The Secret Mother(37)

I pass a garden centre on my left and it reminds me of work. Of how I’ll have to drive back home this evening if I’m to make it in for tomorrow. Weekends are our busiest times. I wonder how Ben is doing; if his offer of a promotion still stands. If my job still even exists after all the hassle I’ve caused him this week.

The hedgerows give way to a high red-brick wall. I briefly wonder what lies beyond, and then suddenly I’m in the heart of the village. I slow down, taking it all in. A couple of houses, a bookshop on the corner, an old inn, and now a row of terraced houses lines the street. A fire station, a thatched cottage, and here’s another long red-brick wall to my right. Everything is topped with snow – buildings, verges, trees – though the gritted road is thankfully clear.

The satnav tells me to turn off down a narrow lane. All the houses down here are pretty cottages sitting close to the road. Halfway along, my stomach flips and my heart begins to race as the satnav tells me: ‘You have reached your destination.’

Immediately up ahead stands an impressive double-fronted Georgian house, set back from the pavement, with a snow-covered front garden and a cherry-red front door. I worked out Fisher’s address before I left, using a combination of Google Maps and the news-report footage taken outside his home. Now that I’m here in person, I recognise the house instantly. And, even better, the lights are on: he must be home.

Just as I’m about to pull up outside, I’m devastated to see a small crowd huddled together on the opposite side of the road. Not any old crowd – the press. My gut reaction is to slam on the brakes, do a seven-point turn and get out of here. But that would alert them to my presence. Instead, I wind my scarf around my mouth, sink down into my seat and drive past them as fast as I dare without arousing suspicion.

Damn. I should have known they’d still be here, still staking out his place. Their presence has scuppered my unsophisticated plan to go up to Fisher’s front door and ring the bell. The media would love it if they found out I was in Cranborne. Goodness knows what tomorrow’s headlines would be: ‘Child Abductor Back to Try Again!’

This is possibly the worst idea I’ve ever had. What am I doing here? I’m not a reporter or an investigator, I’m a gardener. I don’t do this kind of stuff. Whatever possessed me to think I could do it on my own?

After speeding on down the road, I find myself back out in open countryside once again. I park in a shallow lay-by, turn off the engine and kill the lights. Silence. Flakes of snow melt against the windscreen as the inky dusk gathers outside. What now? Daylight will have disappeared within an hour, tops. I don’t fancy wandering around these empty lanes in the dark. If I’m going to do anything, I’ll have to do it now, before the light goes.

I adjust my scarf until it completely covers the lower part of my face, and pull on my woollen hat so only my eyes and the bridge of my nose are showing. If I can’t go up to the front door and ring the bell, I’ll simply have to find a way around the back.

Before I have the chance to think myself out of it, I get out of the car and begin marching up the road, my feet leaving light prints in the snow. I have to press myself into the hedgerow every time a car whizzes past, spraying grit and slush. The only other person mad enough to be out here walking in this weather is an old boy with a grizzled sheepdog at his side. He says good evening and touches his cap as he passes by. I nod and murmur something that isn’t even a word before continuing on my way back towards the village.

Just before I reach the first house on Fisher’s side of the road, I notice an almost-concealed path winding off to my right. I can’t see where it leads, as it bends around the corner. There are no ‘Private Property’ or ‘Keep Out’ signs. Okay, nothing to lose.

With a brick wall on my left and overhanging trees to my right, I trudge along the narrow path, the soles of my boots squeaking against the snow. I’m reassured to notice other recent footprints, so hopefully I’m on a public right of way and won’t meet an angry farmer brandishing a shotgun.

After a couple of minutes, I reach the end of the boundary wall. The pathway opens up into lush countryside. I stand there for a moment, taken aback by the glorious winter scene – a rolling snow-covered meadow bisected by an avenue of trees. In the far distance, at the end of the trees, sits a huge stately home, like a mirage in the pale light. Ordinarily, I’d love to explore further, but my attention is taken elsewhere, for to my left is exactly what I was hoping to see – a neat row of back gardens. And one of them belongs to James Fisher.





Chapter Eighteen





I quicken my pace and jog down the sloping meadow, past all the other gardens, until I reach the one I want. The largest of the lot. It’s hidden from view by a high wall, but a wrought-iron gate set into it enables me to see through to shivering fruit trees, their branches creaking in the wintry breeze. Beyond that, a snow-covered expanse of garden stretches away up to the house itself. I press the gate latch and push, then pull, but of course it’s locked. The windows at the rear of the house are dark, but through the back door I spy an open interior door leading through to a brightly lit hallway. From this distance, it’s like looking at a perfectly proportioned doll’s house.

I’m confident I can scale this wall. It’s almost shoulder height, and if my arms are strong enough, I might just manage it. I glance around, but can’t see a soul. If I wasn’t so focused on doing this, I’d be completely creeped out being here all alone in the thickening gloom. As it is, I don’t have the luxury of feeling scared. I’ve got to get over this wall.