Esme grabbed a laptop from behind one of the velvet red sofas. ‘Come on,’ she urged. ‘I’ve written some new lyrics – they’re on this.’
‘I don’t know about changing the lyrics,’ Wolf said with a frown.
He followed Esme to the door. I hesitated. Maybe I could hang back and creep over to the office right now.
No chance.
‘Come on, Madison,’ Esme ordered.
I had no choice but to follow them both downstairs.
The music room was about as far away from Esme’s bedroom as it could have been – on the ground floor and right round the other side of the house. I stood in the doorway, amazed at what I was looking at. Two rooms, one connected to the other by a soundproofed door, lay in front of me. The first contained a mixing deck and a computer. Through a large window, I could see the second was full of instruments: three guitars and a bass, plus a drum kit and two microphones.
‘This is a proper recording studio,’ I said.
Esme shrugged. ‘One of Daddy’s hobbies,’ she said.
Wolf met my eyes. He raised his eyebrows as if to acknowledge my surprise.
‘Cool, isn’t it?’ he said.
I nodded. Esme opened her laptop and fiddled with the keys for a moment.
‘It’s just an extra two lines,’ she said in that little-girly, wheedling tone she’d used with her father at the party.
Wolf bent over her shoulder and read the words on the screen. ‘F . . . fine,’ he said. ‘If you insist.’
‘Yayy!’ Esme raced into the room with the instruments and positioned herself in front of one of the microphones.
Wolf sat down at the mixing deck. ‘Are you OK with all this, Madison?’ he said. ‘It’s just when Esme gets an idea in her head . . .’
‘It’s fine.’ I glanced at Esme’s laptop which she’d left on one of the stools by the deck. Maybe I could use it to take a look at the memory stick before I returned it. ‘D’you think it would be OK if I borrowed Esme’s laptop for a minute?’
I held my breath.
‘I’m sure Esme won’t mind,’ Wolf said. He picked up a pair of headphones and started talking to Esme in the other room.
I dragged a stool to the back of the room, took the laptop and opened it up.
Wolf and Esme were busy talking. Neither of them were looking at me. Palms sweating, I pulled the ‘M21’ memory stick out of my pocket and slid it into the USB port.
As I’d suspected, a folder marked Miriam 21 appeared on the screen. So this was the clue Allan had been following. I opened it up. It contained just one file.
The Miriam Project: Miriam 21
Natalia K. 19. 5ft 4in to: Flat 4, 30 Burnside Road, NW3. Due July 26.
Fear rose inside me. Was Natalia one of the missing girls Allan had talked about? She was obviously being sent to this Burnside Road address on July 26? Wait, today was the 27th. Did that mean this Natalia K was already there? How long would she be held? NW3 was Hampstead, the same area as Baxter’s house, so the address must be nearby. I looked up. Wolf was still chatting with Esme. I felt sick with sudden fear. Should I call the police? No, that was crazy. I had no basis, other than Allan’s suspicions, for thinking that the details on this memory stick were anything other than entirely harmless. I should just call Allan. Tell him what I’d found out. But first I had to put the memory stick back. I slid it out of the laptop and into my pocket, then I shut the laptop and put it back on the stool.
Wolf glanced round. ‘We’re ready. Esme’s about to sing. The track’s laid underneath.’
Esme’s voice filled the room. Pure and sweet, it suited the soulful acoustic accompaniment though Esme had a habit of drawling the lyrics so I couldn’t actually make out any of the words she was singing.
After a minute or so, she stopped. ‘What d’you think?’ she asked.
Wolf turned to me. ‘Madison?’
‘It sounds amazing,’ I said truthfully. My hand felt for my pocket, where the memory stick nestled next to my mobile.
‘Thanks.’ Wolf blushed slightly. Esme grinned.
‘D’you want a go, singing?’ she asked.
‘Me? No way.’ I shook my head, desperate to think of some excuse for getting back to Esme’s bedroom. ‘Er, I think I left something upstairs. I’m just going to go back for it.’
