by Lisa Stone
‘I’ve no idea,’ Ian said. ‘This has all come as such a shock. I wanted answers, not compensation.’
‘And I trust I have given you those. Discuss the matter with Emma and then come back to me. If you and your wife would like counselling, Edie is very good and of course there will be no charge.’
Ian sighed.
‘I understand you need time,’ Moller said. ‘Call me when you’re ready.’ Winding up the conversation, he said goodbye.
Ian returned his phone to the table and dropped his head into his hands. He supposed he should be grateful for Moller’s honesty, but he wasn’t. He was gutted. Compensation, when his and Emma’s lives were in ruins. Nothing could compensate them for that.
The hum of conversation continued around him and in the background, the hiss of the coffee machine as the barista brewed more coffee. It felt surreal – sitting here in the midst of normality while trying to process something that was anything but normal. He and his wife were half brother and sister.
Ian raised his head. How the hell was he going to tell Emma? He still had no idea. He supposed Emma’s parents and his mother would have to know too at some point. But he couldn’t think about that now. What a fucking awful mess! He stared distractedly around him and his resentment grew.
Moller had admitted his error very easily on the phone and had renewed his offer of compensation. Of course he’d want to keep them quiet. If this came out, it wouldn’t do his clinic any good at all. How easy it would be to hold him to ransom and demand a huge sum. But there was no price on what Emma and he had been through and had yet to go through. Nothing that could undo the harm that had been done.
Ian stood, went to the counter and bought another coffee. The longer he could postpone going home, the better.
Could others be affected? he wondered, returning to the table with his coffee. Moller had said he worked within the current guidelines – one donor to no more than ten families – so the chances were minuscule. But when had that rule come in? Ian googled the question and found it was only ten years ago, so hadn’t applied when his and Emma’s parents had used the clinic. Before then, artificial insemination by donor had been largely unregulated and at the discretion of the clinic. Had Moller been purposely misleading him?
Ian took a sip of his coffee and slowly replaced it in the saucer. If there were others, what were the chances of Moller contacting them? Low, Ian decided. The only reason he’d admitted his error to Ian was because he’d shown him irrefutable evidence. Ian was sure Moller wouldn’t have told him otherwise. How he would have liked to see his records. But if he asked again, he’d get the same reply and Moller would hide behind patient confidentiality.
Straightening in his chair, Ian closed the file on his laptop he’d been trying to work on and stared at the screensaver. His thoughts raced, going where they shouldn’t. He broke out in a sweat as he considered the enormity of what he was thinking of doing. He’d be taking a huge risk. If he was caught, there would be a trial and prison.
So he’d have to make sure he wasn’t caught, he told himself. He was good at his job – one of the Information Technology team at Wetherby Security Ltd. The company was in the business of keeping organizations safe. His department specialized in online security, advising clients on how to keep their companies safe from hacking, and minimizing the damage if a company was attacked. In order to do his job, Ian had had to study how hackers worked. He knew how they got into computers and how to keep them out.
Ian paused for a moment longer, took another sip of his coffee, and then moved the cursor on his laptop to go online. He doubted the Mollers’ computer was well protected from hackers, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to access. And while using the public Wi-Fi came with its own security concerns, it also meant Ian’s laptop couldn’t be so easily traced. But just to make sure, he’d use a VPN – virtual private network – as he did sometimes at work.
Ian glanced around. The nearest person was sitting far enough away not to be able to see his screen. Even if they could or someone walked past, he was just another customer with a coffee and a laptop. Before he lost his nerve and changed his mind, Ian logged into the VPN and began.
FORTY-FIVE
Five minutes later, Ian had identified the Wi-Fi router the Mollers were using at the clinic. It was only a short step from there into their computer. As he’d thought, it wasn’t well protected, but he’d make sure he didn’t stay for long. The less time he spent hacked into their computer, the less chance there was of being caught.
Ian looked at the dozens of folders and remembered Edie Moller’s exasperation when she’d told him over the phone how they’d had to go from paper record-keeping to digital. The records were a mess.
There appeared to be little logic in the way the folders were listed. Ian opened and closed a few, looking at the files they contained and trying to work out if there was a system, and if so, what it was. Some of the folders bore recent dates while others hadn’t been opened for years. All of them seemed to be work related, with no folders or files containing personal material like photographs and music downloads. It was impossible to know if all the paper files had been stored digitally, but Ian thought many had as the oldest was dated thirty years before. Plugging a USB stick into the side of his laptop, Ian began copying over the folders to examine them offline.
When he thought he had them all, he logged out. Using the paper napkin that had come with his croissant, Ian wiped the sweat from his forehead. It was warm in The Coffee Shop, but that wasn’t the only reason he was perspiring. He’d just committed a crime, and now, with a mixture of dread and anticipation of what he might find, he began studying the folders and the files contained within them. Only some of the patients’ folders were stored alphabetically by surname, as if Edie Moller had given up halfway through and had then just entered them in any order.
A bit of time arranging the patients’ files now would save him time in the long run, Ian thought, and he began putting them into alphabetical order. He saw his and Emma’s parents’ names on folders but didn’t open them at this point. He just tucked them into their alphabetical place. He was used to being methodical at work. There were two random folders that didn’t contain patient details and he moved those to the end.
He began going through the folders of clients, starting with A. There were many files in each folder – some containing multiple pages. The first showed the patient’s name, contact details, age and date of birth. The next their medical history, then diagnosis of infertility, treatment dates and what appeared to be the outcome. In some cases there was a record of a healthy baby being born. There were plenty of medical terms and abbreviations Ian didn’t understand, but all the patient files seemed to follow a similar format. It soon became clear that Moller had been tracking all those who’d used the clinic and their children. He felt uncomfortable, voyeuristic, reading all their personal details, but it had to be done.
He left his and Emma’s parents’ folders until last, then, with trepidation, opened his parents’ first. Ian read of his father’s low sperm count, how long they’d been trying for a baby and the dates his mother had been inseminated with donor sperm. It had taken three attempts before she’d conceived him. His date of birth was recorded, the sex – boy – and that he was healthy. He opened Emma’s parents’ folder and found similar information, although her mother had conceived on the first attempt.
While some of this was what Ian would have expected from a fertility clinic, it seemed strange that despite all this information none of the patient files appeared to show a donor identification number – as Moller had said they did. He opened a few more and then the two non-patient folders, but they didn’t contain a list of donor IDs either. Somewhere there must be a folder containing donor details their ID numbers, and a file cross-referencing them to the clients, as Moller had claimed. He must have missed it.
Glancing furtively over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching, Ian quickly logged into the Moller
s’ computer again. It was easier the second time. He had the login details. He began searching for any folders he might have missed, but he couldn’t find any more. He then checked the hard drive for any folders or files that might have been deleted. Although deleted files disappeared from view, they could still be found on the hard drive if you knew where to look, which Ian did. It was part of his job. But the only deletions he found were junk mail. He then checked to see if there was any indication Moller was using other storage devices – an external hard drive or cloud, for example. But again there was nothing. Puzzled, Ian logged out and returned to the folders he’d saved on the USB stick.
He opened and skimmed through the other patient files, but not one bore a donor ID number. Ian now looked again more carefully at the two folders that didn’t contain patient details. The first was called Research and contained published papers in the field of embryonic research – not surprising. The other folder was called Second Generation and contained a spreadsheet with single-line entries of couples’ names, their contact details, the dates of birth of their babies and if they had survived. They weren’t in alphabetical order but date order, with the oldest entry at the top. Ian scrolled down the page and felt as though he was walking through an infant graveyard with so many babies not surviving. What was all this about?
Some entries had the abbreviation of A.L. beside them. He guessed that was something to do with artificial insemination as it was a fertility clinic. He continued through the spreadsheet to the last page. His heart stopped. The penultimate entry was Ian and Emma Jennings. But what was this doing here? They hadn’t used the clinic. His mouth went dry. Beside their names were the dates of the deaths of both their babies. The second also bore the abbreviation A.L. What the hell! Why was Moller collecting personal data on them? Not only did it not make sense, but it was a shocking invasion of their privacy.
Ian looked at the very last entry, the one below theirs. Grant and Chelsea Ryan. Their address wasn’t far away and they’d recently had a baby girl who had died. The same abbreviation, A.L., was in the last column.
Ian’s phone vibrated with an incoming call, jolting him from his thoughts. He picked it up. It was Emma.
‘Ian, where are you?’ she asked anxiously. ‘It’s seven o’clock. I’ve been worried.’
‘I’m sorry, I got caught up at work. I’m leaving now.’
‘Are you all right, Ian? You don’t sound good.’
‘I’ll explain when I get home. We need to talk.’
‘What is it?’
‘I’ll tell you when I get home.’
FORTY-SIX
With his thoughts in turmoil, Ian tucked his phone into his jacket pocket, returned his laptop to his briefcase and left The Coffee Shop. What the hell was Moller up to? He’d have to tell Emma everything he’d found out. He couldn’t put it off any longer. But how and where to start he had no idea. It was horrendous and confusing. Moller had admitted to him that he’d made a mistake and he and Emma shared the same donor, but Ian hadn’t found any evidence of that. Indeed, there was no evidence of any donors at all. Yet there must be hundreds, if not thousands, stretching back to when the clinic first opened. Instead, Ian had found that Moller had recorded the deaths of his and Emma’s babies and they hadn’t used the clinic. It didn’t add up.
Moller treated infertility by inseminating the woman with donor sperm, his records confirmed that, but Ian was still no closer to tracing their donors or identifying how the mistake had occurred than he had been that morning. The only conclusion he could come to, he thought, as he drove, was that Moller must have another computer and had split files between the two. Perhaps a laptop? Ian had only seen one computer – on the second desk in Moller’s office. But there must be another one somewhere containing this information, perhaps in his house.
Frustrated, anxious and dreading telling Emma, he parked on the drive and, with a very heavy heart, let himself into his house. Emma immediately appeared in the hall looking worried. ‘I thought you’d left me,’ she said with a nervous laugh, and went to hug him.
