What will be happening to her? She’s only seven. She’ll be feeling lost, wondering what’s going on, and my heart nearly breaks at the thought of how confused and scared she must be.
Why wouldn’t they let me go with her?
I know why. They have to suspect me – to believe that I may have allowed something to happen or turned a blind eye. The thought makes me feel sick.
I suddenly feel the urge to move, to do something.
I push myself up off the floor and grab my mobile. I’m going to call Ash – maybe they’ll let him take a call if he’s waiting to be interviewed. I need to ask him, beg him to tell me the truth.
‘Siri, call Ash,’ I shout into my phone.
‘Calling Ash,’ says the disembodied voice.
Then I hear a phone ringing upstairs. Of course. He was up there working before dinner. I moan with frustration.
Maybe I should talk to someone who will convince me that everything’s going to be fine, that I’m overreacting. But who?
Not my mother. I can hear her now, saying, ‘He’s a man, Jo. You’d do better to always think the worst of them in my opinion.’
Not Tessa, who believes men are best reserved for holidays, the occasional weekend and those moments when one is in need of a good shag.
The truth is that I don’t want to tell anyone what Ash is suspected of, because I know that mud sticks. Even if he is proved innocent, both my mum and Tessa would look at him with different eyes afterwards.
I think of Nousha, his sister. She would never believe anything bad about Ash, but she would make it all about her, about how much agony she was feeling as she worried about her brother, and I would end up comforting her.
The only person who might listen to me is Sami, although where he might be at this time on a Saturday evening is anyone’s guess. He’s a bit of a wild card, and Ash despairs of his younger brother, but he has a good heart, so I call him.
His mobile rings and rings, with no option to leave a message.
I’m on my own.
9
It’s more than two hours since they were taken, and I’ve spent most of that time lying on Millie’s bed, surrounded by her things. I wrap myself in her pink and purple duvet and hug her pillow to me. I can smell her sweet scent and I want her back so badly.
They told me someone would be in touch and I have checked and rechecked my phone every few minutes to see if there’s a signal, enough battery power, a dialling tone. But no one has called.
Now, on top of my horror, I’m starting to get angry. I’m going to call them.
I grab my phone, find the number Janet gave me and call it. It rings once, twice, three times. I’m scared that no one is going to answer. Then to my relief, the ringing stops. There’s silence for a moment, as if there’s no one there.
‘Hello?’ I say.
‘Who is it?’ a husky voice asks. It sounds like an old man.
‘It’s Jo Palmer. I need to speak to the social worker – Janet. Or Bob, the detective,’ I say.
‘No one here by those names. You’ve got the wrong number.’
The phone goes dead and I feel a dull thud in my gut. Did I mistype it? I check the call log against the number Janet gave me. It’s right.
I throw the phone onto the bed, rest my forehead on the heels of my hands and sob. I was so upset I must have keyed it in wrong when Janet gave it to me.
The thought hits me that I have the address, and I reach for my phone again. I could go there, wait for Millie.
What if they’ve already left and they’re bringing her home? What if she gets back and there’s no one here?
I don’t know what to do. I could ask Tessa to come and stay in the house while I go and get Millie, avoid giving her an explanation or make something up, but first I need to know how far away this place is.
I type the address into Google Maps. Then I stare at the screen. There are five Westmorland Roads in the Manchester area, and I don’t know which one it is. Janet didn’t give me a postcode. It could be any of them.
There’s only one thing left for me to do, so I search for Greater Manchester Police. I almost scream when I discover that my local station – the one where they said they were taking Ash – closes at 6 p.m. on a Saturday. They must have taken him somewhere else. I need to find out, but every page of the site that I go to says I can send a message and they will get back to me in two days, or if it’s an emergency I can call 999.
Just when I am losing the will to live, I discover the non-urgent phone number: 101. I think I might have known that before, but as I’ve never had reason to call the police it had slipped to the back of my mind.
The woman who answers the phone is very polite, and I spew out the details in an incoherent babble. She asks for clarification on a couple of points, as I continually tell her I’m certain the allegations about Ash are total nonsense and I want my daughter back, but I have the wrong phone number and I don’t know which is the right address. I shout that they promised to call me but no one has, and I want to know where my daughter is. She is calm throughout. I know none of this is her fault, but I need to rant at someone.
‘Leave it with me, Miss Palmer. I’ll check where they are, who’s dealing with the case, and I’ll get back to you,’ she says.
‘Hang on. What does that mean? What will you do? When will you get back to me? Today? Tomorrow?’
‘I’ll contact the local custody office for you, and then someone will get back to you as soon as possible. It will definitely be this evening.’
I want to ask her where that office is – what she means – exactly how long until someone gets back to me, but she can already hear the panic in my voice, so I realise there is nothing to be gained.
I hang up and put my phone back on charge, even though the battery is at maximum.
I stand up, and I begin to pace.
Forty-five minutes later I’m still waiting to hear, getting more and more annoyed and increasingly wound up. Tears are now spilling down my cheeks, a mixture of anger and frustration mixed with intense anxiety about Millie and fury at Ash. I know I’m blaming him without any evidence, but have I been living with a monster all these years?
My thoughts are interrupted as the phone rings.
‘Thank God,’ I sob.
In my haste to pick my mobile up I knock it to the floor. Shit! But it’s still ringing.
‘Hello.’ My voice breaks on the word.
‘This is Greater Manchester Police. Is that Joanna Palmer?’ It’s a woman’s voice and she sounds calm and friendly. I am hoping that’s a good sign.
‘Yes. Where’s Millie? Where have you taken her?’
‘That’s your daughter, is that right?’
‘Yes. Millie Palmer. She was taken to a social services place to be questioned, but that’s three hours ago, and I’ve heard nothing. I’ve tried to phone but I must have written down the wrong number. It’s appalling to have kept her this long without a word to me.’
‘Miss Palmer, do you mind if I call you Joanna?’
‘Call me Jo – whatever you like – just tell me where Millie is and if she’s okay.’
‘I’m Detective Inspector Becky Robinson. I’m here to help, Jo, but I need to get a few facts. Since your partner, Ashraf Rajavi, and your daughter Millie were taken by officers, has anyone been in touch with you at all?’