‘Two sugars please, Sam,’ DI Jones said. And to me, ‘Is your husband at home?’
‘He’s out looking for Immy. I’ve left a message telling him to come straight home. Why, have you found her?’
‘Is there somewhere we can sit down?’
My legs threatened to buckle beneath me. This wasn’t looking good. ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Follow me.’
I pushed open the door to the front room and pulled the curtains. DI Jones eased his bulk into an armchair and smiled briefly. ‘I’m afraid we haven’t found Imogen yet, although we’re doing everything we can to locate her. You’ve been briefed on the search, I believe?’
‘Yes. Sam has been keeping us up to speed.’
‘My team has been looking at other lines of inquiry, and it was during one of our routine checks that we discovered something I don’t believe you shared with us when you reported Imogen missing.’
I stared at my hands. Bloody Stuart. I knew we should have told them.
‘According to Social Services, Imogen isn’t your birth daughter. Is that correct?’
I nodded.
‘Can I ask why you didn’t inform officers that was the case?’
I deliberated for a beat. I’d have happily told them Immy wasn’t mine. It wasn’t as if it was some big secret, after all. I’d kept it to myself because Stuart had wanted me to. But I should have trusted my own judgment, because now it looked as though we had something to hide, and I couldn’t blame DI Jones for giving me a grilling. He was only doing his job.
I licked my lips and went with the truth. ‘I was going to, but my husband didn’t think it was relevant.’ DI Jones raised an eyebrow. ‘I was happy to go along with his decision, because Immy is mine as far as I’m concerned,’ I added with a shrug.
‘We need to know details like these if we’re going to find your daughter, Mrs Cooper. According to the birth certificate, Imogen’s mother is a woman called Niamh O’Sullivan. Do you know her?’
‘She was our au pair. She fell pregnant while she was working for us and when the baby - Immy - was born, she asked us if we would look after her. We didn’t want our son to be an only child and as I’m unable to have more children we agreed.’
‘But private adoptions are illegal in the UK,’ DI Jones said.
‘I expect you noticed Stuart is listed as Immy’s father on her birth certificate,’ I said. DI Jones nodded. ‘Niamh was adamant that she wanted Immy to be ours. The only workaround was to put Stuart down as Immy’s dad. That way, she could legitimately live with him. With us.’
‘He’s not the father?’
It was as if an image of the condoms had burned onto my retinas. I blinked it away. ‘He’s not, no. Niamh fell pregnant while we were on a family holiday in Corfu. She’d come with us to look after our son. She went drinking one night with some boys in the village and, well, you can guess the rest. I asked her who the father was, but she said it was no one she knew.’
‘Where do you think Niamh is now?’
‘Working for a family in Rochester, as far as I know. We didn’t keep in touch.’ I clocked his expression. ‘Her choice, not ours. She wanted a clean break.’
He steepled his fingers. ‘In that case, I have something to show you.’
Chapter Twelve
My heart thudded in my ribcage. ‘What?’
‘Once we’d established Niamh was Imogen’s birth mother, we did a few background checks on her. As part of our routine inquiries, you understand. How old would Niamh be now?’
I counted on my fingers. ‘Twenty-two.’
‘We found records of a Niamh O’Sullivan of that age living in the Medway area. I have a photo I need you to see.’
Before he reached into his folder, I held up a hand. ‘Wait. Why do you have a picture of her?’
‘I’m not at liberty to divulge that, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh, cut the crap, please,’ I said. ‘I have a right to know.’
‘I’m afraid you don’t,’ he said mildly, handing me a sheet of paper. ‘Is this her?’
My fingers trembled as I studied the blurry black and white printout. A gaunt-looking girl stared back at me. Her expression was blank, a tattoo was inked on the side of her neck and it looked as if someone had attacked her beautiful long, red hair with a pair of shears, but there was no disputing it was Niamh.
‘Oh my God,’ I whispered.
‘So, it’s her,’ DI Jones said.
‘It’s a custody shot, isn’t it?’
He and the family liaison officer exchanged a look. Sam said, ‘It is in the public domain, boss.’
He scratched his chin. ‘I suppose it is. Niamh was found guilty of nicking some perfume from a local department store a couple of years ago. She was given a community service order.’
‘But that’s not all, is it?’ I said. ‘Just tell me. Please.’
He sighed. ‘You didn’t hear this from me, all right? According to my oppo at Medway, she’s since switched to prostitution to fund her heroin habit.’
The room started spinning, and I grabbed the arm of the sofa to steady myself. ‘I don’t understand. She had a job lined up as an au pair. I wrote the reference for her new family myself. Yet you’re telling me she’s a drug addict and a… a prostitute?’
I let DI Jones’s revelations sink in. It was impossible to equate the tattooed woman in the custody picture with the diffident girl from rural Ireland we’d welcomed into our home.
‘Where is she now?’ I asked.
‘The last we knew, she was living in a squat in Chatham. My oppo sent a patrol round there this morning. Niamh left a month or so ago. No one seems to have seen her since.’
My stomach clenched. Niamh was missing. And so was Immy. The picture slipped out of my
