In the Blood

by Ruth Mancini

‘Oh, and Anna sent this, too. She got permission from the family judge last week.’

  I hand the statement to Will. ‘Ah-ha. Jay Barrington-Brown. Let’s see what he has to say.’

  ‘Not a lot,’ I concede. ‘I don’t think you’ll want to witness-summons him.’

  Will scans the page and turns it over. ‘Liss?’ he queries, as he reads on. ‘Who’s Liss?’

  ‘That’s his name for Ellie. It’s her escort name.’

  Will glances up at me and then continues to read. ‘Well,’ he says, finally. ‘He may regret the relationship with “Liss”, but this guy clearly loves his child.’

  ‘Yes. It’s quite touching,’ I agree. ‘He seems completely distraught that Finn has been harmed. But in terms of hard evidence against Ellie, there’s nothing there, nothing that he’s witnessed or can corroborate for himself.’

  Will wrinkles his nose. ‘Forget him,’ he says. ‘He’s not on the list of prosecution witnesses. Let’s move on.’

  We spend another hour running through the expert reports and create a schedule of both Finn’s and Ellie’s medical records. There are one or two helpful references to Ellie’s impetigo back in 2008 and a note of the advice given: just keep the area clean and come back for antibiotic cream if it doesn’t improve. When we’ve finished, we run through the prosecution response to our disclosure request. Will gives me some final pointers as to the remaining items of disclosure I need to chase up from the prosecution, and then we are done. We part company at the bus stop on Fetter Lane and agree to meet again with Ellie in a week’s time.

  *

  On the Friday before the trial begins, Lucy calls up to tell me that Ellie is downstairs in reception to see me. I’ve just got back from Highbury Magistrates’ Court across the road. It’s freezing outside and I’ve grabbed a hot soup from the deli opposite the Tube station. Matt’s gone to the pub with some of the others and the office is empty.

  Ellie is tucked up warmly in a stylish, figure-hugging navy-blue parka and custard-coloured corduroys. Her face is framed by a plush fur ruff.

  ‘So what are you wearing, then?’ I smile. ‘And who made the handbag?’

  ‘Canada-goose down,’ she says, pushing her hood down and flicking her hair out with one hand. She takes a seat. ‘The handbag’s Michael Kors.’

  ‘Never heard of him,’ I say, dismissively.

  Ellie smiles. ‘It’s not what you’re thinking. They’re presents from a grateful ex-client, that’s all.’

  ‘So, how are you feeling?’ I ask her.

  ‘Nervous,’ she says. ‘In a way. But in another way... well, the sooner this is over, the sooner I get Finn back.’

  I push my soup to one side. ‘Look, Ellie. Don’t get your hopes up too much, OK? I mean, it’s always good to be optimistic, but... the case against you is strong.’

  ‘But I’ve got you back now and Will’s a brilliant lawyer,’ Ellie says. ‘If anyone can get me off, it’s him.’

  ‘I agree with that statement, Ellie. I agree with it entirely,’ I tell her. ‘But it’s still a big “if”. As Will told you the very first time he met you, in the absence of anything to rebut it, the presumption is going to be that it was you; you that injured Finn, you who poisoned him... and, therefore, you that pulled out his dialysis line.’

  Ellie heaves a big sigh. ‘But what about the escort agency? Maria says she will attend court if I need her to.’

  ‘I know. But she can only tell the jury that you were away from Finn some of the time. She can’t tell them that you didn’t hurt him.’

  Ellie looks away towards the window.

  ‘And the same with the salt poisoning,’ I tell her. ‘We will imply that it was Marie, that she’d been careless when she fed Finn. Or that it was Darren. That he’d come home from the pub and given Chinese food to Finn, or something equally salty. We just have to hope that the jury can’t be sure.’

  ‘That won’t exactly clear my name, though, will it?’ Ellie says. ‘If they’re not sure?’

  ‘They’d have to find you not guilty of attempted murder. You would walk free.’

  ‘But I still might not get Finn back?’

