The Stranger on the Train (18 page)

Behind her, Rafe cleared his throat.

“Mr. Hodgkiss,” he said. “Do you have children?”

“I'm sorry?”

“Do you have children?”

Mr. Hodgkiss raised an eyebrow. “As it happens, I do, but—”

“What ages are they?”

Mr. Hodgkiss hesitated.

“Two and four.”

“And would you recognize them?” Rafe asked. “If someone took them, and said they were theirs? Would you still recognize them as your own children?”

Brian Hodgkiss licked his lips. His nose shone with perspiration. His hair was thin and far back on his forehead. Despite the baldness he looked very young. More like a schoolboy himself than a father of two. He didn't look as pompous as he had in the grand consulate hall. Here in the night, with just the three of them, he seemed like a good person. Earnest. As if he wanted to do the right thing.

“Look,” he said. “The thing is, one of our staff here at the consulate is actually a good friend of the family's GP. A Dr. Ridgeway, I believe.”

“And that puts the Hunts above suspicion?” Rafe said impatiently.

“No, of course not. Of course it doesn't. But Dr. Ridgeway has lived here for over twenty years, and is extremely well-known and respected in the area. He's a Brit himself, so of course takes a keen interest in all of our ex-pats. And there were certain issues with this particular family . . .” He paused.

Then he said: “Perhaps I shouldn't tell you this. But I don't see the harm. Everyone in the area knows about it. Apparently, the Hunts' child was very ill as a baby. A genetic condition, I believe. The lining on his nerves, or some such. He was seen by all kinds of specialists—the parents stopped at nothing, you can imagine—and Dr. Ridgeway looked after him whenever he was here in France. So you can see how he ended up getting to know the family, and their child, extremely well.”

“So you're telling us their kid is sick?” Rafe said. “Because I have to say, I'm no doctor myself, but he looked pretty healthy to me.”

“Well,” Mr. Hodgkiss said. “It's interesting because, what happened was, the Hunts got to hear about a new treatment in India. Some spiritual cure or other; I don't know all the details. Anyway, Dr. Ridgeway thought it wouldn't help, and he wasn't keen for them to go there, but they'd tried everything else, so in the end they took him over there for a few months, and . . . well.” He spread his hands. “It worked. The child was cured.”

Emma said in despair: “But that's a different child we're talking about. The child I saw today, the one they have with them in the house right now, is
my
child.”

“Ms. Turner—”

Emma cried to Rafe: “Let's go back. We're wasting our time here. I should have taken him while I had the chance.”

She turned to the road.

“They'll take him away,” she whimpered. What was she doing here? What in God's name had possessed her to allow Ritchie out of her sight for one second once she had found him?

The sound of a mobile phone ringing. Brian's voice: “Hello?”

Emma kept going. Blimmin' ignorance of him, taking a phone call at a time like this. Then Brian said in a loud voice: “
What?
”

What now? Emma half turned. Brian put his hand up to her, a sharp
Wait there
gesture.

“That's incredible,” he said into the phone. “Yes. I think they will. In fact, we've just been discussing . . . yes, yes. I'll get back to you.”

He snapped shut his phone.

“
Well!
” he said. His cheeks glowed. His expression was transformed. He was a smiley, jovial Santa Claus now, with a lovely surprise for them both.

Rafe and Emma stared at him.

“That was Philippa Hunt,” Brian explained. “As I've already mentioned, the Hunts are very sympathetic to your plight. They want to help, if only by ruling themselves out of this situation and allowing you to concentrate on other avenues.”

Rafe asked: “What does that mean, exactly?”

Brian swelled out his chest. He said:

“Mrs. Hunt has volunteered to do a DNA test.”

• • •

The guesthouse Brian Hodgkiss directed them to for the night was just around the corner, part of a terrace on a side street. The windows were dark, but Rafe and Emma were plainly expected. As they reached the house, the door creaked open to reveal a very wide elderly woman in a flowery buttoned-up coat.

“Shh.” The woman put her finger to her lips. Then she beckoned the two of them into a dim, biscuit-smelling hall and closed and bolted the door behind them. Still flapping her hand at them to be quiet, she led them up a flight of stairs with a brown patterned runner carpet. At the top, she opened a door to the right and pressed a switch on the wall.

They all blinked at the gigantic, four-foot-high bed taking up most of the room, covered with a glistening pink counterpane, like a giant tongue.

“
Voilà,
” the woman said complacently.

