The Secrets She Keeps, page 25
* * *
Cyrus arrives at midday. He is so unprepossessing and unremarkable that the reporters ignore him until the last moment, when he’s nearing the front door. One of them calls his name. The others are soon scrambling out of cars and vans, but the door has closed by then and Cyrus is shrugging off his leather jacket. Annie hangs it up for him. Their hands touch and a look passes between them.
I make a pot of tea, which Cyrus doesn’t drink. He seems to enjoy the ritual of tea, but not the taste.
“Where’s Jack?” he asks.
“Upstairs.”
“How is he?”
What does he want me to say? Jack is struggling and I can’t help him and I don’t know if I want to. I know it’s not fair or rational to blame Jack, but since when is life fair? I say none of this out loud, but sense that Cyrus hears it anyway.
As if summoned, Jack arrives in the kitchen. He takes a seat and accepts a cup of tea, staring at the milky brown liquid as though trying to remember what it’s called.
Cyrus takes a single sheet of paper from his satchel. He puts it on the table and centers it between his elbows. A forefinger pushes his reading glasses higher on the bridge of his nose.
“This is what I’ve told the police,” he says. “They’re looking for a woman in her thirties or early forties who was comfortable in a hospital setting, blending in and interacting with patients and visitors without attracting attention or being deterred. She was also familiar with the layout of the Churchill—the stairwells, lifts, and cameras—which suggests that she has worked at the hospital or visited it previously. The police are checking employment records and older CCTV tapes.”
Cyrus moves his finger down the page.
“She is an accomplished liar, which might sound obvious, but it’s not easy to lie when the stakes are this high. Most people will show evidence of the stress—they will blush, or stammer, or perspire, or fidget, but this woman was very cool under pressure.
“I think she has a high degree of intelligence that might not be reflected in her level of education.”
“What do you mean?” asks Jack, who is folding a paper towel into smaller and smaller squares.
“High intelligence doesn’t always equate to academic achievement. She may not have had the opportunity or the application necessary to go beyond secondary school. But she’s clearly very clever. Look at the planning involved—the different disguises, the precautions, the verbal and nonverbal behavior, and her interactions with people like you.”
“So we’re dealing with a criminal mastermind?” Jack says sarcastically.
Cyrus doesn’t react. “Not a mastermind, but a clever woman who didn’t appear lost or nervous or frightened. One who has spent months planning this crime.”
“You’re making excuses for the hospital—giving them a way out.”
I interject. “That’s not what Cyrus is saying.”
“He’s calling her a genius.”
“I’m giving you a psychological profile,” says Cyrus. “I don’t make excuses for people. I try to understand them. Normally, when I look at a crime scene, I see the limitations of the perpetrator. Almost always they fail because of their inability to plan ahead. They concentrate on the crime, but not their exit strategy. They get impatient and stop short of working out what happens next. In this case, the woman planned everything in meticulous detail—how to secure a baby and how to get away. She didn’t improvise or say, “Oh well, if I get that far, I’ll wing it.” She had an extra disguise. She had the trolley. She must have heard the alarm go off. She knew they were looking for her. The hospital was a labyrinth. The exits were being sealed off, but she didn’t panic, or run, or draw attention to herself. It took police days to discover how she smuggled Baby Ben out of the hospital.”
He pauses, waiting for Jack to respond or comment. When there’s no reply, he continues.
“The perpetrator is likely to be married or in a relationship, but not a stable one. This is one of the reasons she wants a baby—to cement a relationship; to make a man stay with her who she fears might leave.
“She is willing to take risks. Through each step of the abduction the chance of discovery increased, but she carried on—changing her clothes, walking the corridor, penetrating the heart of the hospital. At any point, a member of staff could have questioned her credentials or raised the alarm.
“I believe she acted alone, but she will have prepared a place for the baby and created a credible story.”
“What story?” I ask.
“Most likely she faked a pregnancy—convincing her friends and family that she was due any day.”
“So she stuffed a pillow up her dress,” says Jack.
“I think she would have been a little more sophisticated than that,” says Cyrus. “Pregnancy prosthetics can be bought online. Other sites sell fake pregnancy tests and ultrasound pictures.”
“Why didn’t she have her own baby?” asks Jack.
“Maybe she can’t. IVF is expensive and has a one-in-four chance of success. Adoption might also be difficult, depending upon her age and background. In my work I’ve come across a number of childless women who have contemplated taking a baby. Some had trouble with relationships; others were delusional, or infertile, or so desperate for love that a child had become their holy grail.”
“Will she hurt Ben?” I ask.
“Under normal circumstances, no.”
“What are the other circumstances?”
“If she’s frightened, or backed into a corner, or desperate to avoid detection, she might panic, but if we send her the right messages, if we keep her calm, she will love Ben and keep him safe.”
“Do you really think she’s listening?” asks Jack. “Where’s the evidence? The police are treating her like a victim, not a criminal. Everybody is supposed to feel sorry for her—but what about us?”
