They followed him into the hall.

“Can I get you something? Coffee?”

“No, no, thank you,” Butler said. “Listen, Joe, this is a bit delicate,” Joseph Cooke looked puzzled.

“You remember we asked you whether Imelda was pregnant, or not?”

“I remember. She wasn't.”

“Well, we have a number of missing women in the area and, with the exception of Imelda, the others are pregnant. I don't know what it means, exactly. I don't know why we're here, exactly.”

Joseph Cooke smiled sadly, “Clutching at straws?”

'Yes, that's it exactly.”

Anian stood aside, watching the detective sergeant as he skirted the issue, and the man beside him whose life had been shattered. Cooke offered, “You want to look at her things again? I've already done it a thousand times, but I don't mind. They're just as she left them. Nothing's been moved.”

“Yes, Sir,” Butler stammered. “That's what I really came for.” Cooke waved towards the stairs. “Help yourself. I'll be in the sitting room. Are you sure about the drink? I'm having one. And it's stronger than coffee.”

“In that case, Sir, scotch will do nicely. What about you Anian?” “Nothing for me, thanks. It’s a bit early.”

Cooke glanced at his watch and nodded. “So it is,” he said and left them to it.

As they climbed the stairs Anian asked, “What are we looking for, Sam?”

“Anything. Something we missed. A letter maybe, an appointment to a private clinic. If she kept it from him, it's hidden. Think about it.” “Kept the pregnancy from him?”

“Something like that.”

Anian shook her head and murmured, “In that case I hope we don't find it.”

They didn't. They went through the bedroom methodically but found nothing of interest. It was always difficult for coppers invading the privacy of innocent parties and they felt embarrassed going through the drawers, particularly those containing underclothes.

They hit the landing again, ready for the stairs, when a little tug of memory caught Butler between steps.

“What is it?”

“Just a thought. When Janet did her test, she left the box and instructions on top of the bathroom cabinet. We hadn't got Lucy at the time but maybe it was instinctive, you know, a place where the kids couldn't get to it, out of the way. Every time I had a shave I noticed it. The bloody thing became a fixture. You never throw away old pills and medicine bottles, do you? I’ve got some chilblain ointment I used the other day then noticed the use-by date was November ninety-four. Seemed to work though.”

“Too much information, Sam. You’re spoiling the image.” Together they moved into the bathroom, a green- tiled bathroom complete with avocado bidet and shower cubicle and double-door bathroom cabinet. And on top of the cabinet, where it had lain for over three months, disturbed only occasionally by a Maltese cleaner, hidden by familiarity and a pink plastic bottle of baby lotion, was a white oblong box.

The detectives shared a look of amazement.

“There's no kit here,” Anian said. “Just the box.”

“In this case an empty box is good enough,” Butler said and shook his head in disbelief. “And it makes five out of five.”

Chapter 22

In Paul’s bedroom there were six TVs in two stacks of three and he was back watching them. He sat cross- legged on the end of his bed. Sky News and ITV and BBC covered the same story. Paul's eyes were wide, his mouth open, his attention held by the six screens. There was no sound. He had the sound turned down. The colours of east Africa slid across the cuts and bruises on his face. His ear was torn and his clothes were stained red in various places.

On the six screens a migration had begun. Women carried dead babies and babies that were dying. Men staggered on makeshift crutches. Children held their extended bellies. Flies crawled into eyes. Behind them a war continued. Ahead of them was another African border with trenches and mines and guns. The Dark Continent had never looked so cruel. There was no oil in this African country. It didn’t even have a name that anyone could remember.

At the door Mr Lawrence coughed to attract his attention. “Mr Lawrence,” Paul said and a shudder worked through his body. “What the devil's happened?”

“Oh, Mr Lawrence.”

Paul's eyes filled with tears that refused to roll. His hands were clenched in front of him. A vein on his forehead throbbed. “Oh, Mr Lawrence, I've been hurt a bit.”

“Come on, Paul, try to lie back.”

“I would, but the pain in my side…”

“Lie on the other side.”

“Both sides, Mr Lawrence.”

With his good hand Mr Lawrence pulled a plug and the irritating screens blanked out.

“That's better. Can't do with all that flickering. What is it? A Tarzan film?” Mr Lawrence sighed. “Goodness me. You've been gone… How long? Two Days? And look at you. What on earth shall I do with you? Now try to relax and lie back.”

Slowly, painfully, he eased back. Mr Lawrence undid the three remaining buttons on his shirt. Deep bruises patterned his left side. Around his kidneys the skin was red and swollen and his groin was caked in dried blood.

“You need a doctor, dear boy, the A and E or casualty. You need checking over. X-rays and a thermometer.”

'No! No! No doctors. They'll call the police. They always do. I can't get away with walking into a lamppost, not this time.” “You're right. Being run over by a bus would be more like it.” Using his good hand Mr Lawrence cleaned him up with a sponge and a bowl of warm water turned pink. He dried him off and dabbed Germolene antiseptic cream onto the cuts and covered him with a single sheet. He had tried the ointment on the stub of his own finger but it hadn’t stopped the bleeding.

“Thank you,” Paul said before sleeping.

Like a baby.

Mr Lawrence watched him for a few moments. The boy really needed pyjamas but his wardrobe was full of baby things. His own clothes were in a heap on the floor. On the hangers tiny one-piece baby-growers in five bright colours were packed in. On the shelf above, two cellophane cartons of disposables were packed next to a selection of bottles and sterilization equipment.

Mr Lawrence went down to the shop, his head still shaking in puzzlement. He was not the worrying kind but he was worried and it showed in the deepening lines on his forehead. Somehow he had allowed other people to creep into his life and things were getting out of hand, spiralling out of his control, and something else was on its way.

She arrived with a small battered green suitcase that had travelled. She shrugged her luscious brown shoulders and raised her eyebrows and threw him a wicked smile from cherry-red lips.

“Me mum's kicked me out! She said she would and she did.” He sighed his resignation. “Well, we don't choose our parents. If we did the majority of us would have different parents.”

“He's given me a week. I told him I needed time. Told him I was confused by the electric, see? Confused, innI? Told him.” “Why did he hit you?”

“He's like that. He likes that. He hits everything, even the wall when he's really angry. Even the screws were frightened of him.” “We'll go to the police. That's what they're there for. Protecting the innocent.”

“You don't understand, Mr Lawrence. The filth won't help. They're not interested. It was probably them that

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