Baby Dear: a gripping psychological thriller

by Linda Huber

  Baby Dear

  Linda Huber

  Contents

  Also by Linda Huber

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  A Note from Bloodhound Books:

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright © 2017 Linda Huber

  The right of Linda Huber to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2017 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  PRINT: 978-1-912175-21-5

  Created with Vellum

  Also by Linda Huber

  Psychological suspense novels:

  The Paradise Trees

  The Cold Cold Sea

  The Attic Room

  Chosen Child

  Ward Zero

  Feel-good short story collection:

  The Saturday Secret

  For my Huber and Keller families in Switzerland

  Prologue

  Thursday, 9th June

  The baby was still crying on the sofa, blood smeared down the front of her pink cardigan. He was sorry about that, poor baby – she must feel terrible with all that gunge on her chest. But at least the wails were dying down; it was more like whimpering now. He stared at her for a moment – not touching, in case he set the howls off again – just looking. How perfect she was.

  It was time. Thank God he still had the gun. He stood in the living room doorway where no one would see him from outside. The metal was cool in his hand; he took a deep, shaky breath and then another. Could he do this? Should he? Yes, of course he should, in fact he must, because it was the only way to end this hell. How good it would feel to be rid of the pain and confusion – when was the last time he’d felt like a normal human being, the last time he’d been happy? Weeks, if not months, and that was no way to live.

  He gripped the gun, his hand shaking, and stared at the baby. Had all that blood really come from such a small human being? But it wasn’t his blood either and oh, no, her thin little voice was yowling again, so maybe she was in pain. Quick, quick. It was the best way out for them both. They’d be together forever in heaven, and that would never happen in real life now.

  Even as a boy he’d been a good shot, one of those kids who always won the big cuddly toys you got at fairgrounds for shooting plastic discs off the wall. This would be much easier, but could he do it? End a life?

  His girl…

  He should do this quickly and put them both out of their misery.

  Eyes fixed on the baby, he raised the gun.

  1

  Friday 20th May

  Caro

  Caroline Horne shifted on her chair, the hard plastic hot beneath her legs. What was it with waiting rooms? She’d been okay about the appointment before she got here, but now butterflies the size of squirrels were crashing around in her tummy, and Jeff was hyperventilating beside her. This was their long-awaited consultation after the first round of fertility tests, and the outcome was the most important thing in Caro’s life. She wanted a baby to love. End of. Pushing unsteady fingers through brown curls, she exhaled through pursed lips. How much longer?

  ‘Mr and Mrs Horne? You can come through now. Dr Bingham will be with you in a moment.’

  A nurse led them into the consulting room and Caro perched on another uncomfortable chair, fighting to keep her hands steady. She clasped them firmly round her handbag and glanced at Jeff. He was trying to look at ease, leaning back in his chair with his legs stretched out, but she could see his fingers shaking, and the hair above his brow was dark red with sweat.

  Dr Bingham strode in, all distinguished grey hair and ‘Good to see you two again’. He took his place on the comfortable chair behind the desk, and clicked around on the computer.

  ‘Have you got the results?’ It was out before Caro had time to think. But there was no reason she shouldn’t ask; doctors weren’t gods in white coats nowadays, and he knew as well as Jeff did how she felt about this baby – the one who didn’t exist yet.

  As Dr Bingham leaned across the desk and clasped his hands, panic seared through Caro. This wasn’t going to be good news; she could tell. She reached across and gripped Jeff’s hand, and he squeezed back.

  Dr Bingham’s voice oozed warmth and sympathy. ‘We have and I’m sorry, but there’s a problem.’

  Caro closed her eyes. No, no. Every other woman she knew could have babies. Why couldn’t she?

  ‘Mr Horne – Jeff, I’m afraid the problem lies with you.’

  Caro’s eyes shot open – what was he saying? A guttural croak rasped from Jeff’s throat as he snatched his hand away, feet jerking back under his chair.

  ‘What problem?’ Again, it was Caro who asked. Her hands were slippery on her bag. This couldn’t be happening. The nurse was giving Jeff a glass of water, and his teeth were chattering against it.

  Dr Bingham began to explain. It was one of those things, he said, not anyone’s fault, though Caro could tell this was something he said to all the worried couples in a situation like this. It was better if it wasn’t anyone’s fault.

  She couldn’t help herself; she began to cry, and the doctor pushed an almost-empty box of tissues towards her. Jeff tried to take her hand, but she needed both of hers to blow her nose and wipe her eyes. The doctor went on to say Jeff’s sperm count was low. Very low. All but non-existent, in fact. A horrible wave of nausea hit Caro, and Jeff slumped in his chair, his cheeks turning mottled red and white. Dr Bingham went on with his explanation, sympathy written all over his face, though of course it was an act. Doctors didn’t get personally involved.

  Caro sat there, stiff and unmoving as a white-hot thread of horror gripped her heart and spread like fire to every corner of her being. ‘So – can I still have a baby?’ It came out in a squeak.

