Sunday was over. Tomorrow was Monday. Five days until he took Max. She had to find a way to save her son. She had to.
But she had had to for a long time, and there was no reason to believe that in the next five days she would be any more successful.
Twelve Years Earlier, 7 July 2006: Evening
Martin Cooper held the phone to his ear and dialled his niece’s mobile. He read the time on the display: 18.17. Maggie had said she would be back for dinner but she had not showed up. He wasn’t too concerned – she was fifteen and could stay out past dinner if she wanted to, but he would have liked her to let him know, which was why he was calling Anne. It would be an opportunity to remind his teenage daughter that it would be polite to tell the people who were cooking a meal for you that you wouldn’t be coming.
Anne’s voice came on the line. ‘Hey.’
‘Anne. This is Uncle Martin.’
‘Oh,’ Anne said. ‘Hi. How are you?’
‘I’m good. Could I have a chat to Maggie?’
‘Maggie? She’s not here.’
Martin felt himself become more alert. ‘I thought she was with you?’
‘I haven’t seen her. She said she might come over, but she didn’t show up.’
Martin frowned. ‘That’s what she told me, too. Do you know where she went?’
‘Probably to see Kevin. Or maybe Fern.’ Anne paused, then said, with a laugh. ‘You should get her a mobile phone, Uncle Martin, then you could call her anytime you wanted.’
For a second, Martin thought this was staged. He had a mental image of Maggie telling Anne she’d stay out until her dad called and asked where she was, so Anne could make the point that it was time to get her a phone of her own. Then Maggie would come on the line and say, See, Dad? I need a mobile phone. She may be right; perhaps it was time. At fifteen, she was out on her own a lot more. He and Sandra had agreed that she could have one when she turned sixteen, but perhaps they would have to bring it forward. It was such an expense, though, and then James – still only fourteen – would demand one too.
She did not come on the line, though. Anne’s voice returned instead:
‘If I hear from her, I’ll tell her you’re looking for her,’ she said.
‘Thanks, Anne,’ Martin said. ‘Call me the minute you hear, would you?’
He hung up, then called Kevin’s home number. As the phone rang he felt a mounting sense of worry. He dismissed it; it was not that late, and there was almost certainly nothing wrong.
But still. You never knew.
Kevin’s dad, Brendan, answered.
‘Hi, Bren,’ Martin said. ‘I was wondering whether Maggie’s with you?’
‘Nope,’ Brendan replied. ‘Not seen her. Let me grab Kev. See if he knows.’
A few moments later, Kevin came on the line. ‘Hi, Mr Cooper,’ he said. ‘Are you looking for Mags?’
‘Yes. Have you seen her?’
‘She was out in town this morning with Fern. Me and Mark met her at McDonald’s. We were going to hang out tonight. She said she’d call when she was home and I could come and watch a film.’
‘She’s not back yet. You haven’t seen her since this morning?’
‘She said she was going to Anne’s this afternoon.’ Kevin hesitated. ‘At least, I think she did.’
‘She told me that, too,’ Martin replied. ‘But Anne hasn’t seen her.’
‘Maybe Anne wasn’t there when Mags showed up,’ Kevin said. ‘She would have gone to Fern’s.’
‘Thanks. I’ll try her there.’
Martin hung up, then selected Fern from speed-dial. She had a place on it, unlike Kevin, which he had heard Kevin ask Maggie about. He’d sounded a little desperate, and Maggie had sounded a little exasperated. He wasn’t sure how much longer their relationship would last. He’d be sorry to see Kevin go; he was solid and unthreatening, and Martin preferred that to some nineteen-year-old thug with a driving licence and a car that struggled through its MOT every year.
Fern answered. She had no more information than Kevin; she had seen Maggie that morning and thought she was planning to go to Anne’s. She ended the call by offering to call around and see if anyone knew anything.
Martin was about to say, No, don’t worry, I’m sure she’ll show up, but he caught himself.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That would be very helpful.’
Martin turned the gas hob on and put a pan of water on it. He stirred the Bolognese sauce. As the water began to bubble he heard the front door open.
Here she is, he thought, and walked out of the kitchen and into the hall.
It was Sandra and James. James was in his football kit, his bag over his shoulder. He slung it on to the stairs.
‘Don’t leave that blocking the stairs,’ Sandra said. ‘Go and put it away. And tidy your room while you’re up there.’ She looked at Martin and shook her head. ‘He’s a savage,’ she said.
Martin didn’t answer. She frowned. ‘Everything OK?’
Martin had a tense, almost nauseous, feeling in his stomach. Even though there was probably a simple explanation, he couldn’t avoid thinking the worst. He knew he was unnecessarily anxious, what his mum had called a ‘worry-wart’; whenever Sandra was out at night he couldn’t go to sleep until she was home, visions of car crashes or worse swimming in his head – but knowing he worried too much didn’t help. He was not the kind of father or husband or son who could relax and wait for news to come under the assumption it would be good. For him, no news was always bad news.
‘I thought you were Maggie,’ he said. ‘She’s not back yet. I called Anne and a couple of others. No one’s seen her.’
Sandra stared at him. For a moment there was worry in her eyes, but then she smiled. Unlike him, Sandra assumed that things were generally OK. ‘She’s a fifteen-year-old girl,’ she said. ‘She’s probably with a different friend. Or at the cinema.’
‘She should have told us.’
‘Yes, she should. But she didn’t. She’s not a little girl any more, Martin.’
‘I know.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I