Stolen (4 page)

Gardner shifted his attention to the woman. Clearly something awful had happened, but he hoped that her ordeal had confused her. It wouldn’t be the first time a parent was convinced a child was lost when in fact the kid had been left at home or school.

Gardner let out a breath and opened the car door. As he walked towards Lawton he hoped that this would be an easy one.

Abby sat on the hard gravel road, her arms wrapped around her knees. She noticed the small, sharp stones digging into her flesh but felt nothing. PC Cartwright had given up trying to move her into the ambulance and was instead talking constantly into his radio, seemingly desperate for control over
something
. She saw his arms moving, fingers pointing to the cars that arrived and the people who climbed out. Yellow tape was unwound and fluttered in the breeze. Abby tuned out his words, desperate to cling onto unreality. This wasn’t a police matter. Beth wasn’t gone. Things were fine. But the arrival of more cars, more police, uniforms, equipment; they all conspired together and refused to let her keep believing in it.

Two pairs of feet arrived in front of her.

‘Mrs Henshaw?’ She recognised Lawton’s voice and ignored her, hoping she’d go away, taking all of it with her. ‘Mrs Henshaw?’ Her feet shuffled and then the second pair moved slightly as someone stooped in front of her. She felt a gentle touch on her chin, manoeuvring her to face him. An older, more experienced face, wearing a concerned expression, looked down at her.

‘Mrs Henshaw? I’m DI Gardner.’ He looked back up at Lawton and then at Abby. ‘Can you hear me? If you can hear me, just nod, alright?’

Abby paused, her brain struggling to comprehend. Eventually she felt herself nod.

‘Good. Okay, we’re going to take you to the hospital. Get you checked out, make sure you’re okay and then we’ll have a talk. Is that alright?’

Abby stared at Gardner and then nodded again. She felt like she wanted to speak but she couldn’t think what it was she should say. What was there left to say? Beth was gone. Gardner moved back to let the paramedics in. They gave her a quick once-over and then helped her stand. As they walked her to the ambulance she looked around at the frenzy of activity. She felt like she was in a film where the hero stands still and alone as the rest of the world rushes around, unaware of the statue among them. PC Lawton got into the ambulance. Abby could hear her talking but couldn’t make out what she was saying. She spotted Cartwright lurking by her car. Another man, wearing latex gloves, backed out of her car holding something. She watched as Gardner approached him.

‘Definitely her car,’ he said and handed Gardner some papers. ‘ID in her handbag matches the registration. We’ve got a contact number for the husband, but haven’t got hold of him yet. A uniform’s on the way to try and pick him up.’

‘Paul,’ Abby muttered. What about Paul? How was he going to feel? How would she tell him what’d happened? That Beth was gone?

The paramedic nearest to her helped her into the ambulance and went to close the door. Before he did she heard one last thing from the man with the gloves.

‘No sign of a baby in there though. No car seat, no nappies or whatever. No picture in her wallet. Nothing.’

Abby sat up and felt the room spin. Doctor Rosen put a steadying hand on her shoulder. After a couple of minutes she gave Abby’s shoulder a slight squeeze.

‘Ready?’ she asked.

Abby nodded and slid off the table, glancing from side to side. She stood still, unsure of what to do and where to go. Doctor Rosen held her arm out beside Abby, guiding but not touching.

‘Just through here,’ she said, gesturing to a door with her other hand. ‘There are clean towels and a change of clothes. Just leave the gown on the floor.’

Abby stepped into the bathroom, which was blinding in its whiteness. Doctor Rosen closed the door behind her and for the first time in hours Abby was alone. She could hear her own breaths quietly echoing off the pristine tiles. She stepped forward to the sink, keeping her head down to avoid looking into the mirror above it. After a few deep breaths she raised her head. Abby stared at herself. Blood stained her face and was caked in her hair; the red reminded her of the time she stole her mother’s lipstick and smeared it across her seven-year-old face. Bruises covered a good portion of her face and her lips were swollen and torn. She went to touch her cheek and realised her hands were behind her back, gripping the hospital gown, keeping it closed, keeping the cold out, keeping anyone from seeing her. She looked behind her at the closed door and gradually let go of the thin, papery costume. It drifted apart, exposing her goose-pimpled skin to the harsh overhead lights.

