The Stranger on the Train (13 page)

Emma did. But she still needed to hear it said.

“We'll find him,” Lindsay repeated. “Hey.” She gave Emma's shoulders a little shake. “We will.”

Emma knew that Lindsay was trying to get her to look at her but she couldn't make herself do it. It wasn't that she didn't want to, but her eyes seemed to be moving around by themselves, very fast, taking in the street, the steps, the people walking past with their bags and coats. She didn't seem able to focus on just one thing. Lindsay pulled her in for a hug. Emma let her. Lindsay patted her on the back while Emma stood there, awkward in the unfamiliar embrace.

“Will you go and look with them?” she asked Lindsay. “I'd feel better if there was someone there I knew.”

“Why don't I come home with you for a while?” Lindsay suggested. “It'll be hard, waiting on your own.”

“I'll be all right. I don't want to go back to the flat just yet. I'd like to go for a walk. Buy some things for Ritchie. Food and stuff.”

“It may be a while before you can see him,” Lindsay warned.

Emma stiffened.

“If he's in France, I mean,” Lindsay reminded her. “Plus he might need to be seen by a doctor. You know, to be checked over.” Then she added: “But I'll tell you what would be helpful. If you got some stuff together in a bag for him? Some of his favorite toys, and a change of clothes. When we find him, we may need to take whatever he's wearing.”

Emma nodded.

“Phone me the minute you hear anything,” she begged.

“I'll do that,” Lindsay promised.

They said their good-byes. Emma went on down the steps of the police station.

“Checked over.” What did Lindsay mean by that? She'd said it was less likely now that Ritchie would be hurt.

She walked on, keeping her hand in her pocket, curled around her mobile phone. She had to keep moving, keep doing something, even if all she could do was cling to the phone and wait for it to ring. She walked quickly, hardly noticing where she went. She turned left onto the Fulham Road and kept going. The further she walked, the buzzier the street became. The pavements were packed with people her age, all heading out for the night. Lights and noise and smells poured from the pubs and restaurants. Some of the restaurants had their windows open to the street. Rows of bottoms faced outwards in the dusk. People jostled around her. She crossed to the other, quieter side of the road so that she could walk undisturbed.

Scenes chased through her head. One minute she was imagining the reunion. Ritchie calling in his clear little voice: “Muh. Muh,” with his arms out, and she grabbing him, pulling him to her. Then she remembered that they hadn't found him at all yet. How would they get him back? Would they have to break down the door of the house where he was? Would there be guns? Would the kidnappers try to kill him?

Her mobile rang, buzzing against her hand. Emma jumped, fumbling in terror to pull it out.

“Hello? Hello?”

“Emma?” The voice was familiar. “It's Rafe Townsend here.”

“Rafe.” Emma stopped. She never would have thought it, but he was exactly the person she needed to hear from right now.

“Rafe,” she blurted. “The Bergerac thing. I saw the tape from the airport. It's him. It's Ritchie.”

“What?” The phone crackled.

A crowd of people, men in jackets and polo shirts, girls in tight pastel coats, had all arrived together outside an Italian restaurant. Emma put her finger in her ear. She shouted into the phone: “That was Ritchie at the airport. They're going to track him down in France.”

“Jesus.” Rafe sounded stunned. “That's fantastic.”

“Yeah.” All of a sudden she was smiling. “Yeah. It is.”

The maître d' of the restaurant had opened the doors. The men and girls were crowding into the warmth. Emma could smell garlic. She saw red and yellow lights along the inside walls.

“How did he look?” Rafe asked. “Did he look okay?”

“He looked as if he'd been drugged.” Emma tried not to think about it. “And she'd dyed his hair. And put different clothes on him.”

For some reason, even with Ritchie being given drugs and having chemicals put in his hair, the thing that really bothered her was the new clothes. She kept coming back to them. She'd been picturing Ritchie all this time as still in his elephant fleece.

“But the clothes looked warm,” she had to admit. “Clean. He looked . . . comfortable.”

“I can't believe it,” Rafe kept saying. “I can't believe it.”

“I thought he might be dead,” Emma said in a low voice. “I really did. Part of me thought that. I never thought it would really be him.”

Rafe said: “But it was.”

The customers had all gone in now. The street had quietened. The restaurant doors were closed.

