circling, tossed around by the wind. The first spots of rain darkening the tarmac. First Tara’s house, now here, every step taking me further from what I know, further from home, from my routine, my life. But I can’t go back, not yet. I have to move forwards, push through and keep on going. Until Mia is safe. Until I’m sure she’s safe.
Unpacking my overnight bag, I lay out what I have on the double bed. Three changes of clothes, a second pair of shoes, phone, charger, a small toiletries bag, my handbag and its various contents. I check through the handbag, pull out the folded muslin cloth and hold it to my nose. Her scent is still there, that beautiful sweet baby smell that makes my chest ache. It’s fading though, and I wonder how much longer it will be before it’s gone for good.
I plug my phone in to charge and type ‘Prestwood Ash’ into Google Maps. The image zooms into south Buckinghamshire, a small collection of streets around a village green, not far from Little Missenden. I switch to satellite view and pinch the screen to zoom out. It’s surrounded by woods and fields, nestled deep in the heart of the Chiltern Hills. Forty minutes by car. Away from London, away from noise and traffic and people. But is it safe? Can it be safe if Dominic knows she’s there, if he’s already tried to get to her? Who else knows?
I need to speak to Dominic again, assuming he hasn’t switched to a new phone already. He told me he was going to dump it but I find the number for his burner phone anyway, the one he used earlier today, and spend a few minutes composing a text, something that might persuade him that he can trust me.
I want to help. Please tell me how to find her. Just the address
No reply. I ring the number, only to be greeted by an automated female voice.
‘Sorry, this number is out of service.’
I curse and throw the phone on the bed. He’s likely already destroyed the SIM card and dumped the phone. I suppose I could sit around here and wait for him to contact me again. Or I could take the initiative, get on the front foot. I wasn’t sure of a surname for Mia’s grandparents, but I could start with Clifton and see where that led. I remember a favourite quote of one of the instructors at the Royal Naval College, who taught the leadership element of the officers’ course. A good plan, vigorously executed now, is better than a perfect plan next week. The words have always stuck in my memory for some reason. It’s better to crack on with what you have, rather than waiting and waiting for everything to line up in perfect order. Do I even have a good plan? Maybe not, but I’m certainly not going to sit around in a hotel room waiting for my phone to ring. I grab my keys and coat and head out.
*
As I drive north out of London, I turn the question over in my head. Did I mean what I said to Dominic, when I agreed to talk to Mia’s grandparents? Was I just saying whatever I needed to say, to get away from him in one piece? Maybe. But beneath that there is something else. I want to know if what he said is true, to judge for myself if Mia is safe. I told Dominic I would talk to them – and I will. To warn them. All I have to do is find her.
Prestwood Ash is a small, picture-perfect Chiltern village nestled in a shallow valley. Huge oaks and horse chestnut trees tower on both sides of the road as I approach, branches touching overhead as if I am driving through a dark, forested tunnel. The satnav announces that I’ve reached the village, a speed limit sign urging drivers to stick to twenty miles an hour, the trees giving way to hedgerows, then walls and fences, then a neat village green with large houses set back behind gates and walls. I drive around for a few minutes, taking it slowly, getting a feel for the place. Three and four cars on shaded driveways, Range Rovers and Mercedes, Audis and a couple of Aston Martins. A tennis court in the garden of one house, a triple garage next door, an outdoor pool covered for the winter; landscaped lawns and tall wrought iron