Page 77 of The Ex

‘We need to find our friend,’ I tell her. Before it’s too late, I don’t add.

It takes us a little under twenty-five minutes to reach Cheryl and Harry Baxter’s address. Talking to Betsy as if everything is fine is enough to make me feel like I’m losing my mind, but needs must and she doesn’t seem to notice the strain in my voice.

The Baxters’ front door is opened by a woman in police uniform.

‘I’m Miranda Clarke,’ I say. ‘Sam Moore’s friend? Sorry, I had to bring my daughter.’

I am ushered inside, Betsy on my hip, legs swinging. In the living room, a woman with sandy hair and a man with blonde hair sit shrunken and pale like a two-headed person on a tasteful dark grey couch. They are holding hands. The woman is holding a screwed-up tissue and her eyes are rimmed red. Betsy holds up her plush octopus and tells them it’s an octopus and that its name is Ollie, but even she is fazed, her voice growing smaller with every word.

‘I’m Miranda,’ I say, sitting on the armchair, Bets on my knee. ‘I’m a close friend of Sam’s. This is my daughter, Betsy.’

The woman looks up, a terrible note of hope in her face. ‘You know Sam?’

I nod. ‘I know him well. And trust me, he will not harm Tommy, I promise. Not a hair on his head. Sam is the gentlest, kindest person I know.’

‘Are you sure?’ Fresh tears course down her face. I wonder if I’ve ever seen pain etched into a face like that before.

‘One hundred per cent,’ I say, though I am not one hundred per cent anything. I know he won’t hurt only the child is what I mean, I think. I dare not look at what lies beneath that thought. ‘Sam gets upset if a plant dies,’ I add. ‘He’ll be somewhere. He’ll be traumatised, I know that, but he won’t harm the kid. No way.’

The woman nods vigorously, pressing her lips tight. ‘Thank you.’

I try and smile. ‘So you’re Tommy’s actual mum and dad?’

The man squeezes his wife’s hand. ‘We are. This is Cheryl. I’m Harry.’

‘Yes. The… DC Jacobs told me. And you knew nothing?’

‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’

‘But how… how did she get away with it?’

‘We don’t know.’ Harry sighs and proceeds to fill me in on the details. That Naomi was a live-in nanny, that she was a godsend, a nice woman with a bit of maturity, great with Tommy, the answer to their prayers. Described herself as a hermit. He got the impression she’d always wanted children, that she loved Tommy almost as her own.

‘Kept Tommy’s picture in her room,’ he adds, like an afterthought. ‘There were no alarm bells, none whatsoever. She didn’t go out much, but then no one did, did they?’

‘I’m so sorry.’ What else can I say?

‘Please,’ Cheryl says in a storm of fresh tears. ‘Do you know where he might have gone?’

The Cobb flashes into my mind. The dark harbour. The treacherous slant of the wall. The roaring white waves. The drop.

‘No,’ I say. ‘He didn’t come to mine. And he doesn’t have his phone.’

I look up at DC Jacobs. ‘Have you traced the MG?’

‘Not yet. We’re running Joyce Moore’s name to find the plate number.’

He wanders out. I wonder if he’s as confident as he sounds. The woman from earlier asks if I want tea. I tell her yes please, milk and one sugar. I don’t take sugar, but I am craving sweet tea like I did in the moments after Betsy was born. I have started to tremble from head to toe.

‘Mummy,’ Betsy says. ‘Stop shaking.’

‘Mummy’s a bit chilly,’ I say. ‘You need to warm me up.’ I pull her close and throw her blanket over both of us, though I am not cold.

The tea arrives, strong, hot and sweet. I sip at it even though it is too hot. I am a little dehydrated, I realise, my blood sugar low.

Sam, I think.Where are you?

A moment later, DC Jacobs returns and tells us they’ve found the MG in Lyme. He repeats a familiar address.

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