The Secrets She Keeps, page 26
“How would you describe his state of mind?”
“I’m not sure I understand the question.”
“Did he seem upset or depressed about anything?”
“Depressed? No, not really. He was talking about his wife and stepsons. I think he was a little homesick.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“No. I mean, he intimated as much.”
“Did he mention any marital problems?”
“Not exactly.”
“What then?”
“He said he wasn’t living up to ‘expectations.’ ” I use my fingers to make the quotation marks.
“Whose expectations?”
“I assumed he meant his wife’s.”
“Money issues?”
“He’s a writer,” I reply, as though that should explain everything.
The uniformed officer speaks. “So your divorce was amicable?”
“Absolutely.”
“And you kept his name?”
“Yes.”
“Why was that?”
“I don’t know, really. I couldn’t be bothered doing all that paperwork, changing my driver’s license, my passport, my credit cards . . .”
Hayden is pacing at the window, pretending to look out, but his eyes are darting from side to side.
“Where did you say good-bye?” asks the detective.
My mind reaches back.
“On the street—outside the café.”
“And that was the last time you saw Mr. Fyfle?”
I hesitate, not wanting to be caught out. I replay the scene. My face was hidden. If the cameras had picked me out they wouldn’t be asking these questions.
“I thought I might see Nicky again at the station, but he was ahead of me.”
“What were you doing at the station?”
“I was catching a train to Earl’s Court. Nicky said he was going to Victoria.”
“Did you see him on the platform?”
“No. I took the Piccadilly line.”
“Why didn’t you walk to the station together?” asks the detective.
“I only realized after Nicky had gone.”
Hayden interrupts. “So did this guy jump or was he pushed?”
“Why would you think he was pushed?” asks the older detective, swiveling his whole body to study Hayden, who grows nervous at the scrutiny.
“No reason,” he says. “But you seem to be asking a lot of questions. If the guy topped himself, why bother?”
I flinch and glance at the officers apologetically.
The detective looks at me. “We have spoken to several eyewitnesses who suggest Mr. Fyfle may have been pushed or bumped from behind. The CCTV images also indicate possible contact, which could have been accidental.”
“Who was it?” asks Hayden.
“We haven’t managed to identify the individual. We believe that he or she was wearing a long, hooded overcoat.” The detective tilts his head. “Do you own a coat like that, Mrs. Fyfle?”
“Miss,” I say, correcting him.
“Miss Fyfle.”
“I didn’t push Nicky!”
“I asked if you had a hooded overcoat.”
“What did it look like?”
“Black or perhaps navy—with a looping cowl that becomes a hood.”
I glance at Hayden, who is waiting for me to say something.
“I used to have a coat like that, but I gave it away to charity.”
“When was that?” asks the uniformed officer.
I pause as though straining to remember. “Weeks ago now—I put it in one of those charity clothing bins.”
I can see Hayden’s reflection in the glass. He’s staring at me.
“Well,” says the detective, wiping his hands down the front of his trousers, “I think that covers most of it. If you do remember anything more . . .”
“I’ll be in touch,” I say.
They’re almost at the door. The detective turns. “Out of interest, did Mr. Fyfle contact you, or did you call him?”
“He called me.”
“How long had it been since you’d spoken to each other?”
“Years.”
“So why did he call?”
“He had heard about the baby.”
“Baby?”
“I had a baby boy ten days ago.” I point at the cards on the mantelpiece, some from friends and others that I posted to myself.
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” I say. “Nicky and I didn’t manage to have children. We tried. I think it’s why we broke up in the end—the stress and disappointment.”
“I see,” says the detective, but I don’t like the tone of his voice. I don’t know if he does see or how much he’s seen or if he believes me.
“Good-bye, Mr. Cole,” he says to Hayden, who doesn’t respond. I stand on the landing and watch them descend the stairs, bracing myself for what’s to come.
Hayden paces back and forth behind the sofa, tugging at his ear, something he does when he’s thinking. Having taken a seat, I keep turning my head to maintain eye contact.
“Why did you lie? You said he was an old friend—an uncle.”
“I thought you might be jealous.”
“Me? Why?”
“Men can get funny about that sort of thing.”
“Is that right? Who told you that—your other husbands?”
