Free Her by Harriet Lane Page A

head into the crackle, passing on the information to the police: Christopher Nash, nearly three (‘No, it’s Christopher, not Chris,’ and I nod dumbly, confirming this again, horrified by the contrast with the normal circumstances in which an explanation is required: We always expected we’d abbreviate it, but he doesn’t look like a Chris. He just looks like a Christopher) . Blond hair, blue eyes. Green quilted jacket, yellow-and-black bobble hat, navy trousers and wellingtons painted with beetles. Purple micro scooter.
    This high , I say, showing him, not sure how to quantify it.
    Someone says my name, and it’s Fran from Monkey Music, with Ruby on her balance bike, heading for the gates and home. I see Fran’s face change as she comes closer and sees the look on mine. I start to cry then, and the park keeper, whose name is Gareth or Gary, says, ‘The police will be here any minute,’ and moves away, letting Fran get closer. As she hugs me, Ruby looking up at me with huge curious eyes, I see that Cecily has nodded off in the buggy. Part of me is still stuck in that old, safe life, because for a moment I feel the echo of that tinpot panic: too late for a nap, she won’t go down easily at seven. Then, contemptuously, I let the thought go, because it means nothing.
    The dark is racing across the park now. The two ladies who have been standing around talking in low voices shuffle off apologetically, muttering reassurances. Then we hear the siren. A moment later I’m being helped into a police car while Fran takes the buggy. ‘Thank you, I’ll call you,’ I mouth as the car pulls off, and I see her face as I go, strobing in the light.
    They’ve switched off the siren, I don’t know why.
    There are two youngish police officers in the car, they tell me their first names, John and Lauren, and they do their best: they seem organised, reassuringly invoking protocols, but I can sense the undercurrent beneath what they say. ‘We’ve got another car out locally and two foot patrols doing the park,’ Lauren tells me, leaning back so I can hear what she says as John takes a right towards the cemetery, ‘And the chances are, he has just wandered off, got lost somewhere. We’ll just drive around the neighbourhood and see if we can spot him anywhere. Chances are, he hasn’t gone very far.’ She asks if I wouldn’t mind buckling up.
    The radio hisses and whistles, another unit reporting from higher up the hill. My heart soars and then plummets. ‘Just keep your eyes peeled,’ John says. ‘We’ll go nice and slow, so we don’t miss anything.’
    We’re driving along the edge of the estate, the white stepped terraces chalky under the sodium lights. Behind the little balconies, windows are lighting up. The aquarium flicker of TVs, the snub as people pull curtains.
    By the wheelie bins, six or seven kids kick a football against a wall. They scatter when the police car slows to a halt alongside, but John rolls down his window and calls, ‘We’re looking for a lost toddler,’ and the boys come closer, interested, possibly even concerned, despite themselves. They haven’t seen anything. Thanks. If you do . . . Window up, drive on.
    This is it, this is really happening .
    A bus sails by, full of light, people inside reading books, checking their phones, looking bored.
    ‘Is there anyone you need to call?’ Lauren asks, and I say no, though I know I must ring Ben. But I’m trying to put that off for as long as I can. Telling him, like telling Fran, requires a vocabulary that I don’t possess. I keep my eyes on the pavements, the deep dark patches of shadow at the edges of things: buildings, bushes, stairwells.
    We turn left at the library and slowly work back towards the hospital, which rises up in front of us, huge and illuminated, like an ocean liner. As we drive past the entrance, I see the shuttered florist’s kiosk, the empty escalators endlessly rolling up and down. Three smokers in wheelchairs are spaced