Lock the Door Read online

  ‘That’s a good boy,’ I tell him, smiling. ‘You’re wondering what all the fuss is about, aren’t you?’

  I bundle him back into the comfortable buggy and tuck the covers round him, trying not to worry. One dry nappy is not necessarily a sign of anything amiss.

  But when I turn to wash my hands, automatically checking my reflection in the mirror above the sink, I look stressed. Chestnut hair in a too-tight ponytail, bags under my eyes, only the sketchiest attempt at make-up after a troubled night, and the remains of a flush from that unpleasant encounter.

  Outside the supermarket, the clouds have finally blown away across the wide-flowing River Truro and the glorious May sunshine makes Harry blink. I try to walk in the shade as far as possible, but sometimes we have to turn into the sun to cross the road or avoid people on the pavement.

  ‘Sorry,’ I mutter, turning the buggy abruptly into somebody’s path to sidestep a particularly bright patch of sunshine.

  Truro is always popular with shoppers, which is why I prefer to walk into town when I can. So much less stressful than battling in with a car and a baby. Today is a Friday, a major shopping day, and although it’s not quite lunchtime yet, the place is already thronging with people.

  I make my way through the busy car park towards the underpass, heading for the main shopping streets. Seagulls call to each other overhead, heading inland from the broad, dazzling waters of the River Truro. Some days we take the walkway that meanders on stilts above the water, and I crouch down occasionally to point out a seabird or a passing boat to Harry, but not today.

  Today I need to stay focused.

  The three spires of Truro Cathedral look beautiful this morning, rising high above the narrow streets of the medieval city centre. I have never set foot inside the cathedral, though I did glance briefly through the vast double doors once. Carved statues, stained glass and echoes. And the fragrant scent from all those burning candles.

  I stop in front of an expensive jewellery store not far from Jon’s offices and study the watches in the window display. The black-and-white-striped awning flutters in a warm breeze that blows in off the nearby river.

  It’s our third wedding anniversary today, and I’ve arranged a small dinner party at home with some of our friends. Nothing too elaborate, though I know Jon is counting on me not to mess up tonight. I don’t want to let him down, especially in front of his friends. Jon warned me not to buy him anything for our anniversary, and it’s true that we are on a budget these days. But I could use my credit card.

  I am so engrossed in the display of watches that I jump when someone touches me lightly on the shoulder.

  ‘Anniversary present for Jon?’

  It’s Simon, one of Jon’s colleagues; he’ll be coming to dinner tonight with his partner, Emily. He’s a lovely man, friendly and attractive, about Jon’s height and always smartly dressed. Today it’s an expensive pinstripe suit and very elegant shoes. Italian design? Jon once described him to me as ‘the perfect lawyer’, and was delighted to land a job at the same Truro law firm as his friend. ‘Son of one of the senior partners. A great guy too. I could learn a lot from him.’

  ‘Simon,’ I say, my heart racing. ‘You surprised me.’

  ‘Sorry.’ He grins, clearly unrepentant, and runs a hand through floppy blond hair. ‘Look, I’m glad I ran into you. Emily’s got a doctor’s appointment later today. We might be a teensy bit late. That a problem?’

  I shake my head. ‘I’ll be rushing about, trying to get dinner ready in time. Come when you can.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Nothing serious, I hope? You wouldn’t prefer to cancel?’

  ‘No, it’s an ongoing thing. She’s switched to working part-time while she gets over it.’ Simon hesitates, then makes a wry face. ‘Besides, Em’s looking forward to meeting Harry for the first time. Wouldn’t miss tonight for the world. She’s very broody, you know.’

  ‘Perfectly natural.’

  He glances down at Harry. ‘And how is this little chap? Goodness, he’s big now. Jon brought him to the office last month, but I swear he’s doubled in size since then.’

  Harry is actually underweight for his age, which is a worry, but Simon’s comment was meant to be a compliment. I smile and pretend to agree.

  ‘Yes, he’s growing fast.’