“You couldn't see his face properly,” Emma said. “On the film. Detective Hill kept saying, ‘Are you sure it's him? You can't see his face.'”

“But you
were
sure,” Rafe said.

“Yeah.” Happiness filled her. “Yeah. I can't wait to see him.”

Again she pictured Ritchie, trying to run to her with his funny little waddle. His delighted beam when he saw her. Or would he cry? Would he be so traumatized he wouldn't be able to smile at all? Would he have to go to hospital? Once more, her gut clenched. God. Was this ever going to end?

“It's going to be fine.” Rafe seemed to be thinking the same things she was. “Stay positive, Emma. You'll have him back with you soon.”

She held the phone, letting the words slow her heart. It was so good, hearing them. Knowing he was interested in what was happening. Having him there.

“I'd better go,” she said at last. “They might be trying to reach me.”

“Ring me anytime you want to,” Rafe said. “Anytime you want to talk. You know where I am.”

• • •

Even though Lindsay had said it would be a while before she saw him, Emma stopped in at Sainsbury's to buy things for Ritchie. Rusks. Milk. Strawberry yogurt. The sticks of mild cheddar cheese he liked to carry about with him. Choosing the familiar items calmed her. The child's bright colors on the pots in the fridge; the comforting shuffle in the queue with the other mothers. The whole routine of it made Ritchie's coming home seem more real.

Lindsay had said there might be a delay, but as it turned out, things moved very swiftly over the evening. Lindsay phoned several times, each time sounding more and more excited. Now they had an address in France. Interpol was involved. A team was going to the address straightaway. Lindsay would phone as soon as the British police heard back.

Emma hung up, her heart racing. This was really it. She was really going to see him. She spent the next hour and a half cleaning the flat from top to bottom. She turned on all the lights and kept her head down, scrubbing the kitchen, hoovering the carpets, scouring the bath and sink. She made up Ritchie's cot for him, covering the mattress with clean, lavender-smelling sheets and smoothing out his fleece blanket with the green and purple Barney on it. She sat Gribbit right at the top and arranged Ritchie's five soothers in a circle around him.

And then, suddenly exhausted, she sank down onto the edge of her bed, still with her hand on Gribbit's soft, green, semi-chewed head. She let her head droop, resting her forehead against the bars of the cot.

“Did you hear, Grib?” she whispered. “Did you hear? He's coming back to us.”

• • •

It was after midnight when the intercom finally sounded. Emma flew to answer it. Moments later, Lindsay arrived at the flat, dressed much less formally than usual in a pink shirt and jeans. She was out of breath, her cheeks shiny and red. Her hair stood up in straggly wisps around her face. Clearly she had some news.

“Did you find them?” Emma managed to ask. “Were they there?”

“Yes. They were there.”

Oh, thank God. Emma's whole body relaxed. Thank God. Her muscles had gone loose, as if someone had taken a wrench and opened all the bolts. At last. At last it was all over.

“So where is he?” she asked. “When can I see him?”

Lindsay came into the flat. She closed the door behind her.

“Why don't you answer?” Emma was surprised. Then something struck her, and a needle of ice slid into her throat.

“Is he hurt?”

“It's not that,” Lindsay said quickly.

“Well, what, then?” Emma was confused.

Lindsay said: “Why don't we sit down?”

“Sit down? Sit down? Sure.”

Emma almost ran over to the couch. She plopped down onto it. Lindsay sat beside her, looking grave.

“Emma, it's not him.”

“It's not . . . ?” Emma stared, uncomprehending. “Sorry. I'm not with you.”

“The little boy you saw at the airport. It's not Ritchie.”

“But—”

“Interpol have done some inquiries. They're an English family who've lived in France for several years. They'd spent some time abroad and were passing through London on their way home to France. I know the child looked like Ritchie, but it wasn't a good view.”

Emma couldn't believe it. She felt stunned. Sick.

“I . . .” she kept saying in a little gaspy voice that didn't sound like her own. “I . . .”

“I'm so, so sorry, Emma,” Lindsay was saying.

She'd been so sure. The fringe. It
was
him.

“It
is
him,” she said. “It
is
Ritchie. I know it is.”

