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?”