  Simon’s gaze seeks mine, and I notice a flicker of something unexpected in his eyes. Concern? The possibility embarrasses me. ‘I know they kept Harry in hospital for quite a while after the birth. The intensive care unit? Jon was close-mouthed about it, of course, and we didn’t like to pry. Family is family. I assume everything’s okay now?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I lie.

  ‘That’s great. And how about you, Meghan? How are you coping?’

  ‘Me?’ I stare then, taken aback. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You look flushed.’

  ‘Oh, some nonsense in the supermarket. A woman upset me.’

  He frowns. ‘Upset you how?’

  I worry that I will sound foolish if I tell him. Perhaps even hysterical. But Simon has such an encouraging smile, I feel I could tell him anything. ‘It was nothing, really. She was going to touch Harry, and I – I—’

  He nods sympathetically. ‘Please, no need to explain.’

  ‘The classic overprotective mother, that’s me.’ I shrug, feeling sheepish. ‘You know, before the birth I thought I’d go mad, stuck at home all day with a baby. But there’s so much to remember, the days go by so quickly and there never seems to be enough time.’

  ‘Hence the need for a new watch?’

  I am confused, then realise he means the diving watches in the window display. ‘Oh yes, ha ha.’ I turn away from them resolutely. ‘No, actually, I was window-shopping. Daydreaming, really. Jon told me he doesn’t want an anniversary present this year.’

  ‘Men always say that,’ Simon assures me, leaning forward conspiratorially. His hand brushes my shoulder, then is gone. ‘I’m sure he’ll be thrilled if you get him something.’

  I am suddenly anxious. ‘You won’t mention to Jon that you saw me, will you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he says smoothly, ‘if you’d rather I didn’t.’

  But I can see he is surprised behind that lawyer’s well-practised smile. Some explanation is required.

  ‘I don’t want Jon to know I was in town this long,’ I elaborate carefully. ‘I texted him when I set out this morning, and he probably thinks we’re back home by now. Harry tires so easily, he’d only worry.’

  Simon bows his fair head. ‘In that case, mum’s the word. Though Jon’s not in the office at the moment anyway.’

  I am confused. ‘Really?’

  ‘I think Susan sent him on some kind of errand too. You know what Susan’s like when she’s cracking the whip. He went out before lunch and hasn’t got back yet.’

  I say nothing.

  ‘I would chat longer, but my desk is creaking under the weight of unread files. I’d better get back before it collapses.’

  He walks away with an easy stride, hands in his suit trouser pockets, aware of his own good looks but not arrogant with it.

  ‘Come on, Harry, time to pick up some flowers.’ I push the buggy quickly towards the main shopping centre. ‘Then home, and pop this food into the fridge.’

  But I wonder where Jon has gone, and am brooding over Simon’s mysterious comment too. Men always say that. Have I misunderstood again? The diving watch is beyond my pocket; that was a reckless thought. But should I get Jon an anniversary present anyway, in case he is secretly expecting one?

  I decide on a new tie, and stop to choose one at a men’s clothes shop in the main shopping street. It’s a bold choice for a lawyer, broad and electric blue, and I regret the purchase as soon as I’ve accepted the gift-wrapped box from the sales assistant. But at least I won’t be sitting there empty-handed tonight if Jon suddenly produces a surprise present for me. Which would be very like him.

  I stop at the small corner shop nea
r our house to pick up a copy of the local paper along with some flowers for the dinner table. Harry is asleep and the aisles are cramped, but I bring the buggy in anyway. The woman behind the counter looks at me disapprovingly.

  I study the front-page story for a moment.

  ‘Oh God, not again,’ I mutter.

  My pulse is racing.

  I glance down at Harry, who does not stir, oblivious to my concern. My hands are sweating as I chuck the newspaper into the crowded tray under the buggy, and keep pushing, the headline still dancing in front of my eyes.

  WHO SNATCHED BABY TOM?

  Chapter Three

  On the way home, my phone begins to vibrate.

  I fumble it out of my pocket and stare down, uncomprehending, at the flashing word on the screen.