“Emma, I hoped it was too, I really did. But the fact is, the passports all check out and not only that, the family is well-known in their neighborhood in France. They had the baby there in the local hospital. Everybody knows him. The husband's parents live in the same village. The neighbors. The local English-speaking family doctor. It all checks out.”

“No. No. You don't understand. I don't care what checks you've done. It
is
him. It
is
Ritchie.”

“We can't take it any further, Emma. But listen to me . . . no,
listen
. We've still got plenty of other options. Several people have called in after reading the news stories about him. We've had a possible sighting in Manchester, we're following all—”

“Please. Please. That was him in the airport. You have to believe me.”

“When you want something so much, you can convince yourself.” Lindsay looked distressed. “I'm sorry, but we can't take this any further.”

“Where is he? I want to see him. I want to see him for myself.”

“We can't tell you that.”

“Well, then, get out.”

“Emma—”

“Get out!”

Emma sobbed, rocking herself back and forth, cradling the empty space in her arms.

Chapter Ten

Lindsay refused to leave the flat. She spent the next twenty minutes trying to persuade Emma to let her call someone.

“You shouldn't be here on your own,” she insisted. “You need someone with you.”

And Emma kept repeating in a blank, dead voice: “I'll be all right. Just go.”

Lindsay tutted, then sighed. She went out to the hall to use her phone. She closed the door behind her, but Emma could still hear what she was saying.

“She wants me to . . . I know. I know. I feel bad for her, but I'm meant to be . . . Well, am I going to get overtime for this?”

After a few minutes, she came back in.

“I can't leave you,” she said flatly. “You really shouldn't be on your own. Would you allow me to contact someone from Victim Support? They're a charity that helps people in your situation. They could send someone to be with you while all of this is going on.”

“I don't want anyone.”

“Emma.” Lindsay was beginning to sound desperate. “Listen to me. You're not making any sense.”

Emma put the tips of her fingers to her eyes, circling them around and around. When she pressed them inwards, she thought she was going to faint.

“I'll call Rafe,” she said at last.

“Rafe?”

“The man who found my bags.”

“But, Emma.” Lindsay looked perplexed. “You hardly know him. It's one o'clock in the morning.”

“Well, that's the person I want.”

She wouldn't have called him, of course; she was only saying it to make Lindsay leave. But Lindsay, raising her eyebrows at Emma between digits, as if to say “Are you sure about this?” went ahead and dialed Rafe's number herself. And in what seemed like a very short space of time, the intercom buzzed again and it was him.

Lindsay went to let him in. Once again, urgent whispers emanated from the hall. Then Rafe spoke in his normal tone.

“It's all right,” he said, his voice sounding very loud after all the whispering. “I'll stay with her.”

“You don't mind?” Lindsay's relief couldn't have been more plain.

Emma stayed where she was, hunched in a chair by the window. She heard the front door close behind Lindsay. As soon as Rafe came into the room, she said: “I'm sorry she called you. You don't need to stay. You can turn around again and go home.”

“But I don't want to,” he said. He was wearing a blue rain jacket, zipped up over his jeans. His eyes were small. His hair was pushed-back and messy, as if he'd just got out of bed. “I'm glad I'm here. I'm glad she called me.”

Emma didn't have the energy to argue. She sank her head onto her arms.

“I can't bear this,” she said into the table. “I can't. I can't take this anymore.”

“I'm sure you can't.” Rafe was grim.

“What can I do?” Emma asked. “What can I do?”

“Don't blame yourself,” Rafe advised. “I've seen those kind of tapes. It can be hard to see faces properly.”

Emma interrupted him with her hands, lifting them up and spreading her fingers in the air around her head.

“There. Was. No. Problem. With the tape. I know it was Ritchie.”

“But—”

“
Listen
to me.” She turned on him. “I've been thinking about this. I've worked it out. That couple is lying. They're family members, those people in France, of course they'd back them up.”

“But the police spoke to the neighbors as well. And their doctor—”

“I'm not
interested
in the neighbors. Or their bloody doctor. There must be a way to prove this. We don't have long. Those people must know now that the police have been asking about them. They'll move on and we'll lose them.”

“You could be right, but—”

“I know I'm right,” Emma hissed. “Jesus, you think I don't know my own child?”

Rafe was silent.

