by Alex Clare
She realised she was dawdling when a group of Uniform clattered past her down the stairs, telling stories of the drunken exploits they’d had to deal with over the weekend. Robyn murmured a general greeting: she couldn’t remember any of their names. They must be wondering why she was dithering on the staircase. She knew why: she’d put all of her words into the letter. There was a good chance she’d end up in a state after a conversation with Becky and everyone would stare even more. Better to make the call from home, which would also give her a few more hours to come up with something to say. Without thinking, she ran her fingers through her hair and it flopped over one eye, her fingers now sticky with gel.
Hating her indecisiveness, Robyn sent a short text back to Becky, nails sliding on the keys, sending love and saying she would call tonight. She steeled herself to turn back up the stairs, past the second floor, thinking now was as good a time as any to update Fell. The superintendent’s office on the fifth floor was not somewhere anyone entered with pleasure. On this July afternoon, it would be an ordeal.
Robyn took a moment to take a deep breath before stepping into the outer office. Tracey was on the phone and held up a finger. There were a number of theories about how Tracey had been able to work for Fell for so long, the most popular being that her own passion for perfume had killed off her sense of smell years ago. Today’s was something in a squat golden bottle with a flower cap, sitting in pride of place on the desk next to her vast handbag. Phone clamped between her shoulder and ear, Tracey sprayed some onto her wrists as she said goodbye. The professional smile turned to Robyn.
‘Hello, dear. You’ll be wanting to update him on the progress with this little boy. He’s just finishing a call and then has ten minutes free. In the meantime, you can tell me what you’ve done to yourself.’
You’ve prepared for this, Robyn told herself. You know what to say. She had never tried telling a real person before.
Tracey filled the silent gap. ‘I just want to understand why you’re doing this. Ever since you did the press conference, I’ve been fielding calls telling me you’re a freak and shouldn’t be allowed on a case with a kid. I know you’re not the type for silly jokes and I want to help you but I need to know what’s what.’
The bra constricted her chest as Robyn took a steadying breath, tasting musk. All the arguments so convincing in front of the mirror, were melting under Tracey’s defined eyes.
‘It’s called gender dysphoria, it’s …’
‘Yes, I know what it’s called, I had to type the memo. And I read through all of the crap from HR’s diversity file. I know what you are, not who you are and that’s what I need to know.’
‘I’m me, Tracey. I haven’t changed.’ Robyn remembered Becky’s bitter words and how inadequate her explanation must have seemed.
Behind the desk, Tracey angled her head, her hair rigid in its set waves.
‘I haven’t changed, I don’t know what else to say. I’m the same person, just trying to fix the fact I’m in the wrong body. I’m still going to enter my camera club’s competitions and I’m still not going to win. I’m going to renew my Town season ticket and have a pint after they lose.’ She shook her head. ‘Or maybe I’m supposed to only drink white wine now, I don’t know.’
The painted lines of Tracey’s brows lifted, lines appearing through the foundation. Her gaze had not left Robyn’s face.
‘Something hasn’t been right for me for, well, as long as I can remember. I’ve never felt comfortable in my own skin. I thought getting married would sort it out, becoming a father.’ Robyn blinked, not wanting to cry. ‘There was still something big missing and it was inevitable Julie and I would split up. Being a detective is the only job I’ve ever wanted and I thought when I got into CID, this feeling of being a fraud would stop. But no matter how many cases I solved, I still felt like I was just pretending to be someone.’
Robyn’s legs were threatening not to hold her up. She shuffled around the side of the chair and sank down. The temporary relief made her dizzy: she put her head in her hands and spoke through her fingers. ‘A lot of things changed in a short time. The job came up in Meresbourne, my parents died, leaving me their house and Becky went to university.’ She sat back. ‘It suddenly hit me, I had no responsibilities for anyone else anymore and I had space to think about me.’ Now she’d started, words felt like they wanted to come out. ‘I knew deep down what I wanted to do: what was difficult was admitting it to myself and deciding whether I was strong enough to make the change.’ She took a breath. ‘Some time ago, I began talking to doctors and then, as I got more confident, to others like me. And I decided however hard things would be, I had to go ahead because I can’t think of any other way I can be myself.’