‘OK.’ Esme wasn’t listening properly. She’d picked up the bass and was picking out a line of notes.
Wolf stared at me. ‘What did you leave upstairs?’ he said, slowly.
‘Er, my phone.’ I tried to keep my gaze on him steady.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Can you remember the way?’
‘Sure,’ I said.
I slipped out of the room and hurried away. In spite of what I’d said, I got hopelessly lost. It was ten minutes before I found the right staircase and made my way to Mr Baxter’s office. I replaced the memory stick then headed back to the music room.
As I walked, I tried Allan’s number, but my call went straight to voicemail. I didn’t want to leave a message about something so confidential. Anyway, there was nothing Allan could do from where he was in France.
I Google Mapped the Burnside Road address. As I’d thought, it was just around the corner. If Natalia K was there, she might be moved on at any moment. I really wanted to speak to her. I mean, if she was connected with the Miriam Project, she would surely know all about it – and about the missing girls.
Maybe I should check out the address myself?
No, it was crazy to think about getting involved. I kept walking and, a few minutes later, I reached the music room, where Esme was singing again.
I stopped, spellbound for a second by the haunting melody. Wolf was still hunched over the mixing deck. He smiled as I walked in. ‘Find it?’ he said.
‘Er, yes.’ Jeez, I’d almost forgotten about my supposed missing phone. I held it up. ‘Here.’
I spent the next hour letting Wolf show me how the sound system he was operating worked, while Esme sang a couple more songs. Then the three of us went to the kitchen, where Esme ferreted about in a cupboard and produced some delicious chocolate cake.
At about 6 pm, Wolf said he had to get home for a family dinner.
‘OK,’ Esme said with a yawn.
‘I should go too,’ I said. I had the impression Esme was ready for us both to leave. Anyway, I was still feeling guilty about snooping in her dad’s office.
Wolf and I said goodbye on the corner of Esme’s road. I headed towards the High Street and the underground station. I knew from the map I’d looked at online that Burnside Road was on my way. I could easily stop off and take a peek at number 30.
No, that was stupid. Dangerous. I should just wait until I could get hold of Allan, let him decide what to do. Except . . . Allan wouldn’t be back in the country until tomorrow and, for all I knew, Natalia K might be moved to a new address by then. Plus, I was literally seconds away from Burnside Road. I kept walking. The turning I needed to take for the High Street was here, on my left. The turning for Burnside Road was on my right. I stood at the crossroads, hesitating.
Was Natalia K there? Was she a missing person? Was she in danger?
I didn’t know the answer to any of those questions. I glanced along Burnside Road. It was tree-lined, full of smart, attractive houses. Two women were talking in posh, clipped accents on the corner. The sun was still shining. It was a quiet, warm summer’s evening. Impossible to imagine anything bad happening. I would take a quick look . . . just so I could report back to Allan . . . I wouldn’t go inside.
There would be no danger.
I took the right turn and headed along Burnside Road.
14
Natalia
I walked along the pavement, looking at the houses. They were set closely together and all built over three floors. Very smart and elegant. I peered through the windows as I passed. An elderly lady was busy vacuuming on the ground floor of number 22. A few doors down, two young men were talking animatedly in a first-f
loor room. The house next door to them seemed empty. No, a girl was sitting at the window on the second floor. She was peering out, gazing up and down the street.
With a jolt, I realised she was inside number 30, the very house I was looking for. I drew closer. This house was just as designer-looking as the others, with frosted glass at the windows and gleaming white paint on the woodwork. There were four bells beside the door, corresponding to four flats. I looked up. Presumably flat four was at the top. I squinted up to the second-floor windows. The girl was still peering down from the top window on the right. She turned her head slightly. She saw me. Her mouth opened slightly. Even from down here on the pavement I could see her face was drawn and her eyes were wide with fear. Was that Natalia? Was I scaring her? Or was she afraid because she was trapped inside the flat? I glanced around. The road was deserted. I looked up again, but the girl had vanished behind the curtain.
