I haul the stepladder out of the supply shed, happy to be back at work this morning. Yesterday’s events with Harry don’t feel real. It’s like they happened to someone else. But I’m still fuming over Carly’s visit. I shake my head at the memory of her as I lean the ladder against a wall with a clang before locking the shed again.

I work at Villa Moretti Garden Centre, just a mile up the road from where I live. My wonderful but pressured career as a landscape architect collapsed two and a half years ago along with the rest of my life, and I guess I’m lucky to have found this job, which just about covers my bills.

Moretti’s is a small but perfectly formed slice of Italy, tucked away in English suburbia. Winter isn’t its most spectacular season, but the work suits me. I can get lost among the plants, forget about my car crash of a life and concentrate on nurturing seedlings, pruning, cutting, clearing and shaping. It’s physical work that tires me out enough to get me to sleep each night. Enough to be able to function again the next day.

The rain has eased this morning, the temperature an almost balmy eight degrees, melting the icy patches and taking the nip out of the air. I swing the ladder sideways under my arm and head over to the outdoor part of the café, its tables and chairs still in storage. We probably won’t get them out again until next spring. In the meantime, I need to take advantage of the absence of frost and prune the dormant wisteria covering the pergola. I set up my ladder by one of the posts, climb a couple of steps, and take the secateurs out of my fleece pocket, getting to work on trimming back the shoots.

Normally, this kind of work takes my mind off everything, letting me lose myself in the business of cutting and snipping. Not today. Images of Harry’s downcast face keep popping into my head. I replay our conversations about trains and hot chocolate, thinking about the ease of our brief time together. Where is he now? Has he been returned to his family yet, or is he in care somewhere, worried and alone? I have a lump in my throat and a stone in my stomach at the thought of him placed with strangers. Even though I guess I’m technically a stranger, too.

I climb down the ladder and shift it further along the edge of the pergola. I’m about to climb back up when I realise I can’t simply carry on and act like nothing’s happened. I can’t blithely continue with my life and forget about Harry. He came to me for a reason – he called me his mummy, for goodness’ sake. I have to at least try to discover what’s happened to him.

I peel off my gloves and lay them on one of the ladder’s steps, then I pull my phone from my pocket. Damn, I left the police officer’s card in my bag in the staffroom. I’ll have to go inside for it.

‘Morning, Tess.’

I turn to see Ben walking towards me with two mugs of coffee in his hands.

‘Is one of those for me?’ I ask.

‘Who else?’ He grins and hands me the steaming mug. ‘One Americano and…’ he takes a paper bag out of his coat pocket, ‘a cinnamon Danish from the café.’

‘Lifesaver,’ I say, realising I haven’t eaten anything at all this morning. The coffee smells heavenly.

‘Can’t have my staff keeling over on the job. Not when they’re climbing up ladders and wielding sharp implements.’

I smile. Ben Moretti is quite possibly the nicest boss on the planet. He took over the family business from his parents, who’d moved over here from Italy in the late sixties. They’ve recently retired and moved back to their home town just outside Naples. Ben was born and bred here in London. Now in his forties, he looks like an Italian film star, with his jet-black hair and dark eyes. He’s a softie, though. Nothing like the suave Italian stereotype everyone thinks he is.

He raises an eyebrow. ‘You look like hell, if you don’t mind me saying.’

‘Cheers.’ I twist my lips into a sarcastic smile, but I know he’s right. ‘Didn’t get too much sleep last night.’

‘Everything okay?’

‘Long story,’ I reply. ‘But this coffee and Danish will fix me up. Thank you.’

‘I’ve got time for a chat, if you like?’

‘Ah, thanks, but it’s nothing really,’ I reply. I don’t have the energy to talk about what’s happened. Especially not with my boss. The last thing I need is for him to think I’m some kind of attention-seeker who brings her problems to work. ‘But thanks for the offer,’ I add.

‘No problem. Well, you know where I am if you ever need an ear.’

I smile. ‘Thanks again for these.’ I raise the coffee and pastry in his direction.

He returns my smile, then turns away, heading back in the direction of his office.

After wolfing down my unexpected breakfast, I carry on pruning the wisteria. I’m itching to call the police station, but it’s already ten o’clock and I still haven’t got anything done this morning. I’ll finish the pergola, check the tree stakes and ties, then break for lunch at one.

Despite the lack of customers, the next three hours pass by surprisingly quickly. We’ve only had a handful of shoppers through this morning, but it’s to be expected on such a damp Monday. Give it a day or two and the place will be heaving with people buying Christmas decorations and winter plants to adorn their houses before their friends and families descend to celebrate with them. I try not to think about previous Christmases, when I was one of those customers getting excited about making my house beautiful and welcoming. These days, I watch it all going on around me. Detached. Like watching a TV programme about a strange and foreign society that I’m not a part of.

