The Secrets She Keeps, page 21
Ben has been gone for longer than that. Annie and Lisa-Jayne, my police liaison officers, are taking turns sitting with me. They’re “running defense,” keeping the reporters at bay, answering my phone, reading messages, and vetting visitors.
The hospital has transferred me to a different room, away from the maternity ward, so as not to upset other women who are having babies. I’m like a body that has to be removed quickly from an accident scene, or a mistake that has to be hushed up.
Pretending to be asleep, I hear the squeak of the nurses’ shoes and the clatter of a trolley in the corridor outside, the singing of telephones and the droning of the intercom. My imagination projects images on my closed eyelids. I keep seeing Ben being nursed by someone else. Either that or I picture him abandoned on a mountainside like Oedipus, or set adrift like the infant Moses.
At other times I imagine that I can communicate with him telepathically. Not because we share the same DNA, but because I carried him inside me for nine months. We shared blood and nutrients. We listened to each other’s hearts. He heard my voice. You cannot break a bond like that by clamping and cutting a cord or by stealing a baby from his mother.
With each new change of shift, I ask the same question: “Has there been any news?”
“No news is good news,” replies Annie.
“How can no news be good news?”
“It means that whoever took your baby hasn’t panicked and dumped him. She has taken him home. She’ll keep him safe. She’ll look after him.”
I think of Madeleine McCann, the little girl who disappeared in Portugal and has never been found. What if that happens to us? What if they never find Ben? Are we going to spend the rest of our lives wondering, waiting for a knock on the door or a phone call to say that he’s alive or dead?
Annie keeps reminding me that babies are resilient. The doctors say the same thing. One of them told me a story yesterday about a baby who survived in the rubble of an earthquake for ten days. Why are you talking about earthquakes? I wanted to say. What does that have to do with anything?
Annie and Lisa-Jayne are supposed to get as many details from me as possible. In practice, it means they keep asking me the same questions over and over until I get annoyed. Do I have any enemies? Did I notice anyone hanging around the corridors of the hospital?
Meanwhile, outside of these walls, Ben has become more than a name. He is a brand now—a product to sell newspapers and boost ratings. The alliteration works well in headlines:
Baby Ben—every mother’s nightmare
Baby Ben—Three more sightings
White van seized in hunt for Baby Ben
Baby Ben—how did he disappear?
Jack shares my uncertainty but we each pretend otherwise. He sits beside my bed or we go downstairs to the café. He’s frustrated at the lack of progress, constantly asking why the police aren’t busting down doors and taking down names. He wants to see posters in every shop window and to hear them shouting Ben’s name from the rooftops.
I am trying so hard not to blame him. I am fighting against the idea, knowing its wrongness and irrationality, but I cannot help myself. He gave our baby to a stranger. He watched someone carry Ben away.
Annie is sitting at a nearby table, giving us some privacy. She’s keeping watch for any reporters who may have sneaked into the hospital looking for an interview or photographs. They are camped outside, dozens of them, sending me letters and notes via nurses and orderlies, offering us money for an exclusive interview. One of the cleaners was caught trying to slip into my room with a disposable camera hidden in his pocket.
Jack and I are sitting at a booth, saying nothing. He has torn the top from a packet of sugar and poured the contents on the plastic table, pushing the grains into small mounds with his forefinger. I wish I could comfort him. I wish he could comfort me.
Two men approach wearing dark gray suits, white shirts, and silk ties.
“I’m Patrick Carmody,” says the younger man, “director of hospital services.”
“Thomas Glenelg,” says the other one, handing Jack his business card.
“I cannot express how sincerely and deeply sorry we are for what’s happened,” says Mr. Carmody. “I am personally shocked and saddened that a newborn baby could be taken from this hospital despite our state-of-the-art security system. Please accept my personal apology.”
Neither of us answers.
Mr. Carmody glances at the other man and continues. “The Churchill is cooperating fully with the police—giving them access to our cameras, our staff, our records. If there is anything else that you feel you need, please let us know.”
“You could resign,” says Jack, deadpan.
Mr. Carmody laughs nervously before recovering his composure. “As well as helping the police, we are reviewing our security. The hospital board has reacted swiftly, approving identity bracelets and movement sensors to prevent this sort of thing from ever happening.”
“ ‘This sort of thing,’ ” says Jack, mimicking Carmody’s accent. “I rather think that horse has bolted, don’t you? He’s thrown the jockey, kicked down the barn door, and he’s out of sight.”
The administrator tries again. “I understand you’re upset, Mr. Shaughnessy. You have every right to be. We have a proud history at the Churchill. We have delivered thousands of babies and nothing like this has ever happened before. We have very robust security protocols, but no system is foolproof.”
“You’re wrong,” replies Jack, interrupting him. “A maternity hospital should be completely foolproof so that no fool can walk out with someone else’s baby.”
The other man finally speaks. “The Churchill is not your enemy, Mr. Shaughnessy.”
Jack glances at the business card he was given. “You’re a lawyer.”
“My firm represents the hospital.”
“You’re frightened that we’re going to sue.”
