My head spins. I look back towards the house as my taxi driver turns the corner. 'Oh God, Bernard.'

'Did you find the shop you were looking for?'

'Yes, and . . .' I lower my voice so the driver can't hear. 'And we found my little boy. Bernard, he's a boy, not a girl. Did your wife . . . did Lucy know about that?'

Bernard draws in his breath, clearly shocked. 'No. Mary just told Lucy "baby", but when we looked you up online we saw the references to "Beth" so we assumed the baby was a girl. You're sure it's a boy?'

'Yes.' I try to focus. 'Where exactly is this lock-up?'

'Rushdown Road. It's round the back of some woodland. The place looks pretty beat-up from the outside.' Bernard sucks in his breath. 'Wait, there's a woman she just got out of a cab. She's going over to Mr Loxley.'

Fear mingles with furious curiosity. 'Who is she? What does she look like?'

'I don't know; she's wearing a blue hat or cap or something. It's pulled low over her face. She's slim. I can see blonde hair. Your husband is just getting out of his car. The cab she came in is driving off. They're talking together.'

I clutch my mobile more tightly. The taxi driver is watching me curiously in the rear-view mirror. I turn away, holding the phone closer to my mouth.

'Is there a child with them?'

'No. Now they're going inside the lock-up.'

My heart races. Is it possible that Art is with this woman he calls his wife and that Ed is going to be brought to them? Surely Lorcan would have seen if Ed had left the house? Except . . . my thoughts run over each other. Lorcan is waiting outside the front of the house. There could easily be a back door . . . maybe it leads to the woodland . . . maybe Ed has been taken through the woods to the lock-up . . . maybe Art and the woman are waiting for him right now, ready to make their escape . . .

Another thought presses down on me. It's possible that Lorcan is somehow involved. I push this away. I can't let myself doubt him too.

'I'm on my way.' I ring off and give the Rushdown Road address to the cab driver. 'How far from there are we?'

The driver glances over his shoulder at me. 'Just a couple of streets,' he says.

'Go there,' I say. 'As fast as you can.'

As the taxi reaches the woods Bernard described, the cab slows down. My heart is pounding as I catch sight of the lock-ups. There's a car parked just beyond. It's not Art's VW. Still, I've only been a few minutes. Art and his woman must be here. I've got them at last. Violent images of what I'll do flash into my head. I imagine the burning fury inside me erupting out of my hands . . . my nails clawing at her face . . . my feet trampling her into the ground . . .

And then all of a sudden I see Ed in my mind's eye. My baby is this woman's little boy. At least, that's what he has become after nearly eight years.

It sickens me, but hurting her will hurt him too. The argument rages inside my head as the taxi slows to a stop. When Ed was an idea, it was easy . . . he was my child and I had a right to take him back. But now I've seen his school and his home and his nanny and, most of all, I've seen him. He's a real person with a settled life. It might be the wrong life but it's his life. The one he's used to. And I'm about to explode it into tiny pieces. I grit my teeth. I'll just have to work that out later. I'm his mother. And he has a right to know me . . . to be with me, just as I have a right to be with him.

The driver looks round at me. 'That's four pounds fifty, please.'

'Would you mind just waiting for a minute?' As I speak, I look on the seat for my bag and realize to my horror that I left it on the floor of Lorcan's car. My purse is inside it. I look up to find the cab driver staring at me. He looks furious.

'What, you were going to do a runner?'

'No. It's not that . . . oh, shit . . .' I stammer. 'I'm sorry, look, please wait. I'm meeting someone here. I'm sure they'll help.'

The cab driver indicates the road ahead. 'Where is he then?' he asks aggressively.

I follow his gaze. The row of lock-ups starts just a few metres in front of us, exactly as Bernard described. But there's no sign of Bernard himself. I look around, feeling desperate. Traffic is passing, but there's only one car parked it's on the other side of the road, but quite clearly empty.

'I don't know where he is . . .' I delve into my pockets, hoping to find some cash, but there's nothing in my jeans apart from a screwed-up paper tissue.

'Get out,' the driver says roughly.

'No, please . . . please wait . . . how am I going to get to the police station? I've got to-'

'Piss off.'

I have no choice but to scramble out of the taxi. I catch sight of my pale, strained face in the wing mirror as I open the cab door. I can hardly blame the driver for not trusting me. I look deranged.

I slam the door shut and the car zooms off. I scuttle along the side of the road, looking around for Bernard. No sign. I reach the lock-ups. There are three of them in a row. Each one has a metal door covered in rust. Half the side wall of the first is missing. It's obvious no one is using them as garages any more.

I stand there, as two cars swoosh by. The sun is out and beating down on my head. Where the hell is Bernard?

