She gave me a sceptical look. ‘Niamh told me she was giving the baby to you, and you were going to give her some money for her troubles. I’d say that was surrogacy, wouldn’t you?’ She frowned, her pencil-thin eyebrows disappearing into a deep furrow on her brow. ‘Only I thought you could only give surrogate mums their expenses. I saw a programme on it once.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I said. ‘Niamh accidentally fell pregnant, and we offered to keep the baby. The police know all this, so I don’t see why it’s any of your business.’
Her expression hardened. ‘What if any reporters turn up on my doorstep asking questions?’
‘Then tell them it’s none of their business, either.’
Her nose wrinkled. ‘It’d be wrong not to share what I know. I don’t want anyone accusing me of withholding vital information.’
‘Oh, please,’ I said, not even bothering to hide my exasperation. ‘Tittle tattle is only going to muddy the waters. Finding Immy is what’s important. So, if the press come knocking on your door, try breaking the habit of a lifetime and keep your mouth shut.’
Phyllis raised herself to her full five foot two inches and spluttered, ‘Well, I’m not sure what I’ve done to deserve that.’
Shit, that was the bear well and truly poked. ‘Sorry, Phyllis. I didn’t mean to snap.’ I ran a hand across my forehead. ‘It’s all a bit overwhelming. I’m grateful for your concern and I would love to come and have a cup of tea another day, if the offer’s still there?’
Mollified, she nodded. ‘It is, dear. And don’t you worry. It’s quite understandable that you’re touchy at the moment. Anyone would be in your shoes. If any reporters come knocking on my door, they’ll get short shrift from me.’
‘Thank you, I appreciate it.’ I smiled and waved the posters in her direction. ‘I guess I’d better get these up before I pick Nate up from school.’
She held out a liver-spotted hand. ‘I’ll put one in my window.’
‘Thanks.’ I handed her one and was about to beat a hasty retreat when she darted forwards, checking over her shoulder to make sure no one was in earshot.
‘One thing that occurred to me,’ she said in a stage whisper. ‘Although you know me, I’m not one to gossip.’
Yeah, right. ‘What’s that, Phyllis?’
‘That policeman on the lunchtime news seemed to think a stranger might have snatched Imogen if she hadn’t fallen in the river. Have you ever wondered if he’s looking in the wrong place? Because on the telly the poor kids who disappear without a trace are usually taken by someone they know.’
The old woman’s words rang in my head as I marched along the footpath towards the Westbere Lakes, only stopping to pin posters to the telegraph poles and gateposts I passed. She was a brazen busybody, but in one respect she was right. I took my phone out and stared at it for a minute before finding DC Sam Bennett’s number in my contacts.
She answered on the fourth ring. ‘Cleo. Everything OK?’
‘It’s fine. Well, as fine as it can be. Look, I wanted to ask if DI Jones is considering the possibility that someone we know took Immy?’
A second’s silence, then, ‘Has anything prompted you to ask this?’
‘Something one of my neighbours said. But she’s probably been watching too many daytime dramas.’
‘Not necessarily.’
I shivered, despite the warmth of the afternoon. ‘So, it’s something you’ll be considering?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘And that’ll include Niamh O’Sullivan?’
‘Your former au pair?’
I nodded, forgetting she couldn’t see me. ‘I can’t help wondering if she might have come back for Immy.’
‘It’s certainly a line of inquiry. In fact, the officer who’s trying to track her down in Chatham is an old buddy of mine from training school. I spoke to him after he’d been round to the squat to let him know I was your FLO. He’s a solid copper. He’ll do everything he can to find Niamh. He’s already carried out house-to-house inquiries the entire length of Luton Road. And that’s no enviable task, as you can imagine.’
I didn’t know what she was talking about, but I didn’t want to interrupt.
‘He even asked the man who owns the fish and chip shop opposite the squat if he could watch his CCTV footage to see if Niamh had been coming and going in recent days, but the last time she’d been caught on camera was almost a month ago, which corroborated what the woman living there told him. But efforts are ongoing to track her down.’
‘You’ve slipped into police-speak,’ I said.
She laughed. ‘I have, haven’t I? Sorry about that. What I mean to say is that the world is a pretty small place these days. We’ll find her.’
We ended the call, and I retraced my steps back along the footpath towards home. As I passed Phyllis’s cottage I quickened my pace, keeping my eyes down, but to my relief she didn’t reappear. Wondering if Stuart and Melanie were still putting up posters, I turned into The Drove and pushed open the wooden gate to St Mary’s Church.
I heard them first and was about to walk out of the shadows and join them when something stopped me. Something about their murmured voices, the soft cadence of their words. I took two steps forwards, held my breath and strained to hear.
Stuart was speaking. Although I couldn’t make out the words, I recognised his tone, even though I hadn’t heard it for as long as I could remember. Solicitous, tender. The way he used to speak to me. The hairs on the back of my neck stood to attention. What the hell was going on?
I crept through the gravestones towards the voices, drawn like a moth to the light.
Melanie’s voice was low and earnest ‘… timing’s all wrong.’
‘What if I can’t wait?’
‘You don’t have a choice, Stu.’
‘Are you sure you’re not getting cold feet again?’
‘I’m sure.’
The soft slapping sound of lips against skin reached me. Stuart groaned and bile rose in my
