‘Promise?’
He nods solemnly, eyes wide behind his red and black Spiderman glasses. ‘Cross my heart,’ he traces a shape over his little chest, ‘and hope to die.’
‘Thank you, Noah. You’re a good boy.’
I kiss the top of his head and stand up. At the front door, Tara puts a hand on my arm, her face still full of concern.
‘Are you sure about this?’
‘It’s the way it has to be, Tara.’
‘Text me when you get settled in.’
‘Will do.’
‘Hey, I nearly forgot,’ Tara says, lowering her voice and checking that her boys are safely out of earshot. ‘While I was waiting at the school gates, I had a call back from my guy at theDailyMail. Bit of a sleazebag but he’s got some good contacts in the Met. He was rather cryptic on the phone, said Kathryn Clifton’s sister had lifetime anonymity because of what happened to her. Does that make sense to you?’
‘Not sure. What else did he say?’
‘That he would deny ever having the conversation with me if I mentioned it to anyone else. But he said there was something I might want to see, promised he’d email a link through when he had a minute. Sounds interesting. I’ll forward the email to you when I get it.’
45
Leon
Leon counted only one camera at the entrance. Directly over the keypad where the intercom was housed in a small steel box, looking directly into the driver’s side window of any vehicle pulled up at the gate. Any serious system would cover multiple angles but this one was typical of the kind of thing installed on a house like this: mostly for show. It was an even bet, he thought, whether that single camera even worked. From his vantage point he had a partial view of the front of the house, and inspection through the telephoto lens had not revealed any further cameras over the front door.
The front gate was wrought iron – eight feet of curved metal topped with a row of spearpoints – set in concrete posts that formed part of the perimeter wall running around the entire property. The wall was visible on Google Maps but he’d checked it out anyway, walking the outer rim at dusk. It was in reasonably good repair without any obvious weak spots but there was one section at the back, well away from the road, where trees had grown up too close on both sides and a couple of oaks offered a way over.
He had always liked to climb.
There were a number of other weaknesses in the system. The gate opened via an infrared sensor activated by dashboard transmitters mounted in the three cars, the husband’s Range Rover, her Mercedes A-Class and the little Toyota that belonged to Mrs Kelsall, the help. There was also a coded keypad below the intercom and of course a remote gate release that could be activated from anywhere with a phone signal, via a security app. All three of them had the app on their phones, which was a mistake because it opened the whole system up to human frailty – in this case, a re-used password that almost made ittooeasy once he’d found his way into Mrs Kelsall’s mobile.
Any security system was only as strong as its weakest link.
So the gate itself was not a problem. The camera wouldn’t help them much. But that still left the dogs, which made it tricky for any approach on foot. Two Doberman Pinschers that roamed the grounds inside the eight-foot walls at night and most of the daytime, too. Leon hated animals.Hatedthem. And he hated dogs most of all, big, stupid bastards with their oily, greasy fur, their dripping saliva and foul, stinking breath.
That was why he was grateful to Detective Sergeant Holt; seeing him loitering around the house had given Leon an idea.
46
I go by my house for fresh clothes on the way to the hotel, filling a carrier bag with food, a pint of milk, some fruit, biscuits and energy bars. I step carefully around the mess in the kitchen, taking care not to touch any surfaces, pulling my sleeve over my hand to open the fridge. I’ve been told to leave things as they are until the police can come around to dust for fingerprints and look for other physical evidence.
The house seems both familiar and foreign, a place I used to know better than any other that now bears a permanent stain of intrusion. Another harsh lesson on top of the one I’ve already learned these last few years:what you yearn for, you cannot have. And what you have can be taken from you in an instant.
The Premier Inn is on the edge of a small retail park off the north circular, a bland newbuild for business travellers and people on their way to or from somewhere more interesting. I check in with the bored twenty-something guy on reception and take my things up to a small, boxy room on the first floor. Purple and cream décor, a bed, a desk, a low table and an armchair by the window. Functional. Just the basics, nothing more.
I pull the heavy curtain open. The view is of a small windswept car park, two-thirds empty, chain-link fence backing onto a railway embankment. A white plastic bag circling, tossed around by the wind. The first spots of rain darkening the tarmac. First Tara’s house, now here, every step taking me further from what I know, further from home, from my routine, my life. But I can’t go back, not yet. I have to move forwards, push through and keep on going. Until Mia is safe. Until I’msureshe’s safe.
Unpacking my overnight bag, I lay out what I have on the double bed. Three changes of clothes, a second pair of shoes, phone, charger, a small toiletries bag, my handbag and its various contents. I check through the handbag, pull out the folded muslin cloth and hold it to my nose. Her scent is still there, that beautiful sweet baby smell that makes my chest ache. It’s fading though, and I wonder how much longer it will be before it’s gone for good.
I plug my phone in to charge and type ‘Prestwood Ash’ into Google Maps. The image zooms into south Buckinghamshire, a small collection of streets around a village green, not far from Little Missenden. I switch to satellite view and pinch the screen to zoom out. It’s surrounded by woods and fields, nestled deep in the heart of the Chiltern Hills. Forty minutes by car. Away from London, away from noise and traffic and people. But is it safe? Can it be safe if Dominic knows she’s there, if he’s already tried to get to her? Who else knows?
I need to speak to Dominic again, assuming he hasn’t switched to a new phone already. He told me he was going to dump it but I find the number for his burner phone anyway, the one he used earlier today, and spend a few minutes composing a text, something that might persuade him that he can trust me.
I want to help. Please tell me how to find her. Just the address
No reply. I ring the number, only to be greeted by an automated female voice.