I look up and down the road. The parked car must surely be his, so why isn't he waiting for me? And where is Art's VW? I try Bernard's phone. It goes to voicemail.

Shit. I leave a message saying that I'm outside the lock-up, and wait a minute, hoping he'll call back.

My heart is thumping so hard I can hear it over the noise of the next car that passes. I carry on waiting in an agony of indecision. Seconds pass that feel like minutes. Still no sign of Bernard. A succession of possibilities grip me, paralyzing me.

Suppose Bernard has left?

Suppose Art and the woman have left too?

Suppose, in fact, the whole thing was a ruse to get me away from Ed's house so that I wouldn't witness Art collecting him? Or a trap to bring me here?

Except . . . I glance over at the car parked opposite again. It's a hire car. Bernard must be here. Maybe he's simply inside one of these lock-ups, checking it out. If Art and the woman have left, then Bernard might be snooping about in there. I have to find out. It'll only take a second, then I can go.

Taking a deep breath, I walk on, past the first broken-down lock-up. Thanks to the collapsed wall I can see at a glance that there's no one inside it. I get a glimpse of the woods behind. The trees are densely packed together, surrounding the lock-ups on three sides. Bernard was right it would be easy to bring somebody in and out through the back. The second lock-up is boarded up. I can't see any way of getting past the padlock chained to the front.

I stop outside the third and final lock-up. The metal door set into the front has been pulled to, but it's not properly shut. A rusting handle hangs limply at waist height. There's a stillness about this place, the only sound the light ruffle of the wind in the branches of the surrounding trees. I push at the door. It creaks halfway open. Holding my breath, I peer into the gloom.

'Bernard?' I whisper.

No reply.

A single car zooms along the road behind me. I hesitate for a second, not wanting to go inside. Christ, maybe I'm being supremely stupid and this is a trap . . . with Bernard in on the whole thing, and Art and his bloody woman waiting inside to grab me and . . .

I have to know for sure. I don't have time to work out what's going on. I pick up a large stick that's lying on the ground. It is heavy and feels solid and sturdy in my hands. It's not much of a weapon but it's better than nothing. Heart racing, I push the door open fully and step inside.

It's empty. I'm sure it's empty. There's not much light and I can't see the corners of the room, but the door at the other end is wide open, letting in enough sunshine for me to see stacks of dust-covered crates piled against the walls. Gripping my stick, I tiptoe towards the far door, every nerve in my body tensed, listening for any sounds.

I reach the far door. There's a patch of battered grass straight ahead, bright in the sunlight, then the woods beyond. A shoe lies on the ground, just past the door.

I stare at it, taking a moment to register what I see. My heartbeat thumps in my ears.

It's not just a shoe. It's a foot.

Sweat beads on my forehead. For a moment I'm too terrified to move. Then I take another step to the door. Everything twists and tightens inside me as the body on the grass comes into full view.

It's a man's body: face-down, slightly curled over, with one hand clutching something. I creep towards him, out of the lock-up, onto the grass, into the sunshine. Birds are singing in the woods beyond. There is no one around.

Numb, I crouch down and peer at the man's pale face.

It's Bernard O'Donnell. I place my shaking fingers against his neck, feeling for a pulse. Nothing. The fading warmth of his skin and the blank, soulless stare of his open eyes confirm what is already obvious.

Bernard O'Donnell is dead.

I stare at his face for a few moments, then reach out and close his eyes. Strangely, I feel quite calm. My eyes travel slowly down his body. His shirt is strained over his stomach, one of the buttons hanging by a thread. Blood is seeping through a hole in his jacket. I know nothing about such things, but it looks like a bullet hole. My eyes rest on his right hand. The fingers are curled over something small and black. Numbly, carefully, I prise them open and pull out the phone he is holding. I take a step back from the body and try to work out what to do. I'm still strangely calm, but I can't seem to think straight.

Bernard O'Donnell is dead. That's all that my head seems able to take in. Why would he have come inside the lock-up? To follow Art and the woman? I gaze down at the phone in my hand. My own call, made from outside, just a moment ago, will be logged here. A thought strikes me. What if Bernard used his mobile to take a picture of the woman Art was with?

I press at the keys. With trembling fingers I select the images file. The most recent pictures are of Lucy O'Donnell. There's nothing here from today.

A scraping noise like a crate being pushed across concrete sounds from inside the lock-up. Someone is there.

I back away, my eyes on the door.

Footsteps cross the lock-up. They're coming towards me.

Terror rises, a noose around my throat. My feet seem to move of their own accord and before I know what I'm doing I've turned and am running, full pelt, into the wood behind the lock-ups.

I crash through the undergrowth. The trees are set close together, the branches hanging low over my head. I pound the twig-strewn earth beneath my feet. It's muddy from the recent rain. I'm panting, listening out for the sound of someone following me. I duck behind a large tree, flattening myself against the trunk.