Abby reached up to her sad clown face and traced a line down the dried blood on one side. She reached her chin and then started again from the top, drawing patterns round the edge of the bruises, trying to make shapes.

A noise from outside the room made her jump. She turned away from the mirror and looked at the pile of white hotel-folded towels on the shelf next to the bath. She panicked for a moment, thinking she was going to get blood on them, and then decided that Doctor Rosen probably didn’t care. She wondered if they re-used the towels or if they disposed of them like plastic gloves. It seemed a waste, but she couldn’t help feeling sick at the thought of other women, other girls, wiping away their own blood on those same towels.

On the chair was a pile of clothes, again folded neatly and professionally. Abby brushed her hand along the edge of the pile. Bra, knickers, socks, T-shirt, tracksuit bottoms, jumper, and slip-on trainers; the kind you see in the Sunday supplements. She wondered if she needed all those clothes. She didn’t remember it being that cold.

Another noise from the other side of the door made her move. There could be someone else waiting to come in, a factory line of victims. Examination – wash – questioning. Abby looked around for another door that would lead her to the next stage but saw none. She’d have to go back the way she came. But what if there was someone in there? The next victim? Do you wait until you’re called or knock on the door to come out? How were you supposed to know?

Abby turned back to the bath. Behind the curtain was a shower. She wondered which she was meant to use. A shower would be quicker if there was a queue. She turned the taps and a violent flow of water shot out of the showerhead. Abby held her hand underneath the stream and then stepped under it. The hot water stung her face and burned as it heated up. She felt heavy and constricted.  She ran her hands down her body and her skin felt like it was pulling away from her bones. She looked down and realised that she was still wearing the gown. Stepping back, she struggled to unfasten the gown; the cord too wet and tight to un-do. She clawed at it but it was too strong. Abby felt her chest tighten with the effort. She pulled at the front of the gown and felt tears burning in her eyes. She slid down the tiled wall until she was sitting at the bottom of the bath, the hot water just about reaching her, steam beginning to fill the room and blank her out. Safe in the knowledge that the water would drown out the sound, she let go.

Abby turned off the shower and stepped out, leaving a trail of water across the floor. The soaked gown clung to her body. She pulled it up over her head and dropped it to the floor with a heavy splat. Her chest hurt, her throat felt raw. She wondered how long she’d been in there and if Dr Rosen had been hammering at the door like her father used to. She’d missed the sound of his voice after he’d gone, wished he could yell at her just one more time.

She picked up a large white towel and wrapped it around herself, no longer caring if she made a mess. She threw the pile of clothes onto the floor, watching water seep into the T-shirt, and sat on the vacant chair, her hair dripping down her back. She looked at her arms, red from the heat of the water, and thought about that summer Paul fell asleep in the garden and got sunburnt all over the front of his body. She wondered if Paul had been told yet; if he was waiting out there somewhere. Maybe he was sitting out there right now with Beth on his knee, thinking how she always spends too long in the bathroom.

Abby got up and dried herself. She examined each item of clothing before putting it on. The bra: slightly too small and fraying on one cup. The knickers: large and comical. The T-shirt: peach and bland. The tracksuit bottoms: too long and too nylon. She questioned putting on the blue jumper, but felt like it must be there for a reason and so slid it over her head. Finally the socks. The socks were OK. She slipped her feet into the Sunday shoes that were a little too big and clip-clopped slowly across the floor back to the mirror. She took one last look at herself before going out to face the world. Reaching up again to her swollen face she touched a bruise and pressed her fingers into it. She let out a whimper and pressed harder. It didn’t hurt enough.

