I take the opportunity to go to the loo, brush my teeth and have a quick shower. My head is still pounding though. I hope we’ve got another pack of painkillers somewhere. I jog downstairs and into the kitchen ready to thank my husband for being so thoughtful, but I stop dead in my tracks when I see the wall clock. It says the time is 9.20. Maybe it stopped last night. I turn to look at the cooker clock. The luminous blue numbers tell me it’s 9.18. So that must be the correct time.
It’s Monday today. Dom will be at work by now. So where the hell is Daisy? I notice that all the toys I laid out last night as a warning system have been moved aside. I meant to get up early and put them away. Did Dom move them? Or could it have been someone else?
Don’t jump to conclusions.
‘Dom!’ I cry, racing out of the kitchen and throwing open the lounge door – empty. ‘DOM!’ I yell, staggering to the downstairs cloakroom. Again, it’s empty. Check upstairs, I think. Maybe he took Daisy back to bed with him and he fell asleep with her by mistake. Yes, that’s what will have happened. Almost sobbing with the relief of a plausible explanation, I take the stairs two at a time, yelling my husband’s name. I push open the bedroom door, ready to break the news to Dom that he has overslept.
But our bedroom is empty. Our bed is unmade.
‘DOM! I scream. The room expands outwards like a concertina and then closes in again, squeezing the air from my lungs.
No, no, no. Calm down. I go back into Daisy’s room to check her cot once more – maybe she was in there all along and I just didn’t see her. I know I’m grasping at straws and it’s no surprise when I see the cot is empty.
Is this real? Could I be having a nightmare? I pinch myself on the arm, hard, like they do in the movies, but all it does is hurt. I’m still here, still awake, still don’t know where my daughter is.
Ring Dom. Find out if he saw her before he went to work. No. Ring the police first.
I do a sweeping check of the upstairs rooms once more before running downstairs and checking all those rooms again, too. I unlock the back doors and slide them back, scanning the garden, but it’s empty. No Dom. No Daisy. Where is she? Where is she?
I switch my mobile on but it’s taking an age to boot up. I haven’t got time to wait. Every second is precious, so I snatch up the landline handset and dial 999.
The operator takes forever to go through his questions and I want to scream at him to find my child, but I know they have to take this information down, so I give them my details, trying not to hyperventilate.
‘Please stay where you are. The police are on their way,’ he finally says.
I throw down the handset, snatch up my mobile and call my husband.
It goes straight to voicemail. ‘No!’ I call again. Straight to voicemail again. ‘Dom, it’s me. Was Daisy in her cot this morning before you left for work? Because she’s not there now. She’s not fucking there, Dom. She’s gone. Someone’s taken her.’ I pace up and down the length of the back room, bashing against furniture, sounding like a crazy person, sobbing and gulping and gasping. ‘Call me back, Dom, as soon as you get this and then come straight home. I’ve called the police. They’re on their way.’ I end the call.
I should have let Dom go round to Martin’s yesterday. We should have gone over there together to confront him. Why didn’t we? I’m going there now. I’ll kill that man if he has harmed a hair on Daisy’s head.
Without bothering to close up the back doors, I snatch up my keys and leave the house. Rather than walk the long way around – up the path, down the drive and along the pavement – I cut straight across Martin’s front lawn, risking his wrath. When I reach his door, I ring the doorbell and then I make a fist and hammer on the wood. ‘Martin! Open the door!’ I ring the bell again, keep my finger on it so it repeats itself over and over. Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong, ding dong. I bash on the door again. ‘Martin! MARTIN!’ I go to the lounge window, cup my hands over the glass and peer in, but the net curtains make it doubly difficult to see into the dingy front room. I bash on the double glazing, rattling the windows in their panes. ‘Martin! Open up!’
What if he’s down in the basement and can’t hear me? I march across the rest of his front garden and down the other side of his house. But there’s a wooden gate blocking my way. I rap on the gate, grazing my knuckles. ‘Martin!’ I yell.
I need to get around the back, so I clamber up onto a low brick wall and lever myself over the gate. I land awkwardly and my ankle twists. I wince and pause for a moment, testing my weight, Thankfully, it’s not that bad, just a slight twinge, so I keep going, checking the base of Martin’s house to see if I can spot any low air-vents or windows that might belong to his basement. But all I can see are regular air bricks. I call through them, anyway, screaming out to Martin. But he doesn’t reply. If he is down there, he either can’t hear or he’s choosing to ignore me. I sweep around the exterior of his house, banging on every window and door, yelling my lungs out. But I know it’s useless. He’s not coming out.
Back at the front of the house, I try his doorbell one more time, my hands shaking uncontrollably now. As I check my phone to see if Dom has called me back, I swing around, startled by a voice.
‘Everything okay over here?’ It’s Callum’s dad, Rob Carson. My shouts must have brought him over.
‘My daughter’s missing,’ I cry. ‘Daisy. She’s only six months old. I was trying to get hold of Martin—’
‘Looks like he might be out,’ Rob says. ‘His car’s not in the drive.’
Sure enough, I see that Rob is right. Martin’s car isn’t there. It’s always there. Where has he gone? Maybe he’s never coming back. Maybe he has Daisy and he’s fleeing the country.
Despite the rising temperature out here, my teeth are chattering and my fingers feel icy.
‘Have you called the police?’ Carson asks, his eyes filling with concern.
I nod. ‘They’re on their way.’
‘Sit tight. I’ll go and ask the lads on site if they’ve seen anything.’
‘Thank you,’ I reply with a wavering voice. ‘I’ll go across to my friend at number one. Ask her if she knows anything.’
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘I’ll come and find you if I hear anything.’
‘Thanks.’ We part ways and I run across to Mel’s house, my right ankle protesting every time I put weight on it. I can hardly feel the ground below my feet. It’s as though my whole body is numb. My ears are ringing yet everything feels loud and quiet at the same time. Where is my daughter? What if I never see my daughter again? What if she’s gone? Don’t think like that. Stay positive.
I ring Mel’s doorbell, trying to restrain myself from bashing down her door. We haven’t spoken since our disagreement about money last week, but that all seems so trivial now. After what feels like forever, but must only have been a few seconds, Mel opens the door. A sheepish smile creeps onto her lips, but once she takes in my dishevelled appearance and shuddering body, her expression drops.
‘What is it?’ she asks.
‘Daisy’s missing.’
‘What?’
I gabble out a condensed version of events and she instantly takes charge. ‘Right,’ she says. ‘Are the police on their way?’
I nod.
‘All right – you go back home and wait for them. My two are at nursery, so I’ll go round all the neighbours and ask if they’ve seen anything suspicious. And then I’ll organise a search party.’
My mind is wandering over all the awful possibilities. How have I found myself in this situation? I’ve been so careful, so vigilant. How could someone snatch my daughter right out from under my nose? It’s my fault – I should never have slept so late.
‘Kirstie?’ she says.
‘Sorry, what?’ I give myself a shake and try to force my mind back to the present, to concentrate on what Mel is saying.
‘I’m going to organise a search party,’ she says.