When You Are Mine(58)

‘That’s because she stole my Christmas pudding recipe.’

‘We have to go,’ I whisper.

I jump down from the roof and Alison lowers Chloe into my outstretched hands. The toddler is less nervous, and her arms go immediately around my neck, clinging to me.

‘Where is your car?’ I ask.

‘I don’t drive. Darren doesn’t let me.’

‘We’ll take my car. Where do your parents live?’

‘In Highgate.’

‘Call them. Tell them you need somewhere to stay.’

With every step we take away from the house, Alison seems to be losing confidence, glancing backwards, wanting to retreat.

‘Nathan,’ she squeaks. ‘He’s still at camp.’

‘Where?’

‘At school.’

‘What time does he finish?’

‘Three.’

‘Who is supposed to pick him up?’

‘Me most days.’ She turns back towards the house. ‘I can’t leave. I have to stay.’

I glance at my phone.

‘We have time. Call the school and say there’s been a family emergency. Tell them a friend is picking up Nathan. Give them my name.’ I open my phone and book an Uber, which is three minutes away. I give Alison the details of the car and driver.

‘I’ll get Nathan,’ I say. ‘I’ll bring him to your parents’ house.’

Moments later, I’m jogging along Kempe Road towards the primary school. As I turn the second corner, I see mothers gathering at the school gates and cars queuing in the kiss and drop zone.

At the school office, the staff are wearing fancy dress, each a different fairytale character. I flash my warrant card to the cheerful receptionist, who is dressed as Cinderella. Her smile fades as quickly as it formed.

‘Is everything all right?’ she asks.

A colleague, Snow White, answers. ‘Mrs Goodall just called. We need to get Nathan from class.’

Cinderella glances at the clock. ‘It’s almost time for pick-up.’

‘I need him now,’ I say.

Huffing in annoyance, she looks for her shoes, which are not glass slippers and are hiding somewhere beneath her desk. After finding them, she struggles to squeeze her feet inside, seeming to relish making me wait.

I follow her across the playground, where groups of children are playing tag or riding scooters around an obstacle course of traffic cones. We enter a separate building where every window is plastered with drawings and paintings and collages. I wait in the corridor, reading out-of-date flyers on a noticeboard about second-hand uniforms and a school choir recital at a local church.

Cinderella reappears with Nathan, who is weighed down by an oversized bag that makes him look like a tortoise.

‘Where’s Mummy?’ he asks with a slight lisp. His foppish fringe falls across one eyebrow and he’s missing a front tooth, which is probably why he’s lisping.

‘She had to take Chloe to your grandparents’ house. We’re going to meet her there.’

‘You mean Nan and Pop.’

‘Right.’

‘I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.’

‘That’s very good advice, but I’m not a stranger. I’m Phil.’

‘Phil is a boy’s name.’

‘It’s short for Philomena. Can I carry that for you?’ I swing his schoolbag over my shoulder.

In that instant the bell rings. Children spill from classrooms, filling the corridors with excited, high-pitched voices.

‘Is there another entrance?’ I ask.

‘Is there a problem?’ asks the assistant.

‘My car is parked on the other side of the school.’

‘I suppose you could use the south gate.’

‘That’s for seniors,’ says Nathan, who is clearly not a rule-breaker.

‘Today you are a big boy.’

We cross the playground, which has painted lines for a netball court and hopscotch grids. More parents are waiting at the gate. I take Nathan’s hand as we weave between shoulders. Children are chatting breathlessly or complaining about being hot, or hungry or exhausted.

My Fiat is parked under the trees collecting fresh splatters of bird shit on the bonnet.

‘Where is my booster seat?’ he asks.

‘I don’t have one.’

‘Is that allowed?’

He’s six years old and sounds like a barrister.

‘I’m a police officer. I can make exceptions.’

‘Can I sit in the front seat?’

‘No.’

‘But you’re a police officer.’

‘And you have to do what I say.’

He sits in the back and clips up his seat belt, but soon changes the subject, talking about how he has to make a shoebox diorama for his dream bedroom, and how his Nan and Pop have a dog called Betsy.

I pull out of the parking spot, but traffic is banked up in either direction because we’re so close to the school.

‘Hey, there’s Daddy,’ says Nathan, waving out the window.

I tell him to duck down but it’s too late. Darren Goodall is walking towards the school. He chooses that moment to glance up and his eyes meet mine. He can’t immediately put a name to my face because I’m so out of place. He smiles and raises his hand, ready to wave, but the penny drops. He looks again. This time he sees Nathan in the back seat.