The Secrets She Keeps, page 20
My voice works. “Has there been any news?”
“Not yet,” says the constable.
“Who are you?”
“I’m PC Soussa. Please call me Lisa-Jayne.”
She has green eyes and blond hair with a fringe that keeps falling across her forehead; she brushes it back behind her left ear.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
“I’m a family liaison officer.”
“A what?”
“I’ve been assigned to look after you.”
“I want to talk to your boss.”
“DCS MacAteer isn’t at the hospital yet.”
I try to sit up. Lisa-Jayne puts a pillow behind my back. I’m still wearing a hospital gown and can feel the pressure on my stitches, which are bandaged beneath cotton gauze and tape.
“My mobile phone—where is it?”
“I’ve been minding it,” says Lisa-Jayne. “We’ve been monitoring your messages.”
“Why?”
“In case you get any calls from the kidnapper.”
“Is that what happened? Did someone kidnap him? Do they want a ransom? We’re not rich.”
“We have to consider every possibility.”
She pulls my phone from her pocket and hands it to me. I cup it in my hands, feeling the residual warmth from her body. There are dozens of missed calls, mostly from my parents and Grace and other friends, but nothing from Jack. I call his number and let it ring. It goes to messages.
“Where are you?” My voice breaks. “I need you.”
I can’t think of anything else to say. Ending the call, I stare at the phone. Where could he be? Why isn’t he here? I want his arms wrapped around me. I want to hear him say that everything will be all right.
“Who took my baby?” I whisper.
“We don’t know,” says Lisa-Jayne, taking a seat next to the bed.
“She was dressed like a nurse.”
“We don’t believe she worked here.”
“But the uniform—”
“Could have been stolen.”
Someone knocks softly. Lisa-Jayne goes to the door and answers, not opening it fully. She turns. “Your parents are here. Do you want to see them?”
“Can you give me a few minutes? I need my hairbrush and a mirror.”
Lisa-Jayne fetches them from the adjoining bathroom. I tilt the mirror, studying different parts of my face but not the whole. My eyes look bruised, as though I’ve seen too much, or slept too little. Brushing my hair into some semblance of order, I pinch my cheeks, hoping to raise some color.
My parents are ushered in, their eyes telling the story. My mother squeaks my name and hurries to my bedside, pulling me into her arms, hugging me like a child with an earache. I spy my father standing behind her, saying nothing, looking helpless. Now in his midsixties, he has always taken pride in his family, having provided for them and kept them safe. This has shaken him. This wasn’t foreseen.
Letting go of my mother, I hug him in the same way, allowing myself to be enfolded in his arms, pressing my face against his chest, where I catch the scent of Old Spice and Imperial Leather. The tears come from childhood. I sob and shake. He strokes my hair and whispers my name. Now it’s my mother’s turn to feel left out.
“Where are the kids?” I ask, wiping my eyes.
“Grace is looking after them,” says my mother.
“What have you told them?”
“Nothing. Lucy keeps asking.”
“Have you seen Jack?”
“No.”
“He’s not answering his phone.”
“I think he’s helping with the search,” says Dad.
As if on cue, we hear a commotion in the corridor outside. Jack appears. He’s wearing the same clothes as yesterday, or perhaps the day before. Disheveled. Unshaven. Exhausted. He drops to his knees beside the bed and rests his head on my lap.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he says plaintively.
His eyes are bloodshot and he reeks of sweat and dirt and fear.
“Where have you been?” I ask.
“Driving. Walking. I thought . . . I wanted . . . I hoped . . .” He stops and starts but can’t finish. “I’ve been looking everywhere, but it’s only when you start that you realize how many streets there are in London . . . how many houses.”
I stroke his unwashed hair. “You should get some sleep.”
“I have to find him.”
“Leave it to the police.”
“It’s my fault. I should have looked at her ID. I should have gone with her.” He shudders. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I thought she . . . she said . . . she said I could go with her . . . I should have gone.”
“It’s not your fault,” I say blankly, but inside I’m screaming: You gave our baby to some stranger! She could be a child molester or a monster. You didn’t want another child, so you gave our baby away.
I am torn between wanting to comfort him and to punish him—to forgive or to blame. I want to play the victim, but Jack seems to have usurped that role. Everybody feels sorry for him—my mother, my father, the policewoman . . . In my head, I yell at him, For Christ’s sake, Jack, this is not about you. Swallowing my anger, I stroke his hair and tell him to go home, to sleep.
“The police want to talk to us,” he says.
Lisa-Jayne corrects him. “They’ve already interviewed you, Mr. Shaughnessy. They want to talk to your wife alone.”
“Why?”
“It’s normal procedure.”
“Normal? There’s nothing normal about this. I want to know what the police are doing.”
I turn to Mum and Dad and ask them to take Jack home. I tell him we’ll talk later, but he’s still complaining as they usher him outside.
Two detectives are waiting to see me. Chairs are found and pulled into place, one on either side of my bed. It feels more like a bedside arraignment than an interview. The man in charge hands me his card. I study it closely, giving myself time to gather my thoughts.
