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Naomi xxx
PS. One last thing. I love you, Sam. I do. But you don’t deserve me.
CHAPTER 59
The call comes a little after midnight. I’m awake, which is unusual. Some might say that somewhere inside me I must know Sam is in trouble. I don’t believe in that stuff, but I am awake in that moment, Sam actually is on my mind, and I have a weird and quite unpleasant feeling of doom. At first, I think the feeling is caused by a nightmare from which I’ve woken only to forget it. But then my phone rings, and when I see it’s Sam calling, my guts flip with dread. He never calls so late. Never has.
‘Sam,’ I say. ‘Hey. Are you OK?’
‘Is this Miranda Clarke?’
‘Speaking.’ My hair follicles lift; my entire scalp tingles. ‘Where’s Sam? Is he OK?’
‘This is DC Jacobs from Dorset Police. We’re trying to locate a man called Sam. I take it you’re a friend of his?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you tell us his surname please?’
‘It’s Moore. Why? What’s this about? Is he OK?’
There is a moment; I hear him relay Sam’s surname to someone else before he comes back on the line.
‘I’m calling you from Mr Moore’s phone because yours is a frequently called number. He left his iPhone at the scene.’
‘Scene? What scene? What’s going on?’ I make myself shut up.
‘We’re looking for Mr Moore in connection with an abduction, and I need to ask you if you can help us identify his whereabouts.’
‘What?’ Obviously, I am reeling. It’s the middle of the night and a cop is telling me Sam has—
‘Hang on,’ I almost shout. ‘An abduction? Sam? That’s absolutely impossible. Sam would never… Who of, for God’s sake?’
‘Thomas Baxter. One year old. Known as Tommy.’
‘Tommy?’ I laugh. Incredible, but I do. ‘This is a mix-up. You mean his son? Tommy Harper? Actually, Tommy’s mother and Sam got married this week. It’ll be Moore now, I guess.’
‘The infant’s name is Tommy Baxter. He belongs to Cheryl and Harry Baxter. We understand that your friend found this out less than an hour ago and is now on the run with the child. We have a trace on his vehicle.’
‘What?’ I am reeling. DC Jacobs has to repeat himself twice before I can begin to grasp what he is saying.
‘So,’ I manage. ‘Tommy isn’t Sam’s son? He’s not even Naomi’s?’
‘That’s correct. We’re trying to locate his vehicle and—’
‘I can save you the trouble,’ I interrupt. ‘His van’s on my driveway. It’s empty. Hold on, I’ll check.’
I climb out of bed and run down the stairs, grab Sam’s keys from the hook in the hall. The van is in darkness. I can tell it’s empty before I open it. ‘Yep,’ I say. ‘There’s only boxes and a load of gardening tools.’
‘Right. Do you happen to know if he has any other vehicle besides the VW Transporter, registration—’
‘His gran’s sports car,’ I say. ‘It’s an MG RV8. It’s vintage but nineties, not like sixties or anything. It’s bottle green, but I don’t know the reg, sorry.’
There is a pause. I hear voices, the cop telling someone the details of the car, reiterating Sam’s last name, then Joyce’s name. My heart is pounding, my head throbbing.Sam, I’m thinking. It is all I can think.Sam, my darling, what have you done?The facts are not with me yet, not completely. I just know the man I love is in trouble, that he is alone and in a dreadful, dreadful state.
‘Look, where are you?’ I ask. ‘Can I come to you? I might be able to shed light on things.’
He gives me the address. I wake Betsy, wrap her up in her dressing gown and blanket, though the night is warm. She is dozy, her eyelids heavy and swollen. But when I tell her we need to look for Sam, she is instantly alert, excited. Excited because she knows none of it, is thinking only of her pal, of funny Sam who lets her start the van, who makes jokes about broccoli and plays duets with her on the piano.