“What kind of a country is this, anyway?” Emma slammed her hands on the table. “I'm looking at a film of someone kidnapping my child—I'm
watching them taking my child in front of my nose
—and you're all telling me it's in my head. Telling me it's someone else's child. You were in the police. You must know some way. You said you felt guilty about Ritchie; well, now's your chance to do something. Oh.” She turned away, rigid with frustration. “Forget it. You don't believe me.”

Through the haze of anger and self-pity and pain, she heard Rafe's voice:

“I do believe you.”

It took a second for that to get through.

“You do?”

He shrugged. “Sure. You said it yourself. You know your own child. If you say it's him, then it must be.”

How weird. How weird, after all this time, to have a conversation like this with a person who actually seemed to believe what she was saying. A person who didn't think she was delusional. Emma had been beginning to seriously wonder if she was going mad and she was the only one who couldn't see it.

But what was the point? It wasn't as if Rafe believing her was going to get her anywhere. Bitterly, Emma slumped back onto her arms. She said: “What can you do about it, anyway?”

She didn't expect an answer. But when, a few seconds later, Rafe still hadn't responded, something made her look up. Rafe was squinting slightly, looking off to the left, as if in thought.

“What?” Emma said. “What?”

Rafe said: “A mate of mine's a cop.”

“So?”

“So, maybe it's time to bring in your private detective. If I talked to my mate, and he could get us the address where Ritchie is—”

“
Excuse me?
” Emma thought she'd heard him wrong. “What did you say? Get Ritchie's address?”

“Well, yeah. It'll have to be somewhere: on a computer; somewhere. It's just a matter of—”

“Hang on a minute.” Emma still couldn't believe her ears. “You're saying
you
could tell me where Ritchie is? You're telling me I could
see
him?”

“Look.” Rafe sounded alarmed. “I didn't say that. I can't promise anything. My mate might not agree to help. And if we did get the address, you'd have to be careful. You'd have to go about this the right way.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“If you're thinking of trying to snatch him, you could get yourself arrested.”

“Do you think I'd care?” Emma's voice had risen to a squeak. She was on her feet now, clutching the back of her chair.

“Listen to me, Emma.” Rafe stood up straight. He spoke very firmly. “For a start, just getting the address would be against the law. My mate owes me a couple of favors, but I can't guarantee he'd do something like this. And just say you found Ritchie—and I'm not saying you will, but just if. And if you went to see him, and they saw you. They'd take Ritchie and run. You might never find him again.”

Emma hadn't thought of that. For a moment, she was still. Then she said in a quieter voice: “I wouldn't try to snatch him.”

“What would you do, then?”

“I . . . I . . .”

What would she do? Never mind that now. She had to convince Rafe to get her the address. The rest she'd worry about later.

“I just want to see him,” she said. “Just to prove it's him. They'd have to believe me if I saw his face. I wouldn't touch him. I swear.”

Rafe seemed to still be hesitating.

“Please.” Emma's voice crumpled. “Please. I have to do this. You don't know how much I need to see him.”

Her distress was beginning to get to him now, she saw. He was taking deep breaths. Scratching the side of his head. Emma kept her eyes fixed on his. It seemed like a long time since she'd done that. Stared someone in the face and not backed down.

In the end, it was Rafe who looked away first.

“I'll need your crime reference number,” he said.

“My . . . ?”

“The police would have given you one. So they can look up your details on the computer when you phone them.”

It sounded vaguely familiar. Emma went to scrabble amongst the pieces of paper by her phone. Near the top was the Post-it Lindsay had left with her contact details. Emma hadn't noticed it before, but there was the crime reference number, neatly printed underneath.

“I'll need to take this home,” Rafe said, copying the number onto a separate piece of paper. “Make a few calls. I'll phone you as soon as I know anything. ”

• • •

He rang her as the sun came up. Emma hadn't moved from her place at the table. The sky was pink. The streets below were quiet. The drunken teenagers had smashed their last beer bottles and gone home; the early traffic had yet to clog the roads.

She realized how cold she was only when she went to pick up the phone and felt the little shocks in her fingers.

“Hello?”

He'd hardly have heard anything. It was too soon. The only question was whether his mate had agreed to help. If he'd even managed to reach him yet.

So she was stunned when Rafe announced: “I have an address.”

An address!

Emma felt for her chair and sat down.

“Where?” she asked.

She heard a papery, rustling sound.

