I stare at the list until my coffee cup is empty again, trying to draw links and connections. But it’s like trying to complete a jigsaw puzzle when half the pieces are missing. I hold the flyer in both hands, squinting at each word, willing my caffeine-infused brain to make the leap. Thinking back to another piece of paper I had held in my hands on Tuesday afternoon, a scribbled note left for me to find. Black biro on white paper. Ten words, nothing else. The detectives told me to recount the words precisely,exactly, for any clues that might help them.
I said at the time that I didn’t have anything else to tell them. Except therewassomething else. There was one other piece of information that I didn’t think to mention. It hadn’t seemed relevant at the time. The note had been written on the back of a receipt, an A4 delivery note like you got with a gift when you ordered online. What was the name of the company? I close my eyes, coaxing the memory to the surface, reaching for it.
BabyStuff? BabyLove?
BabyCool.com. That was it.
I reach for my mobile and find the list of recently-dialled numbers. My thumb hovers over thecallbutton next to Gilbourne’s name. But did he believe me about the stranger in my house? Was his concern real? Or is he starting to think I’m just a bit mad?It’s understandable, Ellen, the baby’s on your mind, it’s a pretty intense experience you’ve had.
I put the phone down again. This is probably nothing. But I can check it out, then let the police know either way. I unlock my iPad and go to Google.
24
I close my eyes and clear my mind, the way I’ve done since I was a little girl trying to remember the last day with my dad. Reaching out for the memory, trying to visualise again the piece of paper I had pulled from Kathryn’s bag. It was a delivery note, a computer-printed list of items: a sling, a packet of muslin cloths, a tin of powdered baby milk, a few other items. All the stuff in the bag that she’d been carrying with her. I’d only glanced at it for a second; it hadn’t seemed important at the time. Now I try to summon the other details to mind, dragging fragments of memory to the surface. I remember the paper was crumpled, the top left corner torn off where a staple might have been, the vague outline of a dirty shoeprint across it. A delivery address in the top right. One of those quaint village names with ‘Little’ in front of it, like they have onMorseorMidsomer Murders. I feel like it’sM-isomething. Two or three syllables. Miston? Milhaven? I try to focus, try to find the stillness that I use to block everything else out. Take a deep breath in, hold for five, deep breath out, hold for five. Repeat.
Little Milton?I open my eyes and google it. There is a village called Little Milton south-east of Oxford. That seems like it might be a possibility. But it’s tiny and out on a limb, only a few hundred people, and doesn’t seem like the kind of place someone of Kathryn’s age would choose to live. I write the name on the pad next to me, then delete the search term one letter at a time until other results appear.
Little Mill?Another small village, this one near Pontypool. Kathryn’s accent had been flat, southern, Thames Valley. No Welsh intonation. And it was a long way away, hours by car or train. I write it on the pad anyway and go back to the search results.
Little Minster?A hamlet to the west of Oxford. Nearer to London. I stare at the results for a moment, write it on the pad and delete the search term. It doesn’t sound right either.
Mia’s muslin cloth is there in front of me on the kitchen table. I pick it up, roll the creased fabric between my fingers, remembering again the way she had clutched it. I hold it to my cheek for a second, inhaling the soft baby smell, feeling for a moment as if I’m back on the train with her warm in the crook of my elbow. A memory bobs to the surface and I put my hands back on the keyboard, adding one letter to the search term.
Little Missenden?
It’s in south Buckinghamshire. A Wikipedia page describes it as ‘a village and civil parish on the River Misbourne in the Chiltern Hills, situated in between Great Missenden and Amersham.’
Great Missenden has a direct rail connection to Marylebone station in London.
I feel a tingle of recognition, of excitement.This one.This address. In my mind I see the address on the paper more clearly now, although whether this is just hope filling the gaps, I don’t know. But itfeelsright, this place. It fits. If I can talk to Kathryn’s family, I can find out what’s going on and if she’s OK. I need to tell her what happened myself and get answers to some of my own questions, closing the loop on this strange couple of days in my life. I need to know that Mia is safe. There is a whisper at the back of my mind too –you just want to see her again, to hold her in your arms one more time– but I push it away.
