‘Who kidnapped my husband?’
‘I’m putting myself on the line by telling you as much as I have.’
‘You put my husband on the line,’ she said coldly. ‘You owe me something for that . . . You said he was taken by terrorists. What terrorists?’
Jardene wondered for a moment if he should just lock her in the cell, then quickly dismissed the thought as preposterous despite its attraction.
‘Irish Republican terrorists.’
‘The IRA?’
‘Probably not the official IRA but, yes.’
Kathryn mellowed. For reasons that were not immediately obvious to her, it didn’t seem quite so bad as it first seemed. ‘Has someone seen him? Have they contacted you?’
‘No. We’ve heard nothing yet . . . There has already been a significant investigation and we believe it is not in their interest to harm Hank, and, as I said, once they realise he’s American, well, hopefully things will get sorted out quickly.’
‘Hopefully?’
‘Hopefully sooner rather than later is what I meant.’
Kathryn finally calmed herself. There was nothing else she could think of asking, nothing that he might know or would tell it seemed.
‘Can I trust you to keep what I have said to yourself?’ he asked.
She didn’t appear to have heard him.
‘Mrs Munro? You’ll be kept informed. If there is any news, I’ll call you immediately.’
Kathryn felt very tired all of a sudden. ‘I’d like to go home now,’ she said.
‘Of course.’ He opened the cell door and stepped out. He paused in the hallway for her to join him. As she passed the television room all the Marines turned to watch her leave, having heard the raised voices. Jardene opened the door and they stepped outside into the crisp air. She didn’t say goodbye and walked to her car. Jardene watched her climb in and drive away. He was not looking forward to telling the boss how much more he had told her. Hopefully he would understand that Jardene had to do it to avert exposure, but it would be another black mark in his report. This whole thing was a nightmare and one he could expect to last for a very long time, and far beyond its conclusion.
Kathryn was calm as she drove away from the camp, her mind focused on dealing with this quandary. This situation had changed everything. She could deal with it in England or back home. It wasn’t a difficult decision to make. All she had to do was justify going back Stateside. The unexpected feeling about this was that she was suddenly in charge. She now had the power to solve the most burning issue in her life - other than Hank of course - and that was getting back home.There was nothing to stop her.When Hank was released she would fly back to England immediately. The SEALs would no doubt fly her. This was no small thing that was happening to her. It could even mean the end of Hank’s UK assignment. As the British officer said, it didn’t make sense that the IRA would hurt Hank since he was American. And when they found out he was Irish American they’d probably treat him first class.
Kathryn turned into a cul-de-sac and pulled to a stop by the kerb at the entrance to Rushcombe school. She was almost surprised to see she had arrived. It was as if her subconscious had brought her here without her knowing. She climbed out and looked over at the playground where a class was playing rounders. Helen and Janet were not amongst them. Kathryn headed up the flagstone path to the main entrance, stepped inside and walked along the corridor, pausing to look in each room through the small glass window in the door. She found her daughters seated at their desks in the last classroom at the end of the corridor. They were following a passage in their books as another girl stood by her desk reading out loud. Kathryn opened the door. The girl stopped reading and all the children, including the teacher, a rotund grey-haired woman, looked up at her.
‘I’m sorry for interrupting,’ Kathryn said. ‘I’ve come to collect my daughters: Janet and Helen Munro.’
‘I’m sorry,’ the teacher said, quite unhappy with the interruption. ‘And you are?’
‘I’m their mother,’ Kathryn announced as if it were obvious.
‘This is most irregular,’ the teacher said.‘Have you spoken to the headmistress?’
‘No.’
‘There are rules, Mrs . . . ’
‘Munro. As in Janet and Helen Munro. Come along,’ Kathryn said to her girls. ‘And get all your things - your sweater, Janet.’ The two girls collected their sweaters and backpacks and made their way to their mother, both looking embarrassed.
‘Could you tell the headmistress that they won’t be back,’ Kathryn said to the teacher as she ushered the girls into the corridor. And then as an afterthought she added, ‘I’m sorry for interrupting your class. Please tell the headmistress that it was urgent.’
She closed the door, leaving the teacher looking exasperated.
Kathryn walked briskly along the corridor and out the main doors. Janet and Helen had to run to keep up.
‘Where we going, Mommy?’ Helen asked.
‘Back home. America.’
‘We can’t go home yet, Mommy. We haven’t finished school,’ Janet said.
‘It’s can’t, not carn’t,’ Kathryn said, opening the rear door of the car for the girls to climb in. ‘Stop speaking in an English accent. You’re Americans. Buckle up your seatbelts.’
Kathryn climbed in and started the engine. ‘Mommy, the sleeve of my jumper’s caught in the door,’ Janet said.
Kathryn climbed out, opened Janet’s door to let her pull the sleeve in.‘It’s not a jumper, honey, it’s a sweater. Kangaroos are jumpers.’
Kathryn climbed back in and they pulled away.
‘We going home to America right now?’ Helen asked.
‘First flight we can,’ Kathryn said. Then it dawned on her. She’d forgotten. They couldn’t go to Norfolk. Their home was rented out on a two-year lease. And she couldn’t impose on any of her friends, not at such short notice and to stay for weeks.
There was only one option, which did not appeal to her particularly, but it was better than staying in England. Boston, New England. Her mother’s house. Whatever spark of relief there was to be had from leaving England was significantly reduced by the prospect of moving back to her childhood home. Having her mom visit them in Norfolk was bad enough, but to stay with them at her house would be hell. Mind you, the kids liked Grandma. That was something at least.
‘Mommy,’ Helen said, ‘if we’re going home, where’s Daddy?’
Kathryn had been so consumed with her own problems she hadn’t even thought about what she was going to tell the children.
‘He’s going to come along as soon as he can, honey.’ Of that she was strangely confident. Kidnapped. It probably sounded a lot worse than it was.
Quincy, Boston Massachusetts was wetter and colder than England had been that month. Kathryn’s mother lived in a spacious New England-style house built in the twenties and just within reach of the spray from the bay during a strong south-westerly gale. The neighbourhood had not changed much since Kathryn was a child apart from the cars parked in the thickly tree-lined street where mothers still let their children play. Every house squatted on its own plot, a small garden in front, a larger one in back, with none of the inhabitants apparently obsessive about gardening. The wooden siding that covered the exterior of the house had seen a new coat of paint in recent years but the detached garage in the far corner of the back garden could have done with a lick and a new layer of felt on the roof. A wide porch cluttered with retired lounge furniture took up much of the front of the house and the