I listen again. There's no sound in the woods apart from the birds and the wind and the distant hum of the road.

My mind is in freefall a chaotic whirlwind of thoughts and images. I see Ed being dragged along the road, then Lorcan's smile, then Bernard's body lying twisted on the grass.

Nausea rises inside me, then subsides and, at last I have a clear and coherent thought. I need to call the police. 999. The long-ago-learned emergency number. The national safety net.

I look down. I have dropped not only the stick I was holding but Bernard's phone, which I know was in my hand when I heard the noise from the lock-up. But my own phone is still in my pocket. I reach into my jeans but before I can draw it out, a twig snaps to my right and I look up and he's standing there.

Art.

Mummy always said I should be careful of the Bad People. But that day, when they came, I didn't know they were Bad People so it wasn't fair when I got home and Mummy was cross at me. I tried to tell Mummy I didn't know, but she was shouting too hard to hear me. She said she always told me to watch out for strangers especially when she is not here and that lady was a stranger and so why was I letting her take my photo? And then Daddy came in and told her to stop yelling and then she was shouting at Daddy that he was Hardly Ever Here and it was All His Fault and then they made me go upstairs.

I sat on my bed and looked at the dressing gown I'd imagined before was a Bad Lady and then Mummy came and said what I had already guessed, that the lady outside school was a Bad Lady in real life, which was why Kelly pulled me away all rough and Mummy was upset.

Mummy said Daddy and she would deal with the Bad Lady but if she ever came again I would have to be her brave knight and do really clever fighting. That was a baby way to put it, because knights like that are just in stories, but I was only young then. Mummy said the Bad Lady would tell me lies and try to Poison My Mind against her and that I had to remember she is my real mummy, no matter what anyone says or if they try to trick me.

Then she told me her Special Fighting Plan.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE.

Art and I stare at each other. His face is pale, his dark eyes appalled.

'Gen?'

He takes a step towards me, through the trees. The twigs on the ground snap under his shoes. He stops and puts his hand against the bark of the tree beside him, just a few feet away.

Bernard's body flashes into my mind's eye.

'You killed him,' I breathe.

'No.' Art shakes his head. 'No, Gen, not that. I didn't do that.'

'Yes, you lied and you took our baby away and now you're a murderer.'

Art stares at me. His eyes are an agony of feeling. 'No, that's not it. Oh, Gen.' He walks closer towards me. The sun vanishes behind his head. My whole body is trembling.

Art stands right in front of me. 'Listen,' he says. 'Please. I know I've lied and it's unforgivable and . . .' He takes a deep breath. 'What matters is now. I'm going to tell you the truth. Just listen.'

I don't believe him. I want to run, but my legs are rooted to the spot.

'Bernard O'Donnell knew what you were doing and you killed him and . . .' Panic whirls up in my head. 'Are you here to kill me? Is that next? Are you going to kill me?'

'No, Gen.' Art's eyes are pleading with me to believe him. His desperation is in the lines on his forehead and the hunch of his shoulders. He's wearing a shirt I gave him. It's the one with the tiny hidden rip on the back of the collar. How can I know such a minor detail about Art's life but have no idea whether he might be about to try and kill me?

'What the hell have you done, Art?'

He rubs his temple. It's such a familiar gesture and yet he is now a stranger.

'Please, listen, Gen. It wasn't me. I didn't kill O'Donnell.'

I stare at him. 'But you know who did?'

'Yes.' He must be talking about the woman he's with . . . the evil bitch who has my baby.

'Who is she?' I snarl.

Art shakes his head. 'There's no time.'

'You said you'd tell me the truth.' I feel myself standing straighter. This might be a new Art but it's a new me, too, and I feel strong in the face of his helplessness. 'Tell me who this woman is for whom you have betrayed absolutely everything between us?' My voice rises. I'm almost shouting. I push myself off my tree and fold my arms. The light in the patch of woodland is almost silvery. Clouds are gathering around the sun. I can smell the hint of rain in the air. I steady my gaze.

'You took our baby away,' I yell. 'You paid the doctor and the other staff to say he was a girl and that she was stillborn. You looked me in the eye and you lied to me. All these things are true. And you did it all for some other woman.'

The wind drops and the trees are silent. Art keeps his gaze fixed on my face. His eyes fill with shame. 'Yes,' he says. 'Yes, all these things are true.'

I wait for him to defend himself, for the inevitable 'but' at the end of the sentence. But Art simply hangs his head.

A devastating calm settles inside me. Art has, at last, admitted what he has done. I'm not going insane. And yet there is still no resolution. The enormity of his betrayal is barely conceivable.