Something in the ceiling gives. It starts to come faster, dripping like a broken gutter in the middle of the kitchen table, spattering the walls, flecks of it on the white net curtains, on the clean cups that stand on the draining board. Mrs. Stefanidis feels under the sink for the bucket, locates the leak and places the vessel just so, to catch it. She dries her hands on her apron, then reaches into her apron pocket to phone for the maintenance man. Using the specially enlarged buttons on her handset, she speed-dials Terry’s number, listens to it ringing, hopes he won’t mind coming to help her; there’s no one else to ask. On the table, the bucket is filling, slowly but surely. Soon it will be too heavy for her to lift. The apron she wears is made of crisp cotton. She doesn’t see the pinkish prints her fingers have made there.

CHAPTER

3

NOW

Ruby

Friday, December 21

WHEN RUBY TURNED the corner, she knew she was in deep shit. The plan had been perfect, on paper, but of course they’d realized that the timings were tight, with no room for trains being late. Stupid, then, to think the bloody thing would be on time on this day, of all days. She hurried along the street toward the shop, where blue lights flashed repeatedly from the police car parked outside. If the police were here, it meant that something terrible had happened. What had Constance done—why had they been called? No one was supposed to know about this, a quiet handover of an unknown child on a deserted small-town street, arranged carefully so that the mother could slip away, unnoticed. If the police were involved, then it was all over before they’d even had a chance. Was Constance desperate enough to risk leaving Leonie before Ruby got there? From Constance’s state of mind in recent days, Ruby thought she knew the answer to that. Distressing possibilities ran through Ruby’s mind: Leonie crushed under the wheels of a car; Leonie drowned trying to follow her mother into the sea. Ten minutes late, that’s all it was, and it wasn’t her fault—it was the bloody trains.

Ruby’s lungs were burning; she’d been running for what seemed like hours. But it was only ten minutes or so. Hardly any time. Enough time to die, came the unwanted thought, before she could stop it.

An officer stepped out of the shop, and the sight of the police uniform caused a sickening jolt in Ruby. She thought for a split second that it could be Joanna, before shaking off the notion with logic: Jo lived and worked in Sheffield, fifty miles away. Also, Joanna no longer wore the uniform; as a detective she wasn’t on the front line.

“Good evening, madam,” said the officer. “Can I help you?”