“There was only one. Please don’t be like this.”
“Why did you divorce?”
“We couldn’t have a baby. Nicky had a low sperm count. We tried everything, but it didn’t work out. That’s what we talked about over coffee.”
“Does Jules know you were married?”
“No! Yes. I might have told her.”
“So everyone knows except me?”
“No, not everyone.”
“What else aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing.”
“What about your coat? You told those coppers you gave it to charity when it’s right this minute hanging in your wardrobe.”
“That’s not the one I meant.”
“What?”
“That’s a different coat.”
“It looks the same.”
“I like the style. The old one was getting worn at the elbows and had lost two buttons.”
“When did you buy a new coat? You’ve barely left the flat.”
“I bought it online.”
Hayden wants to believe me, but I can see that he’s struggling. He hates secrets and doesn’t like being surprised. At the same time, he’s enjoyed being a father and playing happy families. I can see it in his eyes and hear it in his voice when he talks about Rory.
I put my arms around him from behind and hug him, pressing my head to his back. He turns around and we kiss. I open my eyes and discover that he’s watching me. The creature slides between my organs and coils around my heart, slowly tightening.
Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!
MEGHAN
* * *
The baby isn’t Ben. According to the hospital, he was barely six hours old when abandoned. The mother, all of sixteen, gave birth in her bedroom and smuggled him outside in her schoolbag, leaving him on the steps of the hall. Mother and unwanted child have since been reunited. How touching.
My first reaction was denial. I said the mother was lying and demanded a DNA test. How ironic. In the same breath, my shoulders shook and I knew I was being irrational. It’s someone else’s child, but that doesn’t make it fair. She doesn’t want a baby. She doesn’t deserve one.
Annie broke the news to us. My strength disappeared and I took myself to bed clutching a box of tissues. Jack came in later and sat beside me. I knew he wanted to talk but I pretended to be asleep. Call me a coward, but I know how any discussion will end. I will accuse Jack of never wanting Ben in the first place, of suggesting a termination, of wishing for something like this. And he will look at me like a fur seal about to be clubbed and beg me for forgiveness, which I will give him because I know it’s not his fault, but the absolution will be phony because it doesn’t come from the heart.
The longer this goes on, the worse it becomes. At first I was swept along by the support and public goodwill, but now that’s not enough. My life has stopped. The planet does not turn for me. I keep reminding myself of Annie’s words that no news is good news, but is that true? I don’t know anymore. In the meantime, I hope for a miracle while fearing that God is punishing me for being unfaithful to Jack or for not believing in Him. When it comes to religion, I am one of those doubters who keeps demanding proof, who is awestruck and horrified by turns at the beauty and the cruelty that believers claim in the name of their God.
I try to pray but I struggle to recall the hymns and psalms from my days at Sunday school. The only prayer I can remember is from our weekly assemblies, when we stood in class groups promising to love one another, saying that “as many hands build a house, so many hearts make a school.” I close my eyes and summon my own words. Listening. Hoping for an answer.
Nothing.
God is on another call.
* * *
We have the media conference this afternoon. DCS MacAteer requested we arrive early to rehearse what we’re going to say. We leave the house just after two o’clock. I’m wearing makeup for the first time in ages and I’ve dressed in a pre-pregnancy skirt with the top button undone, hidden beneath a sweater.
The police station is shabbier than I expect. Apart from the computers and printers, it doesn’t look very high-tech or cutting edge or CSI. The incident room is cluttered and noisy, full of functional furniture that must have been fashionable in the nineties. Detectives in plainclothes are answering phones and tapping on keyboards. How is that going to find Ben? I want to ask. They should be knocking on doors and shaking trees.
Cyrus Haven is already seated at the table in the conference room, dressed in his familiar loose-fitting jeans and a buttoned-up shirt. Immediately I relax. I don’t know why, but he makes me feel as though I can get through this.
MacAteer takes a stick of gum from his pocket. Unwrapping the foil, he folds the strip onto his tongue and chews noisily, sucking out the flavor.
“I’ve asked Dr. Haven to run through a new strategy.”
“Why do we need a new strategy?” asks Jack, who seems to be spoiling for an argument.
MacAteer pushes back. “Because the current one hasn’t worked.”
