how hard she drew at it, it refused to come back.
A tap on her door.
'Emma?' Lindsay's dark head peeped around. 'Are you feeling any better? DI Hill would like a word before he leaves.'
Something in Lindsay's voice made Emma sit up.
'What's wrong? Something's happened, hasn't it?'
'No, no.' Lindsay wouldn't look at her. 'Nothing's happened. It's just a few more questions. If you could come to the sitting-room for a moment.'
Emma fumbled, trying to get her legs out from under the duvet. Now what? She managed to escape from the bed and followed Lindsay out into the hall.
'Please.' Lindsay held the door open to the sitting-room.
'Come and sit down.'
Lindsay accompanied Emma to the couch and gently pressed her shoulder until she sat, before taking a seat beside her. Detective Inspector Hill squashed himself between the arms of the chair opposite. He looked so enormous, sitting there. Ritchie, who was fascinated by men, would have gazed at him in awe. At this giant, who could have fitted little Ritchie twice over into one of his pockets without anyone even noticing he was there.
Lindsay touched Emma's hand.
'Try not to take this personally,' she said. 'Sooner or later, we ask this to almost every family in your situation.'
'Ask them what ?'
Detective Hill cleared his throat. He said, 'I was intending to discuss this with you earlier, before we were interrupted by Mr Townsend. I had a long talk with your GP this morning. When we were looking through Ritchie's medical records.'
'My GP?' Emma was confused. What did Dr
Stanford have to do with this?
Detective Hill leaned forward. He clasped his huge hands in front of him.
'Ms Turner,' he said, 'I'm sorry, but I have to ask you. Is there any chance at all that you may have done something to your son?'
Emma stared at him.
'I don't understand,' she said. Her cheeks grew hot.
'Ritchie's been kidnapped. You know he has. Why are you asking me this?'
'Dr Stanford has told us a few things,' Detective
Hill said. 'She was reluctant to do so, but given that you had allowed us to view the records, she felt she had no choice. She thinks you may not be telling us the truth about all of this.' He paused. 'In fact, based on a visit you paid to her recently, she's worried that you may have harmed Ritchie.'
Ha-ha-harmed. The Ha sucked in her chest. You may have Harmed Ritchie .
'Emma?' Detective Hill's eyes were very cold. They bulged at her, laser-blue. 'Do you remember your last visit to Dr Stanford, eleven days ago?'
'My last—'
A fizz rose in Emma's belly. In a second, she was back there in the surgery. The lurid coughs from the waiting-room. The gravel-rattle of rain on the window. The stench of socks and antiseptic.
The expression on Dr Stanford's face. Sitting there, so shocked and upright behind her desk.
Emma hunched forward until her elbows were on her knees. She put her hands to her face.
'Do you remember?' Detective Hill was saying.
'Do you remember what you told Dr Stanford that day?'
In a low voice, Emma said, 'Yes. Yes, I remember.'
So, at least, now she knew. The reason they weren't taking her seriously. From the balcony came a seagull-like cry.
Oh Ritchie. Ritchie. What have I done?
Lindsay was pulling at her, trying to take her hand.
Her face was a blur of smoothness, all professional concern. But her thoughts sprang at Emma as clearly as if she'd spoken them aloud:
And here we were feeling sorry for you! What kind of mother are you?
Emma kept her face covered . She couldn't look at
Lindsay. She turned away.
Chapter Six
From the first, Ritchie had Oliver's smile, and every time she saw it Emma's heart skipped a beat. Ritchie was a solemn child; the smile usually had to be coaxed out of him, often appearing around a fist or a toy or a rusk in his mouth, but it was there. Some day, some woman was going to be floored by that smile, and Emma didn't know whether to pity her or envy her.
Because, of course, it was that smile that had stopped her in her
A tap on her door.
'Emma?' Lindsay's dark head peeped around. 'Are you feeling any better? DI Hill would like a word before he leaves.'
Something in Lindsay's voice made Emma sit up.
'What's wrong? Something's happened, hasn't it?'
'No, no.' Lindsay wouldn't look at her. 'Nothing's happened. It's just a few more questions. If you could come to the sitting-room for a moment.'
Emma fumbled, trying to get her legs out from under the duvet. Now what? She managed to escape from the bed and followed Lindsay out into the hall.
'Please.' Lindsay held the door open to the sitting-room.
'Come and sit down.'
Lindsay accompanied Emma to the couch and gently pressed her shoulder until she sat, before taking a seat beside her. Detective Inspector Hill squashed himself between the arms of the chair opposite. He looked so enormous, sitting there. Ritchie, who was fascinated by men, would have gazed at him in awe. At this giant, who could have fitted little Ritchie twice over into one of his pockets without anyone even noticing he was there.
Lindsay touched Emma's hand.
'Try not to take this personally,' she said. 'Sooner or later, we ask this to almost every family in your situation.'
'Ask them what ?'
Detective Hill cleared his throat. He said, 'I was intending to discuss this with you earlier, before we were interrupted by Mr Townsend. I had a long talk with your GP this morning. When we were looking through Ritchie's medical records.'
'My GP?' Emma was confused. What did Dr
Stanford have to do with this?
Detective Hill leaned forward. He clasped his huge hands in front of him.
'Ms Turner,' he said, 'I'm sorry, but I have to ask you. Is there any chance at all that you may have done something to your son?'
Emma stared at him.
'I don't understand,' she said. Her cheeks grew hot.
'Ritchie's been kidnapped. You know he has. Why are you asking me this?'
'Dr Stanford has told us a few things,' Detective
Hill said. 'She was reluctant to do so, but given that you had allowed us to view the records, she felt she had no choice. She thinks you may not be telling us the truth about all of this.' He paused. 'In fact, based on a visit you paid to her recently, she's worried that you may have harmed Ritchie.'
Ha-ha-harmed. The Ha sucked in her chest. You may have Harmed Ritchie .
'Emma?' Detective Hill's eyes were very cold. They bulged at her, laser-blue. 'Do you remember your last visit to Dr Stanford, eleven days ago?'
'My last—'
A fizz rose in Emma's belly. In a second, she was back there in the surgery. The lurid coughs from the waiting-room. The gravel-rattle of rain on the window. The stench of socks and antiseptic.
The expression on Dr Stanford's face. Sitting there, so shocked and upright behind her desk.
Emma hunched forward until her elbows were on her knees. She put her hands to her face.
'Do you remember?' Detective Hill was saying.
'Do you remember what you told Dr Stanford that day?'
In a low voice, Emma said, 'Yes. Yes, I remember.'
So, at least, now she knew. The reason they weren't taking her seriously. From the balcony came a seagull-like cry.
Oh Ritchie. Ritchie. What have I done?
Lindsay was pulling at her, trying to take her hand.
Her face was a blur of smoothness, all professional concern. But her thoughts sprang at Emma as clearly as if she'd spoken them aloud:
And here we were feeling sorry for you! What kind of mother are you?
Emma kept her face covered . She couldn't look at
Lindsay. She turned away.
Chapter Six
From the first, Ritchie had Oliver's smile, and every time she saw it Emma's heart skipped a beat. Ritchie was a solemn child; the smile usually had to be coaxed out of him, often appearing around a fist or a toy or a rusk in his mouth, but it was there. Some day, some woman was going to be floored by that smile, and Emma didn't know whether to pity her or envy her.
Because, of course, it was that smile that had stopped her in her
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