The Secret Mother(8)
‘I’ve got time for a chat, if you like?’
‘Ah, thanks, but it’s nothing really,’ I reply. I don’t have the energy to talk about what’s happened. Especially not with my boss. The last thing I need is for him to think I’m some kind of attention-seeker who brings her problems to work. ‘But thanks for the offer,’ I add.
‘No problem. Well, you know where I am if you ever need an ear.’
I smile. ‘Thanks again for these.’ I raise the coffee and pastry in his direction.
He returns my smile, then turns away, heading back in the direction of his office.
After wolfing down my unexpected breakfast, I carry on pruning the wisteria. I’m itching to call the police station, but it’s already ten o’clock and I still haven’t got anything done this morning. I’ll finish the pergola, check the tree stakes and ties, then break for lunch at one.
Despite the lack of customers, the next three hours pass by surprisingly quickly. We’ve only had a handful of shoppers through this morning, but it’s to be expected on such a damp Monday. Give it a day or two and the place will be heaving with people buying Christmas decorations and winter plants to adorn their houses before their friends and families descend to celebrate with them. I try not to think about previous Christmases, when I was one of those customers getting excited about making my house beautiful and welcoming. These days, I watch it all going on around me. Detached. Like watching a TV programme about a strange and foreign society that I’m not a part of.
Sitting on a stool in the greenhouse, I’m waiting to be put through to one of the officers who took Harry away last night. The windows have steamed up in here, but through a hazy patch in the glass I can just make out two of my work colleagues eating their sandwiches on a bench at the far end of the nursery. Jez, the head gardener, and Carolyn who runs the shop. They’re both pleasant enough, but I haven’t really taken the time to get to know them in the nine months I’ve been working here. I guess I’ve been keeping myself to myself – I prefer it that way.
‘Mrs Markham?’
My heart thuds at the efficient-sounding female voice on the other end of the phone. ‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘I’m Tessa Markham.’
‘Hello, this is Detective Sergeant Abi Chibuzo. I came to your house last night after you called us.’
‘Hi.’
‘Do you have some more information for us?’ she asks.
‘Um, no, not really. I’m just calling to find out if Harry has been reunited with his family. You don’t have to tell me the specifics, obviously, but I just wanted to—’
‘I’m really sorry, but like we said yesterday, we can’t give out any information relating to Harry at this time.’
I knew deep down that they wouldn’t be able to give me any news, but I’m still utterly disappointed.
‘But,’ she continues, ‘I’m glad you called. We’d like you to come in to go over what happened yesterday. Can you come down to the station? We need to ask you a few more questions.’
My heart thuds and my forehead grows hot. ‘You want me to come to the police station? When?’
‘Is now convenient?’
I suppose if I have to speak to them, I’d rather get it out of the way now than have it hanging over me, but the thought fills me with dread. ‘Now? Um, yes, okay. I’m on my lunch break. How long will it take?’
‘We can’t say for sure. The station address is on the card we gave you.’
The card rests on my knee, but I don’t need to look at the address, I already know where it is. Just a short distance if I walk quickly.
I rise to my feet. ‘Okay. I can be there in ten, fifteen minutes.’
‘Great. Ask for me at the front desk,’ she says. ‘DS Chibuzo.’
‘Okay, thanks. Bye.’
I gather up my bag and phone, and go to find Ben.
Moretti’s was constructed around a pair of beautiful seventeenth-century semi-detached red-brick alms houses. Ben lives in one of them, and runs his business out of the other, which consists of a small café and shop downstairs, and his office and storerooms upstairs. I climb the stairs two at a time to find him sitting at his desk, squinting at a sheet of paper, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.
‘I’m going to have to get a new prescription,’ he says without looking up. ‘These numbers are just a blur.’
‘Good excuse not to pay the bills,’ I quip.
‘Hmm, I wish.’ He looks up and smiles, tossing the paper back onto his desk. ‘Everything okay?’
‘I need to go out for lunch,’ I say, unwilling to tell him why. ‘Thing is, I might be a bit late back. But I can make up the time. Is that okay?’
‘Sure, no problem. We’re not exactly rushed off our feet.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It’s fine.’ He gives me a smile and waves me away. ‘Go. Eat lunch. Have fun.’
If only he knew.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting in an interview room with the same two officers who came to my house last night – Detective Sergeant Abi Chibuzo and Detective Constable Tim Marshall. It’s all very official and serious, with a table and chairs, and a recording device. There’s a plastic cup of water on the table in front of me. My hands are clammy and a pulse throbs behind my right ear.