I turned away. Whoever she was, the girl up in flat four definitely didn’t look happy. I took a couple of steps, then stopped. Part of me wanted to run away, but part of me felt bad not to at least check out the situation. I mean, maybe I’d got the whole thing wrong. Maybe the girl in the flat wasn’t even Natalia.
I looked back. The girl was peering through the window again. This time she didn’t duck away behind the curtain. Instead, she smiled. A timid, trembly kind of smile. It felt like an invitation. Without thinking about it any further, I walked to the front door and rang the bell for number four. There was a long pause, then a voice sounded over the intercom.
‘Hello?’ The voice was hesitant, with a light European accent.
‘Hi,’ I said. ‘Are . . . are you Natalia?’
I could hear the sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Madison,’ I said. ‘I just came from Mr Baxter’s house, I—’
The intercom buzzed, drowning me out, and the front door jerked off its lock. I pushed at it with my fingers and it opened into a smart communal hallway. There were two doors: one on either side of the hall. They were marked ‘1’ and ‘2’. The entrance to ‘4’ was obviously upstairs – and the girl inside was clearly inviting me in.
I gulped. Should I go? Again, I thought of Lauren and how brave she had been all those years ago, travelling around the east coast of America and risking danger to find out about her past. I shook myself. If Lauren could cope with life-threatening adventures in icy woods and run-down neighbourhoods, then I could certainly speak to a girl in a flat in the heart of sophisticated, wealthy north London.
I ventured up the stairs, past flat three on the first floor and on, up another flight, to flat four. The wooden staircase gleamed with fresh paint and there were elegant prints on the walls. Everything smelled faintly of floor cleaner. Despite all these reassuring signs, my hand was clammy on the banisters as I reached the second floor. I faced the door to flat four. It swung open and the girl with the drawn face peered out. She looked about nineteen or twenty, only a few years older than me.
‘Are you alone?’ she whispered.
I nodded. ‘Natalia?’
‘Yes.’ She stepped into the doorway and my mouth fell open with shock.
This girl was pregnant. Heavily so – she looked twice as big as Lauren had the other day. And there was absolutely no glow about her at all. Her face was really pale and there were dark shadows under her anxious eyes.
‘Come in,’ Natalia said.
She turned away from the door and I followed her inside feeling completely confused. She led me along a narrow passage which opened out into a huge, square living area. It was full of designer furniture – two leather sofas, a big plasma TV on the wall, lamps with triangular-shaped shades, a striped rug on the wooden floor.
Natalia sat on one of the sofas. She looked up at me anxiously.
‘You said you came from Mr Baxter’s house?’ she said.
I nodded, feeling even more bewildered. Allan had said girls were disappearing . . . which kind of implied being kidnapped or made to suffer in some way. But Natalia was clearly living in a luxurious flat. And, OK, so she was pregnant, which I hadn’t suspected, and she definitely looked tired, but she had just let me in, and could obviously let herself out of the building – so no way was she a prisoner.
‘What does Mr Baxter want?’ Natalia asked.
I frowned, then I realised that she’d misunderstood me.
‘He didn’t send me here,’ I said quickly. ‘I . . . that is, someone told me you might be here, so . . . well, I happened to see the address and I thought . . .’ I hesitated. It sounded ridiculous to say I was investigating on behalf of a freelance journalist, even if he was my father. ‘I . . . I just came to see if you were all right,’ I finished lamely.
‘Oh.’ Now Natalia was frowning. ‘So . . . how . . . what’s your connection with Mr Baxter?’
Now what did I say? I took a deep breath. ‘The truth is, someone told me that a number of girls had gone missing and . . . and I got it into my head you were one of them. But you’re obviously not a prisoner here so . . .’ I tailed off again.
Natalia bit her lip. She rested her hands on her swollen belly and stared at me. I got the strong impression she was trying to decide whether or not to tell me something. What was it? She was dressed in leggings and a lilac top that draped artfully over her bump. Apart from the fact that she wore no make-up, she looked as expensively dressed as Esme. Certainly no kind of victim.