  If they wanted a child that was biologically theirs, explained Dr Bingham, the only option was IVF. In-vitro fertilisation. Jeff’s almost non-existent sperm could be injected into Caro’s eggs to see if a baby would start. If it did, it would be replanted into Caro’s womb to grow. But Jeff’s sperm was apparently of such poor quality that even this was unlikely.

  Caro stared at the doctor, unable to speak. So. There would be no baby for her and Jeff. No pram-pushing in the park, no school run, no happy family. No everything she’d ever wanted, everything she’d been planning for the past two and a bit years.

  Dr Bingham came around the desk and sat on the edge right in front of them. ‘There are other options. Artificial insemination, or…’

  Jeff leapt up. ‘No – way,’ he said, and Caro flinched at the despair in his voice. ‘I do – not – want – another man’s child growing in
my wife.’

  He fled from the room, and Caro blinked at the doctor. Exactly three minutes later she was running after Jeff, clutching a handful of leaflets on everything from IVF to adoption.

  And her whole world was a different place.

  2

  Monday, 23rd May

  Sharon

  Sharon Morrison rolled her feet to the floor, then heaved herself up from the sofa, one arm round her enormous belly. She stood for a moment to get her balance and caught sight of her reflection in the glass door of the drinks cabinet. How on earth had her life come to this?

  It was crass. She spent half the time panting and puffing because the baby was taking up so much room she couldn’t breathe properly, and she could hardly move because she’d put on sixteen kilos and waddled now instead of walking. With her long blonde hair and pink-and-white complexion, she looked like Miss Piggy on an off-day.

  Blinking back tears, Sharon trailed into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Afternoon tea for one, and it would be dinner for one too. Craig had gone to Glasgow for an Opticians Association dinner, and normally she’d have gone with him, wearing a lovely evening dress and feeling glamorous beside her tall Mr Darcy-lookalike husband. Glamorous! That was a bad joke these days, when she barely managed half-an-hour without rushing to the loo. Posh dinners and networking with Craig’s colleagues was beyond her, so he’d gone without her – but that was typical of their marriage nowadays.

  She stood massaging her bump and was rewarded by the usual gut-wrenching sensation as the baby moved beneath her hands. It was a girl; they’d known that since the 20-week scan. In spite of herself Sharon smiled, then pressed her lips together as two tears escaped and trickled down to her chin. They hadn’t planned this baby. They’d been busy working their way up their respective career ladders and collecting furniture for the flat, one of five luxury apartments in the centre of Bridgehead. They had the best one, right on top with a roof terrace overlooking the river. On a clear day, you could see Edinburgh and the Forth Bridges. Life had been exactly as Sharon wanted it – fun, interesting and heaven knows she was married to the man of her dreams.

  Then around the middle of October she’d been sick two mornings in a row. The first time she blamed the sushi she’d had at a party the night before, though Craig was fine and he’d eaten sushi too. But the following morning she was sick again and somehow, she felt different. A niggling suspicion was worming its way into her head. That tummy bug she’d had a few weeks ago… Sharon bought a pregnancy test on the way to work and locked herself in the loo as soon as she got there. Positive. The doctor confirmed that even one day of the runs could be – and obviously had been – enough to stop her pill working.

  So, there she was, pregnant and scared and resentful, knowing Craig would be scared and resentful too, and he was. Oh, they’d talked about a baby one day – in five or six years, maybe. But not yet. The baby had stolen five years of her life. Why had she kept it? Her good Catholic upbringing could take the blame for that.

  The kettle boiled and Sharon poured water over a Lady Grey teabag in the Clarice Cliff mug Craig had given her last Christmas. A comfort drink in an expensive mug. Had Craig arrived in Glasgow yet? In the pre-pregnancy days, they’d texted each other about things like that, but this baby had put an end to even light-hearted communication, never mind the deep stuff. It was dire. Sharon had no idea how Craig felt about approaching fatherhood, or the sudden terrible change in their relationship. He’d never been big on heart-to-hearts, and now he was ignoring the pregnancy as hard as he could. What if he couldn’t live with a baby? What if she couldn’t? What if he left her?

  Sharon pushed the mug away. If she stayed here any longer she would go bananas. The sun was shining – she would walk through the park to the library.

  Pulling her jacket round her bump, she left the flat. It wasn’t going to be a fascinating outing. But at least it was a distraction from being four weeks away from giving birth and still not sure if you wanted to be a mother.

  Julie

  Ten to three, her shift was nearly over. Julie Mayhew wheeled the ‘Returns’ trolley over to the ‘B’ section in Bridgehead Public Library and began to insert the books into the shelves. Dan Brown had done well this week; he always did in the holiday season. So had Agatha Christie, thanks to the recent series of Poirot films on TV, and Miss Marple had profited by association.

