Nocturne (58 page)

I dialled
999
from a phone in the cafe. The police were there in
minutes, two men and a woman. I was hysterical by
now
, howling my
eyes out, and the woman did her best t
o calm me down while they tried
to get to the bottom of what had act
ually happened. It
’
s incredibly
hard to be rational when you
’
ve just lost the most i
mportant thing in
your life, ever, but they were very patien
t, coaxing the facts out of me,
and afterwards we all drove back to
Napier Road where I found some
photos that Nikki had taken aroun
d Christmas. Handing over those
photos triggered another flood of tears. I
t was as if I
’
d lost her twice.
My fault. My baby. Gone.

Nikki came round and stayed with me that evening. I couldn
’
t stop
talking about it, going over those minutes
I
’
d spent in the cafe time and
time again. Why had I ever developed a
taste for sticky buns? Why had
I ever dreamt of leaving Billie, even for
the time it took to go into the
cafe, and point at the cabinet, and take
the paper bag, and pay? Didn
’
t
I know about the world outside?
The kind of monsters who lurked
round every corner? Where on earth had I been all my life?

Nikki, of course, was all sympathy, telling me I shouldn
’
t blame
myself, telling me it could have happened to any mother,
but I knew
this was nonsense. I
’
d lost her. It had been my fault. I
sat by the phone,
my hand ready to snatch it up, and all
the time I was wondering where
Billie might be, whether she
’
d be hungry
or not, fed or not, changed or
not, whether she
’
d even realise what h
ad happened. A couple of times,
journalists rang up or ca
me to the door. They wanted to talk to me, to
find out how I felt, but Nikki ch
ased them away. She
’
d brought a
bottle of vodka from her flat. Just lookin
g at it made me feel physically
ill.

At length, I summoned the energy to go upstairs and break the
news to Gilbert. When I told him that Billie had gone, been stolen, he
stared at me. At first I thought he hadn
’
t understood but as soon as I
started the story again he reached out, putting his hand on my arm,
appalled. The park had been a place of safety, our place, Billie
’
s
place. There was no room in this little corner of Gilbert
’
s world for
news like this.

Around midnight, Nikki went home. She
’
d offered to stay but I
’
d
said no. I was cold by this time, colder than
I
’
ve ever felt in my life, and
I didn
’
t want to talk to anyone. Losing Bi
llie had walled me off. I was a
hopeless mother. The fault was all mi
ne. If she was hurt, if she was
dead, then I
’
d as good as killed her.

I lay in bed that night, waiting for the phone to ring. By the time the
police broke in, evacuating the street, I
’
d lost track of how late it was.
They took us in buses to the local library. Most of me had ceased to
relate to the real world, to the offer of a cup of coffee, to the invitation
to help myself to a mattress and a couple of blankets. All I could think
about, all that mattered, was Billie.

Somehow, exhausted, I must have slept for an hour or so because it
was Gaynor who woke me up. We left the library, stepping over the
rows of sleeping bodies, and she drove me to the police statio
n. I asked
her about Billie, what news there
’
d been
, but she said she didn
’
t know.
Once so friendly, she looked wary, guarded, even cold.

Someone much older was waiting for me at the police station.
Judging by his face, he
’
d had about as much sleep as I had. He and
Gaynor took me to an interview room. He said he was a Detective
Chief Inspector. He asked me whether I
’
d had anything to eat.

‘
You
’
ve found her,
’
I said dully.
‘
And she
’
s dead.
’

His face softened a little. He said he knew about Billie and he said
he
was sorry.
My photos had been circulated.
Officers were making
i
nquiries b
ut so far there were no solid leads. He looked at me with
some sympathy, then produced a pad, checking his watch.

‘
This Gilbert Phillips .. .
’
he began.

He wanted to know everything about Gilbert and I heard myself
telling him what I knew. I hadn
’
t a clue why he was interested and I
didn
’
t bother to ask. Whatever had happened overnight was madness,
more evidence that the world had finally toppled from its axis. Gilbert
had been right all along. The Dark.