  ‘Ellie, I don’t know,’ I tell her. ‘I’m sorry. I just don’t know. Anna told me that he’s going to be released from hospital next week. He’ll go to the Barrington-Browns, to the house in Richmond. And as soon as the trial is over they’ll apply for a care order. He’s got his dad, his grandmother and his grandfather and a huge house. I don’t want to alarm you, but I don’t want to raise your expectations too high either. The fact is, you’ve got strong competition.’

  Ellie heaves a sigh. She looks down and picks at the cuticle around her thumb.

  ‘You’ve talked to Marie again?’ I ask her, tentatively.

  She lifts her chin up. ‘I’ve tried. She’s broken up with Darren, for good this time. But she doesn’t want to know. She’s worried that the finger is going to point at her. She’s doing a childcare qualification. She wants to do childminding, properly, for a living.’

  The door bursts open and Matt appears. ‘Sarah, there are two in at the cop shop. Holborn. Can you cover?’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Just gone two,’ he says.

  It’s going to be pushing it, to get to Holborn, deal with two cases and then get back for Ben at six. But I can’t say no, not this time. Matt’s already upset about losing Ellie’s case back to me, and I’m going to be out of the office all next week, shadowing Will on her trial.

  ‘OK,’ I agree, knowing that I’ve just created an afternoon of utter stress for myself.

  Matt’s face lights up. ‘Good one,’ he says.

  ‘I’ll just finish up with Ellie here, and then—’

  ‘No worries. I’ll get Lucy to let them know you’re on your way.’ He shuts the door.

  ‘I’m going to have to go,’ I tell Ellie. ‘Sorry. Is there anything else you needed to talk to me about?’

  ‘It can wait,’ Ellie says. ‘I’ll see you on Monday, won’t I?’

  ‘Of course you will. Get there early. We’ll have time to talk before the jury selection begins.’

  I say goodbye to Ellie at Highbury Corner and take the number nineteen bus towards Battersea. As soon as I settle onto the bus, I realise I’ve left my iPad on my desk. Damn. That means I’ll have to go back to the office over the weekend to pick it up. It’s little things like this – parking and running up to the office, or running anywhere come to that – that are hard to do with Ben in tow. Hopefully Alex will be over at some point this weekend and won’t mind staying in the car with Ben while I run up to my desk.

  What am I saying? Of course he won’t mind. He never minds. And in actual fact... I pull my phone out of my bag and check the time again. It’s now half past two. If there are any delays at the police station – and there often are – I am going to be in big trouble. I wonder if Alex is at work today?

  I sit there looking at my phone for a moment, before tapping the little envelope on the front screen and finding his name.

  Hi, love, I type into the screen. You around this pm per chance? On way to cop shop and have horrible feeling I won’t get back for Ben.

  There. Done. He won’t mind me asking; he might even be pleased. It will show him that I trust him, I tell myself, as I think back with shame to my rather insensitive quizzing of him at the hospital in Oxford, the way I shouted at him on the morning that Ben was sick and didn’t turn up at school.

  I open my bag to check that I have, if not my iPad, my Police Operational Handbook, the forms I need and a notepad and pen. I pull out the notepad and flick through the pages to check there’s enough paper left. From the back of the notepad the faxed copies of the statements from Anna flutter to the floor of the bus.

  I bend down to pick them up and glance at them again. I flick through the medical report. Is there anything, anything at all, to hold onto, I wonder? I scan through its pages, once again, before turning to the conclusion at the back. Based on the
data available to me, I can’t conclude with a sufficient degree of certainty that the injuries were deliberately inflicted. However, this opinion may be subject to modification in the light of any additional information that becomes available. And well it might, I conclude in turn. Calling this expert to give evidence on Ellie’s behalf could easily backfire. If he changes his mind in court and agrees with the prosecution, our position could weaken substantially.

  Behind the report is the statement from Jay Barrington-Brown. Here’s another one that might potentially help us, but probably won’t. Will has already said that we should leave him well alone. I scan through it one more time. Will’s right. There’s nothing there.