“Circumstances have changed,” adds Cyrus, whose voice exudes calm. “When Ben was first taken we adopted a strategy of appealing directly to the woman who took him. We wanted to show her the enormity of the anguish she had caused to you—and encourage her to give him up willingly. We have moved past that now. The longer she has had Ben, the stronger the bond will be between them. If we haven’t reached her by now, one of two things must have happened. Either she’s stopped listening, or she’s decided not to respond.”
“What you’re saying is that she doesn’t care,” I say.
“I’m saying that you don’t figure in her calculations. All she cares about is Ben.”
I feel sick.
“That’s why I want to change the focus of our message. Instead of appealing directly to the abductor, we talk to those around her—friends, family, and neighbors. We give them reasons why they should ask questions. We help them see that whoever has Ben is misguided and has lost sight of what is right and wrong. And if they truly want to help this person, they should get in touch with us.”
“You think someone will turn her in,” says Jack.
“If we give them the right reasons.”
“Why haven’t they done it already?” I ask.
“They could be frightened or confused or unwilling to get involved. We can change that by taking a very soft tone and avoiding confrontation. We must help the public understand that whoever took Ben is not being viewed as a criminal who must be caught and punished. She is a victim. Something dreadful has happened that prompted her into making some terrible decisions. Perhaps she lost a baby or was denied one. She has suffered enormously, which is why we have to show her compassion and understanding. We must urge others to do the same and intervene on our behalf and hers.”
Jack grunts. “So it’s not enough that we’ve lost a child—she’s the one who deserves sympathy?”
“If we find her, we find Ben,” says MacAteer, who seems to be tiring of Jack’s petulance.
Cyrus continues. “Right now the media is controlling the message—finding new people to interview every day, reporting rumors instead of facts. They are setting the agenda—not us. We have to change that. From now on we speak with one voice and set clearly defined goals. And the first step is to have a single person associated with the message.”
“OK, I’m up for that,” says MacAteer.
“No, not you,” says Cyrus. “You’re a police officer. You represent the punitive side of this equation.”
“Who then?”
Cyrus looks at me.
“No, no, not me.” I’m shaking my head, not because I’m shy but because I’m scared. “What if I make a mistake? I could push her over the edge.”
“I’ve written you a script. All you have to do is read it out.”
“Why can’t Jack do it? He’s used to being on camera.”
“It’s more powerful coming from you.”
Jack touches my arm. “You can do this. I can help you.”
* * *
Flash guns strobe and shutters click and TV lights blast whiteness against my downcast face. It feels more like a show trial than a media conference. The TV cameras are arranged in a crescent shape around the front of a stage that has a long table and chairs. The press photographers are on either side, yelling our names, wanting us to turn this way and that.
I blink into the lights with watery eyes, lowering my head to make sure I don’t trip up the stairs. Jack is next to me, yet I have a strange hollow feeling that I’m alone, a sensation of missing someone who is right beside me. I want to reach out and take his hand, but something stops me.
MacAteer pulls out a chair. I tuck my dress under my thighs and sit upright, knees together, staring straight ahead while the flash guns create white dots behind my eyelids.
Once the noise has died down, it is my turn. I try to remember what Jack told me—to look directly into the cameras and forget how many people are watching. My first few words are shaky, but they grow more solid as I continue.
“This has been a very emotional nine days and we have been overwhelmed by the messages of support, the letters of sympathy, and the prayers that have been offered by so many people.” I pause, looking up from the page. “It seems as though Ben has been adopted by the whole country and belongs to all of us, which is enormously gratifying.
“Saying that, I am going to speak very personally today because I don’t think anyone can begin to imagine what Ben means to us. We are a strong family, but we’re not whole at the moment. We have a little boy and girl at home who haven’t met their brother yet. They’re heartbroken and we can’t explain to them what has happened. I can’t explain it to myself.
“I know that somebody out there must know where Ben is. Maybe you don’t realize, or you’re unsure, or you’re frightened. You might suspect someone you love, which is why it’s so hard to come forward. I understand loyalty and love. I know the strength of families.”
I promised myself I wouldn’t cry, but I can feel the tears hovering at the edges of my eyelids. I steel myself, remembering Dr. Haven’s words: “The kidnapper might have stopped watching, but her friends and family will hear you.” I picture them now.