Emma was too dazed to say anything.

“This room,” Rafe said in an awkward way. “It is for . . .” He pointed at himself and Emma. “For both of us?”

The woman looked shocked. She tutted and shook her head.

“
Deux chambres,
” she said, raising two fingers. She crossed the room and pushed open a second door. Emma caught the gleam of tiling, a white bath and sink. Beyond the bath, yet another doorway led to a room on the opposite side.

“Ah,” Rafe said. “
Merci.
”

The woman nodded, pointed to some folded towels on a chair and left.

Still dazed, Emma sank onto the edge of the bed.

“How accurate is the DNA test?” she asked.

Rafe said: “As far as I know, pretty accurate.”

“It can't give a false result and show he's someone else's child if he's not?”

“No.”

She absorbed this.

“How will they do it? Will they have to stick something into Ritchie?”

“I don't think so. No. They'll just use a swab to take some saliva from his mouth.”

“Who will?”

“A doctor. Or a policeman, maybe. It'll be the same for the Hunts. They'll take all the samples at the same time, and send them off to the lab together to see if they match.”

“As simple as that,” Emma said. She had a shaky sense of having pulled back, just in time, from a steep fall to a drop miles below. It was hard to grasp. How nearly all of this—finding Ritchie again, getting this test organized—might never have happened. How close she had come to never getting him back.

“Thank God,” she said. “Thank God we came here. They'd never have done this otherwise.”

Rafe didn't reply.

“What?” Emma asked. “What's wrong?”

Rafe said slowly: “Why do you think they've agreed to do the test?”

Emma frowned. On the wall across from her was a framed painting of a horse and foal, noses touching, standing together in a stable yard.

“I don't know,” she said. “Maybe they feel remorse?” She remembered how the man had said “Sorry” to her before he closed the door in her face.

“Or maybe they don't know how conclusive the test is,” she said. “I don't know. All I do know is, if they do it and it really is as accurate as you say, then it will show he isn't theirs.”

Rafe nodded.

“Won't it?” Suddenly she was less sure. “What do
you
think? You think while we're all sitting around, waiting for the test to happen, they'll run off without any of us suspecting?”

She jumped up off the bed.

“Oh God. We should go back. We should go back and watch the house.”

Rafe said: “Brian Hodgkiss called the house again, and the police were still there. He doesn't think the Hunts are going anywhere tonight.”

“And you believe him?”

“Why would he lie?”

“Because he's not on our side. He doesn't believe Ritchie is mine.”

“Emma.” Rafe tried to calm her. “He doesn't know who to believe. He's just doing his job.” He scratched his head, looking annoyed with himself. “I wish I hadn't said anything now. I don't know why I had to go mouthing off like that. All I can tell you is, if we go back there and the Hunts see us, they might change their minds about doing that test.”

Change their minds! Emma went still.

“You look exhausted.” Rafe touched her hand. “Try to get some sleep. Look.” He pointed at the window. “Nearly dawn. They'll be doing the test in a couple of hours. There's nothing else we can do for now.”

When he had gone, Emma eyed the lurid pink bed. Try to get some sleep! She might as well try to swim the Atlantic. Instead, she unpacked Gribbit from the side pocket in her bag. He was all crumpled, his legs twisted in different directions. Emma smoothed him out. Then she stood there, holding him to her face. The pain of it; she was struck with it all over again. She'd never felt Ritchie's loss getting any easier, but somewhere along the line she must have got used to it, because now it suddenly seemed a thousand times worse. Her need for him was so acute after having been so close to him she could have touched him. His little yellow head; she missed him so much. Should she be doing this? Just waiting here in this room, while Ritchie was still down the road with those people? It seemed strange. To have him so near and not go to him; it seemed wrong. If only she knew the right way to act. If only an arrow of some kind would appear, pointing and saying to her: this is what you do. No matter how hard it was, she wouldn't hesitate for a second. Should she go back to the house by herself? Sit outside and make sure they didn't try to take Ritchie anywhere? Smash down a door or a window, and take him, and refuse to let him go?

Restless, she took Gribbit to the window. No cars outside. No lights anywhere, apart from her own. Just low buildings, huddled under the moon. The scene could have been from any time—a hundred, two hundred years ago. Several times, she stooped to put her shoes back on, then changed her mind and took them off again. If she went there, and they canceled the DNA test . . . In the end, exhausted, she gave up. She took her shoes off for the final time, turned off the light and crawled in beneath the slippery bedcover, not bothering to pull back the woolen blanket underneath. She lay there with Gribbit, little needles poking at her head. Then she sat up again, bunching the pillows up into a heap behind her back. She curled her arms around her knees. Her eyes were too stretched, too wide and dry for sleep. The heavy curtains were not completely closed. A faint light shone between them.

