“Not yet.”
“Poor Meg,” I say, brushing a strand of hair from my eyes. “She must be devastated. I sent her a message, but it’s hard to know what to say.”
“You’ve just had a baby yourself,” says the man.
“That’s right.”
“It’s cold out here. Maybe you could invite us inside.”
“I don’t really want to wake the baby.”
“We’ll be very quiet.”
I lead them up to the flat, where I’ve left the door propped open. “Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee? I only have instant.”
“We’re fine,” says the woman detective, who gives me her card. I study it for a moment, buying time, reading her name out loud. “Detective Sergeant Alison McGuire.”
“And this is Detective Constable Paulson,” she says, studying the array of “best wishes” cards on the mantelpiece. “You had a boy.”
“Yes.”
“What’s his name?”
“Rory.”
The woman has thick eyebrows and olive skin and might possibly look attractive if she let her hair down and smiled more. She takes a seat. Hayden chooses that moment to make an appearance. He’s wearing only boxer shorts, scratching at the dark strip of hair beneath his navel. He blinks at the detectives but doesn’t act surprised. Crossing to the kitchen, he turns on the tap and fills a large glass of water, drinking it too quickly so that droplets fall onto his chest. He wipes his mouth.
“We’re investigating the disappearance of Baby Ben,” explains DC Paulson.
Hayden sits on the edge of my armchair. Beads of water are clinging to his chest hair.
“You might want to put some clothes on,” says the DS.
“Last I checked, this was my place,” replies Hayden.
She nods as though accepting his ground rules. “Your wife was telling us about your new baby.”
“We’re not married.”
“I see.”
Hayden doesn’t seem to like the fact that she’s a woman.
“We’re engaged,” I say.
“Are you Rory’s father?”
“Yeah,” replies Hayden.
DC Paulson has taken out a notebook. Pencil poised.
“When was your baby born?” he asks.
“Almost three weeks ago.” I give him the exact date.
“Where did you have him?”
“In Leeds—that’s where I’m from. My mother lives there.”
I’m volunteering too much information. I should wait for their questions.
DS McGuire toys with a loose thread on the cuff of her jacket. A man would tear or bite it off. A woman will wait for scissors.
“I’ve spent some time up north,” she says. “What hospital did you choose?”
“I had a home birth. I wanted familiar surroundings.”
A trick question, deflected easily, but now she’s unsure how to follow up.
Hayden has put his hand on my shoulder, as though offering support.
“Were you present at the birth?” she asks him.
“No, I just missed it,” Hayden explains. “I’m Royal Navy. I flew in from Joburg. Arrived a day too late.”
“I went into labor early,” I say.
“So who was with you for the birth?”
“A midwife,” I say, trying to sound calm.
“And your mother,” adds Hayden, lying for me.
Why would he do that?
“I emailed photographs to Meghan,” I say. “She was so excited for me. Now I feel guilty.”
“Guilty?”
“Given what happened. There I was, celebrating and feeling so clever, and two days later Meg had her baby stolen.”
“You couldn’t have known,” says Hayden.
“I know, but still . . .”
“Do you have photographs of the birth?” asks DC Paulson.
“Of course.” I pick up my phone and scroll through the pictures until I find the ones that I took upstairs in Leo’s bedroom. “I didn’t take many. My mother isn’t much of a photographer.”
I hand him the phone. He passes it to his colleague.
“How long have you known Mrs. Shaughnessy?” asks DS McGuire.
“Not that long. We do yoga together. I used to see her when I worked at the supermarket in Barnes. She gave me some baby clothes.”
Again, I’m talking too much. The detective glances slowly around the room, as though noting the general shabbiness and cheapness of my furniture.
“When did you see her last?”
“A few weeks ago—before I went up to Leeds.”
“You knew she was having her baby on December seventh?”
“Yes, she told me.”
“Have you met her husband, Jack?”
“No. I’ve seen him on TV. He’s a sports reporter.”
Stop talking, Agatha!
DS McGuire returns my phone. “When you were at yoga classes, did you ever notice anyone hanging around, or asking questions? Someone who might have taken a special interest in the fact that Mrs. Shaughnessy was pregnant?”
“Special interest?”
“More than usual.”
I think about this. Begin a sentence. Stop. Shake my head.
“What is it?” asks DC Paulson.
“It’s probably nothing,” I say.
“Let us decide.”
“Well, there was this one woman . . . Meg and I were having coffee in Barnes. As I was leaving, she came up to me and asked where I was having my baby.”
“Did she talk to Mrs. Shaughnessy?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What did this woman look like?”
“My height, dark hair, heavyset, but not fat,” I say, pausing to concentrate. “She looked like she’d just had her hair done—maybe at one of the local hairdressers.”
“How do you know that?”
“You can tell when it’s been cut and blow-dried.”
“How old was she?”
“Late thirties or early forties.”
“Was she pregnant?”
“Not obviously. I guess her clothes were baggy.”
A pencil scratches on the page.
“Why does it matter whether she was pregnant?” I ask.
“We think whoever took Ben might have faked a pregnancy to hide their crime.”
“Really?”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“Is that even possible? What about all the scans and tests? Surely somebody would find out.”
DS McGuire wants to get back to talking about the woman. “Had you ever seen this particular woman before?”
“No.”
She opens a folder and takes out an identikit picture from the hospital. “Could this be her?”
“It’s hard to tell.”
The next image is a still photograph from the CCTV cameras at the hospital. I am being presented with a photograph of myself as a brunette with long hair. The grainy image shows the top of my head. A second image is from behind. That uniform made me look huge.
“It could be her,” I say. “I can’t be certain.”
There is a squawk from the baby monitor resting on the kitchen bench. Rory is awake. He grumbles and lets out a louder cry.
“He’s hungry,” I say, getting to my feet. I cup my breasts. “I still can’t get over how he does that—one little cry and my milk starts flowing.”
Hayden has gone to get Rory. He emerges from the bedroom, holding him in the folds of a blanket. Rory is wide-awake, watching the detectives, neither of whom look particularly paternal or maternal.
“You’re welcome to stay,” I say, “but I’m getting my boobs out.” The younger detective wants to be somewhere else. I walk them to the door.