“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.”