Read an extract of The White Crow

Start reading The White Crow, the new book from multi-million-copy bestselling author Michael Robotham.

In a real dark night of the soul it is always three o’clock in the morning. F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote that line almost sixty years before I was born but it’s true enough today. London is not asleep at this hour. Merely resting her eyes and humming impatiently, waiting for the sun to rise. She is like an aging toothless beast, chewing through years that she struggles to swallow.

I’m behind the wheel of a police car, driving along Prince Charles Road towards Hampstead in North London. The headlights sweep across the wet asphalt, reflecting from the polished surfaces of parked cars whose bonnets are beaded with raindrops. Beside me, PC Rowan Cooper has a mobile phone tucked against his ear taking down food orders.

We are on a breakfast run to a Jewish bakery in East Finchley that serves the best salt beef bagels in London outside of Brick Lane. Our colleagues at Kentish Town police station are hungry, or bored, or both, although boredom is not a word that is ever used. A quiet night is a good night. Good nights are rare.

‘What do you want?’ asks Coop.

‘Smoked salmon and cream cheese.’

‘You’re such a girl.’

‘I’m a pescatarian.’

‘Is that like being an Anglican?’

‘No, but I am going straight to Heaven.’

Coop is one of the few people who call me Philomena rather than Phil. My mother is another one. She insists upon it. She rang up my station sergeant on my first day at Kentish Town and told him that I should be addressed as PC Philomena McCarthy. The sergeant thought it was a wind-up and I was teased for weeks.

Coop is fresh out of training college, but with the self-confidence of someone much more experienced. Maybe it’s a male thing. When I graduated from Hendon and became a trainee, I was desperate to fit in rather than stand out, which is a female thing. That was four years ago and I’m more comfortable in the uniform now, but still wary of drawing attention. With a family like mine, it’s best to keep a low profile.

This is my last shift on a six-day roster that began with two early starts, followed by two afternoons and now two nights before a four-day break. Tomorrow, by which I mean today, I have a family event – a christening at a church in Greenwich – when I’m going to be a godmother to my cousin Rosie’s first baby.

After that, Henry is spiriting me away for a romantic weekend in Paris, which is supposed to be a secret, but I found a printed receipt for Eurostar tickets in his jacket pocket when I was looking for cash to pay our cleaner. I also saw clues on his Facebook feed – Airbnb apartments in the Latin Quarter. There are no secrets from Siri.

It will be our first trip abroad since our honeymoon – an extremely wet ten days in the Maldives, when a tropical storm called Bethany broke rainfall records. We spent the entire time in bed, binging Netflix and having sex, in between shoving towels against the balcony doors and dodging drips in the restaurant.

Sex is also high on the agenda this weekend, I suspect, because we’ve both been so busy of late; and Henry wants to sell me on the idea of starting a family. The seduction will be nice – the champagne, caviar, and a view of the Seine – but I’m not going to change my mind. Not yet.

We’ve only been married a year and I’m quite happy to keep practising. It’s not as though my biological clock is ticking loudly in my ears. I’m twenty-nine. Henry is thirty-one, and we have a mortgage that needs two incomes to manage. Don’t get me started on the spousal maintenance payments to his ex-wife, who treats Henry like her personal ATM.

When it comes to babies, my answer is ‘not yet’, but I do have a rough timetable in mind. Thirty-four for the first, another at thirty-six. One girl. One boy. If only I could order them on Uber Eats with a side order of garlic bread.

For now, I’m enjoying my career. I transferred from Southwark to Camden eight months ago, and nobody at Kentish Town police station has mentioned my family connections – although a few of them will know. Some children have to live up to parental expectations. I have to escape mine.

My father is Edward McCarthy and my uncles are the McCarthy brothers, whom the tabloids refer to as ‘colourful local identities’ or ‘ex-cons’ but never ‘gangsters’ because my father has a barrister on speed-dial.

I have never understood why people use the term ‘organised crime’. They never talk about ‘organised nursing’ or ‘organised teaching’ or ‘organised accountancy’. Why do criminals get this added descriptor? Maybe because most crimes are chaotic and impulsive and stupid, which is why the perpetrators get caught. Not Edward McCarthy. Accusations and insinuations slide off him like he’s John Gotti, the Teflon Don. Nothing ever sticks.

‘With extra mustard,’ says Coop, relaying the last of the order. ‘We’ll be there in fifteen.’