Tracey blinked once. ‘Are you gay?’
Robyn was gripping the sides of the chair, feeling where the fabric seat met the wooden frame, rough to smooth.
Behind the desk, wrinkles on Tracey’s cleavage appeared and disappeared as her chest rose and fell.
‘It’s not the same. It’s hard to explain.’ Robyn made an effort to relax. ‘Gender and sexuality are two different things. I’ve got to get myself sorted out first.’
Tracey’s nails tapped the desk. ‘And do you fancy kiddies?’
The sickly taste in her mouth made Robyn screw up her face. She took a deep breath and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, lipstick smearing in a livid mark. ‘No. Not now, not ever.’ She looked at Tracey. ‘I’m just trying to get the rest of the world to see me in the same way I see myself.’
‘And you picked today to start.’ Tracey’s face had softened.
‘And I picked today.’
They looked at each other. Something beeped. Without looking, Tracey pressed a button on the keyboard and the sound stopped. They were wearing the same shade of nail varnish. She stood up. ‘Remember, you need more balls to be a woman than a man ever has. I’ll sort things this end, you just catch whoever took the lad. And if you’ll take my advice, relax and go out for a pint with people. Or a white wine. I think everyone drinks everything these days.’ Turning to the inner office, she knocked and entered without pausing. Robyn heard some low words, before Tracey reappeared and gestured she should go in.
Robyn’s shoes squealed on the lino. She felt flushed and wished she’d had a chance to check her make-up. ‘I wanted to give you an update on the Ben Chivers case, sir. The national media is now taking an interest.’
Fell was sitting at his desk, chin touching the tips of his steepled fingers. He gazed over Robyn’s left ear.
‘We are following two main lines of enquiry, sir: tracing the boy’s father and also investigating whether this could be an attack on the mother, in connection with her work.’
Fell’s gaze drifted to above Robyn’s right ear, without ever falling on her face.
‘Both of those require organisation. Have you discounted the possibility of a chance snatch?’
‘No, sir. We’re tracking the movements of previous offenders.’
Best never to say too much to Fell. He could spin out a single fact to a three-page report. His fingers were pressed together now, as if he were praying.
‘No loose ends, Bailley.’
Robyn left the office, grateful for the fresher air of the corridor.
8
Robyn took her time on the way back towards the incident room. Tracey was right, as usual. That was unlikely to be the last interrogation. Everyone would be paying her more attention than before. Her and her performance. She hadn’t started well, not even bringing anything back for the team after her holiday. The fact she hadn’t actually been away sounded, now she thought about it, a bit feeble. She lingered on the stairs, by the second floor exit, thinking there was no time to go out for something when everyone was so busy. Diverting to the canteen, Robyn bought bags of sweets. She could sense glances, looks and whispers but when you were surrounded by people trained to observe, you couldn’t expect anything else.
In the CID
office, there was a purposeful buzz of low conversation and typing. Robyn put the sweets on the corner of her desk, wondered if she should announce them and decided just to let everyone get on. With Fell’s implicit backing, Robyn decided better to risk the budget early than be accused of delay.
She looked up the number for her counterpart in Uniform and dialled. With the big buttons of the desk phone, she could press them with her nails, then wondered whether a woman would naturally do that.
‘DI Pond.’
‘Hello, Matthew. It’s Robyn Bailley.’
‘Ah. I heard you were back. How are you?’
She wondered what he had heard and what was behind the question, then rebuked herself for overreacting because it was such an ordinary question, just what normal people said to each other.
‘Fine, thanks. And you – how’s the training going?’
‘Not bad, thanks though the heat is making it hard work.’
‘I’m sure. How long until the race?’
‘Two weeks.’ Matthew paused. ‘Which means we’d better find that lad before then, otherwise we won’t be able to spare any officers to deal with the road closures for a cycling event.’
