by Chris Taylor
Anger stirred in Cameron’s eyes. “I haven’t seen or spoken to either of them since it happened and I’m never going to. They’re gone forever, as far as I’m concerned. I’ve cut them out of my life. I don’t need to go back. Those memories are burned into my brain. They help to remind me how far I’ve come and help me to work harder and strive for even greater accomplishments. I’ll never feel powerless again.”
“Is that why you entered the police force? Were you attracted by their authority and power?”
He shrugged and some of the tension in his body eased. “Maybe. I’ve never really thought about it. From the time I was about seventeen, I wanted to be a cop. We had a recruitment officer visit school that year and he inspired me to join. He talked about mateship and teamwork and fighting the fight against evil. I guess it appealed to me. Who doesn’t want to slay dragons?”
His anger disappeared under a smile so tender and warm it nearly took her breath away. She brushed a piece of hair off his forehead and then pressed her lips to the spot. His arm tightened around her.
“Do you ever think about your birth mother?”
The moment the words were out of her mouth, she wanted to take them back. Cam’s expression hardened and an unfamiliar coldness entered his eyes. Georgie shivered.
“I feel nothing but contempt for that woman.”
A shaft of pain stabbed through her, but she forced herself to continue. She needed to know whether there was any chance he’d understand and feel even a little compassion toward the woman who’d given him life.
“She could have chosen to have an abortion. Then you wouldn’t be here. Did you ever think of that?” she asked quietly.
Cam’s frown darkened. “I prefer not to think about her at all.”
“There might have been good reasons why she gave you up.”
His bark of laughter contained no humor. “Yeah, like she didn’t want me, didn’t love me. She probably didn’t even know my dad. The space for the father on my birth certificate is blank.”
The bitterness in his eyes sent icy dread flooding through her veins. Her soul filled with despair. She could never hope to pierce the hurt and pain that had grown, thick and hard, like scar tissue over his heart. She bit back a sob. One thing was clearer than ever: She could never tell him about her son.
He turned on his side and brought her with him. Pressing her close against him, he kissed her softly on the mouth. “Let’s not talk about me anymore. I’d prefer to hear about you.”
Georgie forced a smile. “What would you like to know?”
Cam winked. “Anything. Everything. Like… What made you choose nursing?”
She drew in a deep breath and eased it out on a soft sigh before settling down against him. “Would you believe, when I was a young girl, I dreamed of being an artist,” she began.
“I grew up in the Blue Mountains and there were plenty of creative people up there. But with a mother working her way up through the nursing ranks for the best part of forty years and a father who was a well-known obstetrician, I guess a career in some kind of medical field was always in the cards.”
Cam looked at her in surprise. “Your dad’s a doctor?”
“Yes. He works at the Sydney Harbour Hospital. We like to keep it in the family,” she chuckled.
“What’s his name?”
“Well, I said he was well-known, but I’m guessing you’ve never heard of him. After all, he’s in the business of delivering babies and I imagine you haven’t had anything to do with that.”
His answering smile was there, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Georgie wondered at his sudden change in mood. God, she hoped she hadn’t read him wrong. What if he had a wife, or even a girlfriend—and children? She should have asked more questions, if not of him, then Cynthia. Then she remembered Cynthia had told her he was single and she relaxed against him again.
“You still haven’t told me your father’s name.”
She wondered briefly at his insistence and then shrugged it off. “His name is Doctor Frederick Rolleston.”
Cameron’s face paled and his expression went blank. She stared at him, wondering at his strange reaction.
“Don’t tell me you have heard of him?” she teased in an effort to lighten the sudden tension in the air.
His answering smile looked forced. “No, I don’t think so.”
* * *
Cam’s mind whirred in a kaleidoscope of shock and disbelief. Doctor Frederick Rolleston was Georgie’s father. Cam would bet his condo on the fact the good doctor was the same one who’d signed off on the suspect death certificates. It was an unusual surname and one he’d committed to memory. Despite the warmth in the room and the heat emanating off Georgie’s naked skin, he shivered.
“Cold?” she asked and reached for the covers. Tenderly, she tucked them around his shoulders. Still, an icy block of dread and foreboding sat heavily against his chest.
He hadn’t thought it particularly odd that Marjorie Whitely had completed every one of the final nursing reports. After all, she was the head of the ward. It stood to reason that something as serious as the sudden death of a newborn would be brought to the attention of the most senior staff. What was less believable was that Marjorie’s husband had been at work during each and every one of the deaths.
If Cam recalled correctly, the death certificates had been completed within hours of each baby’s death. Surely there was a roster? The likelihood of Doctor Rolleston being on duty each and every time was coincidental beyond belief—and if there was one thing eight years in the police force had taught Cam, it was not to trust in coincidences. One thing he knew, he couldn’t stay in Georgie’s bed a moment longer.
Pushing back the covers, he swung his legs over the side and began to dress. From the corner of his eye, he saw her raise herself up on one elbow, a look of hurt and confusion on her face.
“Where are you going?”
Forcing himself to look at her, he gave her a tight smile. “I’m sorry, I just remembered I have some statements to go over before I head into work tomorrow. I’d also rather not leave Cynthia alone overnight, if I can help it. She’s still just a kid and I—”
“It’s fine. I understand,” Georgie interrupted. “You’ve promised to look out for her. You need to go and make sure she’s safe.”
Guilt surged through Cam at the look of kindness and compassion on Georgie’s face. Whatever might be happening with her parents, one thing was certain: He didn’t deserve the likes of Georgie Whitely.
Forcing another smile, he leaned over and pecked her on the cheek. “Thank you. I appreciate it. I’ll call you.”