  Julie glanced outside as she moved across to ‘D’. A woman was making her way up the driveway, hands clasped under an enormous belly. The poor soul looked as if she could barely put one foot in front of the other; she had flopped down on the bench under the ash tree now. Julie winced in sympathy. It could have been her a few months ago, hugely pregnant and permanently exhausted. This woman was about her age, but the resemblance between them ended there, if that posh maternity outfit was anything to go by.

  Julie glanced down at her own clothes and grinned. Who cared that she was wearing chain store trousers and a blouse from Mirabelle’s pre-summer sale? Her figure was back to normal at last.

  ‘Off you go now, Julie. I’ll finish these.’

  Dee-Cee Taylor, the head librarian, took over the trolley, and Julie escaped.

  Her steps slowed as she drew level with the woman on the bench. ‘Are you okay? I work here – would you like to come in for a cup of tea?’

  The words were out before she’d engaged her brain and Julie had to force herself not to glance at her watch. If she took this woman inside for tea there would be no time to do the shopping before collecting Sam from After School Club and Amy from the child minder’s, which would mean dragging a tired four-year-old and a baby round the supermarket. Not a great end to the working day.

  The woman heaved herself up. ‘I’d kill for a cup of anything wet. It was further than I thought, coming here. And my legs don’t seem to hold me up as well these days.’

  The words were cynical, but gratitude flitted across the other woman’s face before being replaced by a wry expression.

  ‘Been there and got two t-shirts,’ said Julie, linking arms. Time to do her good deed for the day.

  It was difficult to keep the humorous tone in her voice when she heard the woman’s story, though. It was so different to her own. This Sharon had both money and a husband, and although she admitted she’d planned to start a family ‘someday’, neither she nor her husband seemed to be looking forward to their baby.

  Julie was silent for a moment. Even during the worst time, just after Matt left, she had never stopped wanting her children. In fact, being Sam’s mum and looking forward to Amy’s birth were the two things that had kept her going.

  ‘You think I’m a selfish cow,’ said Sharon, and Julie could hear the flatness in her voice.

  ‘I think you’re a scared selfish cow,’ she said frankly, leaning back in her chair. ‘Are you worried your husband might leave you? Or have an affair? I’ve got both those t-shirts too – but it doesn’t take a pregnancy for it to happen.’

  Sharon rubbed her hands over her face. ‘Some t-shirt collection you’ve got. I suppose I am looking forward to the baby. In a way. But – nothing’s going to be the same again, is it? I don’t know anyone else with a baby, and I don’t know what Craig thinks about it all either.’

  Julie stood up. ‘Look, I have to collect my kids. Why don’t we go somewhere for lunch on Wednesday? I finish work at twelve. You’d meet my little one and we’d have more time to talk. And I could introduce you to a couple of friends with babies. One of them’s due in four weeks so you might even end up in the labour ward together.’

  ‘Great. We can yell a duet across the corridor.’

  They made arrangements, then Julie raced towards the town centre. At least Sharon had a sense of humour. It sounded like she’d need it.

  Jeff

  The supermarket was going to be mobbed. Four o’clock on Monday afternoon wasn’t a good time to go shopping, he thought, staring glumly at his list. He and Caro did the weekly shop on Thursdays, but
of course last week Jeff hadn’t known he was going to need ingredients for a special meal.

  He stood at the kitchen window and watched as the Cameron’s Ford lurched into the carport next door. Gina helped her two oldest kids from the car and then unloaded the baby, and hot tears sprang into Jeff’s eyes. How lucky they were. Gina would have been to the park with the other mums, and they’d have talked about heaven knows what and played with the kids, maybe had a coffee somewhere. How Caro would have loved to be a part of all this, no, how she would love it – because it wasn’t completely impossible, was it? Surely, they might still become parents someday?

  Dream on, said a sarcastic little voice in his head.

  Jeff turned back to the immaculate kitchen and slid a cup into the espresso machine. Dr Bingham’s words last week had echoed round and round his head ever since, and he hadn’t been able to stop them. It had been the worst afternoon of his life – talk about Black Friday. What were they going to do?

  Jeff lifted his cup and wandered through to the living room, picturing his wife with a baby. Cradling it and singing – happy, smiling, loving, like she’d always wanted. What if she left him? Another man would be able to give her a baby.

  For the nth time since Friday, a wave of nausea rolled through him, and Jeff massaged his stomach, taking shallow breaths. He had a lovely wife he was crazy about, and a beautiful home. It was enough for him, but Caro wanted nothing more than to be a mother. They’d been married for just over two years and trying for a baby almost since the beginning.

  A sob caught in Jeff’s throat. He and Caro were happy together. He could give her everything else she wanted – she wouldn’t want to split up over this, would she? The weekend had passed in a daze; they’d barely talked about the implications of his infertility, mainly because he’d escaped to work for most of the time. He couldn’t face Caro’s eyes and it was all too raw, too painful. But they had to talk.