  As I get off the bus at Holborn, my phone whistles. I quickly pull it out of my bag. I can get him. Don’t worry. See you at home. X. At home. The tension melts out of me and I smile to myself as I text back, You’re a lifesaver. Love you. Hopefully back by 7. X

  It is, in fact, nearly seven when I walk out of Holborn police station and head for the Tube. I won’t make it back before half past. It really is a very good job that I made the decision to text Alex and arrange for him to collect Ben. I pull my phone out of my bag and switch it back on, then send a quick text to Alex: All done. On my way. X.

  I walk down Theobald’s Road and turn the corner past Red Lion Square, towards the Tube station. I wonder what Alex wants to do about dinner; there’s not much in. I click on the icon next to his name and call his number. It rings out, so I leave a message. As I turn into High Holborn I spot the Sainsbury’s Local ahead of me on the other side of the road. I could pick something up here; it’ll save me stopping off when I get off the Tube at the other end. I call Alex’s number again, and then ring my own landline. No answer. He’s probably changing Ben.

  I cross the road and head into Sainsbury’s, where I walk up and down the cold aisle trying to decide what to buy. I choose a pack of salmon and a tray of Mediterranean vegetables and join the queue at the checkout. I glance at my phone again, but there’s still no word from Alex, so I pay for the food and head out of the shop. I join the crowd standing at the pelican crossing, a vague sense of unease tugging at my gut. Why isn’t he answering? It doesn’t take this long to change Ben.

  I cross the road and head into the Tube station. This is the quickest route home, but I also know that I’ll have no signal once I head down into the tunnel. It would be good to know before I start my journey that the boys are home, safe and sound, that everything’s OK. On a whim, I turn round and leave the station, crossing back over the road the way I’ve just come. I’ll give him another five minutes, I tell myself, and then I’ll call again. And if there’s still no answer, I’ll just go on home; I’m sure I’m worrying for nothing. I’m sure everything is just fine.

  I head back into Sainsbury’s to escape the cold, but stop just inside the doorway; I don’t want to risk losing my phone signal and missing a call. I glance at the magazine rack on the wall to my left and my eyes alight on a copy of Hello! magazine. I reach out and take it off the rack. I flick past the pictures of Princess Catherine, who’s on a trip abroad somewhere, long-legged and beautiful as always. Victoria Beckham and her glamorous family are next, followed by the inevitable group photo of the latest society wedding – the goddaughter of some duke that I’ve never heard of who’s marrying some wealthy European prince. I’m just about to flick on past it when I suddenly see Eleanor Barrington-Brown smiling out at me from the row at the front near to the bride and groom. She’s wearing a huge wide-brimmed white hat with a grey trim, and a matching grey coat-dress with a fur batwing collar. Next to her is a handsome man in his sixties, wearing a pinstriped morning suit: Lord Barrington-Brown.

  The instant I see his face, I know I’ve seen it before. I know that expression; I know those deep-set navy-blue eyes, the way they crinkle at the corners. I know the shape of his nose, the set of his jaw. I stand there and peer at him for a moment in confusion. Suddenly, my gut tightens... it can’t be, can it? I quickly scan the rest of the group. There at the very back, head and shoulders only just visible, barely noticeable to anyone who’s not looking for him, is Alex.

  My blood runs cold. I stare into his face, my heart hammering against my chest, my body numb. Someone bumps into me from behind and I jerk forward like a puppet, the magazine sliding from my fingers onto the floor. I bend down to pick it up, but my legs are so weak that I think they might give way, that I’m going to fall into a heap on the ground. My fingers fumble for the magazine and I manage to stand up and place it back on the shelf, before moving in a mindless daze out of the shop.

  And then I’m running. I’m running across the road, without waiting for the lights to change. I’m vaguely aware of a row of cars, all screeching to a halt in front of me, horns blaring, people stopping and looking around in alarm. I run into the Tube station, fumbling in my bag for my Oyster card as I go. I flash it at the card reader, simultaneously slamming my body into the barriers, barely waiting for them to open before I push my way through and run down the escalator, edging my fellow passengers out of my way.

  I swear out loud as I round the corner onto the platform and a train pulls away. I stagger backwards on the platform and sink down onto the wooden bench behind me, clutching my bag against my chest and trying to control my breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth, isn’t that what they say? Or is it the other way round?

