Free The Child Garden by Catriona McPherson Page A

opened his door when I got to the top of the stairs.
    â€œI’ve been awake for hours,” he said. “Nod and April. I can’t believe it.” He shivered.
    â€œLet’s get into the warm,” I said, and together we hurried downstairs to the kitchen. The cats were out, must have disappeared off through the flap as soon as the rain stopped, but Walter Scott was there, standing with his nose practically against the back door, waiting. I opened the door and he plodded down the steps to the yard and squatted.
    â€œOh great, Walter,” I said. “Lovely.” When I first came he used to burst out of the back door like a whippet and race twice round before he could even stop long enough to sniff. Then he’d mark every downpipe and doorjamb all over the farmyard and bucket off across the field to do his business somewhere far off down the hill. I hadn’t had to put my hand in one of those bags and scrape up his mess until just earlier this year. “What if I get germs from this and give them to Nicky?” I had asked, turning the bag inside out and tying it. “Nicky can’t fight infection like you and me, you know. One morning bundle of yours could carry him off. Think I’d stick around here cleaning up after you if I didn’t need to be close by?” Walter Scott had just leaned against my legs and looked up at me, sneezing and snuffling that way he does when he’s trying to say I love you. “Yes, I love you too,” I’d told him. “And yes, I’d stay.”
    â€œI’ll get that,” said Stig behind me. “Where’s the bags?”

    â€œI’ve been thinking, Glo,” he said, when he was back inside and had scrubbed his hands and then warmed them on the Rayburn. His voice had that defeated sound again, so I cut him off.
    â€œI’ve been thinking too. Tonight, after work, I’m going to go back to the huttie and check that she’s got no ID on her anywhere. That’ll buy time. And then tomorrow—”
    â€œYou can’t be serious,” he said. “You’re going to go back and rummage around in her pockets.” His face was so white that his stubble stood out like iron filings on his cheeks. Then he shook his head. “Gloria, you’re doing it again,” he said. “This isn’t one of your books. This is the real world. Large as life. Plain as day.”
    I get sick of the way people patronise me. I don’t know what it is about me, but everywhere I go people pat me on the head and chuck me under the chin. Not literally, but everyone from my mother and my sister if they’re in the right mood, to Lynne at work and people in the village. They’re kind to me, patient with me, like they’ve got to be kind and patient to poor Gloria. The only place it doesn’t happen is the home. There I’m Nicky’s mum and Miss Drumm’s friend and I fit right in. Deirdre’s mum and I can have a nice chat like two women at the school gate, and for once no one’s pitying either of us.
    Stig must have wondered why I sounded so angry when I answered him, because what he’d said was pretty mild. But it was the last move in a long game. This isn’t one of your books, Gloria. That’s a lovely cardi, Gloria. How’s that handsome son of yours? I slammed the microwave door and turned to face him.
    â€œI’m not a fool, Stig,” I said. “I’m being completely realistic, and books are nothing to do with it. Tonight I check her body and tomorrow I go to her house or flat or whatever and get rid of anything there that could harm you.”
    â€œYou can’t,” he said. “I don’t know where she lives. I looked through her stuff and there’s no address anywhere.”
    â€œWhich is odd, right?” I said. “Where’s her driving licence? Why isn’t it in her purse where it should be?”
    â€œMaybe she