“That’s not the reason that we’ve—”
“You’re worried about how much money this is going to cost you.”
“We wish to express our sorrow and sympathy,” says Mr. Carmody.
Jack points to the lawyer. “Did he brief you beforehand—tell you what to say?”
“I don’t think this is helpful—”
Jack pushes back his chair. “Get out!”
“Please don’t raise your voice,” says the lawyer.
“You want me to be quiet?” asks Jack, doing the opposite. “Our baby was taken from your hospital by someone wearing one of your nursing uniforms, walking past your guards, your security cameras, and you want me to stay quiet. Fuck you!”
For a moment I think Jack might punch him. Instead he flicks the business card onto the floor. “Don’t come near us again. From now on, you talk to our lawyer.”
* * *
DCS MacAteer has come back to see me. I’m out of bed and moving without pain and the doctor says I can go home tomorrow. We’re talking in the patient lounge, which has a TV, several sofas, and a wall of vending machines selling snacks and soft drinks.
MacAteer counts out his loose change and buys me a can of lemonade that clatters into the metal tray.
“I’m sorry I don’t have a glass.”
“That’s OK.”
We sit. I sip. The detective speaks.
“We have been over the CCTV footage and believe we have identified how the kidnapper got in and out of the hospital.” He opens the flap of an envelope and produces a photograph showing a woman in an oversized coat pulling a wheel-along tartan trolley across the foyer.
“We know this woman entered the hospital wheeling a tartan trolley. We believe she disguised herself as a nurse and kidnapped your son, but we haven’t discovered how she smuggled Ben out of the Churchill.”
MacAteer produces a second photograph. This one shows a man with a long gray ponytail wearing overalls and a baseball cap, pulling a dark-colored trolley.
“Earlier, I mentioned a plumber who was seen working the fifth floor at about the time Ben was taken?”
I nod.
“We haven’t managed to find this man, or any reason for him being at the hospital that night.”
“Are you saying she had an accomplice?”
“No.” MacAteer puts the photographs side by side. “Based on the security camera footage, we have a woman kidnapper who didn’t leave the hospital and an unidentified plumber who didn’t arrive. This strongly suggests we’re dealing with the same person dressed in different disguises.”
I look again at the images. At first glance—at any glance—they look like completely different people.
“The genius is in the detail,” says MacAteer. “We found traces of makeup in a washbasin on the fifth floor and a single contact lens on the floor.”
“But where is Ben?”
“We believe he was placed in the trolley.”
My hand finds my mouth. “He’ll suffocate.”
“No, there’s plenty of air.”
MacAteer shows me another photograph taken by a CCTV camera at the hospital’s loading dock. It shows the plumber walking away from the camera, heading towards the street, pulling the dark-colored trolley.
“We’ve enhanced the footage, but this is the best we can do.”
“They’re unrecognizable.”
“Yes, but now that we know about the second disguise, we can look for clearer images from cameras in the area and reinterview witnesses. In the meantime, there’s something you can do for me. I want to arrange a media conference for you and Jack. We need you to make a further appeal.”
“What does Jack say?”
“He’s agreed.”
I nod.
“Before then, I’d like you to talk to a psychologist who has worked with the police before. I’ve asked him to draw up a psychological profile to give us a better idea of who we’re dealing with.”
“A profile?”
“He can help understand what might be going through this woman’s mind, or how she’ll react to the media coverage. His name is Cyrus Haven and he’s the very best.”
AGATHA
* * *
“Let’s go out,” says Hayden.
“Where?”
“We’ll take Rory for a walk.”
“But it’s cold outside.”
“The fresh air will do him good. Come on. I’m getting cabin fever in here.”
“You’re a sailor.”
“You know what I mean.”
I strap Rory into his pram and tuck a snuggly blanket around him before we push him along New King’s Road to Parsons Green. Hayden orders a pint from the White Horse and we sit outside at a table, enjoying the weak winter sunshine.
Hayden sees someone he knows and introduces me as his fiancée. I feel warm and tingly inside, as though I’ve downed a double vodka and cranberry, even though I haven’t touched a drop.
Someone has left a copy of the Metro on the table. Hayden spreads it beneath his pint glass. Baby Ben has filled the first four pages and newspapers are competing to see who can whip up the most interest. The Daily Express offered a reward of £50,000, only to be topped by the Daily Mirror’s £100,000, until the Sun trumped them both with £250,000.
“They’re wasting their money,” says Hayden.
“Why do you say that?”
“Baby Ben is long gone.”
“You think he’s dead?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“What then?”
“I reckon he was probably stolen to order. Some rich couple or Arab sheikh wanted a baby boy, so he had one stolen.”
“Why wouldn’t they just buy one?”
“You can’t just buy a baby,” scoffs Hayden, sounding like an expert. “I bet whoever took Ben has already smuggled him out of the country—probably bribed someone at Immigration, or flew him out on a private jet.” He looks back at the Metro, whistling at the reward. “We could do with that sort of money.”
“We’re OK.”
“We could buy a house.”
“My flat is big enough.”
