Page 153 of Stolen

chapter 70

alex

It’s not possible.

Harriet wouldnever.

My sister may not approve of me or the way I was raising Lottie, but she’d never take my baby away. She’d never put me through this. She’d never putMumthrough this.

Aunt Julie comes into the sitting room, an album in her hand. ‘Some of these photos,’ she says, fondly. ‘Ourhair. Look at your mum, in those flares. I can’t believe we went out like that.’

‘Do you remember when you bumped into Harriet at Heathrow?’ I say.

‘What, love?’

‘You said you ran into her at the airport.’

‘When did I say that?’

‘After Mum died.’

Aunt Julie glances at Harriet, and then back at me. She closes the album and holds it against her chest. ‘I don’t think so, love.’

‘You said you saw her at the airport the day Lottie disappeared,’ I repeat.

‘Which airport?’

‘Heathrow,’ I say, impatiently.

‘What would I have been doing in England, love?’

‘I don’t know! But you said—’

‘Alex, I was at home in New Zealand, with your Uncle Bern, when Lottie was taken,’ she says. ‘I didn’t fly out to Florida to help you look for her till days later. I think you’ve got confused, sweetheart.’

Harriet sighs. ‘I told you, Alex. It was when Mungo and I were on honeymoon.’

Suddenly, I feel dizzy, as if I have vertigo. I know I didn’t imagine it. I remember:I ran into her at Heathrow, the day Lottie disappeared.

But my memory can’t be trusted, can it? The debacle with Flora Birch proved that: my need to find my child is so overwhelming, I conjured a mirage so real I couldn’t tell the difference between truth and fiction.

Perhaps Harriet and my aunt are right. Maybe I’m remembering fragments of a conversation and splicing them together in my imagination. Harriet has no conceivable reason to lie to me.

Does she?

‘Your mum had just died,’ Aunt Julie says, touching my arm. ‘You were probably in shock, love, and got your wires crossed. Best not to dwell. Now, why don’t I make us all a cup of tea, and we can look at some of these photos of your mum together?’

Harriet’s voice is surprisingly kind. ‘You can’t keep on like this, Alex,’ she says. ‘You need a break. Somewhere you can get away from the press for a bit.’

‘I’m on bail,’ I say. ‘They’ve taken my passport. I’m not going anywhere.’

That night, as so often, I can’t sleep. I tell myself I’m being paranoid, but I can’t shake the sensation Harriet and my aunt are hiding something from me.

Harriet knows Aunt Julie much better than I do. She took a gap year while I was at university and spent six months in New Zealand. Neither of them have children; Uncle Bernalready had three by his first wife when he met my aunt and didn’t want any more. Maybe the two of them—

The two of themwhat? Stole their niece and great-niece and smuggled her to New Zealand or the Shetland Isles? Hid her in an outbuilding somewhere?

I feel as if I’m going mad. I need a break: Harriet was right about that.

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