Thinking of April carrying Will’s child, I feel a surge of hatred for Will. “What about the baby?”
“She miscarried. But she wouldn’t talk about it.” Bea’s eyes are full of tears. “I think that’s why she went away. So unfair, after all she’d been through.”
‘Life isn’t fair.’ It’s true. There’s no invisible quota of good and bad, success and failure, meted out to all of us in equal measure. My thoughts turn to her clients. “And as a counselor, she helps women who face the same.”
Bea nods. And I can’t help thinking April’s work must be a constant reminder of her own loss.
A sigh comes from Bea, as she shakes her head, then gazes past me. “Remember how we were in school? Teenagers who thought we could do anything. Look at us now. Single. Lonely . . .”
“Will isn’t. And single’s not so bad. Anyway, you’ll meet someone, Bea. Give it time.”
Her smile is rueful. “What about you, Noah? Are you really happy?”
“I tried happiness. Don’t worry, there’ve been other girls—it just didn’t work out. And I’ve lived alone far too long.” Then I hesitate. “Can I trust you with something, Bea? I need you to swear this will stay between us. Just us—for now, at least.”
Her eyes are wide as she nods.
“I think April had discovered something strange going on at a couple of hospitals. Some of her clients were carrying babies diagnosed with a heart condition. I’ve read up a bit, and it was something that these days should have been treatable. Only, at two hospitals, the mortality rates were through the roof.”
But she shrugs. “You read about this, though, don’t you? Some hospitals happen to be much better or worse than the others. Don’t they call it the postcode lottery?”
“Yes. But this is different. We’re talking about reputable hospitals. St. George’s in north London and the Princess Royal, here in Tonbridge.”
I watch her turn blue eyes toward me, the flicker of interest in them. “The obvious person to talk to is Will.”
“No.” The word is out before I’ve thought it. “I need to know more before I talk to him.”
“Are you sure of your facts?”
“Almost. Anyway, they’re not mine. They’re April’s. But don’t you see? There could be a cover-up going on—and if word gets out, you can bet that all the evidence will disappear. No. What I think I need to do is talk to the families whose babies were involved.”
“What will you tell them?”
I sigh. “That April was putting together her own research. That it might help other families . . . Unless you have a better idea.”
Bea’s hand is conspiratorial, reaching across the table, closing round mine. “Keep in touch, Noah. Let me know what you find.”
Ella
My life is full of other people’s lies, because it’s easier for them to lie than tell the truth. Harmless little white lies to protect someone, and the daffodil-yellow ones that are a cover-up, but that’s still okay, isn’t it, because no one knows. Even the whopping big blue ones don’t count—there’s always such a really good reason for them; scarlet red lies that are blatant—anyway, you’ve told so many by now, what’s the difference?
Which brings me to the black ones that twist your beliefs about really important things; that are about hidden papers and fake names and overheard phone calls. lost photos that were never really lost, the young life that was stolen—by parents who aren’t really parents of a child who was never theirs.
37
There are those who choose to remain silent. Even so, I speak to too many grieving, devastated people. Drink mugs of their tea; hear their stories; am humbled by their fortitude. Come away with notes of dates and consultants’ names, know I can only begin to imagine their grief. And still, nothing stands out.
The breakthrough comes as I’m leaving the last family, the Miltons, whose quiet sadness leaves me strangely moved. Having thanked them as sincerely as I can, for making me so welcome, I’m walking down their neat gravel drive to my car when, behind me, the front door opens again.
“Mr. Calaway?”
I turn to see Tina Milton waving something at me, hear her soft, quick footsteps as she catches up to me.
“It may be nothing, but we thought we should tell you. It was after the last scan—before any possible treatment was discussed. Because our baby died, because we never went back . . .” Her voice wavers. “But we were sent a form to fill out. A questionnaire. We looked through it when it arrived, but because of what happened . . . well, it wasn’t until recently I realized we’d both thought the same. For families who face losing their baby, the questions are, well, I thought, insensitive. And not relevant. Like I said, it might be nothing but you’re welcome to take this with you.”
But she believes there is something. It’s in her eyes, in the spark of anger that blazes there that’s as quickly gone, in its place a resigned sadness.
I can’t smile, just take it from her.
“Thank you.”
* * *
After a day of emotional range from anger to despair, I wait until I’m back at my B&B to look at what Tina Milton’s given me.
As I read, I’m increasingly puzzled. The first questions are innocuous enough, asking about the pregnancy, the baby’s birth, the health of both parents. But as I read on, there are more probing questions, about family history, schools, education, going on to ask about occupations and income, which in the case of an inclusive health service and a sick baby should be insignificant.
There’s a note at the start, which states that completing the questionnaire is by no means compulsory, but will help with how ongoing treatment is specifically tailored to individuals, which sounds perfectly plausible. But as I read through the questions again, I’m not sure. I search the form for the doctor’s name or medical department that’s sent it, and find an address: Fairview Medical Centre, 78 Elm Street, Wandsworth.