“According to this,” Rafe said, “the people in the airport are a married couple. David and Philippa Hunt. The child's name is . . . um . . . X . . . Exa . . .” He spelled it out.

“Xavier,” Emma said. She twisted at the shirt button near her throat.

“
Zah-vee-ay
,” Rafe repeated. “Okay. Zah-vee-ay Hunt. Aged fifteen months.”

Xavier Hunt. Xavier Hunt. Emma pictured Ritchie's fringe, his new top and trousers. The way he slept so tightly curled into the woman in the airport.

“Should I go on?” Rafe asked.

“Please.”

“They're in a place called St.-Bourdain,” Rafe said. “I've a map up on the screen here, and it's about forty kilometers outside Bergerac. It's a tiny village. Outsiders will stick out, so we'll need to be careful.”

“We?”

“I'll be honest here, Emma. My friend was very reluctant to give out the info. If there's any trouble, his job could be on the line. He was only happy to pass on the address if I promised I'd go with you. In case you were a loony or something.”

“Oh.”

“I know you're not,” Rafe added. “But I told him I would.”

“I want to go straightaway,” Emma said flatly. “Haven't you got work?”

“I was finishing at the end of the week anyway. I can take the last few days off. It's not a problem.”

He still thought she was going to make a grab for Ritchie. Well, she'd worry about that later. She could shake Rafe if she had to.

“How do we get there?” she asked.

“We can fly to Bergerac, or to one of the other airports near there. Bordeaux, I think. Whichever is quickest. Do you want me to book the flights?”

“I'll do it.” Emma had the phone book open already and was fumbling through it. She didn't know where she was looking. She opened it at the beginning, and started at
A
, for “Airlines.”

Sunday, September 24th

Day Eight

Passport. Check. There in her bag. The flight numbers were written on a piece of paper, safely tucked into her back pocket. The only clothes she was bringing were the ones she was wearing: jeans, plain T-shirt, navy fleece. She'd flung her toothbrush, deodorant and a change of underwear in her backpack. And in a separate compartment, carefully zipped, was Gribbit, his long legs folded neatly over his shoulders.

That was it, then. She had everything.

Just as Emma closed the door of the flat, the phone in the sitting room started to ring.

Shit!
Emma scrabbled to get the key back out of her bag. Don't say it was Rafe, phoning to say he'd be late. It was after twelve already. They were supposed to be meeting at Liverpool Street station at one.

She let herself back in and flew to the phone.

“Hello?”

“Emma.” It was Lindsay. “You weren't asleep, were you?”

“No.”

“That's good,” Lindsay said. “I was just calling to say I'll be over later this afternoon, if that's all right with you. I've got some things we need to discuss.”

“I'm going out,” Emma said.

“Where?” Lindsay sounded surprised.

“I'll have my mobile with me.” Emma was desperate to get off the phone. She couldn't hang up too quickly, though, or Lindsay might get suspicious.

“I see,” Lindsay said. “Well, it was really to discuss how you might feel about appearing on TV. To give a press conference. It sounds intimidating, I know, but you'd have a chance to appeal directly to the people who took Ritchie. Also to anyone who might know them or live near them who might—”

“It sounds like a great idea,” Emma interrupted. “Let me know when it's happening.”

She ended the call and grabbed her backpack off the table. She glanced at her watch. Twelve fifteen. She left the flat and ran all the way down the stairs, not bothering to wait for the lift.

Hammersmith was its usual gray, chilly self as Emma hurried past Charing Cross Hospital and down the ramp to the underground walkway into Hammersmith Broadway. Then out again the other side, to the old station on the corner, looking, with its old-fashioned blue sign and Victorian clock on the top, utterly quaint and out of place in the midst of all the double-decker buses and flyovers. Emma waited for the lights to change, drumming her fingers on the traffic-light pole. By the time she reached the station, she was sweating. A train pulled in just as she arrived on the platform.

Liverpool Street station was white and high-ceilinged and jammed. People in suits strode around with briefcases. Every route seemed blocked by gangs of teenage tourists with puffy jackets and hairy eyebrows, loaded down with giant rucksacks and chattering incomprehensibly. Emma, pausing by a bench to look for Rafe, felt a sharp blow to her ankle. She turned to see a jowly man wheel his case past her, clicking his tongue with annoyance.