“He’s right,” I say. “Treating her like a victim hasn’t worked.”
“She isn’t a criminal or a victim,” says Cyrus. “Not in her mind. By now she’s convinced that Ben is her baby and we are the people who want to take him away from her. We are the criminals.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I say, my voice shaking. “He’s our baby.”
“Of course he is,” says Cyrus. “And we’ll get him back.” He takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. “More than sixty babies have been abducted in Britain over the past thirty years, and all but four have been recovered safely. I know that’s a very thin numerical base, but I hope you can take comfort from figures like that.”
The answer is no. The opposite is true. There is no comfort in being a statistical exception. It’s like having a rare disease or being the victim of outrageous misfortune—you keep asking yourself, Why me? Why not someone else?
Cyrus looks again at the page on the table. “Having studied the abduction—particularly the detailed planning and the confident execution—I’m starting to suspect this woman might have done this before.”
“Taken a baby?” asks Jack.
“Either as a trial run or a failed earlier attempt.”
“When? Where?”
“I’ve asked DCS MacAteer to go back over the files of past abductions as well as missing children and security breaches at hospitals and schools.”
I look at Jack, wondering if he’s getting the same message.
“There’s something else,” says Cyrus, choosing his words carefully. “I think we should consider the possibility that Ben was chosen.”
“What do you mean, chosen?” I ask.
“There were eighteen babies in the maternity ward that night. This woman walked past at least six mothers with newborn babies. Why didn’t she choose one of them?”
I am struggling with the notion. “So you think . . . ?”
“I’m trying to explain the inconsistencies.”
“Why would she choose Ben?” asks Jack.
“She may have seen Meg arriving at the hospital, or she may have recognized you from the TV; or she could have identified you earlier. Did you notice anyone following you in the weeks leading up to the birth? Any strange cars, or phone calls?”
I shake my head, less certain than before.
“How many other people knew when and where you were having your baby?”
I try to think. My mothers’ group, my hairdresser, my yoga instructress, the girls in the class, Lucy’s teacher, the staff from Lachlan’s preschool . . . My doctor knew, of course. My mother . . .
“What about your blog?” Jack asks.
Cyrus raises his eyes from the page. “What blog?”
“I write a mummy blog,” I explain. “It’s a hobby, I guess.”
“What do you write about?”
I shrug, feeling embarrassed. “About my life, the kids, Jack . . . but I never use our real names.”
“She has six thousand followers,” says Jack, trying to be helpful.
“Did you tell people when you were having your baby?”
My heart sinks. “I might have mentioned . . .”
“Did you give the date?”
I nod.
“Did you mention the hospital?”
“Maybe.”
“Have you corresponded with any of these women?”
“They comment on my posts or send me messages.”
“And you reply?”
“Not all the time.”
I know what he’s thinking. Some of these readers will be pregnant, or have young families, or might have lost babies.
“Any haters or trolls?” he asks.
“Maybe. Some. Very rarely. Hardly any. I have never posted where I live or mentioned the names of streets or schools.” I know I sound defensive.
“How do we get all that free stuff?” asks Jack.
“Companies know who writes these blogs,” I say. “And my friends know.”
I am digging myself into a hole, but this is not about protecting me. I try to think. Could someone have been stalking me? I rack my brain. A few weeks ago a BMW followed me through a changing light at Hammersmith. What about that creepy woman who hangs around the pond when I’m feeding the ducks with Lachlan? She’s always scratching at her arms and talking to herself. Once I start, I can’t stop. There’s a homeless man who sleeps in the doorway of the church. He sometimes knocks on people’s doors, asking for odd jobs. And a man at the library who tries to look up women’s skirts when they sit on beanbags to read stories to their children.
“Has anyone taken a special interest in your pregnancy?” asks Cyrus.
“I don’t think so. I know lots of pregnant women. I’ve been doing prenatal yoga classes at the fitness center and my blog gets lots of comments from new mums.”
“Has anyone stood out? They might have been particularly intense, or asked a lot of personal questions.”
“Not really.”
Jack interrupts. “What about the one whose husband is in the navy?”
“Agatha,” I say. “She’s not intense.”
“Who’s Agatha?” asks Cyrus.
“She does my yoga class.”
“How long have you known her?”
“A month or so. She works locally.”
“And she’s pregnant?”
“She had her baby before me.”
Cyrus is taking notes. “Do you have an address for Agatha?”
“I have her phone number and an email address.”
From outside I hear a commotion. Shouts. Scuffling. Annie opens the front door. Reporters are besieging DCS MacAteer as he steps from a police car. Chaperoned by his driver and another detective, he pushes his way through the media scrum, ignoring their questions.
I meet them in the hallway, which is suddenly very crowded. MacAteer glances at Cyrus, nods, no handshake.
He addresses me. “A newborn baby has been left outside a church in Little Drayton in Shropshire. It’s a baby boy, but we don’t know if it’s Ben,” he says.
I step back, swaying and reaching for the wall.
