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Emma. Just a few more questions. Is Ritchie your only child?”
    â€œYes. Yes, he is.”
    â€œHow is it that you are so isolated? A young woman like you. No family, no one to call. Where is Ritchie’s father?”
    â€œWe’re not in touch.”
    â€œWhat about your family? Your parents?”
    â€œThey’re dead.”
    â€œI’m sorry.” He was writing this down. “Were you close to them?”
    â€œNo . . . yes . . . my mum.” Tears in her eyes. Viciously, she rubbed them away.
    â€œHave you any history of psychiatric illness?”
    â€œSorry?”
    â€œDepression, for example. Are you attending a doctor for treatment?”
    â€œWhy are you asking me this?” She stared at him. “Are you a psychiatrist?”
    â€œI’m Dr. Canning, from the psych—”
    â€œDo you think I have a mental illness? Is that it? You think I’m imagining all this?”
    â€œOf course not.”
    â€œRight.” Christ, she’d had enough of this. She pushed at the sheets to untwist them from her legs and began to climb off the trolley. “I’m leaving.”
    â€œEmma. Please.” The pink-shirted man sat back, his hands in the air. “You’re very upset. Let’s think about this. How are you going to get home?”
    â€œWhere are my shoes?”
    â€œIf you leave against medical advice, you’ll have to sign—”
    â€œFine. Whatever you want. My child’s been kidnapped and no one’s doing a fucking thing about it. I’ll have to go and find him myself.”
    She muttered to herself as she stooped to find her trainers. Fucking doctors. Fucking police. Fucking everyone. She felt weird. Dizzy. She couldn’t feel her feet. The one thing she knew was that she had to get out of there and find Ritchie. In this city, the only person you could depend on was yourself.
    The curtains swished back again. It was the shaven-headed policeman.
    â€œWe’ve spoken to Dr. Stanford,” he announced.
    Emma stared up at him, gripping the bars of the trolley. Harsh white light surrounded him from behind. She couldn’t see his face.
    The policeman said: “Dr. Stanford confirms that you do have a son whom she knows very well and has seen many times. On the basis of that, we’ll be starting a full investigation into the disappearance of your child.”

Chapter Four
    Emma’s first memory of Ritchie. Yeah, you didn’t forget that kind of thing. He was purple, wrapped in a crocheted blanket, lying like a mollusk across her bed. She felt it was someone else’s baby the midwife had just put there for a minute.
    â€œAren’t you breast-feeding?” the brisk, navy-uniformed midwife asked, busy rolling up a blood pressure cuff beside the bed.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œOh? You do know it’s best for his immune system?”
    â€œMy mother didn’t breast-feed me.” Emma lifted her chin. “And I did all right.”
    The vicious pain of the labor was behind her, but her body felt ripped and bruised, from her belly button right down to her knees. She felt weak, heavy, flattened into the pillows. Blood dripped from a transfusion bag above her wrist. The baby meowed, then bawled, gumming his knuckles. He lay on her bed, dirty, hungry and helpless, and the responsibility overwhelmed her.
    The midwife pursed her lips.
    â€œIn that case, you’d best give him his bottle. We don’t want his glucose levels to drop.”
    â€œWill the social worker come before I leave?” Emma asked, more timidly now that she had won her small battle. “The maternity grant—”
    â€œOh, she’ll be here.” The midwife clattered her equipment back into its basket. “Don’t you worry.”
    She left the room, rattling the blood pressure stand ahead of her.
    Unfriendly cow, Emma thought.
    Left to herself, she propped the yowling baby in her arms,