The Girl Who Walked in the Shadows. Marnie Riches

roll stuck in his stubble.

      He held his arms out as he stood and stumbled towards her. ‘I’m so sorry, darling.’

      Gabi put her bag carefully on the work surface. Pushed Piet back towards his stool, walked to the sink and washed her hands carefully, running the water until it was boiling hot. Rubbing and rubbing the astringent lemony hand-wash between her fingers. She dried her hands methodically on a clean towel. The garden appeared empty of children. Nobody on the slide. No Josh, jumping up and down on the sun-lounger, trying to launch himself onto his sister or clutching his ears as the train roared past.

      The policeman who wore his own clothes was speaking to her – a detective. Yes. He must be a detective. She stared at him blankly. Little Gabi, blinded by the glare. Silenced by the attention. All eyes on her. Struggling to remember her opening lines. Rhubarb. Rhubarb. ‘You’re in shock, Mrs Deenen. Shall I make you a cup of coffee?’ a policewoman said. Who was she? Oh, that’s right. One of the constables who had shown up at the office.

      ‘Where are Lucy and Josh, Pieter?’ Gabi asked her husband. No longer was she a child. Big Gabi needed to take control of this shambles. Big Gabi would sort it. ‘What have you done with our children, you fucking useless bastard?’

      She marched up to Piet and thumped him squarely on the side of the head, with such force, that he fell off his stool onto the kitchen floor. ‘All you had to do was babysit them for half a day, while I went in to give that presentation.’ Big Gabi was screaming. ‘And you couldn’t even do that. You miserable, useless fucking wimp.’

      ‘Mrs Deenen! Please to try stay calm.’ The detective grabbed her by the forearms. He was tall. Authoritative.

      This badge-toting turd wasn’t the boss of her. She shook him off.

      She ran into the garden, screaming at the top of her lungs. ‘Josh! Lucy! Mummy’s here. You can come out now!’

      ‘Can you think of anyone who might have taken them, Mrs Deenen? A relative? A friend? Neighbour?’ the detective asked. He had followed her outside. Now, he was standing between her and the climbing frame.

      Interfering pain in the arse, she thought. She could find her own children. They were obviously just playing hide and seek.

      ‘Move! I want to check under there,’ she said, pointing to the void beneath the platform.

      ‘We’ve had a team combing the garden and all along the train track at the back for the last hour. There’s no way in. There’s no way out. The train track is clear for a mile in each direction, though they’ve stopped the Schiphol to Rotterdam service until we’ve searched the entire line. No trace of them.’

      When she tried to push him aside, he stood his ground.

      ‘Mrs Deenen. Your children aren’t hiding, I’m afraid. They’re gone. They can’t have wandered off. They’re not in the house or the garden. They’ve been taken. Abducted.’

      Gabi looked at the Sesamstraat tricycle and an abandoned Iggle Piggle doll Lucy had brought from the UK. She sank to her knees, arms crossed tightly over her bosom. Big Gabi, wrapping Little Gabi in a protective embrace. Keening. Cursing god that her babies were gone. That her life had been thrown into chaos.

      ‘This can’t be happening. This can’t.’

      The detective put a large hand on her shoulder. ‘I’m so sorry.’

       CHAPTER 13

       The City of London, 5 March, present, mid-morning

      ‘My Lord,’ the chauffer said, holding the door of the Rolls Royce wide. He touched the brim of his cap.

      Gordon Bloom shook his head. He looked longingly at the plush cream and truffle interior of his car; he knew that the heated leather seats would offer some measure of comfort in these infernal sub-zero temperatures. Last night on the TV, the weatherman had been bleating on about Arctic Sea ice melts causing high-pressure weather systems over the Barents Sea and northern Russia, icy wind blasting mainland Europe and the UK as a result. Nobody had seen off-the-charts temperatures like this in England since the big freeze of 2012. Global warming or some bullshit. Whatever the cause was, he was sick of it. Sick of having to wear uncomfortable thermal underwear. Tired of having to be driven everywhere. Bored with being under constant scrutiny since Rufus’ death.

      ‘Thanks, Kenny, but I’ll walk,’ he said, stamping his feet. The snow at least a foot deep, even in EC1 where his meeting had taken place. Strange, to sit at the head of a boardroom table, discussing a major acquisition and then having to change back into skiwear in the men’s. A man like him shouldn’t be inconvenienced by this nonsense. Though he may not quite have all the money in China, his assets bettered many a country’s GDP. He was an übermensch, after all. A Titan from a long line of Titans. Shame then, that those like him blessed with demigod status couldn’t control that insane bitch, mother nature. ‘It’s not far. You can pick me up afterwards. Go and treat yourself to a hot coffee and a cake or something.’ He unfurled a twenty from his wallet. ‘You need a break. I need some air. This weather is making fools of us all.’

      Kenny touched the brim of his cap again, and pocketed the twenty. ‘Mental, isn’t it, my Lord?’ he said, his breath steaming on the air as he blew uselessly into gloved hands. The broad, older man wore a smart coat in thin fabric – far too flimsy for this weather. His wind-burned face and bulky build gave him the appearance of a builder nearing retirement, at odds with the dapper uniform of someone who drove a Rolls Royce for a billionaire.

      Bloom remembered his father’s driver. Jenkins, wasn’t it? He had been cut from similar cloth. Poor old bastard. He made a mental note to furnish Kenny with a better coat. And a gun. Definitely time he had a gun.

      ‘It never snows in central London,’ Bloom said, pulling the fox fur flaps of his Russian hat down over his ears, obscuring his peripheral view of this blinding winter wonderland. The chrome pipes and corkscrews of the Lloyds building towered above him like a bartender’s tool kit, thrown into an ice bucket. ‘People skating on the Thames! How is that even bloody possible?’ The icy air made his filled tooth sensitive. He winced.

      ‘It’s a long way to Southwark Cathedral, sir,’ Kenny said, closing the car door with a thunk. ‘You sure? Police said you shouldn’t go anywhere unescorted.’

      Bloom nodded. Squeezed his eyes shut. Showed he appreciated Kenny’s concern for his employer. But inside his gloves, he balled his fists at the thought that the police should dictate to a man like him what to do and where to go in his city. ‘I need a bit of space. Especially today. You know?’

      Kenny cocked his head to one side. Narrowed his eyes. A gap-toothed half smile whispered uncertainty.

      ‘Don’t worry. I’m a big boy.’ He patted the driver’s arm.

      ‘Of course, sir. As you wish.’ His formal, stilted turns of phrase always sounded stiff and superficial, with that horrible east end accent. Bloody performing monkey.

      Sighing deeply, Bloom turned towards Leadenhall Market. Trudging through the snow, he headed through the brief, dry respite that the gaudy red and gold Victorian arcade offered. Glum in the post-Christmas slump, where all the Yuletide tat was now 75% off, hanging unwanted on rack after rack.

      He looked up through the vaulted glass ceiling, blurred around the edges by his halo of grey fur, and saw that the sky was perfectly white. Then, peering through the opening at the far end which led in the direction of Bishopsgate, he could see fat flakes start to come down again. Unrelenting. Forcing the grey-faced denizens of the City of London to hasten home early before public transport ground to a halt. Ice on the roads. Wrong kind of snow on the train lines. Broken-down, blizzard-blinded this and that.

      He would definitely be better off crossing