‘The intention is to find him well before then and that’s what I was calling about. I want to get vehicle check-points set up around town.’
‘OK. Did you have any particular locations in mind?’
‘We need to cover the routes someone leaving the shopping centre could have taken. Let’s get one by the station, one on the inner ring by the Docks’ roundabout road.’
‘Righto. Anything else I need to know?’
‘We’ve got nothing new at this end, Matthew. I was hoping you’d have something.’
‘Nothing. We’re getting public support though. It’s a bit of a pain sometimes. People come to take part in the searches and bring their dog along thinking it’s Lassie, then all it does is bark at the police dogs.’
Robyn grunted something close to a laugh. ‘OK, thanks, Matthew. Good hunting.’ She stretched back, suddenly ravenous.
‘Is now a good time?’ Janice was standing next to her. ‘I’ve got the contact list Ms Chivers provided.’
‘Is that it?’ At the bottom of the short list were two women with different surnames at an address in north London. Robyn pointed. ‘Who are these two?’
‘Ms Chivers’ mother and sister.’ Janice grimaced. ‘Convictions between them: shoplifting, possession of cannabis and breaching the peace.’
‘Ah. Graham said she seemed reluctant to talk about them. And no mention of anyone who could be Ben’s father. Why not, do you think? A messy break-up or could he be dead?’
‘If she’d lost the father of her child, why weren’t there any pictures of him around?’
‘I only went into the hall and kitchen but you’re right, there was nothing personal on display, not even a picture by Ben on the fridge. Oh, you wanted to tell me something earlier?’ Robyn pointed to a chair. Janice sat on its edge, crossing her legs.
‘Talk to me.’
‘It’s probably nothing …’ Janice folded her hands. ‘… but my first thought after I knew we were looking for Ben was that his mother had got rid of him herself.’
‘What?’ Robyn leant forward.
‘When I visited the house about the builder, Ms Chivers acted as if Ben didn’t exist.’ Janice breathed out, set her jaw. ‘I don’t think he’s physically abused but emotionally …’ She shook her head. ‘Gillian Green at least seems to care for him. From what I’ve seen of his mother, she sees him as a lifestyle accessory, cute but I wonder if he’s now getting in her way.’
‘OK, tell me exactly what makes you think this.’
‘It was April when I interviewed Ms Chivers about the dodgy builder. Ben was stuck inside watching some educational programme, even though it was a beautiful day. I said “hello” to him.’ Janice smiled. ‘Ms Chivers snapped at me for disturbing his studies. I made an excuse and went upstairs. His room was like a classroom. And the books – all weird American things with titles like “Introducing your toddler to God” but not a single toy. He couldn’t play in the garden anyway – it’s been concreted over.’
Robyn heard the vitriol of a passionate gardener. She tried to remember the last time she’d seen Janice so animated.
‘The one time I saw Ms Chivers actually speak to Ben was to criticise some homework he’d done. Homework! Then she had a go at Mrs Green, saying she wasn’t teaching him properly.’ Janice stared at the ceiling. ‘He was eighteen months old.’
As he walked past, Graham dropped a piece of paper into Robyn’s in-tray. Janice swung around to face him. ‘Graham, do you think Ms Chivers loves her son?’
Graham rocked back on his heels. ‘Steady on, Janice. What’s wrong with wanting your kid to do well?’
‘Because he’s not being allowed a childhood and he’s being sucked into that weird cult she’s part of.’
Graham shrugged. ‘OK, she’s a bit intense, one of those, what, “tiger mothers”, but she’s right: a kid does better when you push them a bit.’
‘And the church? All that fire and brimstone?’ Janice folded her arms. ‘What about that case where they found the body of a boy in the Thames, killed because his aunt thought he was possessed by evil spirits?’