Satisfied, he puts his phone away and drums his hands on the dashboard. Eating is like a competitive sport for Coop, a reality that’s beginning to show around his midriff, although he keeps telling me he’s training for the London Marathon.

At this hour, the roads are mostly deserted, except for garbage trucks and street-sweeping vehicles and the occasional black cab, which come in all colours these days. The rain has stopped and misty yellow halos glow around the streetlights that reflect from puddles on the road.

We’re on Haverstock Hill, not far from Belsize Park station, when a cyclist hurtles out of a side street, running a red light. I see a flash of yellow and hit the brakes. Wheels lock. Rubber squeals. The cyclist swerves and turns his head at the last moment, his eyes full of fear. The car nudges his back wheel. The bike wobbles, but the cyclist stays upright and carries on riding down Haverstock Hill, pumping on the pedals, his Lycra-covered arse swaying.

‘Fuck!’ says Coop, bracing his hands against the dashboard. His notebook and phone have fallen into the footwell.

‘Maniac,’ I say, sucking in a breath.

‘You want to go after him?’

We both consider the question, while thinking the same thing. Paperwork. If we catch up with the cyclist, we’ll spend the rest of the night writing reports, preparing statements and filing formal charges. After twelve hours of work and half a day at court, we’ll watch him act like a choirboy in front of the magistrates, who will give him a rap over the knuckles and tell him to be more careful next time.

‘I think we scared him,’ I say.

‘Shat himself,’ says Coop.

The police car is idling in the middle of the intersection. I look in the mirrors before moving off.

‘Did you see that?’ I ask, turning my head.

‘What?’

‘On the road. Behind us. A child.’

‘You saw a kid?’

‘Yeah.’

He follows my gaze. The road is empty.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yeah.’

I pull over and park on the corner, before walking back to the intersection. Coop jogs to catch up.

‘When you say a kid, how old?’

‘Young. A boy, I think.’

‘Where was he?’

‘Standing on the corner.’

We’ve reached the place. Most of the houses are set back from the road with railing fences or brick walls or neatly trimmed hedges surrounding small front gardens. We look up and down Haverstock Hill.

‘Maybe it was a dog,’ says Coop.

‘No.’

Our shoulder radios crackle and buzz in unison.

‘All cars. All cars. Emergency attendance. Major incident in progress. Hatton Garden. Please proceed to Holborn Circus and establish a perimeter.’

Coop on the radio: ‘Kilo Quebec Three Zero, responding. Twelve minutes away. Over.’

‘You go,’ I say.

‘We should stick together.’

‘I’m not leaving a child out here.’

I talk into my radio. ‘Kilo Quebec Three Zero. This is PC McCarthy. I’ve spotted a missing child dressed in pyjamas. I’m searching on foot.’

‘What is your location?’

‘Haverstock Hill at England’s Lane.’

‘Do you have a description?’

‘A little boy wearing long pyjamas.’

‘Approximate age?’

‘Hard to say. I only got a glimpse.’

‘Do you need assistance?’

‘I’ll let you know.’

‘Understood. Control out.’

Returning to the patrol car, I collect a torch and a thermal blanket before watching Coop drive away. My radio is broadcasting comms chatter about the Hatton Garden call-out. Some sort of robbery. So much for a quiet night.

Back in England’s Lane, I walk slowly along the footpath, searching under cars and peering over hedges. The roots of trees have pushed up under the paving stones, making it uneven in places. Red-brick mansion blocks line both sides of the road, broken by the occasional free-standing house or semi. Most are probably heritage listed. Expensive. Darkened. Asleep.

Coming to a partly open gate, I step inside and hear a rustling sound in the undergrowth, among the soggy leaves. It could be a cat or a fox. London is full of foxes, which have become experts at urban living, raiding rubbish bins and breeding in the parks and heathland.

Sweeping my torch back and forth, I crouch and look under the hedge. The beam of light picks up a pale white foot. A shin. An ankle. Five muddy toes. Pyjama bottoms.

‘Hello,’ I say.

The foot disappears.

I sit on the damp grass, feeling it soak through my trousers.

The garden smells of compost and grass clippings.

‘My name is Phil. Do you have a name?’

Silence.

‘Let me guess. Perhaps you’re Peter like Peter Rabbit, or Stuart like Stuart Little. Are you a rabbit or a mouse?’

A small voice says, ‘No.’

‘You sound like a mouse. Mice make me jump. I’m always scared they’re going to run up my trouser leg. You wouldn’t do that, would you?’

