He takes the paper from my hand and reads. And reads it again. He doesn’t look at us, doesn’t speak. But his hand trembles, the paper wavering in the air.
‘My sister Miriam gave me that,’ I calmly say. ‘My mother, Hope Scott, gave it to her in 1994. That’s your signature, isn’t it?’ Before he can deny or deflect I produce the Poppy Munro leaflet I took the day I went to see him at police HQ. The leaflet included his personal pledge ending with his signature to show he meant business.
I get in his space and tap the paper he holds that’s twenty-eight years old. ‘It’s the same signature at the bottom of the leaflet and the paper you hold in your hand.’
Hope
Amina. Amina. Amina.
I keep saying the child’s name over and over again in my head like a prayer as I struggle out of the spitting rain and into the police station. I have never been in one before. Plus, the honest truth is this: as a black person I don’t ever want to be inside one. If I see a five-0 walking down the street I cross the road. But this is a matter of life and death. Amina’s life and death.
‘Tomorrow night I will come over to make sure it gets done.’ That scum, Danny’s murderous words on the phone still ring in my ear.
If I don’t act Amina might never make it home to her family again. Danny and the people at Pretty Lanes might never be caught. I get so pissed when I hear people call Amina slow because you have never met anyone so quick at giving. That girl adores giving and sharing her love.
I am huddled in my big coat, belly sticking out so much I could barely do three buttons up to protect my baby from the awful weather. I waited and waited this morning and then crept downstairs. I stopped near the corner leading to the kitchen and when the coast was clear, head down to hide my face, I rushed through and made it to the side gate.
I’m as nervous as hell but I move to the desk where there’s a cop in uniform.
He sends me a welcoming smile, which makes me feel more easy. ‘What can I do for you?’
All of a sudden I feel the eyes of the other people waiting in the reception area so I lean in. What I have to say is between him and me. ‘I want to report an attempted murder. And other murders.’
Alert, he takes out a form and starts writing. ‘I’ll take the necessary details from you. Then I’ll get an appropriate officer to talk with you.’
Sagging against the counter I almost start singing with blessed relief.
‘It’s about the women who have gone missing—’
‘Which women?’ he asks sharply.
I tell him which case.
That it may not be a murder yet.
If we hurried we might save her.
Give my lover’s name.
All of it he writes down.
The guy tells me to take a seat while he contacts the right person to help me. Five minutes later two male uniforms appear. One looks like he’s been around the block, and the other fresh-faced and youthful.
The older one asks the cop at the desk, ‘Is this her?’
Seeing me struggling to get up, the younger one kindly helps me. He assures me, ‘Don’t you worry, we’re on the case. We’ll get this all sorted out.’
Before we leave I make sure we take care of the paperwork and I get a copy of the incident report with it dotted and signed by the cops and me. Then I’m escorted to their car. I’m a bit surprised because I thought they would want to interview me further. No matter, I might as well show them. I slump into the backseat, my eyes closed, as they drive back to Suzi. Once there they can do a thorough search. If he’s there, arrest the bastard. Bastard is too good a word for him.
Finally, the car stops outside the Suzi Lake Centre. This is where Danny has hidden me until the baby is born. The young cop helps me out and it is just as well because I feel so weak all of a sudden. Like my legs can’t hold me. Something feels wrong, Suzi looks deserted. Then I notice the closed sign on the main door. What’s going on? It would usually be choc-a-bloc with all sorts going on. A shiver goes up my spine.
I gasp so loudly at what happens next I nearly fall backwards. Danny’s coming through the front door straight towards us. His slick grin oils his face.
I stab a finger at him. ‘That’s him. That’s the one. Arrest him.’
Instead, the older cop grabs my arm and drags me towards Danny.
‘What’s going on?’ I’m yelling and struggling. I can’t fight tooth and nail because I might hurt the baby. The cop’s fingers feel like handcuffs around my protesting flesh.
The cop more or less throws me, big belly ’n’ all, at Danny, who pulls me with such force to his chest I fear for my child.