Detective Chief Superintendent Brendan MacAteer has blue eyes, pale eyelashes, and a face so chiseled and angular that the skin looks stretched over his bones. His freckles have faded but must riot every summer across his nose and cheeks. I wonder how much he was teased in his youth—what nicknames did he suffer.
The other detective is overweight and block-headed with eyes that are too small for his skull. I don’t catch his name, but he rarely speaks, preferring to take notes and occasionally exchange glances with MacAteer. The detectives sit with their shoulders canted forward. The only sounds are the creak of the chairs and the rustle of clothing.
First, they reassure me that everything that can be done is being done to find my baby. DCS MacAteer’s lips barely move as he speaks, but at the same time his eyes keep darting over me with a strange intensity, as though he’s putting me together like a jigsaw puzzle.
Unfolding a map of the hospital, he points out the maternity ward and the various corridors, stairwells, and lifts.
“The bogus nurse left the recovery ward through these doors, pushing a wheelchair. She took a lift to the fifth floor. A hospital cleaner saw a nurse matching the description of the abductor at about eight fifteen p.m. She was carrying something tucked under her right arm. The cleaner didn’t get a good look at the woman’s face, but we’re hoping to talk to a plumber who was working on that floor.”
He produces a grainy color photograph taken from a CCTV camera. It shows the woman from an oblique angle, slightly behind and above.
“We have enhanced the images, but none of the footage has provided a clear image of her face. Technicians are still working to see if they can make improvements. Do you recognize her?”
“No. What about facial-recognition software?”
“It only works with a good image, and if this woman has never been arrested, she won’t be in our database. In the meantime, I’ve arranged for a police sketch artist to sit down with your husband and the cleaner. Hopefully we can come up with a good likeness. In the meantime, we’ve issued a description of her as white, thirty to forty-five, five foot eight to five ten, pale complexion, medium build, and dark hair.
“At this point we haven’t been able to identify anyone matching this woman’s description leaving the hospital, which suggests she may have had other disguises.”
“Could she still be here?” I ask.
“That’s unlikely. The alarm was raised within ten minutes and the hospital went into lockdown. Security guards stopped anyone leaving. Staff searched room by room. Police stopped traffic outside and talked to pedestrians.”
MacAteer leans forward, resting his hands on his knees.
“It’s also possible she had an accomplice, which could explain how she evaded security. Right now, we are focusing on identifying everyone who entered and left the hospital in the hours before the abduction and immediately afterwards.”
“She wore a nurse’s uniform.”
“Which suggests a high degree of planning rather than a random, spur-of-the-moment act.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“Most likely it means she really wanted a baby and will take good care of him. Equally, it could make her harder to find, because she will cover her tracks.”
Over the next twenty minutes I am taken back over the events—the birth, the aftermath, going for a shower, coming back to find an empty crib.
“Have you talked to your husband about that night?” the DCS asks.
“Yes. Why?”
“Did he tell you where he went after he left the hospital?”
I falter for a moment. “He said he was looking for the nurse?”
MacAteer glances at his colleague and something unspoken seems to pass between them.
“Have you thought about a name for the baby?” he asks.
“We haven’t decided.”
“This is already a big news story. Public interest will be high and it would help if we had a name. It allows the media to personalize the story—to focus on an actual baby instead of a nameless one.”
“You want us to name the baby now?”
“You can always change it later—come up with a new one.”
I understand his reasoning, but it doesn’t seem right to name a child that I cannot hold.
“We were thinking of calling him Benjamin. Ben for short.”
“That’s nice,” says Lisa-Jayne, who has been sitting in the corner.
“So it’s Baby Ben,” says MacAteer. “The media will like that. What about photographs?”
“Jack took some.”
“With your permission, I’d like to release one photograph immediately and hold the others back.”
I scroll through images on my phone and we choose one of Ben swaddled in a cotton blanket, his face scrunched up and his eyes half-open, struggling against the unexpected brightness. I’m also in the photograph. The C-section took the hard work out of labor and I had energy left to smile.
“We’re also going to need a comment from you.”
“I don’t want to talk to anyone,” I say.
“I understand. I’ll have a press officer draft something for you.”
MacAteer gets to his feet.
“Is that all?” I ask.
He smiles, trying to reassure me. “Cases like this are normally solved quite quickly. A new baby doesn’t go unnoticed. Somebody will contact us—a friend, family member, or neighbor—I’m confident of that.”
“I don’t want to stay in hospital.”
“The doctors insist you should.”
“I’m not taking any more sedatives.”
“It will help you rest.”
“It will affect my breast milk. I want to be able to feed Ben when you find him.”
“Talk to your doctor. It’s a medical decision.”
AGATHA
* * *
Rory wakes at five in the spectral light, snuffling and gurgling. Rain streaks the window, throwing patterns on his face and across the white sheets. Leaving Hayden to sleep, I warm a bottle and sit with Rory on the sofa, stroking his cheek and looking into his eyes. I like this time of day, when I have Rory to myself.
I have everything I ever wanted, here and now under this roof, yet I alternate between anguish and euphoria, as though I’m living two different lives at once, each within earshot of the other.
