a couple of weeks ago. She got off at Boswell Bridge – we can show you that.’ He clicked again. It was a view of a small, provincial-looking station. Natasha was standing on the platform talking to a slightly older lad and she pulled off her backpack and put it down on the bench. A few minutes later she walked away and the boy picked up the backpack, disappearing in the opposite direction.
Becky knew exactly what this was and didn’t really need to ask.
‘Drugs?’ she said.
The policeman slowly nodded his head.
18
When she was pregnant Emma hadn’t wanted to know whether she was having a boy or a girl, so had decorated Ollie’s nursery in a pale sage green and bought a wonderful huge tree stencil to paint in white on one wall. It was a warm and cosy room, and Emma was loath to leave it and venture back into the chilly atmosphere downstairs.
The addition of a window seat in the room had been inspired, and she spent a lot of time sitting there with Ollie, pointing out the birds, the trees and the occasional aeroplane, but her favourite chair was the wingback recliner that she had bought for when she was feeding Ollie in the middle of the night. It was so comfortable that she had often pulled a throw over herself after feeding him and had fallen asleep there.
Hiding up here was ridiculous, though.
‘Come on, little man, we’re all done.’ Emma pulled Ollie’s last sock on and gazed at her son for a moment. Ollie still felt a bit hot and seemed tetchy and unsettled. She had to find a way to get back to some sort of normality for her son’s sake.
With a sigh, she picked him up and made her way downstairs, mentally rehearsing her tone of voice and how to be non-confrontational with Natasha.
‘Okay – I’m going to make a cake. Would you like to help?’ she said in a jolly voice as she pushed open the kitchen door.
She smiled at Ollie. ‘Are you going to help your sister and me make a cake, Ollie?’
Emma walked towards the table, expecting to see Natasha sitting there, eating her breakfast. She looked over her shoulder to the other end of the room.
She stopped dead and turned round. The kitchen was empty.
Natasha had gone.
*
‘Oh God, where is she?’ Emma whispered to herself, trying to hide her anxiety from Ollie, who was resting on one hip as Emma made a tour of the downstairs rooms.
‘She must be upstairs. Must have gone up while I was dressing you, Ollie.’ Emma tried to rush up the stairs, but carting Ollie’s eleven kilos around was beginning to take its toll.
She pushed open the door to Natasha’s room. ‘Tasha,’ she shouted, her breath catching. ‘Are you there, love?’
No answer. But on Natasha’s past performance that meant nothing, so she was going to have to look. She dashed around all the upstairs rooms – even checking her and David’s en suite bathroom and walk-in wardrobe. There wasn’t a sign.
‘Where are you, Natasha,’ she muttered, taking the stairs down as quickly as she could without putting Ollie at risk.
She checked the places she hadn’t thought to look in downstairs – the cloakroom and even the understairs cupboard. But Natasha wasn’t here. She wasn’t in the house.
‘Shit,’ she muttered, glancing worriedly at Ollie. But he was too bewildered by all the rushing around to pick up on anything she said. Poor baby.
She hurried into the kitchen and looked out at the garden. It was empty of all but the builders’ rubble.
Grasping the handle to the back door, she jerked the buggy from the porch into the kitchen and pushed Ollie into it.
‘We’re going to have to go and look for her, sweetheart. Okay?’
‘Kay,’ Ollie smiled. He didn’t know what was going on, but he sensed excitement of some sort.
Leaving him where he was, Emma went into the back porch to grab her red fleece. It wasn’t there.
‘What the
hell
have I done with it?’ she said. She grabbed David’s dark-grey gardening fleece with the paint stains and holes in, and a
Becky knew exactly what this was and didn’t really need to ask.
‘Drugs?’ she said.
The policeman slowly nodded his head.
18
When she was pregnant Emma hadn’t wanted to know whether she was having a boy or a girl, so had decorated Ollie’s nursery in a pale sage green and bought a wonderful huge tree stencil to paint in white on one wall. It was a warm and cosy room, and Emma was loath to leave it and venture back into the chilly atmosphere downstairs.
The addition of a window seat in the room had been inspired, and she spent a lot of time sitting there with Ollie, pointing out the birds, the trees and the occasional aeroplane, but her favourite chair was the wingback recliner that she had bought for when she was feeding Ollie in the middle of the night. It was so comfortable that she had often pulled a throw over herself after feeding him and had fallen asleep there.
Hiding up here was ridiculous, though.
‘Come on, little man, we’re all done.’ Emma pulled Ollie’s last sock on and gazed at her son for a moment. Ollie still felt a bit hot and seemed tetchy and unsettled. She had to find a way to get back to some sort of normality for her son’s sake.
With a sigh, she picked him up and made her way downstairs, mentally rehearsing her tone of voice and how to be non-confrontational with Natasha.
‘Okay – I’m going to make a cake. Would you like to help?’ she said in a jolly voice as she pushed open the kitchen door.
She smiled at Ollie. ‘Are you going to help your sister and me make a cake, Ollie?’
Emma walked towards the table, expecting to see Natasha sitting there, eating her breakfast. She looked over her shoulder to the other end of the room.
She stopped dead and turned round. The kitchen was empty.
Natasha had gone.
*
‘Oh God, where is she?’ Emma whispered to herself, trying to hide her anxiety from Ollie, who was resting on one hip as Emma made a tour of the downstairs rooms.
‘She must be upstairs. Must have gone up while I was dressing you, Ollie.’ Emma tried to rush up the stairs, but carting Ollie’s eleven kilos around was beginning to take its toll.
She pushed open the door to Natasha’s room. ‘Tasha,’ she shouted, her breath catching. ‘Are you there, love?’
No answer. But on Natasha’s past performance that meant nothing, so she was going to have to look. She dashed around all the upstairs rooms – even checking her and David’s en suite bathroom and walk-in wardrobe. There wasn’t a sign.
‘Where are you, Natasha,’ she muttered, taking the stairs down as quickly as she could without putting Ollie at risk.
She checked the places she hadn’t thought to look in downstairs – the cloakroom and even the understairs cupboard. But Natasha wasn’t here. She wasn’t in the house.
‘Shit,’ she muttered, glancing worriedly at Ollie. But he was too bewildered by all the rushing around to pick up on anything she said. Poor baby.
She hurried into the kitchen and looked out at the garden. It was empty of all but the builders’ rubble.
Grasping the handle to the back door, she jerked the buggy from the porch into the kitchen and pushed Ollie into it.
‘We’re going to have to go and look for her, sweetheart. Okay?’
‘Kay,’ Ollie smiled. He didn’t know what was going on, but he sensed excitement of some sort.
Leaving him where he was, Emma went into the back porch to grab her red fleece. It wasn’t there.
‘What the
hell
have I done with it?’ she said. She grabbed David’s dark-grey gardening fleece with the paint stains and holes in, and a
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