The Light Between Oceans(68)

The policeman grabbed the child and took her away, screaming and struggling. The shrill cries rang throughout the station, reaching as far as Tom’s cell, where they seemed even louder as he imagined what might be happening to her.



In Knuckey’s office, Spragg replaced the receiver and scowled at his Partageuse counterpart. ‘All right. You’ve got your way for now …’ Hoisting up his belt, he changed tactics. ‘The woman should be in the cells too, as far as I’m concerned. She’s probably in it up to her neck.’

‘I’ve known that girl all her life, Sergeant,’ said Knuckey. ‘She never so much as missed church. You heard Tom Sherbourne’s story: sounds like she’s his victim too.’

‘His story! I’m telling you, she’s not all butter wouldn’t melt. Let me at him on my own and we’ll soon find out how that Roennfeldt chap really died …’

Knuckey was well aware of Spragg’s reputation in that department too, but overlooked the comment. ‘Look. I don’t know Sherbourne from a bar of soap. Could be Jack the Ripper, for all I can tell. If he’s guilty, he’s for the high jump. But locking up his wife for the hell of it’s not going to help anyone, so just hold your horses. You know as well as I do that a married woman isn’t criminally responsible for anything her husband makes her do.’ He lined up a stack of papers with the corner of his blotter. ‘This is a small town. Mud sticks. You don’t throw a girl in the cells unless you’re pretty bloody sure of your facts. So we’ll take it a step at a time.’

Once the thin-lipped Sergeant Spragg had stalked out of the station, Knuckey entered the examination room and re-emerged with Lucy.

‘The doctor’s given her the all-clear,’ he said, then he lowered his voice. ‘We’re going to take the child to her mother now, Isabel. I’d be grateful if you didn’t make it any harder on anyone than it has to be. So if you – if you’d like to say goodbye to her?’

‘Please! Don’t do this!’

‘Don’t make things worse.’ Vernon Knuckey, who for years had observed the plight of Hannah Roennfeldt, sure she was basking in a sad delusion, now looked at this woman and wondered the same thing.

Believing she was back safe in her mother’s arms, the child gripped her tight as Isabel kissed her cheek, unable to take her lips away from the soft skin. Harry Garstone put his hands around the girl’s waist and yanked at her.

Even though everything in the past twenty-four hours had been leading to this, even though it was a fear Isabel had harboured from the day she had first laid eyes on Lucy as a baby, still, the moment ripped through her.

‘Please!’ she pleaded through tears. ‘Have some pity!’ Her voice reverberated around the bare walls. ‘Don’t take my baby away!’

As the girl was wrenched from her screaming, Isabel fainted onto the stone floor with a resounding crack.



Hannah Roennfeldt could not sit still. She consulted her watch, the mantel clock, her sister – anyone who could tell her how much time had passed. The boat had set out for Janus yesterday morning, and each minute since then had inched uphill like Sisyphus.

It was almost unbelievable that she might soon hold her daughter again. Since the news of the rattle, she had daydreamed about her return. The hugs. The tears. The smiles. She had picked frangipani blossoms from the garden and put them in the nursery, so that the scent filled the little cottage. Smiling and humming, she dusted and cleaned, and sat the dolls up on the chest of drawers. Then doubts would dart in: what would she eat? This had prompted her to send Gwen shopping for apples and milk and sweets. Before her sister returned, Hannah suddenly wondered whether she should be giving the child something else. She, who hardly ate, went next door to Mrs Darnley, who had five little ones, to check what she should feed a child Grace’s age. Fanny Darnley, always keen to have a tale to tell, immediately let slip to Mr Kelly at the grocer’s that Hannah had gone completely mad and was catering for ghosts, for word had not yet got around. ‘You don’t like to speak ill of your neighbours, but – well, there’s a reason why we have lunatic asylums, isn’t there? I’m not keen on someone who’s a shingle short living so close to my kids. You’d feel the same in my place.’



The telephone call had been perfunctory. ‘You’d best come down in person, Mr Graysmark. We’ve got your daughter here.’

Bill Graysmark arrived at the police station that afternoon in a state of confusion. With the phone call, his mind had jumped straight to a vision of Isabel’s body lying on a slab, awaiting collection. He had hardly heard the rest of the words that came through the newly connected telephone: death was the most obvious conclusion to jump to. Not a third child. He could not have lost all his children – surely God would not allow that? His mind could make no sense of words about the Roennfeldt baby, and something scrambled about Tom and a body.

At the station he was ushered into a back room, where his daughter sat on a wooden chair, her hands on her lap. He had been so convinced of her death that at the sight of her, tears came to his eyes.

‘Isabel. Isabubba!’ he whispered, pulling her up with a hug. ‘I thought I’d never see you again.’

It took him a few seconds to notice her peculiar state: she did not hug him back; she did not look at him. She slumped down again in the chair, lifeless and pale.