From the Cradle (33 page)

Georgia tiptoed down the stairs and out the back door, picking up the carrier bag on the way. When the cool night air hit Frankie’s fat hot cheeks, she jerked her head up and wailed briefly, and Georgia had to clap a hand over her mouth. She froze in the shadows of the back garden, staring up at Alice’s bedroom window, but there was no movement. Alice was obviously too busy with Larry to have heard anything. The neighbouring houses were dark and silent on both sides.

She hurried down to the end of the garden, Frankie’s weight already making the small of her back hurt. Thank God the flat wasn’t far away. But how would she avoid being spotted on her way? Once Frankie was reported missing, someone was bound to report seeing her being carried away. Georgia hadn’t thought about that. She paused by the back gate, thinking fast. She knew the area well – she and Alice used to play on their bikes in the maze of back alleys that people put their bins out in, the thin arteries connecting all the big houses. Once she crossed the road, it was, she realized with joy, possible to get all the way to the flat just through the alleys.

She waited in the dusk by the back gate to make sure nobody was about, no silent dog-walkers or those bloody insane joggers who seemed to be running around at all hours. Frankie opened her eyes and looked at Georgia with surprise, so Georgia stroked her soft head and pushed the teddy up to her face for her to cuddle.

‘It’s OK, Frankie, go back to sleep,’ she said. A VW campervan rolled very slowly along the road, as though its driver was looking for a parking spot, and Georgia shrank back against the gate. But to her horror, the driver, a black woman, stared straight at her. Shit shit shit, she thought, closing her eyes. Fuck!

She couldn’t believe it. The first person who’d passed by had seen her! Her heart rate accelerated and she thought she was going to cry. Should she just take Frankie back now, forget the whole thing?

But the woman couldn’t have got a clear look at her – and may well have not even spotted that she had Frankie on her shoulder. It was almost dark now. She shouldn’t worry. She was probably just being paranoid.

She waited a few minutes. No more cars came by, and when
Georgia
stuck out her head, there was no sign of joggers, or anybody else. The street was dark and quiet now, just the lingering smell in the air of a dying summer’s day. A sudden movement startled her, but it was just a fox, slinking silently along the pavement.

Georgia made her move, rushing across the road and a few houses down until she reached the next alley.

She didn’t notice the woman, following her at a discreet distance. She had absolutely no idea that she’d been followed at all, until she was fiddling with the keys outside the secluded front door of her parents’ flat.

The voice hissed in her ear, taking her by complete surprise, so much so that she almost dropped Frankie, and Frankie dropped her teddy.

‘Give her to me. Now.’

Patrick sat in stunned silence for a few moments after the clearly exhausted Georgia finished telling her tale. He stared at the photo on Georgia’s phone. The woman was in her late thirties, he would guess. She looked a little like Helen Philips – the same skin tone, almond eyes, Cupid’s bow lips.

‘Did she see you take her photo?’ he asked.

‘Yes. And she grabbed my phone and deleted the picture.’

‘I’m confused.’

Georgia gave him a look that made him feel very old. ‘I have my phone set to save pictures directly to the Cloud. You know, online. So there’s, like, a copy on my phone and one on the
internet
. That means I never lose them, and I can publish the ones I like on
Facebook
or whatever.’

‘That’s amazing,’ Patrick said.

The first thing he needed to do, after making sure every cop in London had this photo, was show it to the Philips family, see if they recognized this woman.

‘Why didn’t you come to us, tell us what you’d done? You could see the pain you caused Alice and Helen and Sean. How could you bear it?’

Georgia turned her face away, unable to meet his eye. ‘I couldn’t tell them what I’d done. Alice would hate me forever. Everyone would hate me. And I thought I’d go to prison.’ She rolled her head on the pillow, looked at him at last. ‘I was scared.’

Patrick shook his head.

‘Detective?’ Georgia said quietly. Patrick felt terribly sorry for her. She had done something unutterably stupid, and compounded it through selfishness and fear, but now her face was ruined. Her life would never be the same. Her life would never be as good.

‘Yes, Georgia?’

‘If you find her . . . If Frankie is alright . . . Will I be able to claim the reward?’

I’ve got my period. For years, every time it arrived I would cry with frustration and rage. I knew I could get pregnant, that there was nothing wrong with me. The doctors confirmed it. Howard’s sperm count was low-to-average, but they were there, wriggling away inside him and several times a month, without fail, wriggling inside me too. They just never did their job.

And for years – though I could never tell my husband this – I knew deep down why I never got pregnant. It was because of what I’d done. Of what had happened to me. This was my punishment. Every month the blood would arrive, reminding me of the terrible secret I forced myself to forget the rest of the time, that I blotted out with pills and dope and sunshine.

My shame. My past.

Today, though, the arrival of my period doesn’t make me sob or scream. Because now I finally have a child of my own.

Once again.

I will never forget the look on that idiot girl’s face when I confronted her and took Frankie. I knew the teenager wouldn’t scream or cry out. She wouldn’t want to attract attention to what she’d done. She was trapped with her terrible secret.

I didn’t intend to keep Frankie at first. I was going to take her straight back but once I’d got her in the van I realized something: I wanted to spend some time with her. Quality time, getting to know her. She wasn’t scared that night. She was too sleepy and confused. She went to sleep almost immediately and I sat and stroked her hair, thinking that she was beautiful.

When morning came she wanted to know where mummy and daddy were. I promised I’d take her home, and even set off towards their house, planning to drop her off nearby, sure she would find her way home.

But the nearer we got to the house, the more I realized I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t take her back.

She was so perfect. The child I’d always dreamed of. I deserved her and Sean and Helen didn’t. It was as simple as that. Why should they have everything while I had nothing?

So I kept driving. Out of the city. We drove for miles and miles.

I knew the police would think that Frankie (and I would change her name, as soon as I could) had been taken by the same people who had taken Izzy and Liam, the children who were all over the news. Unless that teenage moron confessed – and I couldn’t see that
happening –
the police would be on the wrong trail.

It was so easy. For the first time in my shit life, I had a stroke
of luck.

I used to think God hated me. Now, it seemed, He was finally on my side.

Until they caught the people who took Liam and killed Izzy. Since then, I’ve been worried. Any day now they are going to find out what happened. That teen is going to crack and confess. Or someone will see us.

The more I think about it, the more determined I am that we will never be torn apart again. I can’t let that happen. I lost everything once, and now I’ve got what I’ve wanted all these years, I would rather die than lose it again.

I insert the tampon and wash my hands. Frankie is lying on the bed, her hair matted and filthy. She flinches when I reach out a hand to stroke it.

There’s a newspaper lying on the floor, one I picked up earlier. There, on page five, is the familiar photo. ‘Helen and Sean Philips with their missing daughter, Frankie.’ I touch Sean’s face then fold the paper over so Helen, on the far left, is removed.

A voice behind me says, ‘Daddy.’

The van stinks. I’m sick of living like this. Sick of running.

I know what I have to do.

I sit beside Frankie and stroke her soft hair. ‘How would you like it if we were together forever and ever?’ I whisper.

Chapter 41
Patrick – Day 7

It was 11:15 in the morning and Sean Philips smelled of drink – not the stale morning-after fumes Patrick had detected on his last visit to this house, but the fresh stink of spirits on his breath. His eyes were watery and unfocused and when he said, ‘You again,’ there was a noticeable slur.

‘You’d better come in,’ he said, walking into the living room and slumping down on the sofa. The TV was on, playing a rerun of
Columbo
. Sean giggled. ‘Got one more thing to ask me, eh?’

Patrick took a seat. ‘Are you alright, Sean?’

‘Oh, never better!’ His head jerked around like he was looking for something, before he deflated back into the folds of the sofa.

‘Where’s Helen?’ Patrick asked.

‘Don’t know. She took off first thing this morning, before I was even up. Probably sick of the sight of me, and who can blame her? She thinks I’m useless. You saw us arguing the other day. It’s like that all the time now. She sleeps so close to the edge of the bed that I keep thinking she’s going to fall out. I think I disgust her. She just sits on Facebook all day. She was on it when I went to bed last night. Marriages don’t survive this kind of thing, do they? And Alice’s staying at Larry’s. I’ve driven them all away.’

‘Come on, Sean . . . At least you know Alice is safe, anyway.’

‘Yeah but you’re never going to find Frankie, are you?’ He stared at Patrick with red-rimmed eyes. Before Patrick could respond, Sean buried his face in his hands. Patrick promised himself that as soon as he got out of here he would get a FLO back here. Get Sean Philips to a counsellor.

Sean looked up. ‘When I met Helen, I thought she was the best thing that ever happened to me. I mean, I love Alice but . . .’ He swallowed hard. ‘But when Frankie was born, it was like, like . . .
I
was born. Reborn.’

Patrick waited.