I pull out my laptop and type it into the search bar. Fairview Medical Centre does indeed exist. I find a number of listings and then a website.
It looks impressive—a large, white double-fronted house that is no doubt worth a fortune. There are more photos of the interior, the grand reception, stylish waiting area, the consulting rooms. Other than describing the practice as a provider of state-of-the-art medical care and that appointments are by referral only, the website says little else but points me toward a contact form for e-mail inquiries.
I wonder if Will ever works there. Then I pause, deep in thought, because on first sight it looks genuine enough, but the questionnaire still niggles at me. Using the contact form, I send a quick e-mail. Not wanting to draw attention to myself, I don’t tell them why, just that I’m interested to know more about what they can offer, asking if someone could contact me. But as I send the email, something else is on my mind. It makes sense to visit your nearest hospital, particularly when frequent appointments are involved. If you lived close to here, that hospital would be the Princess Royal. After all, why go farther when the specialist unit is on your doorstep?
I’m frowning as it comes back to me. One of April’s clients, not far from here in Sevenoaks, had gone somewhere else. I reach for my list, and as I scan the names, suddenly I remember who it was. One of the first people I spoke to.
Nina Hendry.
Even though it’s late, I call her, but she doesn’t pick up. Resigning myself to having to wait until tomorrow, I leave a message, but only a few minutes later she calls me back.
“Thanks for getting back to me. I’m sorry it’s so late, but it might be important.”
“It’s okay. I’m curious. What was it you wanted to know?”
“Forgive me. . . .” I hesitate. “But your babies . . . I didn’t want to ask before, but did they have heart problems?”
She pauses, then says, “Yes. Both of them.”
“I saw from April’s notes that you didn’t go to the Princess Royal last year. Was there a reason for that?”
I’ve considered practical reasons, such as the Princess Royal had been full, the hospital she’d chosen was closer to her parents and she needed their support, or she’d heard the best consultants were there.
She pauses, then says, “I took my first baby to the Princess Royal. But by the time my second was born, there were rumors.”
“What sort of rumors?” My heart quickens.
“I’m not sure I should say. The Princess Royal is a good hospital. But when I was pregnant the last time, I found this forum online. It was a kind of support system for mothers in the same boat as I was. Anyway . . . I read something. I could never be sure if it was accurate, but when you’re pregnant, especially when you’ve already lost one baby, you don’t take chances.”
“What had you heard?”
“Just that . . . Well, just that it was a bit of a lottery there. It was probably nothing, but someone posted that not all babies were treated the same. There was a whole thread dedicated to it. You can probably still find it if you want to. Anyway, for the record, I’d never had a bad experience there myself, but I thought losing one baby was bad enough. I needed to do the best I could for the next one.”
Then her voice changes. “Oh God. Are you telling me there is something? Is that why I lost him?”
I realize then, the guilt doesn’t leave you. “As yet, there’s no evidence, but as April’s lawyer, I need to find out. If you can please keep this to yourself, at least for now, I can assure you I’m looking into it. If I find any proof, I’ll go straight to the police.”
“And I’m sorry I’ve troubled you,” I say again. Sorry, a pitifully inadequate word for the guilt I’ve resurrected in her. “I really am. But what you’ve told me may be useful. And there’s no way you could have known anything. There really isn’t”
“Promise me,” Nina’s voice is hard, “if there is something, you’ll get to the bottom of it.”
Her words ignite a spark in me. No longer am I doing this just for April. It’s for Nina, Daisy, Lara, and all the other mothers I’ve never met who have been to hell and are still caught there. Who deserve justice.
Ella
Do you know how cheap it is, to check out who you really are?
“We’re doing this project in school,” I tell my mother. “Like about family history.”
“How interesting,” she says, only not like she means it. You can tell. “What do you think of this dress, honey?”
“They want me to find out all this stuff,” I tell her. “Like where I was born. I know it was a hospital, just not which one.”
“I’m not sure.” My heart skips a beat. “I think it might be too long for me.” Then sinks.
I don’t believe it. She’s talking about a freaking dress, but that’s how our conversations are. I try again. “I thought you said it was the Royal Berkshire. . . .”
She looks at me blankly, as she remembers the question. “Oh . . . You mean the hospital? Yes. It was.” Then she frowns. “What did you say this was about?”
I roll my eyes, act like it’s nothing when this is practically the biggest deal of my entire life. “I told you. Some really lame school project I’m behind with, because it’s so freaking dull.”
It sends her off on a tangent, just as I knew it would. I wait for the rant. “Honestly, Ella, I wish you wouldn’t talk like that. Your school fees cost a fortune. And it’s such a good school, you really should work harder.”
“Mostly I work really hard,” I tell her, pissed off at her for saying that because she already knows my grades are good—and because she’s my mother, isn’t she? Can’t she see past what I’m asking her—tell there’s something wrong?