Sitting on a stool in the greenhouse, I’m waiting to be put through to one of the officers who took Harry away last night. The windows have steamed up in here, but through a hazy patch in the glass I can just make out two of my work colleagues eating their sandwiches on a bench at the far end of the nursery. Jez, the head gardener, and Carolyn who runs the shop. They’re both pleasant enough, but I haven’t really taken the time to get to know them in the nine months I’ve been working here. I guess I’ve been keeping myself to myself – I prefer it that way.

‘Mrs Markham?’

My heart thuds at the efficient-sounding female voice on the other end of the phone. ‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘I’m Tessa Markham.’

‘Hello, this is Detective Sergeant Abi Chibuzo. I came to your house last night after you called us.’

‘Hi.’

‘Do you have some more information for us?’ she asks.

‘Um, no, not really. I’m just calling to find out if Harry has been reunited with his family. You don’t have to tell me the specifics, obviously, but I just wanted to—’

‘I’m really sorry, but like we said yesterday, we can’t give out any information relating to Harry at this time.’

I knew deep down that they wouldn’t be able to give me any news, but I’m still utterly disappointed.

‘But,’ she continues, ‘I’m glad you called. We’d like you to come in to go over what happened yesterday. Can you come down to the station? We need to ask you a few more questions.’

My heart thuds and my forehead grows hot. ‘You want me to come to the police station? When?’

‘Is now convenient?’

I suppose if I have to speak to them, I’d rather get it out of the way now than have it hanging over me, but the thought fills me with dread. ‘Now? Um, yes, okay. I’m on my lunch break. How long will it take?’

‘We can’t say for sure. The station address is on the card we gave you.’

The card rests on my knee, but I don’t need to look at the address, I already know where it is. Just a short distance if I walk quickly.

I rise to my feet. ‘Okay. I can be there in ten, fifteen minutes.’

‘Great. Ask for me at the front desk,’ she says. ‘DS Chibuzo.’

‘Okay, thanks. Bye.’

I gather up my bag and phone, and go to find Ben.

Moretti’s was constructed around a pair of beautiful seventeenth-century semi-detached red-brick alms houses. Ben lives in one of them, and runs his business out of the other, which consists of a small café and shop downstairs, and his office and storerooms upstairs. I climb the stairs two at a time to find him sitting at his desk, squinting at a sheet of paper, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.

‘I’m going to have to get a new prescription,’ he says without looking up. ‘These numbers are just a blur.’

‘Good excuse not to pay the bills,’ I quip.

‘Hmm, I wish.’ He looks up and smiles, tossing the paper back onto his desk. ‘Everything okay?’

‘I need to go out for lunch,’ I say, unwilling to tell him why. ‘Thing is, I might be a bit late back. But I can make up the time. Is that okay?’

‘Sure, no problem. We’re not exactly rushed off our feet.’

‘Thank you.’

‘It’s fine.’ He gives me a smile and waves me away. ‘Go. Eat lunch. Have fun.’

If only he knew.

---

Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting in an interview room with the same two officers who came to my house last night – Detective Sergeant Abi Chibuzo and Detective Constable Tim Marshall. It’s all very official and serious, with a table and chairs, and a recording device. There’s a plastic cup of water on the table in front of me. My hands are clammy and a pulse throbs behind my right ear.

‘Tessa Markham,’ Chibuzo begins, ‘you are not under arrest, but you are being interviewed under suspicion of child abduction.’

‘What!’ I cry. ‘Child abduction? You said you wanted to ask me a few questions, go over what happened yesterday. No one said anything about child abduction!’ Am I dreaming? Is this some awful, awful nightmare? My mind has gone spongy and soft. They’re both talking, but I can’t seem to latch onto their words.

‘Ms Markham? Tessa? Are you okay?’ Marshall asks.

I take a couple of deep breaths. ‘Are you going to arrest me?’

‘No,’ Chibuzo replies. ‘Like I said, at this stage we’re just interviewing you.’

‘But you said “child abduction”. You think I took Harry?’

‘We’re trying to find out what happened,’ she says. ‘Are you okay to answer a few questions for us? You have the right to legal advice if you want it.’

‘Just a few questions?’ I ask.

‘Yes,’ Chibuzo replies.

I think about my option to take legal advice. If I say yes, I’ll have to wait while they sort out a solicitor. But that will take ages, and I really need to get back to work. If I’m here too long, I’ll have to explain to Ben why I’m late back. I’ve done nothing wrong, so I decide I don’t need legal advice. I’ll be fine.

‘I’ll answer your questions,’ I reply. ‘I don’t want a solicitor.’

‘You’re sure?’ Chibuzo asks.

‘Yes.’

They go over the same questions they asked yesterday. Asking me what happened when I got home, and what Harry and I talked about. I recount the whole episode again, reliving yesterday evening. I hope they’ll be finished soon. The clock is ticking; it’s almost quarter to two already.

