. Then as my fellow detectives fell silent he read the text message out loud.

‘I have no idea who sent it,’ I said. ‘It’s from a blocked number. And I don’t recognise the room Molly’s in.’

Brennan lifted his eyes and pursed his lips. ‘You usually leave her with your parents, don’t you?’

I nodded. ‘That’s why this is so weird. I dropped her off earlier and Mum was going to take her to the park.’

‘And have you tried calling your mother?’

‘Of course, but there’s no answer on her mobile or on my parents’ home phone.’

I explained that my father didn’t have a mobile and that nothing like this had ever happened before.

‘Well you shouldn’t jump to conclusions,’ Brennan said. ‘We’ll help you get to the bottom of it. First thing to do is run a check on your phone to see if we can unblock the number of the caller.’

‘That’ll take time,’ I said shakily. ‘I can’t hang around. I have to go to the park and then to Mum and Dad’s.’

‘I quite understand, Sarah. In fact, I’ll come with you while your colleagues make inquiries.’

Brennan assigned two of the other detectives to the task and told another to go to the hospital to interview the stab victim in my place. Then he got me to forward the message and the photo to the office manager’s phone so that he could arrange for it to be checked out.

‘Try not to worry,’ he said, turning back to me. ‘I’m guessing this is some unfortunate misunderstanding or someone’s pathetic attempt at humour.’

The trouble was he didn’t sound convinced of that, and the knowing looks he gave the others sent a wave of adrenaline crashing through my bloodstream.

Brennan drove and I sat in the passenger seat of the pool car. The park was only a few miles from the police station in Wandsworth, and that was going to be our first stop.

It was within walking distance of my parents’ house and where my mother usually took Molly. If they weren’t there, then we’d go straight to the house.

I prayed silently to myself that I was overreacting, but it was impossible not to dwell on the worst-case scenario – that my daughter had been abducted.

It was every parent’s nightmare, and I’d had first-hand experience of the devastating consequences of such an event. During my time on the force I’d investigated seven cases where children had been kidnapped by strangers. Only four of them had been found safe and well. Two were still missing, and one six-year-old girl had been brutally raped and murdered.

But in none of those cases had the abductor sent a photograph of the child to the mother. And I hadn’t heard of it happening before. That at least gave me reason to believe that this might not be a straightforward snatch; that perhaps it was indeed some pathetic prank.

‘Try calling your mother again,’ Brennan said, as he steered the car along side streets in order to avoid the worst of the South London traffic.

I tried but it rang out and went to voicemail. I’d already left a message for her to call me and it wasn’t like my mother not to respond asap. I left another just the same and this time I told her I was desperately worried.

‘Please get back to me straight away, Mum. It’s urgent. I need to know that Molly is OK.’

I rang my parents’ landline again but still there was no answer.

My heart was in my throat as I hung up. I gulped down a breath and squeezed my eyes shut.

Oh God, please don’t let my worst fear be realised.

I opened my eyes and looked again at the photograph of Molly on the sofa. My beautiful little girl clutching a beige teddy bear that I didn’t recognise. I wanted to believe that my parents had bought it for her, but I doubted it. Molly had plenty of cuddly animals both at home and at her grandparents’, and I had always discouraged them from spoiling her with too many toys.