How the hell did I manage to get stopped by a proud first-time father?
“Good old Sophie!” I jigged Reggie on my hip. He let out a little squawk. “I’d better get him in.”
The police officer looked at Reggie. “Poor little lad is probably cold.” Was he now looking at me with actual judgment? Assessing my parenting? He leaned to look over my shoulder at our minivan.
“Poonami!” I cried out, trying to turn his attention back to me. “Annihilated his clothes.”
“Of course.” His face relaxed. “Unbelievable how much can come out of them.” The second police officer was now out of the shop and heading toward their car.
“Is he about four months? How many hours is he managing between feeds?”
I gritted my teeth. “Three, sometimes four. I’m too tired to count.”
“We need to go!” shouted the other officer. He looked a good fifteen years older than the proud dad.
“Just comparing nightly routines!”
The other officer muttered something under his breath as he got into the driver’s seat.
“We’re on four to five hours now,” the man said. “And once he even slept through the night. I—”
Reggie let out a small cry at the fact I’d stopped jigging him. “I’d better get him home.” I turned toward our van. “Have a good night!”
I had to hope the officer wasn’t watching me leave—or that if he was, my body was blocking his view of the blood smear.
“You too!”
As I got to our boot, I pulled a baby wipe out of the pack and swiped at the blood smear, standing in a way that would shield it from view.
I heard the slam of a car door and the sound of the engine starting. I stood perfectly still, head down staring into the shopping bag on the crook of my arm. Reggie on my hip let out a little gurgle. I kissed his head as I heard the car passing behind us. I waited a beat and then looked up to see them joining the motorway. I slumped back against the boot and took several deep breaths, then put the bag on the ground as I opened the door to the backseat.
Fox leaned round to look at me. His face was ashen. “What the hell was he talking to you about?”
“New father.” I strapped Reggie back into his car seat.
“Do you think he suspected anything?”
I held up the bloodied baby wipe that I’d hidden in my sleeve. “This was streaked on the back of the boot. I just cleaned it off. They didn’t see.”
“How did that get there? God, what’s happened to us? You’d better check there’s not any more of it.”
I shut the door and went round to the boot. Looking it over, there were no other marks, tiny or otherwise. I opened the boot slowly and peered inside. Most of the space was taken up by a tightly rolled black tarpaulin. The top had come a little loose. It had been a windy road. The very top of Clark Dixon’s bloodied head was now visible. I pushed it back inside the tarp. It didn’t look like anything had been dripping onto the interior. That was a relief—it had only been reupholstered last month. I dropped the petrol station bag into the boot next to him and slammed it shut.
“All clear,” I said, climbing into the passenger seat. I shook my head. “We must’ve been distracted loading him in and not noticed his hand had smeared on the boot. We had a lot to think about.”
I glanced back at Reggie.
“This is exactly why we should never bring a baby to dump a body!” grumbled Fox as he started the engine. The sounds of “Wheels on the Bus” once again pained our ears.
“We’re working parents doing the best we can.” I took a Twixout of my hoodie pocket and ripped it open. I handed him one finger and kept the other. “Now, let’s get this fucker buried so we can get to bed.”
We both took a bite of chocolate as Fox pulled out onto a quiet motorway.
Chapter Three
February 28
7:35 a.m.: Male subject came out of the back door of his house wheeling a large black bin. Male was approached by white male in his 60s (confirmed ID Barry Fenton, next-door neighbor, head of Neighborhood Watch). Microphone picked up below exchange:
