*
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.”