According to Google Maps, Little Missenden is about twenty miles north-west, outside London, beyond the M25 towards Oxford. Forty minutes or so by car. I select the satellite image and study the layout of the village. Two pubs, a cricket club, a church, an infant school, a crossroads. A scattering of houses stretched along the two roads, running east–west and north–south, the whole thing surrounded by cultivated fields, brown and green in the satellite image. The curve of the Chiltern Rail line just to the north, parallel with the main road as it snakes its way south-east towards London. I can’t remember a street name from the delivery note but the village looks like one of those small places where everyone goes to the same pubs and knows everyone else’s business. I could just ask around, find someone who knows her. I find myself wishing I still had her white rucksack, the one she’d left on the train – it would have been a useful starting point for conversation.
The thought gives me an idea. I change into work clothes, a mid-blue trouser suit and white blouse, cover the healing cut above my eye with concealer as best I can. I rummage in the back of the wardrobe until my hand falls on the handbag that my former mother-in-law bought me last Christmas. Garish purple and black leather, not really my thing at all but I didn’t have the heart to take it to the charity shop. I pull off the label and throw a few things inside, a packet of tissues, some pens, a couple of lipsticks that are almost used up, a pack of paracetamol, an old purse full of receipts and expired train tickets. I send the Google Maps directions to my phone, put some dry food in Dizzy’s bowl and grab my coat and keys. I check all the windows are closed, upstairs and down, go out the back to check the side gate is bolted, then lock the back door and push both of the new deadbolts across again, top and bottom. I triple-check that my front door is locked, rattling the handle to be absolutely sure, then look up and down my cul-de-sac too, scanning both ways for any suspicious parked cars I don’t recognise. Nothing.
The roads are busy but the worst of rush hour has passed, and traffic is merely heavy rather than gridlocked. It helps that I’m travelling against the flow, going out of London rather than in, and I make good time. Twice I think I spot a dark BMW following me, turning with me, staying two cars behind. But just as I’m squinting in the mirror to make out who’s behind the wheel, the car slides smoothly down a slip road. Ten minutes later I wonder if I’ve seen the same car in traffic behind me, only for it to pull past with a roar, a woman behind the wheel. I tell myself that BMWs are not particularly rare in this part of the world, and make an effort to stop looking in the rearview mirror. The sign for Little Missenden –Please drive carefully through our village– appears at the roadside just before 11 a.m.
I drive through the centre and I’m heading out the other side before I even realise it, out into open country again. I do a U-turn in the driveway of a large manor house and drive back into the village, more slowly this time. Little Missenden is chocolate-box cute, old houses and ivy-clad cottages clustered around a well-kept village green. An old parish church with the flag of St George fluttering against the cold autumn sky. There are two pubs but the Red Lion is nearer, a whitewashed country inn with big brick chimneys at each end near the centre of the village. I park up next to an old red phone box, grab the handbag from the passenger seat and head inside.
The pub is quiet and dark, a low ceiling, thick wooden tables and chairs, padded benches lining the walls. A smell of roast dinners, real ale and open fires. Only a few other patrons, an older couple in Gore-Tex jackets and walking boots, a few middle-aged men watching horse-racing on the TV. A log fire burning low in the grate with a large dog sprawled in front of it, chin on its paws. There are two staff behind the bar. One is barely out of her teens, elbows on the till, thumb-typing on her phone. The other is an older man, early fifties, hair thinning back to almost nothing, writing in careful capitals on a specials board. I order a Diet Coke and wait until he’s poured it before setting it down on the bar in front of me.
‘One-sixty please, darlin’.’
‘Thanks,’ I say brightly, reaching for my purse. ‘Actually, I don’t know if you can help me with something?’
‘I’ll do my very best, love.’ He indicates the thick gold wedding ring on his left hand. ‘But just to let you know, I’m spoken for.’
I nod and smile as if this is the funniest thing I’ve heard all week. ‘Thatisa shame.’
He cracks a crooked smile. ‘Just teasing, young lady.’
‘I’m actually looking for someone, was wondering if you might know where I can find her?’ I hold out my debit card and he gives me the card machine to tap it against. ‘I got chatting to someone on the train yesterday, going into London, but when she got off she left her handbag behind. I was going to just stick it in lost property at Marylebone but then I remembered she’d said she lived in Little Missenden and since I’ve got a lunch meeting in Amersham today, I thought I’d just drop it off on my drive through.’
The lie feels unconvincing on my tongue, even though it contains shards of truth. I put the handbag down next to my drink and the landlord gives me a blank look, his belly straining against a grey Lacoste polo shirt.
‘What was her name, this woman?’
‘Kathryn.’