Ritchie had looked so well. So small and sweet and beautiful. No wonder Antonia had held him so closely, protecting him even from the members of her own family. He'd looked well fed, well cared for. Even from a distance, she'd seen that the clothes he was wearing were new and expensive. You could see that he wasn't being tortured. He wasn't suffering. Seeing it was like the loosening of a weight or a claw inside of her, the first real relief she'd had since all of this had started.

From the hall, the slow heartbeat tick of a clock.

Did he miss her? Did he think about her at all?

You loved small children so much, more than you could ever think possible. But it was different for them. They lived from day to day. They forgot things the way adults never did. And of course Ritchie would be busy. So many people, all wanting to hold him and love him.

And such a beautiful house. It really was, such a beautiful place. A place that caught at your throat. The geese under the trees. The cat in the sun. The fields with their dark corn crops, as high as giants.

Imagine being a little boy and growing up there.

The moon had faded. Pale light filtered between the curtains. Emma put the pillows down and rolled onto her side. The roll of barbed wire in her middle had gone. In its place, a raw, scraped hollow.

Chapter Thirteen

Monday, September 25th

Day Nine

First thing in the morning, Emma was on the phone to Brian Hodgkiss.

“They're still there, aren't they?” she asked as soon as he answered. “They haven't taken Ritchie anywhere?”

“They're still there,” Brian placated. “I spoke to Mrs. Hunt not five minutes ago.”

Emma's grip loosened on the receiver. She had no idea why the Hunts were being so cooperative, but as long as they were, that was fine by her.

“When is the test being done?” she asked.

Brian said: “This morning. Mrs. Hunt is bringing Ritchie to their GP's surgery at ten. Mr. Hunt is refusing to be tested. He doesn't see that it's necessary. But that shouldn't affect us because even though, strictly speaking, the test should be done with both parents, for our purposes all we need is the maternal—”

Emma interrupted him: “How long before we get the result?”

“Twenty-four hours, at a minimum. If we can get the lab to prioritize it.”

“And you're absolutely sure they're not going to take him and run off in the meantime?”

In a very patient voice, Brian said: “It's extremely unlikely. One of our staff here is going to check in regularly with them until the DNA result comes back. The Hunts don't have a problem with it. I'm sure that should set your mind at rest.”

Emma couldn't think of anything else to say.

Brian asked: “Could I speak to Mr. Townsend, please?”

While Rafe was on the phone, Brian's voice came tinnily through the receiver. Emma could hear everything he was saying.

“You know, she can't go near them,” he warned Rafe. “Certainly not in that state. She'll be arrested if she harasses them again. The Hunts are frightened for the child. It was they who asked if we could keep an eye on them until the test is done, and to be honest, I can't blame them.”

“I see.”

“So, for her sake as well as theirs, keep her away from them until the DNA result is back.”

Rafe said: “I will.”

• • •

Someone had brought their hire car back to Bergerac from St.-Bourdain and left it parked in front of the B&B. Rafe suggested they go for a drive. He turned off the main road and took the smaller side routes, driving at random, anywhere to keep moving. The morning was lemon fresh; the roads, though narrowing in places to barely a single lane, were clear of cars. Castles on the hillside poked their turrets through the treetops, like towers in a fairy tale.

“What do you think's happening now?” Emma asked for the fifteenth time.

Rafe glanced at the clock on the dash.

“Just gone ten,” he said. “They're probably taking the swabs now.”

Emma wondered what Ritchie would think of it all. He didn't like doctors one bit. The day she had taken him in to have Dr. Stanford look at his ears, he'd flattened himself into her like an octopus, highly suspicious, knowing full well there was something funny going on. Just the torch shining near his face was enough to make him howl. She could picture him now, recoiling from having his mouth swabbed, trying to reach out and grab the thing they did it with.

“He loves sour things,” she said, out of nowhere. “Slices of lemon. Things like that. Even though they make him scrunch up his face, he insists on eating them.”

“Bloody men.” Rafe grinned at her. “Do we ever learn?”