‘Back in…’ Chibuzo looks down at her notepad. ‘Back in 2015, on Saturday 24th October, you were found walking through Friary Park, pushing a pram containing three-month-old infant Toby Draper. His mother, Sandra Draper, had reported him missing twenty minutes earlier.’

Her statement is like a punch to the gut. Chibuzo looks up. She and her colleague are both now staring directly at me, and I feel my cheeks flaming.

‘Yes,’ I reply, my voice a croak. ‘Yes, but like I told the police at the time, it was a genuine misunderstanding.’

‘Would you like to tell us again what happened?’ Chibuzo says.

No, I bloody would not like to tell you again what happened. The last thing I want to do right now is rake over all that painful ancient history.

‘What do you remember about the incident?’ Chibuzo asks.

I take a deep breath. ‘I was walking through the park and I noticed a pram at the edge of the woods. I left the path and went over to take a look. I saw a baby asleep in the pram. I looked around and couldn’t see anyone else, so I thought I’d better take the pram with the baby in to the police station, which is where I was heading when the police car pulled up next to me.’

I stop talking, and there’s a long pause before anyone speaks.

‘Did you have a mobile phone with you at the time?’ DC Marshall asks like I knew he would, because this is exactly what the investigating officers asked me last time.

‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘I did have my phone, but I thought it would be quicker to take the baby to the station myself.’

‘And did you not think it would have been better to call us anyway, in case someone was worried and looking for the baby?’

‘In hindsight, yes, of course that would have been better. But I wasn’t really thinking straight.’

‘Could you elaborate?’ Chibuzo asks. ‘Why were you not thinking straight?’

I know exactly what they’re getting at. ‘In August of that year…’ My voice cracks, and so I clear my throat and start again. ‘In August of that year, my son… my three-year-old son died from acute lymphoblastic leukaemia. I was grieving at the time. I still am,’ I add.

‘I’m very sorry for your loss,’ Chibuzo says, with a look of sympathy.

But her sympathy hasn’t stopped her from bringing it all up again. From making me wade through the pain while they watch and listen. ‘It wasn’t my first loss,’ I say. ‘Sam’s twin sister Lily died at birth. So now both my babies are gone.’

She nods. Marshall looks down at his shoes.

‘But you already know all this,’ I say, staring into her clear brown eyes. ‘You must have it on your file.’

She glances at the papers on the table. ‘It says here you were suffering from depression. Is that correct?’

‘Yes,’ I reply through gritted teeth. You’d be suffering from depression too, if your second child had just died.

‘I know this is hard,’ she persists, ‘but Mrs Draper claimed that she turned her back for a second to deal with her toddler, who had run off into the trees. She said that when she turned back around, the pram was gone and she could see you walking quickly down the path with it. She said she yelled after you, but you didn’t react. She said there was no way you couldn’t have heard her unless you were deaf. She couldn’t give chase, because her toddler was refusing to come to her. That’s when she rang the police. Did you hear Mrs Draper calling you?’

‘No! I’ve been over this so many times with you. If I’d heard her calling out, of course I would have stopped and gone back. I wasn’t charged with anything then, so why are you asking me about this again?’

‘Mrs Markham,’ Marshall says in a serious tone, ‘did you take Harry to your house yesterday?’

‘Take him from where? No, I told you he was already in my house when I got home.’ The air is close in here, my eyes are itching and my body is hot. Too late, I realise I should have waited for a solicitor. ‘Are you accusing me of something?’ I take a sip of water. It’s tepid and does nothing to ease the tightness in my throat.

‘No,’ Chibuzo says. ‘We’re just trying to get to the facts. We’re trying to determine how Harry ended up in your house last night.’

‘I’ve already told you. I’m not lying, if that’s what you think. Why would I have called you if I’d taken him? And anyway, where are Harry’s parents in all this? Ask them what happened. How did they let their son out of their sight? How did he end up inside my house? There’s something strange going on here and it’s nothing to do with me!’

‘Please try not to get upset, Mrs Markham… Tessa,’ Chibuzo says. ‘We’re speaking to everyone involved.’

‘What about my husband, Scott? Are you talking to him? Or is it only me you’ve got a problem with?’

‘We don’t have a problem with you, we just want to find out if there’s anything else you can tell us that might assist this investigation. And yes, we spoke to Scott Markham this morning.’

My legs and hands are trembling. My breathing is too shallow. I think I’m about to have a panic attack. I remember what the doctor told me: take a deep breath and hold it for five, then exhale slowly. Nothing will happen to you, he said. No matter how bad you feel, you won’t die from a panic attack. It doesn’t feel that way at the moment.

‘Are you all right, Tessa?’ Chibuzo asks, her concerned voice sounding too far away.

I hold my hand out to stop her talking. I wish they would go, leave me to get myself together. ‘I’ll be fine in a minute… panic attack…’

‘Interview suspended at… fourteen ten.’