“If you do have suspicions, you are not helping anyone by remaining silent. Come forward. Call. Leave a message. At the very least, let us know that Ben is safe. That’s all I want—some sign that he’s OK.”
The last words get stuck in my throat and come out in a whisper. Jack puts his arm around me. I lean my head into his neck and dissolve into his embrace.
The reporters begin yelling questions. One shouts loudest.
“Why aren’t you DNA-testing every baby born around that time?”
MacAteer has taken the microphone.
“More than two thousand babies are born every day in Britain. We couldn’t force parents to give us DNA samples. And even if we could, the cost would run to millions of pounds.”
Someone else yells, “Have any of the alleged sightings been confirmed?”
“We continue to follow up hundreds of leads.”
Another hand goes up. “Why haven’t you released more of the CCTV footage from the hospital?”
“The footage is of such poor quality that we believe it could hamper the investigation by muddying the waters and making our task even harder.”
“How?”
“The only person likely to recognize the kidnapper from the footage is the kidnapper herself. Rather than help anyone identify her, the footage could make her fearful and agitated. We are not here to punish anyone. Whoever took Ben Shaughnessy needs help and support. We can offer that. We can get her treatment. We can provide counseling.”
AGATHA
* * *
“Turn the TV off,” I say.
Hayden looks at me, surprised. “Aren’t you interested?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It makes me too sad.”
It’s true, but I can’t explain it to Hayden. I know what it’s like to lose a baby. I have felt what Meg is feeling, but she has Jack and Lachlan and Lucy. She should be thinking about them.
Hayden mutes the sound and picks up the TV guide, flicking through the pages. “So who do you think took him?” he asks.
“Who?”
“Baby Ben.”
I shrug, wanting to change the subject.
“I’ve changed my mind,” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“I thought it was some rich person who wanted a baby, but now I think it’s probably some nutter.”
“What makes you think she’s a nutter?”
“Stands to reason,” he says. “You said it yourself—she likely couldn’t have her own kid, or lost a baby, and it sent her a bit gaga.”
“I’m not sure I understand the question.”
“Did he seem upset or depressed about anything?”
“Depressed? No, not really. He was talking about his wife and stepsons. I think he was a little homesick.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“No. I mean, he intimated as much.”
“Did he mention any marital problems?”
“Not exactly.”
“What then?”
“He said he wasn’t living up to ‘expectations.’ ” I use my fingers to make the quotation marks.
“Whose expectations?”
“I assumed he meant his wife’s.”
“Money issues?”
“He’s a writer,” I reply, as though that should explain everything.
The uniformed officer speaks. “So your divorce was amicable?”
“Absolutely.”
“And you kept his name?”
“Yes.”
“Why was that?”
“I don’t know, really. I couldn’t be bothered doing all that paperwork, changing my driver’s license, my passport, my credit cards . . .”
Hayden is pacing at the window, pretending to look out, but his eyes are darting from side to side.
“Where did you say good-bye?” asks the detective.
My mind reaches back.
“On the street—outside the café.”
“And that was the last time you saw Mr. Fyfle?”
I hesitate, not wanting to be caught out. I replay the scene. My face was hidden. If the cameras had picked me out they wouldn’t be asking these questions.
“I thought I might see Nicky again at the station, but he was ahead of me.”
“What were you doing at the station?”
“I was catching a train to Earl’s Court. Nicky said he was going to Victoria.”
“Did you see him on the platform?”
“No. I took the Piccadilly line.”
“Why didn’t you walk to the station together?” asks the detective.
“I only realized after Nicky had gone.”
Hayden interrupts. “So did this guy jump or was he pushed?”
“Why would you think he was pushed?” asks the older detective, swiveling his whole body to study Hayden, who grows nervous at the scrutiny.
“No reason,” he says. “But you seem to be asking a lot of questions. If the guy topped himself, why bother?”
I flinch and glance at the officers apologetically.
The detective looks at me. “We have spoken to several eyewitnesses who suggest Mr. Fyfle may have been pushed or bumped from behind. The CCTV images also indicate possible contact, which could have been accidental.”
