She shakes her head. Before I can ask my next question, she has one for me. “Do you know that my son has cancer, Detective?”
There are some sentences you can hear that are an emotional body blow, and hearing that a child has cancer is definitely one of them.
“I wasn’t aware. I’m so very sorry.”
“He’s terminal.”
And that would be another of those sentences. I’ve met some families in truly awful situations, and the Sadlers just joined the ranks of the most desperate.
“I’m so very sorry.” I’m repeating myself. I want to say more, but I’m lost for words.
Sometimes you can’t wait to get your teeth into a witness or a family member you suspect of being neglectful or complicit, but there are other times when questioning can feel cruel, even if your ulterior motive is to get to the truth. If it wasn’t already, this has definitely just become one of those times.
“They told us we had a few months at best.” She raises her chin and blinks repeatedly until she recovers her composure. Her self-control is phenomenal.
I open my mouth to try to phrase a response that isn’t totally inadequate, but she cuts me off with her next comment:
“I want those months, Detective.”
“I understand.”
“I want every single one of them.”
She’s stopped herself from crying, but her hands are shaking so much that the takeout cup she’s holding threatens to spill.
I find her distress difficult to witness. It provokes memories of Ben Finch’s mother, Rachel, that threaten to knock me off my stride. If I’d been asked to describe one professional scenario I would have liked to be able to avoid in my first day, week, month, or even year back at work after the Ben Finch case, it would be this: a mother for whom everything is at stake because her child’s life is in grave danger. Yet here I am, and I have to be effective.
I try to formulate a response that acknowledges and respects her grief. I have to keep a lid on my own feelings so they don’t develop into something I might not be able to manage, but I don’t want to seem cold.
The door to the parents’ room opposite swings open as a man exits, a mobile phone protruding from his back pocket and a cup of something hot in each hand. The door doesn’t close automatically behind him, so we have a view of a cramped space containing a kitchenette with a refrigerator, a microwave, a sink, and a small square dining table. On the fridge there’s a big notice that reads, “Please label your food clearly with your child’s name and ward number.” The room disgorges a strong smell of microwaved food that seems to thicken the air in the corridor. I watch a wisp of steam trail from the spout of the kettle.
Fiona Sadler saves me from coming up with an appropriate response. “Sorry,” she says. “It’s not your fault.”
“We can do this another time, if you prefer?”
“No. I want you to find out what happened to my son. Something happened. To be out at night, without us, in some industrial place, I can’t tell you how far from normal that is for Noah.”
Now that she’s got her emotions under control, she’s sounding steely.
“Perhaps you could start by telling us what happened yesterday evening, before the boys snuck out?”
She describes the party they went to at her husband’s gallery, and how she brought the boys home at about ten thirty. As she talks, fatigue drips steadily into her voice, dulling it incrementally. Her final words sound beaten. Her skin looks an unhealthy shade of yellow under the lights.
“It was a special night. I wanted it to be a night that was just for family, but Noah asked us if Abdi could come to the party and for a sleepover afterward, and we felt we couldn’t refuse.”
“Was it common for Abdi to sleep over?”
“Not common, but they’d done it before once or twice.”
“Had the boys got into mischief before on sleepovers? Snuck out of the house or anything like that?” I’m pretty sure I know the answer to this already, but I have to ask.
“Never, that I’m aware of. Noah wouldn’t do that. I just can’t imagine it. He’s never been that kind of boy.”
“Did he and Abdi have a good friendship?”
She pauses before answering and picks at the edge of the plastic lid on her cup.
“Yes.”
“But you have reservations?” It’s not rocket science. Her response was uncertain at best. This is the first inkling I get that Fiona Sadler’s view of this friendship might deviate from the Mahad family’s. It quickens my interest.
“Look, Detective, can I be frank? This is just a feeling and I’ve got no real basis for it, but I always thought this friendship would end up being bad for Noah.”
“Can you tell me why?”
“I don’t really know. A feeling? Intuition? Call it whatever you like. And I probably shouldn’t even say it at all because I expect it’s not fair to Abdi, but that’s my view. Ed will tell you that Abdi’s a charming boy, which he is, so maybe I’m being overprotective. Noah’s illness distorts things.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
I look away from her gaze, because there’s a new edge to her now, and it’s hostile. In my experience, a mother doubted can be a ferocious adversary, and I don’t want to make an enemy of this one. Not unless I have to.
“I try to,” I reply.
My response softens her just enough. Her eyes flicker across mine, as if she’s searching for signs of sincerity. She nods.
“Ed strongly encouraged the friendship, and Noah always wants to please him. He worships Ed. His dad’s a hero to him.”
She says this as if it’s not always a good thing. For a moment I think we’re done, that she’s going to get up and walk away, back to her son, but I’m wrong. Instead, she opens up:
“What you have to understand about my husband is that he works with people in some of the most terrible situations you can imagine. And in some of the most terrible places. He brings that home with him, Detective, that compassion, or hunger for danger, or whatever the thing is that drives him. So when Noah met Abdi Mahad, Ed was delighted, and he encouraged the friendship. He’s worked in all sorts of places, but he’s particularly interested in Somalia and the camps, so it was the icing on the cake when he found out that Abdi’s family had come here via one of the camps he’d visited. Of course he wanted them to be friends after that. Is it a good friendship? I don’t know. Maybe, but I can’t deny it makes me anxious. I suppose I want, wanted, Noah to feel free to make his own friends, not hang out with people because they fit into his father’s agenda. But, you know, it’s irrelevant now, all of it, and Ed’s going to have to stop taking responsibility for every misery that’s out there in the world, and focus on his own family instead. Perhaps we’re finally miserable enough for him to take a bit of bloody notice.”
Her voice is raised by the time she’s finished her speech. One of the nurses hesitates beside us, but Fiona waves her on.
“Sorry,” she says.