‘One step at a time, Mr Neal.’
He hangs up.
Donald walks in as soon as I finish talking. He gives me a questioning look.
‘Tomorrow at eleven,’ I say.
‘I’ll get the money ready after lunch.’
We try to act normal for Joel’s sake and sit down for lunch. I compliment Julia on the beef, but we all feel the emptiness ofJo’s absence. Everything is going as well as it can until Joel says, ‘Mummy,’ and looks around.
Julia immediately runs out of the room, and it's then that I realise the worst thing I can do is tell them about DI Burrow.
***
That evening, I’m back at my flat. ‘Where’s the drop-off?’ DI Burrow asks.
‘Unused phone box outside Summertown library. He said he’ll be watching, so if he sees you lot…’
‘He won’t.’
I tell him the drop-off time is eleven, and insist over and over again that I don’t want any cock ups. ‘This is our last chance to get her back.’
‘I’ll come by this evening to go over everything with you.’
I then phone Nic and ask if he can cover for me the next day.
‘Jesus, man. What are you playing at?’
‘I have a new client, a big one. I’ll include you in this. After all, it was your recommendation.’
I can hear some sports commentary coming from his TV. ‘Oh yeah, who?’
‘Jo’s calling me. Better go.’
He laughs. ‘I’ll tell them you’ve got the shits. When will you be in?’
‘About midday, maybe before.’
‘No problems, man.’
The rest of the evening is a nightmare. Joel starts getting upset and flies into a tantrum, wanting to know where his mother is. I keep telling him she is working in another country. The room reverberates with his anguished screams, and each scream pierces me. My nerves are jangled, frayed by the relentlessonslaught. I clutch the phone, faking a call to Mummy, but the silence on the other end mocks me.
‘She’s not answering,’ I say.
Desperation drives me to call Gil. She has a way with words and an imagination that dances where mine stumbles.
‘I’m working,’ she says. ‘Try Nicola.’
Nicola arrives and is so sweet that guilt overwhelms me when I remember my rudeness. She tells him about Mummy’s broken phone and that instead of calling, she has sent a letter and a postcard from Paris. Together, they read the phantom postcard and letter, its imaginary ink seeping into his dreams. He clings to it as if the paper holds salvation.
‘Thank you,’ I murmur. ‘The Paris postcard idea was brilliant.’
‘One I brought back a few years ago,’ Nicola confesses. She lowers her eyes. ‘You might have to tell him the truth,’ she whispers.
‘I know,’ I say, and then see her out.
DI Burrow arrives promptly at nine. His hat is pulled low, shadowing his features. Beside him stands a young woman with long dark hair.