‘She was so beautiful. It was a difficult birth, you know? Helen was in labour for nearly two days after being induced. We thought the baby was never going to come out. Helen was exhausted and when she was finally having proper contractions they gave her an epidural. She clung to me as they stuck the needle in her back. There was a tear . . . it rolled down her cheek, splashed on my bare arm. I’ve never loved her more than in that moment.’

‘I understand.’ Although privately Patrick thought Sean was being sentimental from too much alcohol. He would never have spoken to another man in such soppy terms.

‘And the epidural didn’t work. She was screaming with pain. The midwives were running in and out of the room. Finally, they got another anaesthetist in who did the epidural properly. Then we waited all night until Frankie finally came out. Nine pounds, she was. A bruiser.’

A smile flashed on his face then vanished as quickly as it had appeared. ‘Frankie. From that first moment, I knew how special she was.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘She was my
redemption
.’

He sniffed loudly and wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve. Patrick saw Sean make a deliberate effort to pull himself together. His hands were trembling. ‘And now she’s gone.’

‘We
are
going to find her,’ Patrick said. He wondered how many times he’d said that in the last week. How many times he’d really believed it.

‘No,’ Sean said. ‘She’s gone forever. I’ve been reading up on it. The odds . . . they were long before, but now we’d need a miracle.’

‘Sean, something has happened. We’re making progress.’

‘What?’

Patrick took out his phone. ‘I’m going to show you a photograph. I just need to know if you’ve ever seen this person before.’

He crossed the room and, crouching down, showed Sean the photo Georgia had taken with her phone.

Sean stared at the picture for a long time. His hands, Patrick noticed, were trembling more violently now. Finally, he said, ‘No. I have no idea who she is. Why?’

Patrick tried not to let his huge disappointment show. ‘She’s someone we want to talk to, that’s all. Are you one hundred per cent certain you don’t recognize her.’

Sean shook his head. ‘I’ve never seen her before in my life.’

Patrick put the phone away. ‘Can you ask Helen to call me when she gets back?’

The other man stared into the middle distance.

‘Sean?’

‘Huh?’

‘I asked if you can get Helen to call me when she gets home.’

Sean Philips nodded and Patrick still wasn’t sure the words had got through. He sighed and got up. ‘I’ll talk to you again so
on, OK?’

Sean said, ‘You’ve got a kid, haven’t you?’

‘Yes. A daughter. She’s almost two.’

Sean leaned in close, his alcoholic breath warm on Patrick’s face. ‘Look after her, whatever you do. Keep her close.’

Patrick paused by the open front door, feeling shaken. He needed to sort out some help for Sean, but the best thing he could do was find Frankie. He just had to find the woman who had taken her from Georgia – and pray that she hadn’t murdered her.

He heard Sean walk through the house and into the kitchen, listened to the unmistakable sound of ice clinking in a glass, the rattling of bottles as Sean opened the fridge.

Patrick closed the door behind him and walked down the fr
ont path.

There was a stout woman standing on the other side of the wall, smoking a cigarette, a couple of supermarket carrier bags at her feet. It was Sean’s mother. She was wearing smartish clothes, the sort of clothes that Pat’s own mum wore – M&S or BHS or Next – but looked as though she would be more comfortable in a shell suit. What was her name? Eileen, that was it. Watching her smoke made him crave a real cigarette and he had to use all his willpower, and a couple of sucks on his e-fag, to stop himself from cadging one
off her.

‘Mrs Philips?’

She scrutinised him. ‘You’re that detective.’

‘That’s me.’

‘Are you any closer to finding her yet?’ She coughed and took another drag, the wrinkles around her lips deepening.

He didn’t want to get her hopes up; there was still plenty of opportunity for this all to go wrong.

‘Not yet.’

The older woman frowned and dropped her cigarette, grinding it out with her toe. ‘Do you believe that people can be cursed, detective?’

He was taken aback by the question. ‘Cursed?’

‘Yes. Like a family, I mean. Cursed by bad luck. People might look at Sean’s nice house and think he’s been lucky. He came from nothing, you know. We were so poor you couldn’t imagine it. But he’s worked bleedin’ hard to get all this.’ She gestured around her. ‘And now look what’s happened. Poor little Frankie snatched by god knows who, Alice gone off the rails . . .’

Patrick wondered how much Eileen knew about what Alice had been up to, or if she knew about the arrest, and that Alice had chosen not to come home after the police had released her.

‘I don’t believe in curses, Mrs Philips. But I get how people can start to feel like that, that everything has gone wrong for them.’

Eileen picked up her shopping. ‘I’m wondering if anything’s ever going to go right.’