  ALARM

  It’s almost as though the phone is responding to my mood, like we’re psychically linked. I can’t breathe, staring down at the word. Alarm, indeed. Then memory abruptly returns, and with it some semblance of normality. I remember setting the alarm when I left the safety of the house this morning, and what it’s for.

  Harry’s medication.

  I turn off the alarm, and shove my phone back into my handbag. But my hands are shaking as if I’ve been in an accident.

  Adrenalin rush.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ I mutter to myself.

  I’ve been under a lot of stress since the birth, and it’s starting to affect my judgement. I need to relax, to take it easy. Maybe I should be thinking about counselling. It would be good to have someone to talk to about all this, about the changes I’ve had to make in my life.

  Back home, I unlock the door and wheel Harry inside. It’s not safe to leave him outside. Not even for a moment, not even while I carry in the shopping. The house smells of flowers already. Yesterday’s freesias, unseen, in a vase on the kitchen table. I inhale, enjoying the lovely scent and the silence. We’ve been living here since we were married three years ago. Jon insisted on buying a house as a wedding present for us; we had been renting previously, but his father had died earlier that year, leaving him a substantial inheritance. A generous gesture, and one that I was sure he must be regretting now. Making the mortgage repayments on two good incomes had been easy; now though, it is increasingly a struggle.

  ‘Home again, darling,’ I murmur. But when I look, Harry’s still asleep, his face so peaceful and relaxed it seems a shame to wake him.

  I double-check that the door is locked behind me, then stand in the narrow hall and listen to the silence for a moment.

  ‘Jon? Are you home?’

  No answer. The house is quiet. The only thing I can hear is the steady hum of the fridge. There’s a scattering of junk mail on the mat. I shove it to one side with my foot. One message flashing on the answerphone.

  He’s not here. So where on earth is he?

  Susan sent him on some kind of errand.

  My skin prickles with foreboding, and I shrug it off impatiently. There were a few bad moments early on in our marriage when I felt Jon might be the sort to stray. He does love attention from women. But he’s my husband and the father of my child. I have to trust him more, to give him the benefit of the doubt. If Simon says he went off on an errand, then there’s nothing more to it.

  I wheel the buggy further down the hall, kick off my shoes and tiptoe back to the answerphone. Maybe Jon has left a message.

  I hope he’s not going to be home late. Not tonight.

  I turn down the volume, so as not to disturb Harry while he’s sleeping, and then play back the message. Only it’s not Jon.

  It’s my mother.

  ‘Hi, Meghan, it’s me again. Just ringing to check how you and Harry are getting on. It’s so hot here in Spain, I’m having trouble sleeping at night.’ A long pause, despite the cost of the phone call. Mum sounds a little flustered, like there’s something on her mind. ‘Your dad’s not been well this week. No need to worry; it’s just his angina playing up. You know how he is; he’s never learnt to relax. Look, I hate these machines. Call me back sometime soon, okay? It would be lovely if you could fly over and stay with us for a few weeks, since you’re not working. Maybe in the autumn, when the weather’s cooled down a bit. I know you said Harry wouldn’t be able to take the heat out here. Bye then, love.’ Another pause. ‘Give my love to Jon too.’

  I smile.

  Mum doesn’t like Jon, and isn’t very good at concealing it. But she means well, trying to like my husband for my sake. And my son’s.

  It would be nice to visit Mum and Dad in Spain; they have such a lovely, spacious apartment, right by the sea. After Dad retired, they decided to move abroad, hoping the change in pace would be good for his heart condition. I’ve only visited them once, but I have a memory of immense heat and a glittering bay of deep-blue water. It would be cooler there in autumn, that’s true. I’m not sure how Harry would respond to air travel though. And what about his meds?

  Worried about the chilled food, I remove my shopping from the three-wheeler buggy and put it in the fridge. Jon already put several bottles of champagne into the fridge to chill, so I don’t need to worry about that. The kitchen is spotless, just as I left it this morning. Mentally, I tick off the hall, the lounge, the dining room. All clean and ready for our guests this evening.

  I drop the newspaper on the kitchen table, then glance again at the photograph of a sleeping newborn baby below the headline WHO SNATCHED BABY TOM?

