I’ve got two choices. I can either go into the shop or leg it up the street. If I go into the shop, the security guys will be watching me. It’s the way I look – they will be expecting me to nick something. If I move out into the light, Emma will see me properly, and she’ll know.
I hesitate for a moment too long, then push myself off the glass wall of the entrance and out into the street. I turn my head away so she can’t see my face and run as fast as I can.
She starts to shout, telling people to stop me, but nobody does. One guy half-heartedly puts an arm out, but I push it out of the way and I can almost feel him shrug as if to say, ‘I tried.’ But he didn’t really.
I know Emma can’t chase me. She can’t leave Ollie. I don’t know if she can be sure it was me – but she saw my eyes. And, however strange I look, she will know there was something – some spark of recognition.
I shouldn’t have come. It would have been better for everybody if Emma thought I’d gone away. Or better still, that I was dead.
3
‘Tom – are you there? It’s Emma. I need to speak to you. It’s urgent.’ There was a pause, as if she was waiting for the phone to be picked up. ‘I’ve seen her, Tom. I’ve seen Tasha.’ Emma spoke quickly, breathlessly, as if the excitement was too much.
There was a frustrated tutting sound. ‘Come
on
, Tom. Pick
up
.’
Detective Chief Inspector Tom Douglas stood at the open door to the back garden, where he had been enjoying a quiet beer in the cold fresh air of a November evening, an infrared heater keeping the worst of the chill at bay.
He didn’t move towards the phone. He needed to think about what he should say to Emma – what advice to offer her. She had always had a determined streak in her – an aspect of her personality that Tom had admired all those years ago when she had been engaged to his brother Jack. At times Tom had believed Emma was the only thing that had kept his brother’s feet on the ground. She and Tom had grown close then, and since they had been back in touch in recent months they had become good friends again.
He knew she would be thrilled to have seen Tasha after all her efforts to find the girl, but she seemed to believe it was all going to be so simple, and Tom knew she was wrong.
In the eight months since her stepdaughter, Natasha, had gone missing, Emma had been relentless in her search for the girl. For the first few weeks, or maybe even months, Emma had travelled into Manchester or Stockport at least three times a week, handing out posters with pictures of Natasha – or Tasha as she was more generally known – begging people to help her find the girl.
Tom had tried to warn her that even if she found Tasha, it might not be possible for her to adopt the girl. Emma may have been married to David – Tasha’s father – for a few years but Tom didn’t think that would count. Had he still been alive it would have been a different matter, but David was dead, and Tasha probably didn’t even know it. Given their history, who knew what the courts would say?
His thoughts were interrupted by a disappointed sigh.
‘Okay – you’re obviously out. I’ll call you back – but please, if you get this message will you call me? I really need to speak to you.’
The line went dead, and Tom felt a stab of guilt. Emma needed him. But he had to work out what to say to her before calling her back. He didn’t want to quash her enthusiasm or put a dampener on things, but he had been begging her to think this through for months. Her answer was always the same.
‘I know she ran away – but we have to look at it from her point of view. We’d only had her back for a few days – and what a terrible few days they were. I’m sure she thought she had no other choice but to run. She’ll have assumed I’d never forgive her for taking Ollie. I’ve got to find a way to let her know that she’s wrong.’
Tom went to grab his beer from the garden, turned off the heater and came back inside. He pulled out a stool and sat at the central unit, resting his elbows on the work-surface. He took a swig from the bottle.
It was all so complicated. Since being abducted at the age of six, Tasha had endured a terrible few years in the care of a member of an organised crime gang, being forced to shoplift and ferry drugs. Now there was nobody left to assume parental responsibility for this child – to make decisions for her – and so it would come down to the local authority and what they believed to be in the child’s best interests. She still had family on her mother’s side, but when Emma had approached them to ask for help in finding Tasha, they had made it clear that she wasn’t part of their family any more. Her grandfather had made the decision and instructed his family to abide by his wishes.
‘We lost our granddaughter the day her mother died. The child is a criminal now,’ he had said. ‘Nothing is going to change the way she has been brought up during those formative years, and it’s best she sticks to the life she knows.’