  I pull my bag open and reach inside, my hands now shaking uncontrollably as I pull apart my notepad, and sift through page after page of my handwritten scribble, the notes from the cases I’ve dealt with this afternoon. Where are they? There they are. I pull out the faxed statements from Anna, which are tucked untidily in between a police custody record and a disclosure notice. I flick past the expert report and pull out the statement of Jay Barrington-Brown. The font is small and the faxed print is faint. I squint at the statement of truth and then cast my eyes upwards to read: Statement of: James Alexander Barrington-Brown. Occupation: Neurologist.

  And in that moment, I know for sure.

  I know what’s been happening to my little boy.

  17

  The Tube journey takes less than fifteen minutes but each minute feels like an hour. I stand next to the doors, paralytic with fear, as the train jolts and rattles its way through the blackened tunnels. At every stop – Russell Square, King’s Cross, Caledonian Road – I count the seconds, willing the doors to hurry up and close so that the train can start moving again. Finally, at Holloway Road, I leap out and along the platform. I run up the emergency stairs, clutching at the handrail to stop myself falling backwards, my legs numb, rubbery, ready to give way with every step.

  As soon as I’m out on the street, my signal returned, I call Amy from the after-school club. My heart sinks in despair as she confirms what I already know to be true: that Alex collected Ben – early, in fact – at around five o’clock. I immediately call 999 and ask the operator for the police. I talk as I walk, then stride, then run the rest of the way back to my flat.

  As I suspected, there’s no sign of Alex’s car outside. I shakily put my key into the lock and let myself in. I pace up and down the hallway from the front room to the kitchen and back again, intermittently stopping to pull back the curtains and peer out into the darkness of the empty street. I try Alex’s number again, but it goes straight to voicemail. It’s the standard message from the phone provider, telling me that the person I’ve called is not available. For the first time since I’ve known him, I realise that I’ve no evidence that Alex exists: he’s never recorded a voicemail message. I’ve never met a friend or a flatmate. I’ve never seen an email or a letter addressed to him, no envelope with his name on the front.

  An icy chill runs through me. I move over to the mantelpiece and pick up the framed photograph of Ben, a head and shoulders shot that was taken at school at the beginning of term. I start to cry, uncontrollably, as I hold him in my hands, studying every inch of his little face, his mouth, his eyes, the eyes th
at look up at me so trustingly, giving me the look he always gives me: I may not know much, but I know that you’re my mum. I know that you’ll take care of me, that you won’t let me come to any harm.

  I sink to my knees on the floor, repeatedly kissing Ben’s face in the photo frame. My baby. My darling boy. Please, God, please don’t let this be it. Don’t let this be the end.

  I hear the noise of a car engine and leap up off the floor. I run over to the window to see a police car pulling up outside. My heart hammers against my chest at the sight of the vehicle, its fluorescent blue-and-yellow chequered bodywork clearly visible in the dark. Seeing the car parked outside my house, seeing the uniformed officers getting out and walking towards my front door, is like an omen. This is real; this is not just something that’s happening in my imagination. The police are here because something serious has happened to Ben.

  I move quickly out into the hallway and open the door to let them in. I instantly recognise them – one male, one female – as a response team I’ve met before, although their names escape me, and as soon as they’ve said them, I instantly forget them again. Too many thoughts – a zillion thoughts – are already crashing round my fevered brain.

  I show the officers into the living room and offer them a cup of tea.

  ‘In a moment, perhaps,’ says the female, looking at my tear-streaked face and placing a reassuring hand on my heaving shoulder. She can see that I’m desperate, too desperate to be making tea. She walks ahead of me into the living room, sits down on the sofa and takes out a notebook. The male officer follows and sits down next to her. I fall into the armchair opposite, near the door, ready to leap up the second the phone rings or a car pulls up outside.

  ‘So,’ says the female officer. Her eyes spark with recognition. ‘It’s Sarah, isn’t? When did you last see your son, Sarah?’

  ‘This morning,’ I tell her. I sit my mobile phone on my lap and spread my fingers out on the armrests of my chair, gripping them tightly. ‘When I dropped him off at school.’