“Who was it?” asks Hayden.
“We haven’t managed to identify the individual. We believe that he or she was wearing a long, hooded overcoat.” The detective tilts his head. “Do you own a coat like that, Mrs. Fyfle?”
“Miss,” I say, correcting him.
“Miss Fyfle.”
“I didn’t push Nicky!”
“I asked if you had a hooded overcoat.”
“What did it look like?”
“Black or perhaps navy—with a looping cowl that becomes a hood.”
I glance at Hayden, who is waiting for me to say something.
“I used to have a coat like that, but I gave it away to charity.”
“When was that?” asks the uniformed officer.
I pause as though straining to remember. “Weeks ago now—I put it in one of those charity clothing bins.”
I can see Hayden’s reflection in the glass. He’s staring at me.
“Well,” says the detective, wiping his hands down the front of his trousers, “I think that covers most of it. If you do remember anything more . . .”
“I’ll be in touch,” I say.
They’re almost at the door. The detective turns. “Out of interest, did Mr. Fyfle contact you, or did you call him?”
“He called me.”
“How long had it been since you’d spoken to each other?”
“Years.”
“So why did he call?”
“He had heard about the baby.”
“Baby?”
“I had a baby boy ten days ago.” I point at the cards on the mantelpiece, some from friends and others that I posted to myself.
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” I say. “Nicky and I didn’t manage to have children. We tried. I think it’s why we broke up in the end—the stress and disappointment.”
“I see,” says the detective, but I don’t like the tone of his voice. I don’t know if he does see or how much he’s seen or if he believes me.
“Good-bye, Mr. Cole,” he says to Hayden, who doesn’t respond. I stand on the landing and watch them descend the stairs, bracing myself for what’s to come.
Hayden paces back and forth behind the sofa, tugging at his ear, something he does when he’s thinking. Having taken a seat, I keep turning my head to maintain eye contact.
“Why did you lie? You said he was an old friend—an uncle.”
“I thought you might be jealous.”
“Me? Why?”
“Men can get funny about that sort of thing.”
“Is that right? Who told you that—your other husbands?”
“There was only one. Please don’t be like this.”
“Why did you divorce?”
“We couldn’t have a baby. Nicky had a low sperm count. We tried everything, but it didn’t work out. That’s what we talked about over coffee.”
“Does Jules know you were married?”
“No! Yes. I might have told her.”
“So everyone knows except me?”
“No, not everyone.”
“What else aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing.”
“What about your coat? You told those coppers you gave it to charity when it’s right this minute hanging in your wardrobe.”
“That’s not the one I meant.”
“What?”
“That’s a different coat.”
“It looks the same.”
“I like the style. The old one was getting worn at the elbows and had lost two buttons.”
“When did you buy a new coat? You’ve barely left the flat.”
“I bought it online.”
Hayden wants to believe me, but I can see that he’s struggling. He hates secrets and doesn’t like being surprised. At the same time, he’s enjoyed being a father and playing happy families. I can see it in his eyes and hear it in his voice when he talks about Rory.
I put my arms around him from behind and hug him, pressing my head to his back. He turns around and we kiss. I open my eyes and discover that he’s watching me. The creature slides between my organs and coils around my heart, slowly tightening.
Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!
MEGHAN
* * *
The baby isn’t Ben. According to the hospital, he was barely six hours old when abandoned. The mother, all of sixteen, gave birth in her bedroom and smuggled him outside in her schoolbag, leaving him on the steps of the hall. Mother and unwanted child have since been reunited. How touching.
My first reaction was denial. I said the mother was lying and demanded a DNA test. How ironic. In the same breath, my shoulders shook and I knew I was being irrational. It’s someone else’s child, but that doesn’t make it fair. She doesn’t want a baby. She doesn’t deserve one.
Annie broke the news to us. My strength disappeared and I took myself to bed clutching a box of tissues. Jack came in later and sat beside me. I knew he wanted to talk but I pretended to be asleep. Call me a coward, but I know how any discussion will end. I will accuse Jack of never wanting Ben in the first place, of suggesting a termination, of wishing for something like this. And he will look at me like a fur seal about to be clubbed and beg me for forgiveness, which I will give him because I know it’s not his fault, but the absolution will be phony because it doesn’t come from the heart.