That was it – all he’d had to say on the matter. Emma hadn’t spoken to Tasha’s family since.
Tom picked up the phone and dialled a number. It was answered almost immediately.
‘Becky, how up to speed are you in the details of the search for Natasha Joseph?’ he asked without further introduction. Becky Robinson was a detective inspector on his team and had been closest to the Joseph family during the events eight months previously.
‘Hi Tom. Just give me a sec while I turn the TV down.’ There was a brief pause as the background noise came to an abrupt end. ‘Okay – Tasha Joseph. I’ve been keeping an eye on
progress – I had a look earlier today, actually. But we don’t seem to be making much headway, I’m afraid. Not a peep from anybody. Why the special interest now?’
‘I’ve just had a call from Emma. She thinks she’s seen Tasha.’ He heard an intake of breath from Becky.
‘That’s brilliant news, Tom, if it’s true. Do you think it really was her, or is it wishful thinking on Emma’s part?’
‘She seemed fairly convinced.’
‘Where was Emma when she saw her? It will help us hugely in focusing the search, and we’re running out of time. We’re lucky that we’ve had this long to try to find her.’
‘I don’t know where she was, because I’m ashamed to say I didn’t answer Emma’s call – I just listened to her message. I’m finding it hard to deal with her optimism about Tasha.’
Tom took a final mouthful of his beer.
‘That poor kid.’ Tom could hear the genuine sympathy in Becky’s voice. ‘I wonder what she’s thinking?’
‘God knows. I should imagine she’s lost, lonely, scared and probably confused about why Emma is looking for her. I’ll have a think about the best way to show Emma some restrained enthusiasm, and then I’ll call her back and find out where she saw Tasha. I’ll let you know, and let’s hope we find her.’ He ended the call and threw his beer bottle in the recycling bin.
He couldn’t ignore the fact that they needed Tasha. She was a vital witness in a trial that was due to start just one week from today.
4
Andy has gone to try to find us something to eat. Neither of us has eaten a thing all day, but I don’t feel hungry – just empty. There’s a massive hole where my belly should be and it feels as if all the water I’ve drunk is just sloshing round in there on its own. I picture it like a washing machine, splashing the water from side to side as the drum turns.
I was supposed to get food for us. I was going to try the new Sainsbury’s Local. It’s always busy, and I’ve not nicked anything from there for a few weeks. The security guy was on to me last time, I’m sure, but the shop was packed, and I got away with it. I borrowed Andy’s black baseball cap today, thinking I might not be recognised. It’s getting harder, though.
As it was, I couldn’t do it. I just had to get off the streets quickly after Emma saw me.
I wanted to talk to her – to tell her why I can’t come back and explain why I left. She says she misses me, but I find that difficult to believe. I want her to understand why I ran away, though. If I hadn’t I would have been arrested for taking Ollie. So how can I go back? It’s hopeless.
I don’t get why she’s looking for me and why she says she wants me back. I don’t know if I can trust her.
The only person I really trust is Andy, and I’ve let him down again. I’m always relying on him to feed me and I know it’s not fair. I wouldn’t have survived this long without him, though.
I met Andy a couple of months after I escaped – escaped from having to face my dad, the man who had betrayed me; escaped from the police, who were going to arrest me for everything I had done; escaped from the gang I had been living with for more than six years, who would kill me for grassing to the police – if they could find me. And escaped from Emma – the person who had done the least to hurt me, who I had hurt the most.
The weeks after I left felt like the worst of my life. They probably weren’t; I’ve had my share of terrible times. But however bad things had been in the past I had always had a home – of sorts. When I walked away from my dad and Emma’s house I had nowhere to go. No place where somebody would open the door and welcome me in – or even grunt an acknowledgement that I was actually there.
I made it to Stockport without too much bother – walking at night, keeping away from busy main roads as much as I could and finding somewhere to hide out during the day. When it was really late – the early hours of the morning kind of late – I had to dodge into gardens to hide when I saw a car coming because I knew the police would stop me if they saw me out and about at that time. But I got quite good at it. During the day I would often hide in plain sight, hanging around where there were other kids or just going to a park, and I always managed to nick something to eat from somewhere. That was the easy bit.
