Douglas Kennedy - A Special Relationship

Which is exactly what I did after settling down into my large Premium Economy seat, silently thanking Tony for such a spontaneous act of generosity. When we were airborne, I screwed in a pair of earplugs, blacked out the world with an eyeshade, and let the tautness of the last few days give way to exhausted sleep.

Then we were in London - and as Tony said, there was a minicab driver waiting for me at the arrivals gate. We'd been shoved across the Atlantic at allegro con molto speed, and had therefore arrived forty minutes ahead of schedule. Which meant we were cruising down the M4 at 6.45 am - and I was resisting the temptation to ring home on my mobile, for fear of waking Tony or Cha.

We made Putney in record time - a mere half-hour from the airport. The driver helped me to the front door with my bag. I took out my key and unlocked it, opening it as quietly as possible. I stepped inside. And immediately knew that something was astray. The front hallway had been stripped of a collection of framed historical photographs of Old Cairo that Tony had brought back from Egypt.

Maybe he'd decided to put them elsewhere in the house...

But then, as I headed up the stairs towards the nursery, I glanced sideways into the living room. This stopped me dead. Almost all the bookshelves had been emptied, along with Tony's extensive collection of CDs, and the fancy overpriced stereo he'd treated himself to shortly after we moved in.

We'd been burgled.

I ran up the stairs, shouting for Tony. I threw open the nursery door. Nothing... by which, I mean: no crib, no playpen, no toys, no carry-chair, no Jack. I stood in the middle of the empty room - divested of all its furniture, all its toys, and every bit of clothing I'd bought for him.

I blinked in shock. This wasn't a burglary.

Then I dashed upstairs to Tony's study. It had been completely stripped bare. I rushed down to our bedroom and flung open the wardrobe. All his clothes were gone, but mine were still there. And when I charged into the bathroom, all that I found in the medicine cabinet were my toiletries.

I reeled back into the bedroom. I sat down. I told myself: this isn't making sense... this simply isn't logical. My husband and my son have vanished.

Nine

IT TOOK ME several minutes to force myself up off the bed. I had no idea where this story was going. All I knew was: I had just walked into a nightmare.

The kitchen. It was the one room in the house I'd yet to check. I stood up. I went downstairs - and immediately saw that the sterilizer, all baby bottles, and the high chair we'd bought were gone. So too was the entire stock of formula, diapers, baby wipes, and all other infant paraphernalia.

I couldn't fathom it. Someone had come along and expunged every trace of Tony and Jack from the house. No sign of them remained whatsoever.

I grabbed the phone and punched in the number of Tony's mobile. I was instantly connected with his voice mail. My voice was decidedly shaky as I spoke. 'Tony, it's me. I'm home. And I must know what's going on. Now. Please. Now'.

Then I rang his office - on the wild off-chance that he might be in at seven-something in the morning. Again I was connected to his voice mail. Again I left the same message.

Then I rang Cha. No voice mail this time. Just a computer-generated voice informing me that the mobile phone I was ringing had been switched off.

I leaned against the kitchen counter. I didn't know what to do next.

The front doorbell rang. I ran towards it, hoping against hope that Tony was outside with Jack in his arms. Instead, I found myself facing a large beefy guy in his late twenties. He was in a tight, ill-fitting suit, a white shirt open at the collar, a tie dappled by food stains. He had no neck - just a straight roll of fat from his chin to his collar bone. He radiated greasy menace.

'Sally Goodchild?' he asked.

'Yes, that's me', I said.

'Got something for you', he said, opening his briefcase.

'What?'

'I'm serving you with papers', he said, all but shoving a large document in my hand.

'Papers? What sort of papers?'

'An ex parte court order, luv', he said, thrusting a large envelope into my hand.

Job done, he turned and left.

I tore open the envelope and read. It was an order given by The Honourable Mr Justice Thompson, yesterday at The High Court of Justice. I read it once, I read it twice. It didn't make sense. Because what it stated was that, after an ex parte hearing in front of Mr Justice Thompson the court had granted Anthony Hobbs of 42 Albert Bridge Road, London SW11 ex parte interim residence of his son, Jack Hobbs, until a further order was given.

I ran down the street until I caught up with the process server, getting into his parked car.

'You've got to explain this to me', I said.

'Not my job, luv', he said.

'Please', I said. 'I need to know...'

'Get yourself a solicitor, luv. He'll know what to do'.

He drove off.

I went back to the house. I sat down at the kitchen table. I tried to re-read the court order again. Three sentences into it, I dropped it, clasped my arms around me, and felt the sort of deep chill that sparked off a low-level internal tremor.

This can't be happening... this can't be...

I stood up. I looked at the clock on the wall. Seven fifty-seven. I grabbed the phone. I tried Tony again. His voice mail answered again. I said, 'Tony - I don't know what sort of game you're playing here... but you have to talk to me now'.

The court has granted Anthony Hobbs of 42 Albert Bridge Road, London SW11...

I got to my feet. I opened the kitchen cabinet and reached into the bowl where all car and extra house keys were kept. The car keys were gone. Which meant that he had taken the car along with...

A wave of terror seized me.

After an ex parte hearing in front of Mr Justice Thompson...

Why did he need a hearing? What was he arguing? What did I do that merited... ?

I reached again for the phone and called the local minicab company. They had a car at my front door in five minutes. I gave the driver the address: 42 Albert Bridge Road, SW11.

We headed right into rush hour traffic. The driver was a recent arrival in England. He had yet to master the A-to-Z atlas of city streets, and his battered C-reg Volvo was in need of a new set of shocks. But he kept humming contentedly to himself as we sat, becalmed, in eight am gridlock. He also lost his way twice - but seemed genuinely concerned by my ever-growing agitation in the back seat.

'It's okay', he said. 'I get you there'.

But it took nearly an hour to negotiate the two-mile crawl to Albert Bridge Road. When we arrived, some instinct told me to ask him to wait for a moment while I got out of the cab and negotiated the ten steps up an imposing three stories-over-basement Victorian town house. I used the brass door knocker to announce my arrival, whacking it frantically. After a moment, it was opened by a diminutive, olive skinned woman with tired eyes and a Hispanic accent.

'Yes?' she asked, looking at me warily.

Peering over her shoulder, I got a glimpse of the entrance foyer. Very minimalist. Very sleek. Very architect designed. Very expensive.

'Who lives here?'

'Miss Dexter'.

'Anyone else?'

'She has a friend'.

'What's his name?'

'Mr Tony'.

'And does Mr Tony have a little boy?'

'A beautiful little boy' she said, actually smiling.

'Are they here now?'

'They've gone away'.

'Where?'

'The country'.

'Whereabouts'.

'I don't know. Miss Dexter has a place in the country'.

'Do you have a phone number, an address?'

'I can't give...'

She began to shut the door. I put my foot in its way.

'I'm the little boy's mother. I just need to know...'

'I can't', she said.