  Unable to help myself, I scan the first few paragraphs.

  Parents of a seven-week-old baby boy who went missing in Truro two weeks ago spoke of their despair at a press conference yesterday. ‘The police have been working very hard, but they seem no nearer finding our son,’ said Jack Penrose, 43, from the Carnon Downs area. ‘We are now asking members of the public to help with the search. If you have any suspicions at all, please report them in confidence to the police.’

  His wife also made an emotional appeal to the public for information. ‘Our lives have been torn apart,’ said Serena, who has been suffering from depression since her son’s abduction. ‘We are not looking to punish anyone. We just want Tom back where he belongs.’

  A police spokesman admitted they believe that Tom’s disappearance is linked to the abduction of two other babies in the Truro area over the past three months by the so-called Cornish Snatcher, but that they are no nearer to discovering the kidnapper’s identity.

  Parents of young children and babies in Cornwall are being urged to be extra-vigilant and never leave a child unattended in a public place.

  The newspaper report goes on to name the other two missing babies, along with how and when they were taken. A sidebar details the police hotline to call with any information.

  The Cornish Snatcher.

  I close my eyes, my heart pounding, and hate myself. It’s ridiculous to be so obsessed with this ongoing news story. But how would I feel if it was Harry who had gone missing? I find it hard to imagine why anyone would want to steal a baby, let alone three. It’s too horrific. I hope they catch this Cornish Snatcher soon, and the babies are safely returned to their parents.

  I shudder, and return to Harry in the hallway. He needs his meds. The doctor told us not to mess the timings up if we could avoid it, that it could cause complications if he missed an injection.

  ‘Come on, sleeping beauty.’

  I scoop him up and carry him upstairs to his nursery. He barely stirs. The trip into town seems to have worn him out.

  Before I left the house this morning, I removed one pre-filled syringe from the mini-fridge in the nursery and left it beside his cot. The medicine needs to come to room temperature before it can be administered. I lay Harry in his cot, then nip into the bathroom to use the loo. Afterwards, I wash my hands assiduously, the way the specialist nurse showed me when they let us take Harry home, then dry them on a fresh towel.

  Harry is beginning to fuss by the time I return. He’s woken up hungry; I recognise the signs. He’s got one small fist
stuffed into his mouth and is gurgling quietly, both legs kicking against the blanket. I’ve been trying him on solids for the past month, just a few spoonfuls of apple and banana purée, and baby rice occasionally, but he still seems most satisfied by breast milk.

  ‘Medicine first,’ I tell him soothingly. ‘Then a feed.’

  Glancing out of the bedroom window as I prepare the syringe, I study the cars parked up and down the street. Plenty of gaps during the day. There’s only one car I don’t recognise. An old Volvo, faded gold. It looks like there’s someone behind the wheel, but I can’t be sure; it’s facing away, parked a few doors down on the other side.

  Probably someone stopping to check their satnav or answer the phone. That happens all the time on our street. People use it as a convenient rat-run between two main routes into Truro, so we get cars going past at all hours.

  Harry starts to cry, frustrated by the long delay. I pick him up and carry him to the waist-high changing station next to the mini-fridge where I keep all his medicines neatly stored and labelled. He cries even harder when I lie him down gently on his blue padded mat, his face screwed up with fury.

  ‘Hush,’ I tell him, though it’s pointless to try to pacify him in this mood.

  Harry’s been the same ever since he came home from the hospital. He likes to have his screaming fit for about fifteen or twenty minutes, then will collapse afterwards, limp in my arms, perhaps take a short feed, and eventually fall back to sleep. We used to take him out in the car at night, to give the neighbours a rest from the screaming. Everyone we know swears by a car trip for calming a crying baby. It’s never worked for Harry though.

  ‘Colic,’ my mum said, diagnosing him over the phone, and suggesting various old-fashioned solutions. None of them worked. Because it’s not colic, Jon says. It’s pure temper. I don’t agree though. It’s more likely he’s almost constantly in some kind of discomfort, due to his condition. Except the poor child can’t tell us about it yet.