The hard thing was being on my own. Even living with Rory and Donna Slater – the couple who had hidden me for more than six years after I was kidnapped – had been better than having nobody. Life there wasn’t great, but there were other kids, and we helped each other. And I’d had Izzy – my friend. Thinking about her now makes me want to cry, but if I start, I won’t stop.
Stockport was okay – there are some caves up above the town where loads of homeless are living. They tolerated me, but I don’t think they liked me being around. I bet they were worried that if they were caught with a thirteen-year-old girl they would be accused of doing all sorts of stuff they hadn’t done. So I told them I wanted to go to Manchester. I pretended to have friends here, and one of them said he’d help me – which was his way of getting rid of me, I suppose. I’m used to that now.
This bloke – Bartosz he was called – loved trains. He watched them all the time and he said there was a pattern to the times an inspector or guard or whatever they’re called would board the local trains to do a ticket check. He told me which train to catch.
I was really scared, though. If I’d been caught, I’d have been done for. I bet there’s pictures of me in all the police stations, because I’m a wanted criminal. I stole a
baby
. I picture a poster like the ones in old films – or maybe just like the one that Emma has produced.
The train was okay, though. I made it here to Manchester, although it wasn’t much better than Stockport after all. I was still on my own.
I met Andy one day when the sun was shining. I remember that, because for once I felt warm. I’d just nicked some food from the express supermarket down in what I think of as the bottom end of Manchester. Where it joins on to Salford, I suppose. It was one of my favourite places, because the security guard was a fatty, and I knew I could run faster. But as I slid out of the door, hoping I hadn’t been spotted but not really that bothered, I got the shock of my life. This young, fit, black guy was standing in Fatty’s place, wearing a security uniform. He looked at my shocked face and knew exactly what I’d done. I set off running. I was quick and I dodged the people coming down the street – but he wasn’t about to give up. Mostly these guys run for about ten metres to make a bit of a show and then turn round and go back, defeated once more by the dregs of Manchester. But this one was on a mission, and I was losing.
I raced across the road, down a side street and into some gardens I’d never seen before. People were out enjoying the sun and stared at me as I legged it over the grass and onto the path. He was getting closer.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a boy slouching on a bench, staring at a brightly coloured flowerbed in the centre where the paths met. It was so gaudy with its reds and yellows it hurt my eyes. The boy glanced at me as I ran past, and a couple of seconds later I heard a loud shout and a clatter.
’Jesus
,’ a deep voice yelled. ‘You stupid kid – I nearly had him.’
I dodged behind some shrubs and stopped to grab my breath. The man might not have seen where I’d gone, and I thought that if I was lucky I might be safe – thanks to the boy. I was running out of steam – I hadn’t eaten for two days.
I peered through the leaves and saw the boy on the floor, the big black guy sprawled on top of him. The guy pushed himself up and started brushing fiercely at his trousers with the pale palms of his black hands as he ripped into the kid for getting in the way.
The boy managed to wriggle into a kneeling position, and I could see blood on his face – where his cheekbone jutted out from his skinny cheek. It must have hurt. This kid probably weighed about the same as the black guy’s left leg, and his jeans hung off him as if he’d borrowed them from an older brother.
‘Sorry, mister,’ he said, his voice weak and shaking. ‘I didn’t see you coming. I didn’t mean to get in your way.’ The boy looked petrified and the man stopped for a moment and looked at him properly.
‘You’re okay, kid. Sorry I shouted. I really wanted to catch that lad, though. It’s my first day, and … Here, let me give you a pull up.’ He held out his hand, and the boy took it. He tried to look at the blood on the boy’s face, but the boy pushed his hand away.
I couldn’t hear them any more, because two women had come to sit on a bench in front of my shrub, and they were yattering. The security guy looked my way once, brushed at his trousers again, said a couple of words to the boy and walked off – back towards his shop, where no doubt he would get a hot cup of tea and a bun for his efforts.