A mother harming her own child: Robyn remembered tragic cases where people hadn’t considered the unthinkable until it was too late. ‘I agree, we need to consider all angles but what about the practicalities? We can’t see much of the woman in the photograph except she’s definitely white. Are you suggesting Ms Chivers could have arranged for someone to take Ben?’
Janice pursed her lips. ‘I’ve no idea.’
Ravi’s voice came from across the room. ‘I watched this programme where they put hidden cameras in nurseries to show parents what happened to their kids during the day. How about this? Maybe Ms Chivers got someone to test the nanny?’
After a few seconds, Graham laughed. ‘What sort of impression have you all got of Ms Chivers?’
Ravi turned back to the screen and hunkered down.
‘What about the kids in the Docks sniffing glue – you want Ben to grow up like them? OK, he doesn’t seem to have a father but his mother isn’t exactly shirking her responsibilities.’ Graham put his hands behind his head.
‘All I know is we’re trying to return a child to a mother who, who …’ Janice’s hands flapped. She seemed to be searching for words. ‘Who has very different ideas to most people of how to bring up a child and also thinks God’s backing her up.’
Robyn held up her hands for quiet. ‘Janice, the law is clear. If there’s evidence of Ben being harmed, we can act but first we have to find him. We need to speak to everyone who knows Ms Chivers. We’ll keep everything you’ve said in mind but for goodness sake, don’t make any accusations outside this room until you have evidence.’ She toyed with the list of Ms Chivers’ contacts. ‘We could do with much more detail on Ben’s home life and Mrs Green should have had time to recover by now. Why don’t you come with me, Janice, as you’ve met her before?’
Walking down the corridor with Janice was a series of hellos and even a smile from the desk sergeant. At the top of the steps to the car park, she turned to Robyn. ‘Do you mind if we take your car? I’ve got Martin’s van and it’s not the most comfortable.’
Robyn led the way. ‘What went wrong this morning? You’ve only had your new car, what, a few months?’
Janice called a greeting to someone crossing the car park; Robyn took the chance to fumble her key out of the handbag. ‘Right, where are we going?’
‘One of the tower blocks in the Docks estate. All very fitting.’ Janice laughed. ‘The mistress lives in Upper Town and the servant lives in the Docks. Isn’t tradition wonderful?’
‘My mother used to say, “From Upper Town, you always look down”. She thought Upper Towners were snobs. Still, if someone had offered her a house up there, she wouldn’t have hesitated.’ Robyn swung the
car around the roundabout.
Janice wrinkled her nose. ‘I can’t see why everyone thinks so much of the place. Living in all those rows with everyone on top of you, no thank you. Interesting Gillian is in one of the tower blocks though. I had her down as more of a net-curtained, thirties semi in Barton type of person.’
‘True. But then people can surprise you. Look at Lorraine: she’s gone the other way. She spent ages talking about buying a new flat near the clubs on the riverside, then chooses a cottage in Gaddesford with roses growing around the door.’ Robyn was struck by a thought of what her faded home said about her.
They were approaching the edge of the Docks estate, cars parked on either side and passed the first of the tower blocks, once white, now mottled grey and green against the blue sky. Janice glanced out of the window. ‘When these blocks were built, Martin said they were giving the finger to Upper Town.’
‘They give the finger to everyone. Four stabbings this year, it feels like only a matter of time before someone gets killed. Our last community effort seemed to have no effect.’
Janice craned forward. ‘We need the third block, “Convoy”.’
The tyres crunched over something in the parking space. A pair of kids swooped past on bikes: Robyn stepped into a dribble of fresh saliva. A sharp breeze funnelled between the tower blocks, blowing litter between bollards. The front door was held open by a rucked mat. One wall of the entrance hall was covered in grey mailboxes, leaflets spilling out. Janice saw the stains in the lift and insisted on using the stairs to the third floor.
Gillian’s door was a drab brown. While they waited, Robyn wondered how the potted lily by the door managed to survive in the dim lobby until she brushed a dusty leaf and felt plastic. The spy hole darkened. There was the scrape of bolts being drawn back and clicks from multiple locks.