booze, drugs and other risky behaviour. She never felt comfortable in that environment, and now that she’s a mum … well, it’s out of the question.
She stands up and tries to shake herself free of her mood. This will not do. Maybe it’s not a confidante she needs; maybe it’s just a bit of adult company. The mums from her antenatal class are meeting up this Thursday for lunch. Maybe she’ll go along – if she feels up to it and Mabel is behaving herself. It would please George and might even make her feel better too.
Chapter Eight
Three Days before
I can’t stop thinking about Mabel, even though five days have passed since I held her in my arms. The key to her home is on a piece of string around my neck, resting against my heart. I haven’t taken my necklace off once, not to wash or shower or sleep. At night, I lie in the darkness running my finger along its sharp, serrated edge. I know every nick and turn of the cut. If I were a locksmith, I could make a perfect copy from memory.
It was about three in the morning, the dead of night, when I let myself into number 74, tiptoeing up the stairs in the darkness, feeling my way to the nursery. First I turned off the baby monitor. Mabel’s eyes opened as I lifted her out of her cot, but she was still half asleep and didn’t cry out as I carried her into the kitchen. Finding a feed already made up in the fridge, I warmed the bottle under the tap, then sat in the chair with her on my lap. She seemed hungry and I let her drink her fill. When she’d finished, I laid her against my shoulder and rubbed her back until she let out a tiny ladylike burp.
She was so tired and full of milk she hardly moved or made a sound as I walked around with her, trying not to make the floorboards creak, whispering words of love in her ear. I felt her growing heavier and heavier with sleep. She was as good as gold for me, the little darling, didn’t so much as whimper when I laid her back in the cot. I can still smell her baby scent, still feel her soft rose-petal skin, still taste the sweetness when I kissed her on her forehead and wished her sweet dreams. How I long to do all that again.
But I’m worried. Amber and George must know by now that the key has gone missing. Maybe the babysitter remembered that she stupidly left it in the door and, finding it gone, raised the alarm. Assuming she confessed her mistake, the locks could have been changed by now, rendering my treasure utterly useless; crumbling my plans to dust.
I have to know if my key still works. I’ve been busy these past few days but there’s still so much to do: preparations to complete, equipment to buy, false trails to lay, tracks to be covered. I don’t want all the effort and expense to be wasted because I can’t get into the house. Nor could I bear the disappointment of being so close to the finish line and falling at the final hurdle.
I should probably wait until the middle of the night to visit, but now I’ve decided to take the risk, I feel impatient to get going. It’s Thursday morning. I don’t know what Amber’s plan is for the day; most mornings she makes a short trip out, but sometimes she stays in, hunkering down on her unhappiness. I could have a long wait in the cold, but that’s fine – better than fretting in the warmth of home.
Dressing in my most anonymous clothes – jeans, hoodie, a dark scarf around my face to keep out the winter chill – I catch the bus to Lilac Park. I take a seat on the top deck and stare out of the window, not making eye contact with my fellow passengers. My nerves are as jagged as the key; I have to stuff my hands in my pockets to stop myself fiddling with the string necklace.
I get off at the stop before the park and walk up William Morris Terrace. My heart is beating as fast as it did last Saturday. Number 74 is at the end, just before the corner. I cross over to walk on the other side of the road, glancing up as I pass the house.