The Chief Inspector was watching me.

‘
We had a call,
’
he said carefully.
‘
A tip.
’

‘
About Billie?
’
My heart leapt.

‘
About Phillips. The flat. The call came with a recognised codeword.
We had no alternative but to take it seriously.
’
He frowned.
‘
The caller
said there were explosives at number
3
1
A.
’

‘
Explosive
?’

‘
Specifically Semtex. And timing devices.
’

‘
So what happened?
’

‘
The caller was right.
’
He nodded.
‘
That
’
s exactly what we
found.
’

I looked helplessly at Gaynor, quite lost. First Billie had gone. Now
my mad neighbour was some kind of terrorist. Gilbert? Making
bombs? In Napier Road?

‘
I
don
’
t believe it,
’
I said quietly.

‘
You don
’
t believe we found the material?
’

‘
I
don
’
t believe he was involved.
’

‘
Why not?
’

I did my best to pull myself together and concentrate. Gilbert was a
child, I explained. He was under-developed
, a little simple, easily hurt,
but there wasn
’
t an ounce of malice i
n him. He wouldn
’
t know one end
of a bomb from another.

‘
We found a target list as well,
’
the Chief Inspector pointed out,
‘
and supporting material. The search isn
’
t over, by any means. We
may find more.
’

‘
A written list?
’

‘
Yes.
’

‘
May I see it?
’

The Chief Inspector studied me for a moment. Then he nodded at
Gaynor. When she returned, the p
hotocopy was still warm from th
e
machine. I studied the list. Individual
names had been blacked out but
there was enough scrawl left for me to be sure.

‘
This isn
’
t Gilbert
’
s handwriting,
’
I told the Chief Inspector.
‘
It
’
s
completely different.
’

‘
That proves nothing. Someone else may have drawn up the list.
Possession is what matters. And intent.
’

I was still looking at the list. There were lots of blacked-out names.

‘
You really think Gilbert would blow these people up?
’
For the first
time I ventured something close to a smile. The idea was absurd.

The Chief Inspector
’
s gaze didn
’
t waver.

‘
It
’
s a possibility,
’
he said.
‘
One amongst many.
’

‘
There are others?
’

‘
Of course.
’

‘
Like what?
’

There was another silence. The Chief Inspector was still looking at
me. Gaynor, too.

‘
Tell us again about Gilbert,
’
he said at length.
‘
Start where you did
before.
’

I stared at them and began to cry. The Chief Inspector glanced at
Gaynor, plainly uncomfortable.

‘
Would you like a break?
’
Gaynor got to her feet.

I shook my head, then nodded and buried my face in my hands.

‘
I
’
d just like my baby back.
’
I sobbed.
‘
Is that too much to ask?
’

The interview ended soon afterwards. I
’
d done my best to pull
myself together. I
’
d confirmed various
bits of information they seemed
to have gathered about Gilbert. I
’
d even given them Morris
Fairweather
’
s name in the hope that they could get more out of him
than I ever had. Then, all of a sudden, I spotted the uniformed
policewoman out in the corridor. I could see her through the little
square of wired glass. She was signalling to Gaynor.
She had important news.
I caught Gaynor
’
s eye. She went to the door. The two
women had the briefest conversation, then Gaynor was back again.

The Chief Inspector glanced up at her but she was looking at me.

‘
We
’
ve found Billie.
’
She was grinning.
‘
She
’
s safe and well.
’

Gaynor drove me to Billie. Bits of Barnsbury slipped past.
Finally
, we
stopped outs
ide a tall, handsome house, one
of a terrace looking onto
a square. The house had a red door. I recognised the Mercedes at the
kerb.

Brendan took us down to the basement. Billie was asleep on a big
double bed. I gathered her in my arms. I
lifted her up, burying my nose
in her Babygro, smelling her, like an a
nimal. She began to stir, and I
held her tight, tighter than I
’
ve ever he
ld anything in my life, and the
gulping noises I made when I started to cry again woke her up. She
rubbed her eyes with the backs of her
little hands. Then she reached
out for me.