The longer this goes on, the worse it becomes. At first I was swept along by the support and public goodwill, but now that’s not enough. My life has stopped. The planet does not turn for me. I keep reminding myself of Annie’s words that no news is good news, but is that true? I don’t know anymore. In the meantime, I hope for a miracle while fearing that God is punishing me for being unfaithful to Jack or for not believing in Him. When it comes to religion, I am one of those doubters who keeps demanding proof, who is awestruck and horrified by turns at the beauty and the cruelty that believers claim in the name of their God.
I try to pray but I struggle to recall the hymns and psalms from my days at Sunday school. The only prayer I can remember is from our weekly assemblies, when we stood in class groups promising to love one another, saying that “as many hands build a house, so many hearts make a school.” I close my eyes and summon my own words. Listening. Hoping for an answer.
Nothing.
God is on another call.
* * *
We have the media conference this afternoon. DCS MacAteer requested we arrive early to rehearse what we’re going to say. We leave the house just after two o’clock. I’m wearing makeup for the first time in ages and I’ve dressed in a pre-pregnancy skirt with the top button undone, hidden beneath a sweater.
The police station is shabbier than I expect. Apart from the computers and printers, it doesn’t look very high-tech or cutting edge or CSI. The incident room is cluttered and noisy, full of functional furniture that must have been fashionable in the nineties. Detectives in plainclothes are answering phones and tapping on keyboards. How is that going to find Ben? I want to ask. They should be knocking on doors and shaking trees.
Cyrus Haven is already seated at the table in the conference room, dressed in his familiar loose-fitting jeans and a buttoned-up shirt. Immediately I relax. I don’t know why, but he makes me feel as though I can get through this.
MacAteer takes a stick of gum from his pocket. Unwrapping the foil, he folds the strip onto his tongue and chews noisily, sucking out the flavor.
“I’ve asked Dr. Haven to run through a new strategy.”
“Why do we need a new strategy?” asks Jack, who seems to be spoiling for an argument.
MacAteer pushes back. “Because the current one hasn’t worked.”
“Circumstances have changed,” adds Cyrus, whose voice exudes calm. “When Ben was first taken we adopted a strategy of appealing directly to the woman who took him. We wanted to show her the enormity of the anguish she had caused to you—and encourage her to give him up willingly. We have moved past that now. The longer she has had Ben, the stronger the bond will be between them. If we haven’t reached her by now, one of two things must have happened. Either she’s stopped listening, or she’s decided not to respond.”
“What you’re saying is that she doesn’t care,” I say.
“I’m saying that you don’t figure in her calculations. All she cares about is Ben.”
I feel sick.
“That’s why I want to change the focus of our message. Instead of appealing directly to the abductor, we talk to those around her—friends, family, and neighbors. We give them reasons why they should ask questions. We help them see that whoever has Ben is misguided and has lost sight of what is right and wrong. And if they truly want to help this person, they should get in touch with us.”
“You think someone will turn her in,” says Jack.
“If we give them the right reasons.”
“Why haven’t they done it already?” I ask.
“They could be frightened or confused or unwilling to get involved. We can change that by taking a very soft tone and avoiding confrontation. We must help the public understand that whoever took Ben is not being viewed as a criminal who must be caught and punished. She is a victim. Something dreadful has happened that prompted her into making some terrible decisions. Perhaps she lost a baby or was denied one. She has suffered enormously, which is why we have to show her compassion and understanding. We must urge others to do the same and intervene on our behalf and hers.”
Jack grunts. “So it’s not enough that we’ve lost a child—she’s the one who deserves sympathy?”
“If we find her, we find Ben,” says MacAteer, who seems to be tiring of Jack’s petulance.
Cyrus continues. “Right now the media is controlling the message—finding new people to interview every day, reporting rumors instead of facts. They are setting the agenda—not us. We have to change that. From now on we speak with one voice and set clearly defined goals. And the first step is to have a single person associated with the message.”
“OK, I’m up for that,” says MacAteer.
“No, not you,” says Cyrus. “You’re a police officer. You represent the punitive side of this equation.”
“Who then?”
Cyrus looks at me.
