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chapter 67
alex
My hands are shaking with nerves. I tuck them beneath my thighs and take a slow, steadying breath. I can’t believe she’s agreed to see me. I’d never be as forgiving in her place.
We’re meeting in my lawyer Jeremy’s office, at his insistence. The police have made it clear they intend to pass my file to the Crown Prosecution Service, with a recommendation to press charges.As per the Child Abduction Act 1984,it is an offence for a person to take or detain a child under the age of sixteen so as to remove him from the lawful control of any person having lawful control of him, or, so as to keep him out of the lawful control of any person entitled to lawful control of him without lawful authority or reasonable excuse.
I’ve no idea whether the CPS will decide to prosecute, but Jeremy seems to think it’s a fair bet they will. There’s a lot of public pressure to throw the book at me, as a deterrent to other would-be vigilantes tempted to take the law into their own hands, should they think they’ve stumbled across their kidnapped child. Because there are so many of us out there.
There’s a soft knock at the door. ‘Are you ready?’ Jeremy asks.
I stand, wiping my palms on my skirt.
Helen Birch is younger than I remembered. When I saw herin the café, I put her in her early fifties, but now I can see she’s probably a decade younger than that. She has a thick middle and short legs, a droopy bosom. Her best asset is undoubtedly her startling leaf-green eyes, fringed by long, dark lashes. I’d have noticed them before, but I was only really paying attention to Lottie.
ToFlora.
Helen extends a hand and then withdraws it. ‘Sorry,’ she says.
I don’t know whether she’s talking about her gesture or the awkward situation in which we find ourselves.
‘Please, would you like to sit down?’ Jeremy says, indicating the two armchairs on the opposite side of his desk. ‘Can I get you two ladies some tea?’
Jeremy is no more than thirty-five, but from his manner and conversation you’d think he’s seventy.
‘Thank you,’ Helen says.
He steps out of his office to see to the tea, briefly leaving the two of us alone. Helen still doesn’t sit down.
‘How is she?’ I ask, unable to help myself.
‘Flora’s doing much better, thank you,’ Helen says. ‘The doctors say she can come home tomorrow.’
The emphasis on her daughter’s name is subtle, but unmistakable.
‘Thank you for agreeing to see me,’ I say. ‘I wouldn’t have blamed you if you—’
‘Why am I here?’
Her tone is not particularly hostile, but those green eyes are cool.
I’ve no idea what to say to her. This meeting was Jeremy’s suggestion: he says the CPS is less likely to pursue prosecution aggressively if Helen isn’t demanding retributive justice from the rooftops. She has no reason to be sympathetic to my cause,and for my sake I don’t much care whether I go to prison or not.
But if I’m behind bars, no one will be looking for Lottie.
The Met has made it clear that when the current tranche of government funds runs out, they won’t apply for more. As far as they’re concerned, this is now a cold case. And the Lottie Foundation is fatally compromised: the twin blows of Paul Harding’s arrest, and now mine, has sent our donors running for the hills. Even Jack has been forced to distance himself from us in public, though his support in private is the only reason I’m even out on bail.
‘I need to apologise to you in person,’ I tell Helen, finally. ‘I know that can’t begin to make up for what I put you through. But I just needed to look you in the eye and tell you how sorry I am.’
Helen says nothing. But when Jeremy returns with the tea, carrying a tray of old-fashioned floral porcelain teacups and saucers, she sits down.
‘I was sosure,’ I say. ‘I can see now she’s not Lottie; her eyes aren’t even the right colour. But at the time, I looked at her and I reallysawmy daughter.’
It wasn’t just that she resembled a little girl who could be my daughter. I sawLottie. I was as certain of that as I am of gravity, of the ground beneath my feet. And yet I lied to myself. I’m the unreliable narrator of my own story.
And if I’ve lied about this, then nothing I say can be trusted.
‘I was so sure,’ I say again, ‘and then Mum died and I’d promised I’d bring Lottie home. I’m not asking for sympathy,’ I add. ‘I just wanted to explain. I never meant to hurt you, or Flora. I thought I wasrescuingher.’