Allan had clearly got the whole thing wrong. I still didn’t understand what the name ‘Miriam’ meant, or why I’d seen other memory sticks with different ‘M’ numbers on them, but, as I stared at Natalia, I suddenly thought I saw the connection between her and Baxter. Something that made sense of everything.
‘Oh.’ My hand flew to my mouth. ‘Oh, it’s his baby, Mr Baxter’s.’ My face burned as I thought through the ramifications of this. Mr Baxter was having a baby with a girl half his age, barely older than me – or Esme. It was revolting. I stood up, wishing I hadn’t come in. Now I had a great big secret to keep from my new friend.
‘Mr Baxter is not the father.’ Natalia’s face expressed genuine shock.
To my horror, her eyes filled with tears. She looked down at the floor and her voice wobbled as she spoke.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’
I gulped. I was sorry for upsetting her, but I didn’t believe Baxter wasn’t the dad. I mean, what other explanation for her living in this nice flat so close to his house could there be? Still, it was none of my business. I took a step towards the door.
‘Please don’t go,’ Natalia said shakily. ‘I haven’t talked to anyone for months . . . not properly . . . please.’ She looked up. The pain in her dark brown eyes was so intense I could barely meet her gaze.
Now I felt confused again. Maybe she was telling the truth.
‘Does Mr Baxter own this flat?’ I said. ‘Does he know you’re here?’
‘Yes.’
‘But he isn’t the father?’
‘No,’ Natalia said with a sigh. ‘But he wants my baby.’
‘Sorry . . . I don’t understand,’ I said.
Natalia hesitated. I got the strong sense that she was fighting with herself again. That she knew talking to a total stranger was a terrible risk, but that she was so desperate she couldn’t help herself.
‘If I tell you,’ she said softly, ‘will you promise to help me?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But what do you need help with?’ I looked around the sophisticated living room. ‘You don’t exactly look like you’re being badly treated.’
‘I’m not,’ she said. ‘Mr Baxter provides food and clothes and a doctor comes every day to check I’m OK. But it’s time . . . it was time yesterday . . . for the baby to come. That’s why they moved me here.’ She held my gaze, and the horror in her eyes was totally genuine. ‘And when the baby is born, Mr Baxter is going to take him away. Forever.’
15
Getting Out
; ‘Slow down,’ I said. ‘Are you saying Mr Baxter is looking after you until your baby’s born – then he’s going to take him?’
Natalia nodded. ‘I saw it happen before, with other girls. Mr Baxter calls it the Miriam Project after some woman in the Bible. He takes the babies as soon as they’re born to give to childless couples. I’m the twenty-first girl.’
Miriam 21. I stared at her, bewildered. This was the explanation behind Allan’s suspicions – a surrogacy business.
‘Baxter pays a doctor to check on us and there are several nurses who stay with us in shifts,’ Natalia went on. ‘I’m waiting for the next nurse now. She’ll be here soon. You see, my baby was due yesterday, so he’ll . . . it won’t be long until he’s born now.’
I gasped, remembering the ‘due’ date on the memory stick file. I thought of the other sticks with their ‘M’ numbers.
‘You’re saying Mr Baxter has done this with twenty other girls?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’ Natalia clasped her hands together. ‘He picks on girls away from home, who don’t have jobs or money . . . girls with no family. He offered me ten thousand pounds to do IVF for him . . . to get pregnant.’
‘So you agreed to give up your baby,’ I said. ‘You actually agreed to do it?’
‘Yes, because I was desperate. I was all alone and it was awful, so I said yes, because back then the baby was just an idea. But now I can feel him moving inside me. I . . . I can’t bear the thought he’ll be taken away from me.’
‘Where will Baxter take him?’
Natalia sniffed. ‘If it’s the same as the others, he’ll take the baby as soon as he’s born. He’ll have a couple all lined up, ready to pay. My friend Lana told me how it works: the couple get a baby just a few hours old without having to travel abroad or do mountains of paperwork. There’re official-looking documents that say it’s all legal, but it’s not . . .’