The Secret Mother(39)

‘Dr Fisher?’ I say warily. I can’t make out his expression. Right now, he’s the one in semi-darkness and I’m the one on display.

Finally, he crosses the rest of the kitchen to get to the back door. I step back as he pushes it open, a waft of warmth and old cooking smells flooding outwards. Seeing him up close like this, I get that feeling again that I’ve seen him before. I give a tentative smile, even though my heart is clattering against my ribs like a freight train.

‘Tessa Markham,’ he says, as though stating a fact.

‘Hi. I’m really sorry for showing up like this. I couldn’t ring your front doorbell because of the press. I didn’t want them to see me. I just… I just wanted you to know that I didn’t take your son.’ I’m gabbling now, but I don’t seem to be able to stop. ‘I wondered if we could talk for a moment. If maybe I could come in.’

Fisher just stares at me like I’m deranged.

‘I’m sorry,’ I add, ‘but do we know each other from somewhere? I’m sure I recognise you. Not from the papers, from somewhere else.’

‘No,’ he says. ‘I don’t know you.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Don’t come here and question me!’ he snarls.

I take a step backwards, shocked by his twisted facial expression.

‘You took my boy!’ he booms. ‘What the hell are you doing here in my garden? I’ll bloody well have you arrested. You’ve caused me and Harry so much pain. Do you have any idea…?’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say with a shocked sob. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you, I just needed to explain. And to find out what Harry was doing in my—’

‘Don’t you dare talk to me about my son! My wife has just died,’ he cries, ‘and then you… you took him. Get out of here and don’t ever come back!’

I don’t wait to be told twice. I turn and stagger back up the garden, shocked at Fisher’s switch from calm confusion to blistering anger. It takes me four attempts to claw and heave myself to the top of the wall. As I’m hauling myself upwards, I’m terrified he’s going to come after me, tear me down and begin yelling at me again. Or worse.

I can’t imagine why I thought this would be a good idea. Of course this man whose child went missing wouldn’t want to speak to me – the only suspect. I must have been crazy to believe he would entertain the idea of letting me into his house. Am I crazy? Is that it? Right now, I understand that coming here was not the action of an entirely sane person. I was already under suspicion of taking Harry. Now… now what must Fisher think of me, creeping up to his back door like a thief or a murderer? I should never have come. Am I losing my mind? Is the reason I recognise him because I’ve seen him before with Harry? Did I do something bad? If I did, why can’t I remember?

I’m still clinging to the top of the wall. My legs are shaking, and I think I’m in shock. Fisher’s anger has pierced my body like a physical wound. I somehow manage to drop down from the wall back into the dark meadow, and run up the hill until my lungs give out. It takes me a few minutes of lurching back and forth to locate the pathway onto the road.

Back at my hire car I fumble for the keys, wrench open the door and fall inside. My breathing is louder in here, ragged and harsh. I wipe the tears from my cheeks and lay my head on the steering wheel as shock and fear work their way through me.



* * *



Some time later, I don’t know when, I start up the car and begin the long drive back to London in a state of exhausted numbness. Again I wonder what possessed me to come here. Bloody Carly, getting my hopes up. Making me believe I could find answers. I should never have listened to her. Now I’ve gone and made things ten times worse.

I reach the outskirts of London at around 7.30, but it feels far, far later. When I finally get to Barnet, my stomach begins to knot at the thought of running the gauntlet again. What if the press have somehow found out I’ve been to Cranborne? No. How would they know? They couldn’t. Not unless Fisher told them, and I get the feeling that he is as likely to speak to the press as he is to invite me to stay for a long weekend.

Nosing the car into my road, I try to mentally prepare myself for the familiar sight of journalists, but I still can’t stop my stomach giving an almighty lurch when I see them in the street – more of them than ever, milling about, leaning against walls, smoking, chatting. And worse than that, parked right outside my house is a car with blue-and-white flashing headlights.

The police are here.





Chapter Nineteen





I park up about a hundred yards from my house and sit for a moment gathering my limited energy for whatever lies ahead, wishing I could just curl up and fall asleep in the car. It’s a tempting thought, but the police are there, waiting. If I don’t come out now, they’ll catch up with me eventually. And if one of the journalists were to spot me sleeping, I’d be surrounded in no time. No, I’ll just have to be brave.

I hold my breath and open the door, stepping out onto the icy pavement and heading towards my dark, sad-looking house with its overgrown garden and boarded-up first-floor window. It’s only a few seconds before one of the journalists notices me and strides my way, a hungry look on his face. Almost as one, the rest of them turn like a pack of wolves and begin eagerly filming me and snapping away on their cameras.