Christ. She was like one of those men who killed their ex-wives and kids in a jealous rage. The “If I can’t have you, no one can” brigade. I didn’t know if she would carry out her threat, but I couldn’t take the chance. I needed to negotiate our way out of this.
‘Look, can we sit down for a minute? My arms are killing me,’ I said. I looked down at Immy. ‘I don’t want to drop her.’
Sheila narrowed her eyes, then waved the knife towards the front room. ‘You first.’
I jumped as the knife pricked the back of my neck.
‘Put Imogen down and sit in the armchair,’ Sheila barked.
I did as I was told, settling Immy on the sofa with her head resting on a cushion. She was still out for the count, her breathing regular but shallow, only just discernible above the softly ticking marble carriage clock on the mantelpiece.
‘What the hell have you given her?’ I asked.
‘Temazepam, mainly. With the odd travel sickness pill. Until she settles in.’ Sheila held the knife over me. ‘Sit down.’
I perched on the edge of the armchair, which was, frustratingly, at the farthermost point in the room. ‘Jesus, you could have killed her.’
Her chest puffed out. ‘I was careful. Which is more than can be said for you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Getting drunk in the garden with your friends on Sunday, completely oblivious to the danger your three-year-old daughter was in.’
‘Danger?’
‘Immy had fallen and grazed her knee. She was crying her eyes out, the poor little love, but when I asked her where her mummy was, she said she didn’t know.’
‘You snatched her from our garden.’ A statement, not a question, because I now understood that Sheila must have let herself into the garden by the faulty side gate on Sunday afternoon and lured Immy away. And of course Immy would have happily gone with her, because while she might have been wary of strangers, she knew Sheila. She trusted her. I thought of all the times I’d taken Immy to the office while Stuart had freelance work on, and Sheila had minded her while I met with suppliers or caught up with paperwork. All the times Immy had played in Sheila’s swivel chair, or watched CBeebies on Sheila’s computer, or sat on Sheila’s bony knee drawing on copier paper with Sheila’s perfectly sharpened pencils. Sheila always had a bag of chocolate buttons or a packet of Smarties in her handbag in case Immy dropped by. All that time she’d been inveigling her way into my daughter’s life, preparing for the day she would steal her from me. The thought made me want to vomit.
‘I was dropping off the accounts. At your behest, if you remember,’ Sheila said bitterly. She gazed at Immy’s sleeping form and her expression softened. ‘She looks so like her dad, the little poppet.’
‘You told me you couldn’t drop them off because you were in hospital with your mother. Your dead mother.’
Sheila had been pacing the length of the room, but she stopped and turned to face me. ‘Who told you Mother was dead?’
‘Your neighbour, Joyce. She said she died six years ago.’
‘Joyce is a meddlesome old battle-axe who should learn to keep her mouth shut.’
I was about to retaliate when it occurred to me that establishing a rapport with Sheila could work to my advantage. I angled my head to one side. ‘You must have been devastated.’
‘Not especially. Mother was… difficult.’
‘And while you were still grieving, Bill offered you a job at FoodWrapped. It must have seemed like fate.’
‘He was my knight in shining armour.’ Sheila’s face crumpled. ‘We were going to be together one day. He promised me. And now he’s dead.’
I couldn’t help myself. ‘You think he was going to leave Melanie for you?’
‘No need to take that sarcastic tone. He didn’t need to leave her. She was about to leave him. For Stuart,’ she added, with a sly smile. ‘Did you know they were having an affair?’
‘Sorry to disappoint you, but I did. And they’re welcome to each other. From now on it’ll be me and the kids and that suits me fine.’
The words had an electrifying effect on Sheila. Her eyes became slits and her lips thinned. ‘You’re not fit to be a mother.’
‘What?’
‘I was the one who was there for Imogen on Sunday, not you. I was the one who kissed her knee better and dried her tears, while you were getting sozzled.’
‘You took her from under our noses and made it look as though she’d fallen into the river.’ I paused. ‘Was it you who unlocked the gate?’
She looked evasive.
‘And you threw one of Immy’s sandals into the water. You let us think she was dead. How could you?’
Sheila found her voice. ‘It was no more than you deserved. You’re never there for those poor children. Stuart has to do everything.’
I bristled. ‘I’m the breadwinner and he’s a stay-at-home dad. Of course he does more at home than me. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love them.’
‘The company means more to you than they ever could. Whereas Imogen means the world to me. I would do anything for her. Anything.’ Sheila rotated the kitchen knife in her hand before touching the tip with her index finger. She smiled at me, her eyes hard as flints. ‘Face facts, Cleo. I’m going to be a much better mother than you could ever be. You don’t deserve her.’
‘She’s not yours to take.’
‘Pot and kettle. You took her from the Irish slut.’
‘Niamh wanted us to look after Immy.’
Sheila shrugged. ‘So you say.’
‘I say it because it’s true!’ I said, hitting the arm of the chair with my fist. ‘And what are you planning to do next? The whole county is looking for Immy. Do you think you can keep her drugged and hidden here forever?’
‘I have a plan which I won’t be divulging to you,’ she said primly.
‘And what are you going