“Not for long.” He pinches my bum. “What about the other babies?”
I laugh. “One at a time, sailor boy.”
Across the road on Parsons Green, mothers or nannies are sitting on park benches, watching toddlers toddle and babies crawl and children ride scooters along the asphalt paths. Many of the women are wearing matching sweatshirts. I look more closely. Each top features the photograph of a baby, beneath the words “Where is Baby Ben?” Across the back is the sponsor’s name—The Daily Mail.
“Have you noticed how people are staring at us?” I say.
Hayden puts down his pint glass. “What do you mean?”
“They look at Rory and I can see them thinking, you know . . . wondering if we’ve stolen him.”
“But we didn’t steal him.”
“I know, but you look at the mother over there—the one under the tree. Who’s to say if that’s her baby? It could be Baby Ben.”
“I told you, Baby Ben is long gone—he’s out of the country by now.”
“What if he’s not?”
“Think about it,” he says. “He was taken, what—three days ago? If he were still in this country, someone would have noticed. You can’t just bring a strange baby home. Neighbors would hear him crying, or notice her buying nappies. It can’t be easy to hide a baby.” He reaches into the pram and puts his entire hand over Rory’s chest. “But we should keep a close eye on our little fella in case somebody tries to steal him.”
“You don’t think they would.”
“I’m kidding.” He drains his glass and belches. “One more for the road.”
He goes to the bar. Reaching into the pram, I stroke Rory’s cheek. With each passing day, I feel more assured of his place in the world. He has taken root in my heart, anchoring himself to me. I am his mother now. He reaches out for me. He longs for my touch.
I’m sure Hayden feels the same way. Some men get funny about babies because they think a woman only has a finite amount of love to give, but it’s not about dividing or subtracting or making do with less. Our hearts expand. We have double the love, maybe more.
Hayden is back, nursing a fresh pint. Making conversation, he asks me where I was born and raised, wanting to know about my mother. I should be flattered by his interest, but I don’t want him turning over rocks and peering underneath. At the same time, I don’t want to appear evasive or secretive. I have to give him something, so I mention Elijah being killed on his way to school. Hayden wants all the details. Did I see it happen? Did I blame myself?
“Why should I blame myself?” I snap. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“OK, OK,” says Hayden, holding up his hands. “Jesus! I was only making conversation.”
I apologize. He goes quiet. I ask him if he always wanted to join the navy.
“Hell, no! I was keeping a promise.”
“How?”
“I had a mate called Michael Murray and one day we each cut our right thumbs, mixed the blood, and made a promise that when we grew up we’d join the navy.”
“Like blood brothers.”
“Yeah.”
“Did he do it?”
“’Course not. He sells vacuum cleaners for his old man.”
“But you kept your promise.”
“I sort of had to.”
“Why?”
“I had a few problems with the police when I was sixteen and finished up in court. My solicitor told the magistrates that I was hoping to join the Royal Navy. A criminal conviction would make it difficult. The magistrates gave me a caution and let me go. After that, I felt obliged to follow through.”
“What were you charged with?”
“Criminal damage.”
“What did you damage?”
“I set fire to a teacher’s car. He was an arsehole.”
“I’m shocked.”
Hayden looks at me sheepishly. “You must have done something terrible when you were younger.”
“Never.”
“I bet you did. I bet you’re keeping it a secret. I’m going to get in touch with your mum and find out exactly what you were like.”
That statement rattles something inside me and I feel the creature begin stirring, pushing aside my organs.
“I’ve upset you,” says Hayden. “What did I say?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Is it the questions? I’m interested.”
“Rory needs to be fed.”
“You could breast-feed him.”
“I’m still too sore.”
Buttoning my coat and releasing the brake, I steer the pram between tables and onto the pavement. Hayden hurriedly finishes his pint and jogs to catch up with me. We walk in silence.
“You should get one of those sweatshirts,” he says.
“Huh?”
“The Baby Ben tops. Nobody will stare at you then.”
MEGHAN
* * *
The psychologist is younger than I expect, in his midthirties, dressed in a long-sleeve cotton shirt, buttoned at the throat, and loose-fitting jeans. Tall and lean with prominent cheekbones and eyelashes that most women would kill for, he looks like a college student trying to save on haircuts.
Cyrus Haven shakes my hand, holding it a second longer than is comfortable while he seems to study me. I’ve heard it said that a person’s eyes are the only things on the face that do not age. They are no less bright on the first day than their last day. The doctor’s eyes are pale blue with pupils blacker than charcoal.
“May I sit here?” he asks.
“It’s the only chair,” I say.
He laughs and agrees. I wonder if he’s nervous too.
We’re in my private room at the hospital, where the curtains are open on a gray London day. My suitcase is half-packed, lying open on the bed. Jack is coming to take me home in a few hours.
Cyrus takes a yellow legal pad from a satchel that has been hanging off his shoulder. He searches for a pen, opening the many pockets until he finds one and holds it up triumphantly. He scribbles something on the page, but the pen doesn’t work. He shakes it a few times and tries again. Nothing.