So far Hayden hasn’t questioned my reasons for not breast-feeding Rory in front of him. I explained about cracked nipples and mastitis and said I couldn’t provide Rory with enough breast milk so a midwife suggested I supplement his feeds with formula. “I’m still expressing,” I said to Hayden, showing him the breast pump. “Don’t tell your mother about me having problems.”
“Why not?” he asks.
“I feel guilty.”
“She won’t mind.”
“Other mothers get quite funny about that sort of thing. Judgmental.”
He looks at me sheepishly. “I might have mentioned it already. She asked how things were going.”
“And you told her?”
“I said you were giving him bottles.”
“Now she’ll think I’m a terrible mother.”
“No, she won’t.”
Hayden is besotted with Rory. It’s amazing how men happily turn into clowns around babies, blowing raspberries into tummies, pulling faces, and making up new words, desperate to get some reaction.
More confident now, he knows how to hold Rory properly, and I’ve taught him how to make up bottles and test the temperature of the milk by shaking droplets onto his inner wrist. On top of all this he’s been extra attentive towards me, making me cups of tea and running errands.
“You haven’t changed a nappy yet,” I said yesterday.
“I’ll do the next one,” he replied.
Later I called out, “Hey, you’re up, sailor boy.”
“I meant the next baby,” he said with a laugh, and I felt my chest swell.
We’re taking loads of photographs: Rory with Hayden, Rory with me, Rory with Mr. and Mrs. Cole, Hayden and me and Rory. I’ll get the best ones framed and put on the mantelpiece.
Rory takes almost a whole bottle and I burp him on my shoulder. Hayden emerges from the bedroom, scratching his navel. I like that he’s shaved off his beard. He’s nicer to kiss and I can see the strong line of his jaw.
His eyes light up when he sees Rory. “Hey, watch this,” he says, leaning close to Rory and poking out his tongue. A beat passes and Rory’s tongue comes out, mimicking him.
“I taught him that,” he says. “The kid is a genius.”
He turns on the TV. The story of missing “Baby Ben” is leading every bulletin. TV reporters are crossing live from outside Churchill Hospital, interviewing patients and passersby and members of staff who say they’re not allowed to comment.
“Those poor people, they must be worried sick,” says Hayden, who is standing behind me, massaging my shoulders.
I murmur in agreement.
On the screen a detective is issuing an appeal for assistance. “On Thursday the seventh of December at about seven fifty p.m., a woman entered the Singleton Ward of Churchill Hospital, Central London. Posing as a nurse, she took away Ben Shaughnessy, who was born earlier that day. The woman is described as being between thirty and forty-five years old, five foot eight to five foot ten inches tall, with a medium build, brown eyes, fair complexion, and dark hair, which may have been a wig.”
The scene changes and I see blurry footage of myself walking down a corridor, keeping my head down. A second clip shows me waiting at the lift. It has been enhanced, but the quality is so poor that my face looks almost pixelated.
“Do you know her?” asks the detective. “Could she be a friend or a neighbor? Do you know anyone who has unexpectedly returned home with a baby? If you can help, please contact Crimestoppers. All information will be treated in strict confidence.”
The detective pauses and picks up a sheet of paper.
“Mr. and Mrs. Shaughnessy have asked me to thank the public for the many messages of support. They provided this comment: ‘Ben was just ten hours old when he was taken. We held him only briefly, but his loss has torn out our hearts. Please give him back. Take him to a church, or a school, or leave him at a police station. Give him to someone in authority. Please, please, give him back to us.’ ”
A photograph appears on-screen, showing Meg propped up on pillows, holding a baby on her chest. It must have been taken immediately after the birth.
“I know her,” I whisper.
Hayden hesitates. “What?”
“The mother—she goes to my yoga class. I went to her house a few weeks ago. She gave me some spare baby clothes.”
Hayden walks around the sofa and sits down. “What’s she like?”
“She has two other children—Lucy and Lachlan. I used to see her all the time when I worked at the supermarket.”
“Why didn’t you say before?”
“They didn’t release her name straightaway.” I pick up my mobile phone and scroll through the email messages until I find one from Meg. “There you are. I sent her a photograph of Rory and she replied.”
“When was that?”
“Before she went into hospital.”
“You should send her another message,” Hayden says.
“And say what?”
“I don’t know. Say you’re praying for her.”
“Isn’t that being cruel? It will just remind her that my baby is safe and well and her baby is missing.”
Hayden considers this. “Maybe you’re right.”
“She has two other children,” I say. “They’ll keep her busy. And I bet she sues that hospital for millions.”
“That’s not the point, though, is it?” says Hayden.
I lean my head against his shoulder and mesh my fingers with his, brushing my thumb over the hairs on the back of his hand. “You’re right. I’ll wait until she gets home from hospital and give her a call.”
MEGHAN
* * *
Forty-eight hours have passed. The critical time frame. If a missing person isn’t found, or a crime isn’t solved, or a suspect isn’t charged within two days, the chance of success begins to diminish. I’m sure I’ve read that somewhere or seen it on TV.
