The Mother. Jaime Raven

far only the one woman had come forward to say she had seen a man with a child near my mother’s home. The phone from which the messages had been sent had not been traced. And there was just one short clip of video footage from a street camera.

      We viewed it on Brennan’s computer and the sight of my baby in the kidnapper’s arms sent my heart into freefall. The footage was in colour and slightly blurred, but I could tell straight away that it was Molly. She was looking back over the man’s shoulder towards the camera, wide awake and clearly upset. One arm was wrapped around the kidnapper’s neck and her head was raised and moving from side to side.

      When Brennan paused and enhanced the image, I could see that her little face was scrunched up and her mouth was open.

      I felt a cry in my throat but I refused to let it out. Instead I just gazed at the screen as the muscles around my eyes tightened.

      ‘Unfortunately we only have the rear view of the kidnapper,’ Brennan said. ‘As you can see he appears to be of average build and height, just as Molly’s grandmother described him. He could be aged anywhere between twenty and forty.’

      It was hard to tell because he was wearing a dark hoody and jeans and there were no distinctive markings visible on his clothes.

      We watched the video through twice and after the second time I sat back in the chair and had to will the tears not to come.

      Brennan asked if I was OK to carry on and I just nodded and wiped my eyes with a tissue.

      ‘I’m still hopeful that by the end of this evening we’ll have more to go on,’ he said. ‘We’re still going door-to-door and people in the area are gradually returning home from work. It’s possible a neighbour we haven’t yet spoken to saw something. There’s also the outside chance that someone has seen the photograph on the telly and recognises the room that Molly’s in, which is obviously why the kidnapper didn’t want it released.’

      ‘I very much doubt that,’ Adam said. ‘There must be hundreds of thousands of white sofas in homes across London alone.’

      Brennan then asked me a series of questions. Did I have any idea how the kidnapper got my number? No. Had I spotted anyone watching me or the flat in recent days or weeks? No. Did Molly have any medical conditions that required ongoing treatment? No.

      He then asked Adam a bunch of similar questions. Did he know who the kidnapper might be? No. Did he know of anyone who had a grudge against Sarah? No. Did he himself have any enemies? Yes, lots.

      Adam was in such a state that he was struggling to respond. I could tell that his mind was leaping in all directions and he was finding it hard to make sense of anything.

      Finally, and almost reluctantly, Brennan told us about the two perps whose names I’d given him, the pair who had threatened retribution. He said Frank Neilson was still banged up, but the rapist Edwin Sharp had been released from prison a month ago and they were trying to trace him.

      ‘I didn’t mention him to begin with because I don’t want to overstate the significance,’ he said. ‘Just because he’s out, it doesn’t mean he’s been up to no good. It’s more than likely he doesn’t even remember making threats against you, Sarah.’

      I thought about this for a moment and said, ‘On the other hand it might be all he’s been thinking about for the past five years.’

      It didn’t seem like five years ago to me. The Edwin Sharp case was one of those that had stayed with me, and I could remember every detail. In fact, I still had some of the newspaper cuttings in a file at home. That was because it was one of my most high-profile cases and even earned me a commendation.

      Sharp was an arrogant cocaine-obsessed stockbroker who raped a 23-year-old woman after a drug-fuelled office party. It happened shortly after I joined Lewisham CID and just before they teamed me up with Adam.

      I arrived at Sharp’s terraced house with a WPC named Felicity Trant. When he answered the front door, it was clear he was high on drink and drugs. He was wearing a dressing gown with nothing underneath and his eyes were wide and glassy.

      He became aggressive and abusive when I explained why we were there and he called us bitches and whores.

      When I said I was going to arrest him and take him to the station, he lost it completely. He leapt to his feet and punched WPC Trant in the face, sending her flying across the room. Then he dashed into the kitchen before I could stop him.

      I was only a couple of seconds behind him, but by the time I reached him he’d armed himself with a hammer from a drawer and lashed out at me with it.

      I suffered a painful blow to the shoulder before I managed to force him to the floor and put cuffs on his wrists.

      And that was when his dressing gown fell open to reveal a small flaccid penis, which made him blush and bare his teeth.

      ‘You fucking cunt,’ he screamed. ‘I won’t forget this.’

      The next day, during the formal interview, Sharp gave me a look that could melt wax and said, ‘If I go down for this I’ll make sure I’ll see to you when I get out, Detective Mason.’

      Sharp pleaded not guilty in court to rape and claimed the sex with the woman had been consensual. But the jury rejected his story and it took them just three hours to find him guilty of rape and assaulting police officers.

      The judge condemned him for not showing any remorse during the trial, and as he was led out of the dock he looked across the courtroom at me and stuck up two fingers.

      ‘I’m confident it won’t take long to track Sharp down,’ Brennan said, wrenching me back from the past. ‘We’re trying to reach his probation officer and the landlord of the flat he stayed in for just a week. We’re also contacting his family and friends.’

      ‘Sharp is a nasty piece of work,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t put it past him to try to finish what he started with the hammer. But it’s hard to imagine that he would have it in him to kidnap my daughter.’

      Brennan shrugged. ‘Our prisons are filled with people who hold grudges, Sarah. For some of them the thought of eventually getting sweet revenge is what keeps them going. And it’s often the case that the sweeter and more elaborate the revenge the better.’