The prosecution tried their best: calling in a psychiatrist as their expert witness who said he was certain Hannah posed a significant and ongoing threat to society. They even got Kathy Philips, Hannah’s old childminder, to describe how Hannah had set fire to her son’s room all those years before. But despite all this, despite the fact that she deliberately burned down her family home, in the end her fate hung on the performance she gave, the jury’s belief of whether she’d really intended to kill or not. She sobbed as she said she hadn’t meant for the fire to spread, that she’d tried to go back to save her father and brother, that she had the burns on her back to prove it. The jury was divided, uncertain, and in the end the murder charge was reduced to involuntary manslaughter and, because of her age, she got just five years.
At first I was shocked that she didn’t come clean about the discoveries she’d made, had shied away from a heartrending description of how she’d found out, aged seven, the awful truth. Such a pitiful tale could only have worked in her favor, after all. But I think she knew that there was no need. That story was too valuable to be given up so easily, when she still had so much more suffering in store for her father, and for Rose.
I could have told the police myself, confessed to them about Hannah’s real mother, how she died, how Rose and Oliver and I were involved in it all, but what good would that have done? My child was dead. I thought of the two Lawson boys, so young still, and I didn’t think I could be responsible for destroying their lives too. I was drowning in grief, capable only of wishing with all my heart that I’d died with Doug and Toby that night, as I’m sure Hannah knew. I wish that I’d died too.
TWENTY-NINE
SUFFOLK, 2017
As Rose described the fire and Hannah’s trial, Clara felt cold waves of panic wash over her. This was the person who had hold of Luke? This murderer, this madwoman? And Rose, Oliver—they had known it all along? She stared at them, anger and shock mingling with her despair.
It was Tom who spoke first. “How old was he, the boy?” he asked, his voice scarcely louder than a whisper.
Rose hung her head. “Ten. Toby was ten years old.”
“Jesus! Oh, Jesus Christ!” He got up and paced the room, coming to a halt in front of his father. “She’s killed before—what’s to stop her doing it again? What’s to stop her from murdering Luke too?”
Oliver looked up at his son imploringly. “If she was going to kill Luke, she would have done so by now, not continued to send pictures and taunt us like this. She knows if she kills him, there’s nothing to stop us going to the police. It wouldn’t be in her best interests; she wants us to suffer for as long as possible. It’s a game to her, that’s all. It’s my and Rose’s punishment.”
As Clara listened to Oliver talk, she remembered how frequently Hannah had inquired after her father’s and Rose’s well-being during their meetings, how avidly she listened when Clara described their suffering. Her desire to see Clara wasn’t just to keep abreast of the police search; it was an opportunity to revel in the havoc she had caused.
Rose got to her feet then and, approaching her son, put her hand on his arm. “Tom, you have to understand that Hannah has never given us a straight answer about Emily’s whereabouts. Sometimes she says she knows; other times she denies it. She might have some information, no matter how small, that could let us know what happened to her. If the police catch Hannah before us, then she’ll never tell us; she’d go to prison and keep quiet just to spite us. At least this way, if we do what she wants, there’s still a chance that she could tell us something, anything, that might help us find Emily.”
“Christ.” Tom shook off his mother’s hand. “What the fuck are we going to do, then? How are we going to find Luke?”
There was a silence, and then Clara said, “She doesn’t know that I know who she really is yet. She thinks I still believe she’s Emily.”
Tom looked at her. “That’s true.”
“So if I arranged to meet her again, one of us could follow her, to see where she goes.”
Mac shook his head. “That’s too risky—she knows what we all look like, even me. She’d spot us a mile away.”
“Then who?” said Tom.
—
The following morning, Tom, Mac, and Clara sat in a café in Greenwich, nervously looking at the door. “Do you think she’s going to come?” asked Mac.
Clara nodded. “She wouldn’t let me down.”
A moment later, a tall, auburn-haired woman with a baby strapped to her chest walked through the door.
It took nearly half an hour to bring Zoe up to speed. When they’d finished, she looked at each of them for a long moment, speechless with shock. Finally she spoke. “Holy fuck,” she said, shaking her head. She looked at Clara. “Why didn’t you tell me this was going on?”
Clara took hold of her hand. “I’m sorry. But will you do it? I wouldn’t ask if we weren’t absolutely desperate. We just need you to follow her as far as you can.”
“If there’s any sign of anything dodgy, if you feel like she’s spotted you, or you feel nervous in any way, just turn around and come home again,” said Mac.
“Only follow her as far as you feel comfortable,” Tom added. “If she leads you somewhere isolated, don’t go any further.”
Zoe looked from one
