The Stranger on the Train by Abbie Taylor

called to the flat. She had never seen Antonia before.
    â€œDoes Ritchie’s father have any contact with him?” Detective Hill asked.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œIs that by his choice or yours?”
    â€œHis.”
    â€œWould he have tried to take him, do you think?”
    â€œNo.” Emma shook her head. If only she could think it was Oliver. At least then she’d know Ritchie was all right. “I know he wouldn’t. He’s not the type.”
    Detective Hill gave her a cold look, a look that said: I’ll be the judge, thank you, of who is the type. For some reason, it was as if he’d decided he didn’t like Emma very much. He wrote something into his notebook and said:
    â€œWe’ll need to talk to him anyway.”
    Once, Emma would have been ashamed at the thought of Oliver knowing she’d been incompetent enough to lose her child. Their child. She didn’t care now. In less than twenty-four hours, all thoughts of Oliver had been wiped from her mind as completely as if he’d never existed. She gave Detective Hill his sister’s phone number in Birmingham. Oliver wasn’t close to his family, but presumably Sasha would at least have some idea of where he was.
    The questions continued.
    â€œDo you have a boyfriend? Someone you’ve been seeing?”
    â€œI haven’t been with anyone since Oliver.”
    â€œWho else do you know in London?”
    Emma thought.
    â€œMy ex-flatmate, Joanne. But we’re not that friendly now.”
    â€œWhat about your neighbors here?”
    â€œI don’t really know any of them.”
    Behind Lindsay, two of the policemen exchanged glances. Emma caught them and said angrily: “Why do you keep on and on asking me about people I know? I told you, the woman who took Ritchie was a stranger. I’d never met her before.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Emma.” Lindsay touched her arm. “I know the questions are upsetting. But just at the moment, we can’t rule anything out.”
    â€œWhat are you doing to find Ritchie?” Emma jerked her arm away. “Apart from asking me questions, I mean. What are you actually doing to find him?”
    Lindsay said patiently: “We’re doing quite a lot, Emma. We’ve spoken to some of the witnesses at the scene earlier—the tube station, and the street outside Mr. Bap’s—and we’ll do our best to find and talk to as many more as we can. Your table in the café wasn’t cleared after you left, so we’ve taken the coffee cups you and Antonia used. Antonia might have left some of her DNA on hers. Also, we’re checking to see if any CCTV cameras are in operation on the street outside the café. If so, we might get some pictures of who took Ritchie and which way they went. The tube stations, at least, will have cameras, so we’ve put an urgent request in to look through those. And we’ve passed Ritchie’s details to all the newspapers. You saw the late evening edition.”
    She had. A short paragraph on page five: “The alleged snatching of a toddler from . . .” But why hadn’t they put him on the front page? Put him on TV ? It all seemed so passive. So . . . so . . . Surely in films they did more to hunt for lost children. Emma floundered, lost for what else to ask.
    â€œWhat about dogs?” she said. “Helicopters?”
    Lindsay repeated: “Anything that’s appropriate, we’re doing it right now.”
    Emma wanted to argue, but her breathing was coming too fast again, the way it had in the hospital. She put her hands to her mouth, trying to get it under control. More exchanging of glances between the policemen.
    â€œMy son does exist,” she said, and her voice came out as a sob.
    â€œI know he does,” Lindsay said gently. “I know.”
    â€¢ • •
    She had to get away. All these people in her flat, asking about Ritchie,