“The discovery has triggered intense speculation that the infant could be Ben Shaughnessy, the newborn baby taken from a London hospital seven days ago. Police are refusing to comment, but a short time ago the detective in charge of that investigation visited Baby Ben’s parents, Jack and Meghan Shaughnessy, at their house in London.”
The footage changes to an image of DCS MacAteer and his colleagues walking into our house. The entire scene happened less than twenty minutes ago and already it’s on the news.
“It’s Ben,” I whisper.
“We don’t know that,” says Jack.
“Who else could it be?”
“Babies get abandoned all the time.”
I shake my head. “Not all the time . . .”
AGATHA
* * *
The intercom buzzes. I’m dreaming about Rory’s first birthday party. The guests are arriving with presents and balloons. I’ve made a teddy bear cake and set out plates of mini sausage rolls and finger sandwiches. The buzzer sounds again and the scene dissolves in my head.
I hear voices. Hayden is talking to someone on the intercom. He meets them at the top of the stairs—two police officers. I’m watching through a crack in the bedroom door.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” says the detective. “We were hoping to speak to Agatha Fyfle.”
“She’s sleeping,” says Hayden.
“I’m awake,” I say, calling from the bedroom. “I need a few minutes.”
Listening at the door, I straighten my dress and fix my hair, telling myself to breathe normally and stay calm. Are they here about Nicky or the baby? Does it matter?
You went too far.
It was an accident.
You killed him.
No!
You pushed him.
I loved Nicky.
The police officers are sitting at either end of the sofa—one in uniform and the other wearing an ugly blue suit worn shiny at the elbows. They stand, politely. The uniformed officer is in his late twenties with short-cropped hair and a round face that hides a future double chin. The detective is two decades older with a boozer’s nose and thinning hair. I offer to make them tea or coffee. They decline. I take the armchair. Hayden perches on the roll of the armrest.
“Can I call you Agatha?” the older one asks.
I nod.
“I’m not sure if you’ve heard the news,” he says. “There was an incident at South Kensington Tube station the day before yesterday. A man fell under a train.”
“How awful!”
“We believe you may know the victim,” says the detective. “Nicholas David Fyfle.”
I let out a squeak of alarm, covering my mouth. “It must be a mistake.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I saw Nicky yesterday—or was it the day before? No, yesterday. We had coffee together.”
“Where was that?”
“At a restaurant near the V&A.”
The two officers exchange a look. The detective speaks. “Am I right in thinking you were married to Mr. Fyfle?”
“That’s not true,” says Hayden. “He’s her uncle.”
I grab his hand and address the detective. “We divorced three years ago.”
Hayden pulls away. “You didn’t tell me you were married.” He makes it sound like an accusation.
“We weren’t together long,” I explain.
“Huh? But you said he was your uncle.”
Hayden is making too much of this—embarrassing me in front of strangers. I knew he’d be the jealous type, which is why I didn’t tell him in the first place.
The two officers look at each other uncomfortably, neither wanting to be caught up in a domestic dispute. The senior one clears his throat. “When you had coffee with Mr. Fyfle—how did he seem?”
“Fine. Good. He was down in London for a conference.” I blow my nose on a tissue and sniffle.
“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.”