“No, no, not me.” I’m shaking my head, not because I’m shy but because I’m scared. “What if I make a mistake? I could push her over the edge.”
“I’ve written you a script. All you have to do is read it out.”
“Why can’t Jack do it? He’s used to being on camera.”
“It’s more powerful coming from you.”
Jack touches my arm. “You can do this. I can help you.”
* * *
Flash guns strobe and shutters click and TV lights blast whiteness against my downcast face. It feels more like a show trial than a media conference. The TV cameras are arranged in a crescent shape around the front of a stage that has a long table and chairs. The press photographers are on either side, yelling our names, wanting us to turn this way and that.
I blink into the lights with watery eyes, lowering my head to make sure I don’t trip up the stairs. Jack is next to me, yet I have a strange hollow feeling that I’m alone, a sensation of missing someone who is right beside me. I want to reach out and take his hand, but something stops me.
MacAteer pulls out a chair. I tuck my dress under my thighs and sit upright, knees together, staring straight ahead while the flash guns create white dots behind my eyelids.
Once the noise has died down, it is my turn. I try to remember what Jack told me—to look directly into the cameras and forget how many people are watching. My first few words are shaky, but they grow more solid as I continue.
“This has been a very emotional nine days and we have been overwhelmed by the messages of support, the letters of sympathy, and the prayers that have been offered by so many people.” I pause, looking up from the page. “It seems as though Ben has been adopted by the whole country and belongs to all of us, which is enormously gratifying.
“Saying that, I am going to speak very personally today because I don’t think anyone can begin to imagine what Ben means to us. We are a strong family, but we’re not whole at the moment. We have a little boy and girl at home who haven’t met their brother yet. They’re heartbroken and we can’t explain to them what has happened. I can’t explain it to myself.
“I know that somebody out there must know where Ben is. Maybe you don’t realize, or you’re unsure, or you’re frightened. You might suspect someone you love, which is why it’s so hard to come forward. I understand loyalty and love. I know the strength of families.”
I promised myself I wouldn’t cry, but I can feel the tears hovering at the edges of my eyelids. I steel myself, remembering Dr. Haven’s words: “The kidnapper might have stopped watching, but her friends and family will hear you.” I picture them now.
“If you do have suspicions, you are not helping anyone by remaining silent. Come forward. Call. Leave a message. At the very least, let us know that Ben is safe. That’s all I want—some sign that he’s OK.”
The last words get stuck in my throat and come out in a whisper. Jack puts his arm around me. I lean my head into his neck and dissolve into his embrace.
The reporters begin yelling questions. One shouts loudest.
“Why aren’t you DNA-testing every baby born around that time?”
MacAteer has taken the microphone.
“More than two thousand babies are born every day in Britain. We couldn’t force parents to give us DNA samples. And even if we could, the cost would run to millions of pounds.”
Someone else yells, “Have any of the alleged sightings been confirmed?”
“We continue to follow up hundreds of leads.”
Another hand goes up. “Why haven’t you released more of the CCTV footage from the hospital?”
“The footage is of such poor quality that we believe it could hamper the investigation by muddying the waters and making our task even harder.”
“How?”
“The only person likely to recognize the kidnapper from the footage is the kidnapper herself. Rather than help anyone identify her, the footage could make her fearful and agitated. We are not here to punish anyone. Whoever took Ben Shaughnessy needs help and support. We can offer that. We can get her treatment. We can provide counseling.”
AGATHA
* * *
“Turn the TV off,” I say.
Hayden looks at me, surprised. “Aren’t you interested?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It makes me too sad.”
It’s true, but I can’t explain it to Hayden. I know what it’s like to lose a baby. I have felt what Meg is feeling, but she has Jack and Lachlan and Lucy. She should be thinking about them.
Hayden mutes the sound and picks up the TV guide, flicking through the pages. “So who do you think took him?” he asks.
“Who?”
“Baby Ben.”
I shrug, wanting to change the subject.
“I’ve changed my mind,” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“I thought it was some rich person who wanted a baby, but now I think it’s probably some nutter.”
“What makes you think she’s a nutter?”
“Stands to reason,” he says. “You said it yourself—she likely couldn’t have her own kid, or lost a baby, and it sent her a bit gaga.”
