The Whole Truth

He smiles at her. She has no interest in men, but she can see why other women might go for him. The dark hair, the hazel eyes. She finds herself thinking – irrelevantly – that he’d probably look pretty good in a suit; he doesn’t look that bad even in an old trackie top and joggers.

‘Hi,’ he says.

* * *

Ben is standing white-faced on the doorstep, watching as the ambulance pulls away.

‘Is she going to be OK?’ he asks in a small voice.

Nell reaches out and puts an arm around his shoulders, faking a confidence she doesn’t feel.

‘Of course she is. And apparently I have a hero for a son – phoning for the ambulance like that. Well done, you.’

His lip is trembling a little. ‘She just asked me to phone 999. I didn’t really do anything.’

She squeezes his shoulder. ‘Yes, you did. And she’ll be really grateful. Just you wait.’

He hangs his head. ‘It was horrible, Mum. She was breathing funny, and it really hurt, I could tell, and the bed was all wet –’

She grasps him to her, stroking his back. ‘It’s OK, darling,’ she whispers. ‘I know it looks frightening if you haven’t seen it before, but that’s just what happens when a baby is coming.’

He’s trying not to cry. She kisses the top of his head. ‘You were very brave and I am very proud of you. And I’m so so sorry I wasn’t here.’

He sniffs, pulls away. ‘It’s OK.’ He smiles, a little wobbly. ‘It was my fault, wanting the Cheerios.’

She puts her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh Lord, I left the car running.’ She glances down the street – the car’s door is open and the lights on, but at least someone hasn’t nicked it. Gerry’s going to be pissed off enough about the prang. It would have to be the Wilders’ SUV, now wouldn’t it.

‘I’m just going to get the shopping –’

She’s turning to go when Ben grabs her sleeve. ‘She wanted you to phone someone called Gislingham. She wrote down his number.’

‘Don’t worry, darling,’ she says, turning her collar up against the rain. ‘I’ll do it as soon as I’ve sorted the car.’

‘No,’ he says, surprisingly insistent. ‘She said it was urgent – it’s about Uncle Adam being arrested.’

She starts; the children weren’t supposed to know about that. Not yet, anyway. Not while there’s still some hope it’s all just some ghastly misunderstanding.

‘She made me promise,’ Ben’s saying. ‘She said she’s found something out.’

She stares at him. ‘What are you talking about? Found out? Found out what?’

He looks down, shrugs. ‘I don’t know. She said it was too difficult to explain. But it was all on her notepad. That you should look at that. And tell this person Gislingham. She said he’d know what to do.’

She frowns. ‘OK. So you really do think it’s important?’

He looks up at her, his brown eyes serious. ‘Yeah. I think it is.’

* * *

9 July 2018, 9.27p.m.

‘I’m collecting for UNICEF,’ he says, holding out the card he’d held up at the peephole for her to see. ‘The Children of Syria Appeal. Would you consider making –’

‘But I know you, right?’ she says, interrupting him. ‘You run at Shotover, Saturday mornings?’

He starts, then recognition dawns. ‘You helped me out a couple of weeks ago – when that little kid fell over on the path and started screaming the place down? Poor little beggar, heaven only knows where his mum had got to.’

She smiles. ‘I remember – you were really good with him.’

He grins. ‘Had a lot of practice. Not with my own,’ he says quickly. ‘But I’ve had to take care of my brother’s kids. You know, when he couldn’t be around.’

His face had become serious, but he smiles again now. ‘How about that? Coincidence, eh?’

She holds out her hand for the charity envelope. ‘If you wait here a minute, I’ll go and get my purse.’

* * *

When Gislingham’s phone goes, he’s standing at the coffee machine, trying to work out the least-worst option. Needs must: it’s definitely not a day to be going outside. He stares at the screen, frowns. He doesn’t recognize the number.

‘DS Gislingham – hello?’

He can’t make out what she’s saying at first – it’s all in a rush, and breathless, and half panicked – but when he gets her to slow down, the first word that registers is a name.

Adam.

* * *

9 July 2018, 9.45 p.m.

RAGE

Rage and fear and frustration at her idiocy, her absolute and total stupidity

How could she have been so bloody naive?

She shouldn’t have had that wine

She shouldn’t have opened the door

He knew she wouldn’t let him in – not unless she recognized him, not unless she knew his face

He made her think he was harmless – he made her think he was like her – a runner – someone who cares about kids

The UNICEF envelope, Shotover, that charade with the boy – all of it – it was all deliberate

He wasn’t running there by accident all those weeks – he was there because she was

How long has he been planning this?

She struggles again, trying to dislodge the gag, loosen her wrists, her ankles. Whatever he’s tied her with is soft against her skin but wire underneath. It will not move.