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‘Is there a problem?’

‘No. I was wondering. That’s all.’

‘Well, nothing to wonder about. I’m picking up my son.’

‘Your son?’ Wynne said. ‘What’s he doing here?’

Martin looked at the front door. It was open and James and Mr Best were standing on the threshold.

‘Maths tuition,’ he said. ‘He was struggling a little and Mr Best offered to help. He used to teach Sandra.’

‘Is everything OK?’ Best called out. ‘Hello, Detective Inspector. Or is it something else? Maybe you’ve been promoted?’

‘No.’ Wynne’s skin prickled. She was sure he was mocking her. ‘Still the same rank.’

‘I’m sure it will come, in time.’

‘You know each other?’ Martin said.

‘Yes,’ Best said. ‘Our paths have crossed during the course of various civic duties I fulfil. Haven’t they, Detective Inspector?’

The implication was obvious: you can’t tell them about any unproven – Wynne preferred that to ‘false’ – allegations. If she did, Wynne had no doubt that a writ for something – defamation or slander – would be coming her way. A writ that would be successful.

‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Well, it’s been nice to see you all. Give my regards to your wife.’

She got in the car and started the engine. As she pulled away she could see Best in her rear-view mirror. He was smiling, and she had to fight the urge to go back and wipe the smile from his face once and for all.

Eleven Years Earlier: Sunday Morning, 1 July 2007:

Maggie

1

Maggie was woken by a cry. It was high and faint and, for a moment, she thought that an animal – a cat, maybe – had broken into the room.

And then the cry came again, and she remembered.

It was a baby’s cry. Her baby.

She was no longer alone in the room. She had a son.

She was a mother.

He cried again and it tugged at her in a way she had never felt before. The thought that he was hungry or in pain or in distress of any sort was unbearable. Every instinct she had told her to help him, to stop whatever was upsetting him and make him happy.

She opened her eyes. He was lying next to her in a basket the man had brought.

‘Hello,’ she whispered. ‘Hello, beautiful.’

2

Seb – she had named him immediately, had decided beforehand that if it was a boy it would be Seb – was lying in a wicker basket at the side of her bed. She stared at him in disbelief that he was hers, that she had a baby, a son, then turned and picked him up.

Pain tore through her abdomen and she felt a wetness between her legs. She looked down. It was blood. She clutched Seb to her chest and lowered herself back to the bed.

She groaned. He had been born an hour ago, an hour since she had held him up and used the scissors and clamp the man had left – she had not known why until she saw the cord connecting him to her and understood – and become a mother.

An hour of pain and bleeding and fatigue beyond anything she had ever dreamed possible.