“I’m going to watch TV.”
She looks relieved then, because she has dresses to think about. Of course, I’m not watching TV—well, it’ll be switched on but I won’t actually be watching, because my head is buzzing with a million noisy thoughts. But also, there’s something I have to do.
It doesn’t take long. And it’s so easy. All you need is a laptop and your parents’ names. The name of the place where you were born, a credit card, and a few minutes. That’s all.
What’s harder is the waiting. The fifteen days they tell you it will take, for that envelope to reach you, which, when you open it, will make sense of everything. Tell you how you are the person you think you are; that you were born in the Royal Berkshire on October 30, just as they told you; that your parents are your parents; that you’re just a regular paranoid teenager with an overactive imagination. Time you learned to keep it in check.
Only after fifteen days, the envelope doesn’t come. After seventeen days, you’re still waiting. Did you make a mistake? Have they somehow lost you? But instead of the letter I’ve pinned my hopes on, I get an e-mail.
Birth certificate Ella Vivian Farrington
We have been unable to process your application.
Please refer to the paragraph below.
We have been unable to find any entry with the details you provided.
Crash and burn, Ella’s parents, whoever she is, only you’re not her parents, are you? Who’s Ella? Really? Or did you make her up?
They’ll refund my money. I don’t care about the freaking money.
£9.25—The cost of discovering you don’t exist.
38
I’m at the heart of a gathering storm, where clouds of confusion loom overhead and I can’t see the way forward because the sunlight has dimmed. Easy then, for Detective Sergeant Ryder to find me.
He looks excessively pleased with himself as I get up from my breakfast table and, with a sinking feeling, because nothing to do with Ryder is ever pleasant, go out to where he’s standing in the hallway.
Swiveling cold eyes in my direction, he stops talking to my landlady.
“There are some questions I need to ask you, sir.” Deliberately speaking loud enough that everyone stops, midbreakfast, to gawp, though I’m the only one who hears his smirk.
“Ask away.” I shrug, as his eyes shift.
“It would be helpful if you’d come down to the station,” he says more quietly.
“I’ve told you everything I know.” I’m irritated, because I know his game. He must be more stupid than I thought. “If you have enough evidence, come and arrest me.”
I’m bluffing, trusting my instincts that he hasn’t.
“Mr. Calaway, you will be coming back, won’t you?” My landlady hovers, more anxious about my bill than my well-being.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
For once at a loss for words, Ryder glowers.
Hiding my anger under a veneer of calm, I turn to go back to my breakfast. Feeling all eyes on me, the wave of Ryder’s fury as he leaves, sitting down, only to find that my eggs are congealed and bacon is cold.
* * *
Again, I go to the hospital, but instead of the familiar police presence just inside, April’s room is empty.
“Hello . . .” I’m holding on to the door frame, fearing the worst, as I turn to see the friendly nurse standing behind me.
“Where is she?” I feel the blood draining from my face, because I can’t let April down, not this time. She can’t die.
“She’s been moved,” the nurse says quietly. “If you come with me, I’ll show you where she is.”
I follow her farther along the corridor through another set of swing doors, where she shows me into a larger room divided into several cubicles with a door into another much smaller room, which is where she is. Through the glass, I can see a police uniform.
“I’m afraid she’s not responding to the antibiotics as well as we’d hoped. She’ll have more nursing care in here.”
My ears are assaulted by an orchestra of electronic noise. I glance around, taking in the inert figures in each of the beds, wondering how it is that no one wakes.
“She’s quite poorly. Is there anyone who should be told?” Against the background noise, the nurse’s voice is quiet, but my ears make out each syllable, th
e intonation of every word.
“I don’t think so.” As far as I know, April has no family.
Then suddenly I’m thinking hard, because if I’m on the right track and my investigation is discovered, there’s the risk that whoever’s involved will immediately destroy all the evidence. And because I don’t know who else to ask, I turn to her. “Look, would you have a moment to talk?”
“Of course . . . Is it about Ms. Rousseau?”
“Yes, but not directly.” I glance around. “Is there somewhere quieter?”
“Come with me.”
I follow her round a corner of the corridor, where she gestures toward a group of chairs. “We shouldn’t be disturbed here.”
“I think I told you I was acting as April’s lawyer?” Hearing my voice echo along the empty stretch of corridor, I lower it.
She nods. Her brown eyes are full of compassion and her name tag is pinned to her dress. Luisa. I’ve been here almost every day, but until now, I haven’t seen that.
“I think she discovered something.” My words fast, my voice quiet. “If I’m right, she’d found out something to do with newborns who had heart problems. She collected all this data from hospitals around the country—but at two of them, mortality rates were significantly higher.”
She frowns. “You’re sure about this?”
I nod. “The question is, why? But what seems odd is that one of them was giving families a questionnaire to fill out.”
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