‘No.’

‘I think I need some proof that you’re not a mouse. Maybe you could show me your fingers. Mice don’t have fingers.’

There is a pause and a rustle of leaves. A small hand appears from under the bushes.

‘Mmm,’ I say. ‘Maybe mice do have fingers. They definitely don’t have toes. Do you have toes?’

After another pause, two pyjama-clad legs appear from under the hedge.

‘I guess you’re not a mouse. But what else could you be?’

‘I’m a little girl.’

‘No. That’s not possible. Little girls don’t live in hedges. Little girls should be tucked up in bed.’ I slide a little closer. ‘I’ll have to start again and guess your name. You sound like a Jasmine, or an Ariel, or an Elsa. Definitely a princess?’

‘I don’t want to be a princess.’

‘I see. Then maybe your name is Ninty Minty or Cutie Patootie?’

‘I’m Daisy,’ says the voice.

‘That’s a pretty name. Like the flower. I love daisies. What are you doing out so late?’

‘I couldn’t wake Mummy.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘And I’m not allowed to talk to strangers.’

‘That’s very good advice, but I’m not a stranger. I’m a police officer. And I want to take you home.’

Again, I wait, but nothing moves inside the hedge.

‘I tell you what I’m going to do, Daisy. I’m going to lie down and have a sleep. I’d rather it be somewhere warm and dry, but I can’t leave you out here.’

Unfurling the silver foil blanket, I lay it on the grass and curl up.

After a while, the leaves begin to move. I partially open my eyes and watch a small face appear. Daisy crawls out of the hedge and kneels next to me, gently shaking my shoulder. She has a pageboy haircut and a smudge of mud on her cheek.

‘I need to do a wee,’ she says.

‘OK, well let’s get you home.’

Daisy shakes her head. She is squeezing her thighs together, holding it in.

‘You could go just here,’ I suggest.

‘In the garden?’

‘I was always weeing in the garden when I was your age.’

Daisy looks at me dubiously.

‘You have to be careful not to splash your feet,’ I say. ‘Pull down your pyjama pants and squat down. I’ll hold your arms so you don’t fall over.’

Daisy does as she’s told. Her little bottom is sticking out towards the hedge.

‘Nothing is coming,’ she says.

‘Think of running water.’

‘Why?’

‘It helps.’

I begin singing a nursery rhyme from my childhood. ‘Rain is falling down. Rain is falling down. Pitter patter, pitter patter, rain is falling down.’

Soon I hear the tell-tale splash of urine on the grass.

‘What am I going to wipe with?’ asks Daisy.

‘With a tissue,’ I say, pulling one from my pocket.

She tugs up her pyjamas and I wrap her in the foil blanket.

‘When you said that you couldn’t wake Mummy, was she in bed?’

‘No.’

‘Where was she?’

‘In the kitchen.’

My heart sinks. ‘Where do you live?’

She points into the darkness.

‘Can you show me?’

Daisy takes my hand and leads me onto the pavement, limping slightly. Her hand is freezing.

‘How old are you?’ I ask.

‘Nearly six.’

‘What’s your last name?’

‘Kemp-Lowe.’

‘Is that two names or one?’

‘It’s my name.’

We turn into Antrim Road, walking past red-brick mansion blocks and Victorian mid-terraces, most of them converted into flats.

Daisy stops outside a large private house. The painted iron gate is open and stone paving leads to a door framed by wisteria.

‘Is this your house?’

She nods.

‘How did you get out?’

Daisy points to the front door, as though it should be obvious.

‘Does one of these cars belong to Mummy or Daddy?’ I ask.

She looks up and down the road and indicates a silver Mercedes, top of the range. Clearly, her family has money. I punch my call button. ‘Kilo Quebec Three Zero to control.’

‘Control, receiving.’

‘I’ve found the child. Her name is Daisy Kemp-Lowe. Aged five. She says she couldn’t wake her mother. I’m outside the house now. Can you run a plate for me?’

‘Control received.’

‘Silver Mercedes. Hotel Victor Six Three Golf Mike Charlie.’

We wait, sitting on the front steps. I wrap the foil blanket more closely around Daisy, before noticing blood on the sleeve of her pyjamas.

My radio squawks. ‘Control to Kilo Quebec Three Zero. That vehicle is registered to a Russell Kemp-Lowe. Seventy-five Antrim Road.’

‘Received.’

I look at Daisy. ‘Let’s get you back to bed.’