‘And what about you?’ Gardner said.

‘I spoke to a couple of dog walkers who saw nothing. The couple that found Mrs Henshaw gave a statement but know nothing useful. Like I said, SOCO’s found nothing so far. Some blood that’s probably hers. A few cigarette butts, a few bottles; nothing useful,’ Cartwright said, with a shrug. ‘Waste of time.’

Cartwright was a cocky little shit. Ambitious too. Had an eye on the boss’s job. Thought actual police work was below him. Gardner glared at him before turning to Murphy.

‘There’s a few footwear marks but no clear ones,’ Murphy said and leaned back so far in his chair Gardner thought it would break. ‘We’ve got an eye out for the van but as she doesn’t know what make it is or a licence plate, it won’t be easy. Unless of course you want us to bring in every white van on the bloody roads. There’s nothing out there.’

‘What about door-to-doors? What about searching for the kid?’

Murphy shrugged. ‘What doors? There’s nothing out there but cows.’ Murphy rolled his eyes when Gardner opened his mouth to speak. ‘There’s a pub and a few houses way back. They’ve covered it all. No one saw anything. No one heard anything. No one knows anything. There’s a team searching the fields nearby but how likely is it that a bloody baby is going to be crawling around out there? It’s a waste of time.’

‘I’ll decide what’s a waste of fucking time,’ Gardner said and Cartwright looked down at his feet. ‘I want to know every CCTV camera, every speed camera, on the road from when she left Redcar to the scene. I want to know that every last possible witness has been accounted for. Are you listening?’

Murphy stopped with his hand in his snack drawer. Lawton walked in but started to edge towards the door as Gardner yelled at his team. ‘Hang on,’ Gardner said to her and she stopped. ‘You,’ Gardner said, pointing at Murphy. ‘Get your fat arse out of that chair and get back out there. When you’ve checked every last inch of that road, when you’ve stopped and checked every single car, and when you’ve looked under every last cow, then you come back here and tell me it was a waste of time. You,’ he said, pointing at Cartwright, ‘go with him. Start knocking on doors yourself. And carry his fucking snacks for him.’

‘But...’ Cartwright started. Gardner glared at him. ‘I thought I could sit in on the interview.’

‘No. Lawton’s doing it. I need a female officer in there with me. You know that.’

‘I thought I could speak to the husband,’ Cartwright said.

‘No,’ Gardner said. ‘I want you back out doing door-to-doors.’

‘But I never get to interview,’ Cartwright said.

‘Is there something wrong with you?’ Gardner asked him. ‘This isn’t about your fucking career, Cartwright. It’s about her,’ he said pointing towards the door.

Cartwright let out a sigh and shrugged like a sullen teenager. ‘Sir,’ he muttered.

‘Now shut the fuck up and get out. Both of you,’ Gardner said, looking to Murphy.

Murphy sat there for a few seconds. ‘Get out!’ Gardner said and Murphy scuttled away after Cartwright. ‘Jesus,’ Gardner said. ‘Who’s in charge here?’ He rubbed his temples and let out a breath. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Lawton, follow me. Any luck with the mug shots?’

‘No, sir,’ Lawton said, looking up at him. ‘I left her with the sketch artist. That could give us something useful,’ she said, walking quickly, trying to keep up.

‘I’m not holding my breath. She can’t remember much, a couple of vague details. From what she’s said so far there were two men in a white van. They had accents which could’ve been Russian or Eastern European. One had a scarred face, someone could recall seeing him. But like Tweedle-Dum said, she didn’t notice a licence plate, didn’t notice a make. I’ll take the husband to see her before we get started. Go and find Wilson and ask him to make a start on finding anyone in the system who could be our guys. Meet me back upstairs in five minutes.’ He pointed to a room at the end of the hall. ‘In here?’ he asked her and Lawton nodded as he walked down the hall to meet Paul Henshaw.