From the Cradle Read Online Free PDF Page B

spare light bulbs. She left them all gaping, her kitchen on display like the contents of her stomach, and climbed wearily back up the stairs to Frankie’s room where she stood in the doorway, high on some terrible drug that she couldn’t escape from, unmoored.
    She heard Sean come charging back into the house, his footsteps steady and hard until a pause when he circumnavigated the puke in the hall, then up the stairs to find her.
    ‘Nothing,’ he said. He put his arms around her tightly. ‘The police are on their way.’
    Helen just gaped at him. Then she slumped against the doorframe and slid to the floor, sobs racking her body.
    And she was still there now, on the fluffy little rug, unable to gather the strength to move. Waiting for the police. Waiting for someone to come and help them, to make it all better.
    ‘Come on, sweetheart,’ Sean said, bending to take her arm and help her up.
    ‘This rug needs cleaning,’ Helen said.
    He blinked at her.
    ‘Look at it!’ She was aware that her voice was loud, that she sounded on the verge of hysteria. ‘All these little clumps . . . Look. Frankie knows she’s not allowed to eat sweets in her room. I bet Alice sneaks them to her.’
    ‘Helen, come on . . .’
    The doorbell rang.
    Helen leapt to her feet. Someone bringing Frankie home? Good news? Hope swelled inside her as she ran down the stairs, two at a time, almost falling. Sean was a step behind her.
    She yanked open the door to find two uniformed police officers, a man and a woman, and as the female officer opened her mouth to speak Helen felt a chill go through her, a premonition. She was never, ever going to see her beautiful little girl again.
    The policewoman led her, sobbing, back inside her house.

Chapter 4
Patrick – Day 1
    Sean and Helen Philips, the couple who had reported their child missing, lived in Teddington, in a street of large Victorian houses with a pro bable combined value greater than the GDP of Luxembourg, a stone’s throw from Bushy Park. Not, Patrick mused, that people round here would throw stones. What would they throw – teacups, dirty looks, barbed comments? Patrick rubbed at his eyes, feeling slightly delirious. The truth was that he felt more comfortable in places like the Kennedy. At least there he knew exactly what people would throw, would be too busy ducking to enjoy the luxury of a muse.
    He and Carmella approached the house, a chunky double-fronted red brick with a wisteria-covered portico over the door, and a neatly landscaped front garden. It was one of those houses that looked too smart to live in, gleaming glossy paintwork on the front door and around the windows, and not a pebble out of place on the gravel driveway. He would put money on them having a weekly organic ‘vegbox’ delivered, and that there’d be skis in the garage and a Polish cleaning girl coming in twice a week.
    When Isabel was taken, Patrick had initially been convinced that a ransom demand would imminently follow, but none came. The same with Liam. When a child is taken from a well-off family, the first assumption is that money must be the primary factor. But so far there was no evidence of that, which made these cases not only less fathomable but more frightening. Over the past week, the people in this part of south-west London had become jittery, as though the local branches of Starbucks had been accidentally serving up coffees containing quadruple shots. More than jittery . The people of the borough of Richmond-upon-Thames w ere terrified.
    And the pressure on the police, on MIT9 in particular, was like nothing Patrick had experienced before, even when there’d been a serial rapist-and-murderer slicing lives apart in Sutton, or during the James Lawler case, when a gang of white kids had beaten a black schoolboy to death at 4:30 in the afternoon. With intense media and public interest, this case had immediately been classified as a critical incident, the most high-profile investigation Patrick