“The baby has been taken to the nearest hospital. I want to stress: we don’t know if it’s related to this case, but I thought you should hear about this from me and not from the rabble outside.”
A question gets stuck in my throat.
Jack speaks. “What do we know?”
“From the initial reports, the baby might only be a few hours old. He’s being examined by doctors.”
“It’s Ben!” I blurt. “It’s him.”
“We don’t know that,” says MacAteer. “We may have to do a DNA test.”
“Please let me see him. I could feed him. I’m still expressing.”
MacAteer exchanges a glance with Cyrus. They think I’m being irrational. I start to argue. Cyrus cuts me off. “Please, Mrs. Shaughnessy. Meghan. Don’t make this any harder.”
MacAteer takes out a small plastic test tube. “We want to take a DNA sample—a simple mouth swab.”
“Of course,” says Jack, reaching for the test tube.
“No, it should be me,” I blurt, aware of the dangers of DNA and the sins it could reveal.
“Mother or father, it makes no difference,” says MacAteer.
I take the tube from Jack and run the cotton swab around my cheek before dropping it into the tube. MacAteer seals the top and tucks it into his inner pocket. “I’ll let you know as soon as we have news,” he says. “In the meantime, PC Hipwell will stay here and handle the media. Until we know more, I recommend that you don’t make any public statements.”
The detectives leave the house, triggering another barrage of questions. Annie and Cyrus remain behind. He asks whether Jack or I have ever been to Little Drayton, or if we know anyone who lives there. We shake our heads.
Jack turns on the TV. We’re watching a female reporter outside the hospital in Stoke, struggling to hold down her hair in the wind.
“The infant boy, who weighs seven pounds, was found lying inside a cardboard box left next to the main doors of the hall. Paramedics transported him to Royal Stoke University Hospital, where a spokesman issued a brief update in the last half hour describing the baby as being dehydrated but generally in good condition.
“The discovery has triggered intense speculation that the infant could be Ben Shaughnessy, the newborn baby taken from a London hospital seven days ago. Police are refusing to comment, but a short time ago the detective in charge of that investigation visited Baby Ben’s parents, Jack and Meghan Shaughnessy, at their house in London.”
The footage changes to an image of DCS MacAteer and his colleagues walking into our house. The entire scene happened less than twenty minutes ago and already it’s on the news.
“It’s Ben,” I whisper.
“We don’t know that,” says Jack.
“Who else could it be?”
“Babies get abandoned all the time.”
I shake my head. “Not all the time . . .”
AGATHA
* * *
The intercom buzzes. I’m dreaming about Rory’s first birthday party. The guests are arriving with presents and balloons. I’ve made a teddy bear cake and set out plates of mini sausage rolls and finger sandwiches. The buzzer sounds again and the scene dissolves in my head.
I hear voices. Hayden is talking to someone on the intercom. He meets them at the top of the stairs—two police officers. I’m watching through a crack in the bedroom door.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” says the detective. “We were hoping to speak to Agatha Fyfle.”
“She’s sleeping,” says Hayden.
“I’m awake,” I say, calling from the bedroom. “I need a few minutes.”
Listening at the door, I straighten my dress and fix my hair, telling myself to breathe normally and stay calm. Are they here about Nicky or the baby? Does it matter?
You went too far.
It was an accident.
You killed him.
No!
You pushed him.
I loved Nicky.
The police officers are sitting at either end of the sofa—one in uniform and the other wearing an ugly blue suit worn shiny at the elbows. They stand, politely. The uniformed officer is in his late twenties with short-cropped hair and a round face that hides a future double chin. The detective is two decades older with a boozer’s nose and thinning hair. I offer to make them tea or coffee. They decline. I take the armchair. Hayden perches on the roll of the armrest.
“Can I call you Agatha?” the older one asks.
I nod.
“I’m not sure if you’ve heard the news,” he says. “There was an incident at South Kensington Tube station the day before yesterday. A man fell under a train.”
“How awful!”
“We believe you may know the victim,” says the detective. “Nicholas David Fyfle.”
I let out a squeak of alarm, covering my mouth. “It must be a mistake.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I saw Nicky yesterday—or was it the day before? No, yesterday. We had coffee together.”
“Where was that?”
“At a restaurant near the V&A.”
The two officers exchange a look. The detective speaks. “Am I right in thinking you were married to Mr. Fyfle?”
“That’s not true,” says Hayden. “He’s her uncle.”
I grab his hand and address the detective. “We divorced three years ago.”
Hayden pulls away. “You didn’t tell me you were married.” He makes it sound like an accusation.
“We weren’t together long,” I explain.
“Huh? But you said he was your uncle.”
Hayden is making too much of this—embarrassing me in front of strangers. I knew he’d be the jealous type, which is why I didn’t tell him in the first place.
The two officers look at each other uncomfortably, neither wanting to be caught up in a domestic dispute. The senior one clears his throat. “When you had coffee with Mr. Fyfle—how did he seem?”
“Fine. Good. He was down in London for a conference.” I blow my nose on a tissue and sniffle.