“He
is
,” Emma insisted. “He's a real little man. You'll see when you meet him. Once he caught his finger in the door, and even though the nail went blue he didn't cry at all. He just crawled over, and made a face and held it up to show me. And he's been learning how to kick a ball. He's nearly got it. You just have to hold his other leg down.”

She couldn't stop talking. What were they all doing now? Had the test been done? Had the doctor been nice to Ritchie?

After a while, her voice ran out, and she and Rafe drove in silence. They passed more vineyards, then along a road lined on either side by a row of high trees whose tops met in the middle. The car was filled with light, then shade, then light again. Light, shade, light . . . The next thing Emma knew, her mouth had a dry, bitter taste, and she was slumped to the right, her forehead bumping against the window.

Startled, she sat up. Her neck was stiff. The view from the windscreen had changed. They were on a much bigger road, a motorway, crawling with cars and long, rumbling trucks. Rafe, concentrating on the busy lanes, was squinting in the hard, bright light from the sky.

“Was I asleep?” Emma asked.

Rafe grinned, keeping his eyes on the huge padlocked lorry in front.

“Just a quick nap,” he said.

Emma was surprised. She hadn't even known that she was tired. The clock on the dashboard read eleven thirty. She rubbed the side of her neck.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“Just approaching Bordeaux.” Rafe nodded at a green road-sign. He glanced at Emma. “What should we do? Take a break, or keep going?”

“Keep going, if you can.” Emma wasn't in the mood to visit a large city.

Rafe nodded. At the next roundabout, he took an exit away from the signs for Bordeaux. Gradually, the traffic began to ease. The number of trucks decreased, though they were still surrounded by plenty of cars. Tall trees crowded the edges of the road, a change of scene from all the fields and vineyards. The sun was very strong now. The temperature in the car was beginning to rise.

Emma, fully awake again, was thinking hard. Maybe whatever she'd been dreaming about had set her off, but something was bothering her. In Mr. Bap's café, Antonia had said she'd had a child. A little boy. Later, Emma had assumed she must have been lying about that. But now, from what Brian Hodgkiss had said, it seemed as if Antonia did have a child after all. But where was he? According to the CCTV tape from the airport, the only child the Hunts had brought with them from London was Ritchie. And yesterday as well, on their driveway, Ritchie had been the only child in sight. If the Hunts did have a child of their own, then what on earth had they done with him?

At a T-junction, Rafe had to stop the car. Ahead of them, a tractor pulling a trailer with some kind of machinery on it was trying to make a right turn around a high stone wall. The teenage male passenger had got out onto the road to help the driver. The sun beat down. With no movement to keep things cool, the temperature in the car rose further. The air coming through the windows was dry and dusty. Below the high wall, a sharp black line on the road marked the division between light and shade.

Emma frowned. Why
were
the Hunts doing this DNA test? It was weird, weird, weird. Rafe had commented last night on how odd it was, and he was right. It made no sense, to steal a baby and then keep on hanging around, even after the police had twice been to the house. Antonia must have brought Ritchie in for the test this morning, or the consulate would surely have been in touch. But that didn't mean she had any intention of sticking around for the result.

Emma turned to Rafe.

“Let's go back. Let's go back to the house.”

“Emma—”

“It's a public road. No one can stop us from going there, or from parking in a public place.”

“As it happens,” Rafe said, “I agree with you. But that's not how the police would see it.”

“They're going to take him,” Emma insisted. “They're just waiting till we think we're safe, and then they're going to go.”

“Emma, think about it.” Rafe's T-shirt was damp. He looked flushed and hot. “How is sitting outside their house going to help? If the Hunts want to leave, there are plenty of other exits they could use. They live on a farm; they're surrounded by fields and lanes and back roads. If they want to sneak away, there isn't anything we can do to stop them.”

“For God's sake.” Emma had listened to more than enough of this crap. “You make this sound like some sort of
training
exercise, with rules that we have to follow. This is my
son
we're talking about. I don't care if I'm too stupid to understand how these things are normally done. I don't
want
to play any of these bloody games. I just want to go there and get him back.”

“I know how you feel.” Rafe sounded frustrated. “And I wish I could help you, but I know how these people work. This whole thing
is
a fucking game to them. You
have
to follow the rules or they won't lift a finger to help you.”

“Follow the rules?” Emma's voice rose. “Follow the rules? That's rich, coming from you. I doubt you've ever followed a rule in your life. You couldn't even work for the police for more than a few months without packing the whole thing in in a rage, so what makes
you
such an expert on rules?”

