going there is to delay going back to the flat. The deadline she gave Lewis elapsed hours ago; he should be long gone, but what if he’s still there, waiting for her? Her nerve endings feel raw and exposed; she can’t take another bout of emotional outpourings.
The café is busy with people having Sunday brunch. The rough wooden tables are full and there’s a queue of hopefuls crowding at the counter. As she surveys the scene, a memory stabs her in the gut – this is where she came with Lewis after the first night he stayed over at her flat. They were in that embarrassing loved-up phase, constantly stroking and pecking lips, unable to leave each other alone. She remembers holding hands across the table while they waited for their veggie sausages, beans and hash browns. With a sudden loss of appetite, she turns on her heel and leaves.
Fortunately, the media are no longer camped outside her block. Since the reconstruction yesterday, attention has been refocused on Lilac Park. Or maybe the journalists are bored with Missing Mabel and have moved on to new stories. Either way, she’s thankful to be able to get through the metal gates unmolested. She wheels the bike down the path, feeling more and more apprehensive as she approaches the flat. Please don’t let him still be there.
Heart in mouth, she pushes open the front door and walks into the hallway. Silence greets her and she lets out a sigh of relief, only for the breath to catch immediately as she sees two large rucksacks stacked outside the bedroom door.
‘Lewis?’ she calls. ‘Lewis! Why haven’t you left?’ Bubbles of anger immediately rise to the surface and she goes into the kitchen, then back across the hallway towards the sitting room. ‘I thought we agreed you’d be gone by—’
She stops in her tracks and gasps. Lewis is lying motionless on the floor, his clothes dishevelled, limbs askew. His face is covered in purple bruises and dark, sticky blood is pooling around his head.
Ruby recoils in horror, then a sense of urgency kicks in. She rushes forward and crouches down at his side. He doesn’t seem to be breathing. Hands trembling, she reaches for her phone.
‘Who did this to you?’ she whispers as she dials 999. But Lewis can’t answer. And besides, she already knows.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Day Eight without Mabel
Amber opens the fridge and takes out a half-drunk bottle of white wine. It’s been sitting there for over a week and will probably taste like vinegar, but she doesn’t care. She needs alcohol to dull the pain that’s emanating from every nerve. Pouring herself a full glass, she knocks it back in one go, coughing as it whooshes down. As she guessed, it tastes disgusting.
How the media would love to get this shot of her, she thinks bitterly as she refills. Mabel’s Mummy Hits the Bottle. They are gathered outside again, fewer of them today, but still enough to be a nuisance. A small number of rubberneckers are there too, almost constantly pointing their phone cameras at the house. And at last they were rewarded for their patience. When George stormed out – three hours ago now – there was a great frenzy of excitement. Reporters and photographers clustered around him, firing questions as he tried to get into his car. She was watching from the bathroom window, fingers parting the slatted blinds, praying that he wouldn’t rise to their bait. But he was already way out of control. He swore violently at the throng and deliberately bashed the driver’s door into one of the photographers. Then he screeched off at high speed. All caught on camera, of course. It’s probably already been posted on social media, accompanied by wild speculation.
After George drove away, journalists crowded at the door and rang the bell several times. Somebody even shouted through the letter box, asking for Amber’s side of the story. As if … She ignored them and eventually they retreated to the pavement, but now she daren’t step outside the door.
A searing pain stabs her between the eyes. Oh, this is all too much. If the press finds out, they will make mincemeat of all four of them; the headlines will be lurid and vile. Worst of all, it will take attention away from the search for Mabel. That’s the only thing that really matters. Her baby is with a stranger – who knows what they’re doing to her? She may not even be alive. Violent images start