Ruby banged on the inside of the window and shouted Leonie’s name. The child looked up, perhaps wondering where the banging was coming from. Her mouth formed the word Mamma, but she was looking the wrong way, over the wrong shoulder, back toward the shop.

“Here,” Ruby shouted, “I’m over here, love. In here. Baby girl? Mamma Bee’s here.” Her voice faded away as Leonie was pulled out of sight by the suited woman and put into the black car. She didn’t see me. She thinks she’s been abandoned, by both of us. Ruby’s eyes started to sting again with withheld tears. Her nails dug into her palms, leaving deep red crescents. She hardly felt it.

When the roadside passenger door of the police car was opened, Ruby jumped. She hadn’t seen anyone approaching. She turned to see the woman in the suit, a large woman with glasses and closely cut curls, who got in, shutting the door behind her. Who was with Leonie? One of the cops maybe. One thing was for sure: they would never leave the child on her own with no one to look after her.

“Hello. I’m Diane, from Social Services. You’re the mother of that little girl, right?”

Ruby nodded.

Diane pulled out a little notepad and pen. “What’s your name, please?”

“Constance.”

The lie came out before she’d really thought it through. But then, once she’d said it, she relaxed. It made sense to be Constance in this moment. After all, Constance was technically the birth mother. More importantly, unlike Ruby, Constance had no official identity, no police record. She’d never paid tax, had a job, or owned a car. Constance was invisible to authority and society, just like Leonie, her unregistered, invisible child.

CHAPTER

4

NOW

Joanna

Friday, December 21

DETECTIVE SERGEANT JOANNA Harper nodded to Police Constable Steve Atkinson, who’d brought the ram. He swung the front end of the black metal cylinder at the lock with practiced precision, just hard enough to break it.

The door to Apartment 7 swung wide, and Joanna inhaled cautiously, conscious that the smell of a dead body wasn’t one she wanted in her nostrils; once it got up there, that very particular stench took a while to shift. Thankfully, all she caught was a strong odor of damp, from the flooded floors. Two paramedics waited outside the flat, along with the caretaker, Terry. She thought of the bucket of bloody water that Terry had shown them and drew a deep breath to steady herself before she stepped inside, her black sneakers squelching on the hall carpet.

Joanna had asked the caretaker what he knew about the owner, a Mr. Gregor Franks.

“He’s a single guy, I think. Not too short of cash. I think he’s in some kind of sales manager–type job. Or stocks and shares maybe.”

“Age?” asked Jo.

“About thirty, I’d say.”