In Safe Hands. J. P. Carter

not cured. And life expectancy is in the mid-forties.’

      In the weeks that followed they found out all they could about cystic fibrosis, or CF. While Ruth had become used to reeling off the same line as means of explanation: ‘It causes mucus to clog vital arteries and the digestive system, making it difficult to breathe and digest food’, she didn’t think she would ever come to terms with the fact that Liam’s life would be short and difficult, a journey he’d only just started.

      Coping with it wasn’t easy. Ruth hadn’t been able to return to her full-time position as a staff journalist after maternity leave because looking after Liam was a job in itself, with frequent trips to the hospital for check-ups and physiotherapy sessions. They also had to administer regular doses of medication and do their best to ensure he didn’t fall victim to infections.

      And that was one of their concerns when they decided to enrol their son in the Peabody Nursery School. They wanted him to grow and develop and learn how to socialise with other children and adults, but they also wanted to make sure that he was in safe hands.

      ‘We’ll take good care of him, Mr and Mrs Brady,’ the nursery owner, Sarah Ramsay, had assured them. ‘We know how to respond to the needs of children with serious conditions who are nevertheless able to lead relatively normal lives.’

      That had been seven months ago and not once had they had to call Ruth to say that he’d had any difficulties, or taken a turn for the worse.

      Still, she couldn’t help feeling guilty for not taking him to see Shrek today. And Ethan was surely going to be annoyed, having gone to the trouble of buying the tickets.

      But Ruth was confident that Liam would be having just as much fun playing with his little friends, including his best pal Daniel, a little boy whose parents had moved from Ghana to the UK only a year ago. The pair were inseparable, and when she’d dropped Liam off this morning he had run straight over to Daniel who had surrounded himself with piles of colourful wooden bricks.

      She’d noticed that there were relatively few children in – only nine as opposed to the usual twenty or so. Sarah Ramsay had explained that attendance always fell off once the holiday season got underway.

      Ruth put her phone back in her bag and returned to the kitchen to pour her coffee, which she drank with a couple of digestive biscuits.

      Before leaving the house she checked her reflection in the hall mirror, and contemplated the fact that the woman staring back at her looked older than twenty-nine. The last few years had taken their toll with the strain of looking after Liam.

      Her long, ash-blonde hair was still in good shape, but there were bags beneath her eyes that seemed more pronounced through her wire-framed glasses. She’d also lost weight without meaning to, and she was sure that it made her look slightly emaciated.

      Still, she’d never been one to fret about her appearance so she hadn’t allowed any of that stuff to dent her self-confidence.

      She always made an effort to look smart, and today she was hoping that the new trouser suit she was wearing would impress Howard Browning. She wanted to come across as a sharp and savvy journalist who could write interesting and original features for his new magazine.

      It was approaching eleven o’clock when she left the house and went outside. Their car – a Peugeot 308 – was parked in a designated bay at the rear of the block. Because they lived in London it didn’t get used much and there were still only seven thousand miles on the clock. Ethan travelled on the tube to work and when they went out as a family they used public transport.

      Ruth was feeling upbeat and confident as she climbed in behind the wheel and started the engine. It helped that it was such a pleasant Monday morning. Up until the weekend August had been a washout and heavy showers had blasted London and the South East.

      She switched on the radio and caught a top-of-the-hour news bulletin. There was a sense of real urgency in the announcer’s voice as he told listeners about a breaking story in South London. Intrigued, Ruth paused before backing out of the bay.

      ‘Reports are coming in of a serious ongoing incident at a nursery school in Peabody Street, Rotherhithe. Armed police have been called there and the street has been cordoned off. It’s understood the incident involves children and staff members. That’s all we know at the moment, but we’ll bring you further details as soon as we have them.’

      Ruth froze as she tried to process what she had just heard. She couldn’t believe it. Or rather she didn’t want to believe it. Surely it had to be a terrible mistake – or a cruel example of fake news.

      Nevertheless the announcer’s words sat cold inside her, and her heart started banging in her throat.

      She took out her phone and her hand shook as she scrolled through her contacts for the Peabody Nursery number. But after tapping the call icon all she got was the engaged tone.

      She knew what she had to do. The nursery was only about a mile away and she could be there in minutes, traffic permitting.

      As she shoved the gearstick into reverse the fear and dread swelled up inside her. She started yelling at herself not to panic, that everything was going to be all right and that Liam was perfectly safe.

      But there was a voice inside her head that said otherwise. It was telling her that something bad had happened to her precious little boy.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      The paramedics who attended to Tasha Norris confirmed that her condition was serious and that it was touch and go as to whether she’d survive.

      She was the only one who’d been attacked and it was because she put up a fight when they were being forced into the storeroom.

      She’d received two vicious blows to the head and one to the face. Her nose was shattered and there were two open wounds below her unruly mop of dark brown hair.

      As Tasha was being stretchered out of the building, Anna was approached by Sarah Ramsay, who was understandably still shocked and confused after the ordeal.

      ‘One of us should go with her to the hospital,’ she said. ‘We can’t let her go by herself.’

      ‘You and your colleagues need to stay here so that you can give me more details about what happened,’ Anna said. ‘But don’t worry. She’s in good hands and will be accompanied by one of my officers.’

      ‘Then someone should call her husband,’ Sarah said, as she took a mobile phone from her jeans pocket and held it up. ‘This belongs to her. His number will be on it.’

      ‘What’s his name?’

      ‘Steve. Steve Norris. They live in Salter Road.’

      Anna took the phone from her and gave it to DI Walker, who was standing beside her.

      ‘Make the call, Max,’ she said. ‘And then phone the office and get more bodies down here, fast. Tell them to drop everything else.’

      Anna returned her attention to Sarah, who was still struggling to compose herself. She was a tall, sinewy woman of about thirty, with thick, lustrous black hair and a pale, flawless complexion. Black rivulets of mascara stained her cheeks.

      Just thirty minutes had elapsed since she and the two teachers who worked for her had emerged from the cramped storeroom. So far they had given only a brief account of what had happened because of the state they were all in. Anna now needed them to flesh out their story; every detail could be pivotal to the investigation and to the search for the children.

      ‘I’d like you to join your colleagues,’ Anna said. ‘I want to go through everything again from the moment the three men turned up.’

      Sarah nodded. ‘Of course, but I don’t think there’s much more I can tell you that would be helpful. It happened so quickly.’

      ‘Let