‘Hold on, before you go.’ Patrick produced his phone. ‘Can you take a look at this picture for me, see if you recognise the woman?’

She rolled her eyes like it was a terrible hardship. At first she glanced at the photo. Then she snapped her head back to look at it again. After that, she stared, her mouth open, her yellow teeth on full display.

‘Oh my word,’ she said, her voice deep with shock.

Patrick tried to contain his excitement. ‘You recognise her?’

Eileen Philips fumbled in her bag for another cigarette and lit it. Like her son five minutes before, her hands shook.

‘That’s Sean’s ex-wife.’

‘
What
?’

‘That’s Alice’s mum.’

‘Are you alright, Mrs Philips?’

The older woman grimaced. ‘I need to sit down. When was that picture taken?’

‘Last week.’

‘In . . . in London?’

‘Yes. Very close to here.’

She shuddered. ‘And you think she’s got something to do with Frankie’s disappearance?’

Patrick was itching to get back inside to talk to Sean. Why had he lied about recognising the woman? But he wanted to get as much out of Eileen as he could. He was holding a box full of family secrets here, and in her shock Eileen was allowing him a glimpse inside. He needed to take a proper look before the woman became guarded and slammed the lid shut.

‘I thought Sean’s first wife died when Alice was three,’ Patrick said. It suddenly occurred to him that this was the same age as Frankie was now.

Eileen puffed on her cigarette. The way her mouth puckered made him glad he’d quit.

‘That’s what he told Alice. He didn’t want her to know her mum had run off and abandoned her.’

Patrick studied her as she took a magazine out of one of her shopping bags and fanned herself with it. She was lying about something. But before he could quiz her further, she said, ‘I really do need to sit down. And I think you should talk to Sean about this. Oh my Lord, he’s going to . . . I don’t know how he’s going to react when he finds out Penny is . . .’ She tra
iled off.

‘That’s her name?’

She nodded.

‘Let’s go inside,’ he said.

Eileen used her key to unlock the door. The house was silent, the TV turned off. Patrick stuck his head in the kitchen but it was empty, a half-drunk bottle of vodka on the worktop.

‘Sean?’ Eileen called. There was no reply.

Patrick checked the living room and dining room. A feeling of unease slid into his veins, the same kind of sick tingle he’d felt that day he’d come home and found Gill sitting on the stairs.

‘Sean?’ he called. Again, there was no answer. ‘He was here just now – wait here,’ he commanded Eileen.

He jogged up the stairs. The first room was Frankie’s. He walked straight past it and knocked on the door of the master bedroom before pushing it open. No one there. He called Sean’s name again. Had he slipped out the back door while Patrick was talking to Eileen? He checked the bathroom, then the office and Alice’s room. All empty.

One more room to check. Frankie’s. Patrick went inside.

‘
No!’

Sean Philips was hanging from the light fitting, his belt tied around his neck. His feet swung a couple of inches above his
daughter’s
little bed.

Patrick jumped onto the bed, threw his arms around Sean and hefted him up, grunting with exertion. But it was impossible to reach the belt while holding Sean, who was hanging limp. Patrick let go and reached up with both hands to detach the belt from the light fitting. Sean’s body dropped and landed with his lower half on the bed, his head and shoulders on the floor. He wasn’t breathing. Patrick knelt beside the body just as Eileen entered the room, saw her son and started screaming.

Fifteen minutes later, after a futile attempt at CPR, with Eileen’s screams drilling into his skull as he tried to bring her son back to life, Patrick had managed to get Eileen out of the room and onto the sofa, where she sat staring into space. Patrick called the station and told them what had happened.

Sean Philips had lied about recognising his ex-wife, then immediately hanged himself. What was he hiding? Was he somehow involved in Frankie’s disappearance? Patrick had looked around the house but there was no sign of a suicide note. No explanation other than the one that turned Patrick’s insides to ice. That seeing the picture of his ex-wife on Patrick’s phone had pushed Sean over th
e edge.

Patrick needed to talk to Eileen more, and he also had to urgently find out where Helen was.

He went back into the living room. Eileen was in deep shock. He sat down opposite her and reached out a hand. She looked catatonic, barely breathing. She held her cigarettes in her hand, as if she intended to light one but was frozen. For a moment Patrick was afraid she might have had a stroke. She was in no fit state to t
alk now.

Do you believe that people can be cursed?

Frustration gnawed at his insides. He now knew who had taken Frankie, but not if the little girl was alive or dead, or why Sean’s ex-wife, Penny, had done it. Where the hell were they?