When You Are Mine(57)

‘Who?’

Alison’s chest heaves and a sob starts so deep inside her that it emerges as a long moan.

‘Where is Chloe?’ I ask anxiously.

‘Asleep.’ She sniffles. ‘He held her over the banister by her ankles. He threatened to …’ She can’t finish. ‘I packed a suitcase, like you said. And I’ve been saving money. Hiding it. He gives me an allowance every month. It’s not much, but I’ve saved bits and pieces. My escape fund.’

‘Where were you planning to go?’

‘My sister lives in Brighton. But Darren has threatened to have her arrested. She’s scared.’

‘I can take you to a shelter.’

‘He’ll find me.’

‘What about your parents?’

‘That’s the first place he’ll look.’

‘But you’ll be safe there. You can take out a restraining order.’

‘He’ll kill me. He’ll kill all of us.’

‘I won’t let that happen.’

Alison raises her head. Her hair drops away from her eyes.

‘You helped that other woman. I don’t know her name.’

She means Tempe. ‘How did you know about her?’

‘I found messages on his phone. Darren denied it, of course. He thinks you’re hiding her. Is she safe?’

‘Yes,’ I say, hopefully.

‘Can you do the same for me?’

I lower the mail flap and step back from the door. The bay window is double-glazed or triple-glazed. It won’t break easily. The upper windows are too high to reach without a ladder. I can hear Henry’s voice, telling me that I can’t save every battered wife and abused girlfriend. But this woman, this mother, needs me and this is why I became a police officer. The system has betrayed Alison, my system, the one I swore an oath to uphold. What good are laws to protect the vulnerable if nobody will enforce them?

The house has a side gate leading to the rear garden. I tell Alison to meet me round the back. Following the side path, past rubbish bins and recycling tubs and a bicycle with a baby seat, I reach the rear garden, which is long and narrow with paving stones forming a barbecue area flanked by shrubs. The back door has small glass panels on the upper half and an old-style deadlock. I could smash the glass, but I couldn’t break the door open without an axe or sledgehammer.

Alison appears at the kitchen window, watching me, as I search for some means of forcing the door open. I point to an upstairs window, shouting, ‘Is that a bedroom?’

She nods.

The sash window is directly above the kitchen extension, which has a flat roof and a row of skylights. The drop is only about seven feet.

I point upstairs and shout, ‘Meet me at the window.’

The garden has a decorative wheelbarrow, painted white and filled with potted plants. I drag it closer to the wall and push pots aside. Stepping onto the barrow, I wedge one foot into the space between the downpipe and the brick wall and reach higher, grabbing the gutter and pulling myself onto the flat bitumen roof.

Alison is at the window. She has Chloe in her arms. She undoes the keylocks and slides the sash window to the top of the frame.

‘Pass her to me.’

Chloe clings more tightly to her neck.

‘It’s OK, sweet-pea. It’s an adventure.’

Chloe squirms and complains but allows herself to be lowered into my arms. I feel the padding of her nappy and the softness of her hair against my cheek. It’s only when I smile at her that I notice the bruise on her cheek.

Alison looks at the drop and hesitates. ‘Do you have your wallet and car keys?’ I ask.

‘I’ll get them.’

‘Also, your passport and birth certificates for the kids.’

‘Why?’

‘Proof of identity.’

She disappears and I bounce Chloe on my hip. She puts her thumb into her mouth and studies me as though she’s considering crying but hasn’t made up her mind.

Alison reappears. This time she pushes a small suitcase through the window and lowers it down to me. There is a second case, but it’s too big to fit through the window. She leaves it behind and climbs out, one leg at a time, turning onto her stomach as she scrabbles blindly with her toes, searching for a foothold. I help direct her feet and hold her steady until we’re all standing together on the flat roof, looking across neighbouring gardens.

‘Everything all right?’ asks a female voice.

An elderly neighbour is peering up at us. She’s holding a watering can in both hands and is blinking over the top of her sunglasses.

‘Fine thank you, Mrs Purnell,’ says Alison.

‘What are you doing up there?’

‘We’re considering an extension. This is my … my …’

‘Architect,’ I say.

The old woman’s face folds into creases. ‘You’ll need planning permission. Paul will most likely complain.’

‘How is Mr Purnell?’

‘He only has the one setting: grumpy.’ Mrs Purnell seems keen to chat. ‘People want such big houses nowadays – a room for every child. When I was growing up, I shared a room with my sister. Did me no harm. Made us closer.’

‘You don’t talk to your sister,’ says Alison.