“Well, maybe if I'd bothered to follow them, I wouldn't have made such a mess of my life, would I?” Rafe snapped.

Emma fell back in her seat. She put her hand to her eyes. All the time,
all the time
,
every step she took, she was pushing through some giant, clinging web, and with every step, the web grew and recoiled on her, pushing her right back again to where she'd started.

After a minute, Rafe said: “I'm sorry. I really am. I don't know how to advise you. I don't want to make things worse for you. I could tell you to just walk away from them and do your own thing, like I did. But you can't, can you?
You
don't have a choice.”

She didn't answer. Neither of them spoke again for a while. They sat there, limp and miserable, Velcroed to the sweaty seats. Out on the road, the tractor droned on. Through the window, Emma breathed petrol and hot tar. Another quicksand day. Well, she'd come this far. She could do this. She pressed her eyes with her finger and thumb. A game, was it? Fine. Ridiculous as it was, she would play it. She would get through this. She would keep on going, and sitting here, and breathing in and out, and no doubt, at some point, the DNA result would come back and all of this would come to an end.

At least she knew that Ritchie was all right. She'd seen that for herself. Right now, that was if the Hunts hadn't taken him off somewhere, he was probably asleep in bed. He should have gone for his nap an hour ago. Or was he keeping to the same timetable here as at home? Would Antonia notice he was tired? Would she insist on him staying up, or would she let him have enough rest?

And he had no Gribbit here. He never went to sleep without Gribbit. Did he miss him? Or did he have another one now? A newer, plusher, shinier Gribbit; a Gribbit that didn't smell or have stains?

Emma forced the thoughts away. This waiting and hanging around was doing her head in. But she had to trust Rafe that waiting was the best thing to do. If it wasn't for him, she wouldn't have seen Ritchie at all.

Thank God, they were moving again. The tractor had finally made it around the wall. The teenager waved at Rafe before hopping back up into his seat. Rafe didn't follow the tractor, but turned left to where the road was clear. They were coming into a town now. They seemed to have reached the coast. A fresh, welcome breeze lifted Emma's hair from her eyes. Between pale-colored buildings, she glimpsed the sea. Boats bobbed in the distance: the blue-gray water was dotted with bright, white triangles. Further into the town, people in shorts and flip-flops thronged the paths. Children skipped ahead, trailing towels and fishing nets.

“This is the town of Arcachon,” Rafe said. “I think we should stop here. Stretch our legs a bit. There's a famous sand dune somewhere nearby. The Dune of Pyla. I read about it when I was looking up the area. Biggest sand dune in Europe, supposedly. We can climb it, if you like. Get some exercise?”

On cue, through some trees ahead rose what looked like a massive yellow wall.

“That's a sand dune?” Doubtfully, Emma peered up at it. Little black specks dotted the side. People, she realized.

“Impressive, isn't it?” Rafe said. “Come on.” He indicated to pull in. “Let's give it a go. It'll take our minds off the wait.”

It was a relief to get out of the car. Being in there was like sitting in an oven. They walked through some trees, stepping over heavy growth and fallen branches to reach the dune. Emma tilted her head back to see the top of it. It really was steep.

“I don't think—” she began.

Rafe was already climbing.

“Come on,” he called. “There'll be a great view once we're up.”

Emma made a halfhearted attempt to follow him. Within a minute, she was out of breath. Her feet sank in the sand, sliding backwards with every step. Her bag swung down in front of her, getting in the way. She didn't seem to be getting anywhere at all.

“How are you doing?” Rafe called. He had stopped to wait for her.

Emma straightened, pushing her hair off her face. Her T-shirt stuck to her chest. This was crazy. Here she was, climbing a pile of sand while her child was being held prisoner in some madwoman's house. What did she think she was doing?

“I'm not going any further,” she said. “You go on if you want to. I'll wait here.”

Rafe slid back down the dune.

“Take off your shoes,” he advised. “Look at the way those people are doing it.” He pointed. A couple of hundred yards away, a group of teenagers were climbing the dune on all fours.

“I'm not doing that,” Emma said scornfully.

“Why not?”

“Because I don't want to. This is stupid.”

“Just give me your bag and shoes,” Rafe tried to persuade her. “Free up your hands.”

He really was irritating her now.

“I don't need your help,” Emma snapped. “I'm perfectly able—”

“I
know
you're able.” All of a sudden, Rafe sounded annoyed as well. “But you're carrying more of a load than me. All I'm doing is trying to help you.”