The Stranger on the Train by Abbie Taylor Read Free Book Online Page B

wall, smiling shyly into the camera. Oliver’s languid, drowsy-eyed smile. It had been taken on his birthday. August. He wore denim shorts and a blue T-shirt with “Surfer Dude” printed across the front.
    The man had to pull it before he got it from her hand.
    â€œHave you got a copy of this?” he asked.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œSorry.” His voice was kind. He looked like a father himself; shaggy and rumpled, as if people had been climbing on him. “We do need to take it. Put your name and address on it. We’ll do our best to get it back to you.”
    â€œWhat should I do?” Emma asked Lindsay. “I feel like I should be doing something. Looking for him. Not just sitting here.”
    â€œYou need to stay by the phone,” Lindsay said. “If anyone tries to ring. You know, for a ransom or something.”
    â€œA ransom.” She had to be joking.
    â€œYou never know,” Lindsay said.
    â€œBut they don’t know where I live. They don’t have my number.”
    Lindsay repeated: “You just never know.”
    She made some hot, sweet tea and tried to persuade Emma to drink it.
    â€œI can’t.” Emma held the tea in her mouth for a moment, then spat it into the sink. “It won’t go down.”
    â€œYou should have something, Emma. Something with sugar in it. You’re as white as a sheet. You’ll be no good to Ritchie if you fall sick.”
    But she was shivering too much, and her throat just wouldn’t swallow.
    â€œIsn’t there anyone we can phone?” Lindsay asked. “A friend, or a neighbor, even? Someone who’d come and stay with you tonight?”
    â€œI don’t need anyone with me.” Emma shook her head. “The only thing I need now is for you to find Ritchie.”
    A large man with dark hair and a moustache loomed in front of the couch.
    â€œDetective Inspector Ian Hill,” he said, holding out his hand. “Senior investigating officer, in charge of the case.”
    Detective Inspector Hill looked exactly as Emma had always imagined a proper police detective should look: tall, with huge, bulky shoulders and a belted, tan-colored coat. She grabbed his hand between both of hers, holding it in a tight grip, as if to stop him from getting away.
    â€œPromise me,” she implored him. “Promise me you’ll find him. Promise me you’ll get him back.”
    Detective Hill scratched at his moustache and said: “We’ll do our best, Ms. Turner.” He tugged, very slightly, at the hand Emma held.
    â€œIn the meantime,” he said, “if I could just ask you a few questions.”
    It was all so mundane. So ordinary. They might have been discussing the theft of a bicycle. The calmness of it disorientated Emma, so that she sat there at first and answered all of Detective Hill’s questions in a quiet and rational way. Then Detective Hill said: “Now can you tell us about the moment you noticed your son was missing?” That was when the reality of it hit her all over again. She thought: “This is me , this is happening to me .My son is missing! ” Her throat closed. Her lungs swelled; her chest wasn’t big enough to hold them. This was not happening. She could not be here. She fought not to get up and thrash her way out of the room. They had to stop the interview while Lindsay sat her back in her chair and made her put her head between her knees.
    â€¢ • •
    Detective Inspector Hill wanted to know everything about Ritchie. He asked for Emma’s permission to view Ritchie’s medical records from the GP.
    â€œAre you sure you’d never seen the woman at the tube station before?” he asked. “Did anyone strange call to your flat recently? Approach you or Ritchie in the street? Follow you when you were out and about?”
    Emma had recovered enough to answer all of these quite definitely. No one had followed her. No one had