The Mother. Jaime Raven

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       1

      Sarah

      I was attending the morning briefing when I received the text message that was going to bring my world crashing down.

      I heard the ping as it arrived on my phone, but I decided it would be impolite to check it straight away because DCI Dave Brennan was in full flight. He wanted us to know that there was a lot going on and that we should prepare ourselves for a busy week ahead.

      ‘As you all know there was a near-fatal stabbing last night in Peckham,’ he said. ‘And in the early hours of this morning a warehouse was turned over in Camberwell. A security guard was badly beaten and goods worth a hundred grand were stolen. All this on top of a caseload that already has us stretched to the limit.’

      It wasn’t such an unusual start to a Monday morning, certainly not in this part of South London, which had been a crime hotspot long before I joined the CID team. That was four years ago, and in that time I’d come to realise that the job was never going to get any easier.

      London’s population was growing at an alarming rate and so were the number of criminal gangs. Yet at the same time cutbacks in manpower and resources were continuing to put pressure on the force. We were trying to control things from a position of weakness, and reckless politicians were content to let it happen.

      ‘I’ve managed to beef up the overtime budget,’ Brennan said. ‘That means you should all expect to work longer hours, at least until we get a handle on things. And it goes without saying that I’ll be turning down any requests for time off. So don’t even think about booking any last-minute holidays.’

      Chance would be a fine thing, I thought. I hadn’t had a holiday since before Molly was born, when Adam and I spent a week in Spain. The aim of that sojourn had been to try to get our marriage back on track. But it had been a total disaster. We ended up screaming at each other during a drinking session on our hotel balcony and that was when he confessed to an affair and I told him that I wanted a divorce. A month later I discovered I was pregnant with his child and six months later we were both single again.

      ‘I want you to assist on the stabbing, DI Mason,’ Brennan said, looking at me with those bulbous eyes of his. ‘The victim’s undergone surgery on a punctured lung at King’s College Hospital. He should be about ready to make a statement, so let’s find out what he remembers.’

      ‘I’ll get right on it, guv,’ I said.

      Brennan was a tall, gruff Irishman who commanded the loyalty and respect of his team. He was in his mid-fifties, and I was one of his biggest fans, partly because he’d seen fit to promote me to detective inspector on my return from maternity leave. It was something I’d welcomed at the time, but the extra work and responsibility often conflicted with my role as a single mother.

      More than once I’d considered switching to a desk job with regular hours and less stress. But I hadn’t, mainly because I loved being a front-line copper despite the drawbacks.

      ‘There’s something else you all need to be aware of,’ Brennan was saying. ‘It’s about my forthcoming retirement. For reasons I won’t go into, I’ve had to bring it forward. So now I’ll be bowing out at the end of September. That’s four months from now.’

      This didn’t come as a great surprise to anyone. We all knew that Brennan’s wife was suffering from early onset dementia and that she needed him to look after her. Nevertheless, it prompted a strong reaction.

      ‘We’ll miss you, boss,’ one detective said.

      ‘Hope we’ll all get invites to the leaving bash,’ said another.

      Everyone else either rushed towards the front of the room to shake Brennan’s hand or made a sound to express their disappointment.

      I decided to hold back so that I could take the opportunity to see who had sent me a text message, just in case it was important. There were two messages in the inbox. The first had come in half an hour ago and I hadn’t noticed. It was nothing important, just notification of my latest electricity bill.

      But the second message made me frown. It was from a private number and there was a photograph attached. The photograph showed my Molly sitting on a sofa with a cuddly toy on her lap that I hadn’t seen before.

      The text below it was short and sweet and it caused my stomach to twist in an anxious knot.

       Thought you might like to see your daughter settling into her new home.

      The message totally threw me.

      As usual, my fifteen-month-old daughter was supposed to be spending the day with her grandparents. But the picture had not been taken at their house in Streatham.

      The white leather sofa that Molly was sitting on was unfamiliar to me. And so too was the room she was in. I was absolutely certain that I’d never set foot in it before. I didn’t recognise the red cushions either side of Molly, or the framed print on the wall behind her. It looked like a sailboat on water.

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