Ian stepped back.
‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘Are you OK? Are we OK?’
‘Not really,’ Ian said.
‘Why not?’ Her bottom lip trembled.
‘Come and sit down, love,’ Ian said gently. ‘We have to talk.’
Cupping Emma’s elbow, he steered her into the living room and to the sofa.
‘I’m sorry for being so distant recently,’ Emma said, panic in her voice. ‘I was down, but I’m a lot better now. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Dinner’s ready.’
‘I’m not hungry,’ Ian said, his voice flat. He sat on the sofa beside her, his briefcase at his feet.
‘What is it?’ Emma asked again, fear in her eyes. ‘You’re frightening me.’
Ian took a breath. Where to start? ‘I haven’t been to work today.’
‘No? Are you ill?’
He shook his head. ‘I went to the Moller Clinic again.’
‘Why?’
There was no easy way to say this. ‘Our DNA test results came back and they show we have the same biological father.’ He couldn’t bear to look at her.
‘No, that’s not possible. Moller told you it wasn’t.’
‘I know, but I’ve shown him the evidence and he’s changed his mind.’
‘Oh my God, Ian, No! Could he be wrong?’
‘No. I’ll show you the results. You have a right to know.’
Taking his laptop from his briefcase, Ian sombrely lifted the lid, then opened the page showing the paternity test. ‘Paternity ninety-nine per cent,’ he said, pointing. ‘It’s definite.’
The colour drained from Emma’s face. ‘That can’t be,’ she moaned, her hand going to her mouth. ‘It’s impossible. We can’t be brother and sister!’
‘We are. Biologically, at least, we are half brother and sister.’
‘That’s disgusting!’ Emma cried. ‘I feel ill. Is that the reason we can’t have healthy babies?’
‘It’s possible,’ Ian said quietly. ‘I don’t know.’
‘That clinic has ruined us!’ Emma sobbed. ‘All that pain and upset. It’s too awful for words. We’ll never be the same again. They need punishing. We’ll tell our parents to sue them. They mustn’t get away with this.’ She collapsed against him, crying.
‘Carstan Moller has already offered compensation,’ Ian said.
‘When? When did all this happen?’ she asked, raising her head to look at him.
‘I went to the clinic this morning and showed Moller these results. He got back to me this afternoon, after he’d checked his records. He admitted there’d been a mix up and we shared the same donor. He offered compensation straight away, but …’
‘But what?’ Emma asked.
‘I don’t know.’ Ian shrugged. ‘I’ve just got a feeling there’s more to it.’
‘What more could there be?’ Emma cried. ‘Isn’t this enough? It’s horrendous! A nightmare!’ Her tears fell and Ian comforted her as best he could.
‘Who is our donor?’ she asked at length, wiping her eyes on the tissue Ian passed. ‘Did you find out?’
‘No. That’s the thing. I can’t find any record of the donors at all.’
‘What, none?’ she asked. ‘I don’t understand. Where did you look?’
‘Emma, I’m going to show you something, but you must promise never to tell anyone. Not even your mother. I’ll be in a lot of trouble if this got out. I could go to prison.’
‘What have you done?’ Emma cried, more alarmed than ever.
‘I hacked into Moller’s computer,’ Ian said.
Emma stared at him.
‘You see all these folders?’ he said, showing her. ‘They are Moller’s files on his patients. But not one of them contains information about the donor or even a donor ID. I’ve been through them all.’
‘So surely that information must be kept elsewhere?’ Emma said.
‘That’s what I thou
ght to begin with, but I’ve been thinking about it and there’s no indication he has another computer. Nothing copied or erased. And why would he store those details separately unless he had something to hide? It was his work computer, his only computer as far as I could see. You’d expect it to contain all his work files.’
‘There’s the one for my parents,’ Emma said, pointing. ‘Can I have a look?’
‘If you want.’ Ian opened the folder and waited as Emma read the information.
‘There’s a lot of medical jargon, but it’s more or less what Mum told me,’ Emma said at length.
Ian waited until she’d finished and then closed the file. He moved the cursor down to the last folder. ‘And this one is odd,’ he said, opening the folder titled Second Generation. ‘It’s a spreadsheet of couples, but we’re on it. There are our names and contact details.’
‘But why?’ Emma asked, staring at the spreadsheet. ‘My God! There are the dates our babies were born. Why would Moller have recorded those? How would he know? We’ve never been to his clinic.’
‘Exactly,’ Ian said. ‘I’ve been thinking about this all afternoon and the only conclusion I can come to is that this is a record of the grandchildren of those he’d treated. That’s why it’s called “Second Generation”. Their parents were the first generation. But why he should be collecting that type of data I’ve no idea, especially as we haven’t used the clinic. I don’t know if any of the others listed here did. And why did so many babies die?’
‘Can we report him?’ Emma asked with a shiver.
‘It would be difficult,’ Ian said. ‘We can’t disclose how I came by this information.’
‘What about reporting him anonymously to the police? You can do it online now.’