And with that, he collected the rest of his things and left.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Cam stared at the files before him. The sick feeling in his gut just wouldn’t go away. He’d left Georgie in her bed the night before and he still felt bad about giving her the lame excuse he had to get home to Cynthia, but he couldn’t bear to tell her what he’d been thinking and until he had proof that her parents were involved in something untoward, he wouldn’t breathe a word.
It was obvious from the way she spoke about them that she loved and admired them. He wouldn’t disillusion her unless he had to. Not everyone had to have their world come crashing down. If it were possible, he’d keep hers intact.
As soon as he’d arrived at work that morning, he’d checked the files again. Just as he remembered, the death certificates were signed by Doctor Frederick Rolleston with a date and time stamp on each one, indicating they were completed not long after each baby was formally declared dead.
Cameron tugged his keyboard toward him and typed in Rolleston’s name. Clicking on Google images, he was immediately rewarded with several photos of a distinguished-looking man sporting a thick crop of white hair and a wide smile. He was a man who, even in his photos, exuded confidence. Cam saw a little of Georgie around the mouth and nose and his heart clenched. One of the photos showed Rolleston with his arm around a woman
who looked to be around his age. Stylishly dressed and with her hair perfectly coiffed, Cam guessed the sophisticated woman was Georgie’s mother. Another quick search confirmed it.
Cam scrolled through the pages of hits the name Frederick Rolleston had brought up. Opening one link after the other, and scanning their contents he was impressed with the man’s social conscience. According to several reputable sources, a decade earlier Rolleston had set up a charity for the benefit of single mothers unable to cope. He raised several million dollars every year in aid of it.
It was a worthy cause and one that Cam wholeheartedly approved. No doubt there were thousands of young girls like Cynthia and not all of them had older brothers in a position to take them in. His sister was one of the lucky ones and he was sure she knew it.
Only that morning, as he was heading out the door, she’d asked him if he’d come with her to spread Josephine’s ashes. The fact that she was moving forward and dealing with the past warmed Cam all the way through. He knew Georgie had a lot to do with it and he was filled with tenderness and gratitude that left him conflicted because of his suspicions about her father.
He thought of the conversation he’d had with Georgie the night before about his birth mother and his gut clenched reflexively. He hadn’t meant to display his anger, but the very thought of cutting the woman a little slack for giving him up made him furious.
It was easy for Georgie to play devil’s advocate and wonder at his birth mother’s possible motives. She didn’t know what it was like to lie in bed, night after night, feeling lonely and unloved and wondering why the hell your own mother didn’t love you enough to keep you. He couldn’t count the number of nights when he was a kid that he’d cried himself to sleep…until one night, after yet another bout of endless questioning and tears, he’d determined to forget about her, cut her from his life and his heart, just like she’d cut him from hers.
From that night, he’d been better; had forced himself to come to terms with his sad beginnings and put them behind him, forever. He focused on the here and now; he focused on the future. He didn’t believe in looking back. And then his parents had kicked him out and he was back at the start again: alone, unloved and unwanted. If it hadn’t been for the kindness and generosity of his best mate’s parents, he’d have found himself out on the street…like Cynthia.
He couldn’t help but wonder how that had come to pass. What had happened that she found herself homeless and alone at the age of fourteen? He hated to think life for his little sister under their parents’ roof might have become as intolerable as it had been for him.
She hadn’t talked about their parents or how she’d come to be living on the streets. Until recently, her mental state had seemed so fragile, he hadn’t dared ask. But now that she appeared to be improving, he probably owed it to both of them to find out. For all he knew, she might even be missing them.
It was different for Georgie. She’d obviously grown up in a house where everyone loved each other and support and loyalty was a given. He could tell by the way she spoke about her family that she’d had a decent childhood and he was happy for her, but it didn’t mean he had to reconcile with his own parents, or, as she seemed to suggest, feel kindly toward the woman who’d given him life. He couldn’t help but wonder how Georgie would feel about her father after all this, if his suspicions were confirmed.
The thought made him frown. Rolleston’s name kept jumping out at him on the screen. On impulse, he keyed the name Marjorie Whitely into a new search and another listing caught his eye: City of Sydney Adoption Agency. With his heart beating faster, he clicked on the link and waited for the page to load. It opened to the home page.
Scanning the welcome message, Cam clicked on the tab labeled “About Us” and a moment later, stared in disbelief. Professional portraits of the company’s founding directors stared back at him. Though at least one of the pictures had been taken some time ago and had been airbrushed to maximum effect, there was no mistaking Marjorie Whitely’s smiling image.
The second photo was of a woman he didn’t recognize, although there was something about her that looked familiar. He read through the blurb which described the establishment of the agency by two sisters: Marjorie Whitely and Rosemary Lawson.
Cam’s heart pounded against his ribcage and the blood roared in his ears. Rosemary Lawson had been referenced in the hospital notes. She was the nurse who’d been on duty at the time the majority of the infants had died. No wonder she’d appeared familiar. She was Marjorie Whitely’s sister.
Georgie’s aunt and mother were the directors of a corporation that owned and operated an adoption agency. Fifteen newborns had died at the hospital where both of the directors worked. The ramifications and possibilities hit him in the head with the force of a sledgehammer.
It wasn’t about murder, at all. The premier was right. The babies were being stolen and then adopted out through the agency, no doubt for a sizeable sum.
The deaths must have been falsified by none other than Georgie’s father. But what about the funeral services? Cam had attended upon the crematorium himself. He’d helped Cynthia choose a coffin. They had Josephine’s ashes in an urn. Didn’t they?
A piercing headache made itself known in the space behind his eyes. He groaned from the pain and hunted around for some paracetamol. Digging a couple of tablets out of the bottle in the top drawer of his desk he swallowed them dry and continued to stare at the screen. He rubbed at his eyes.
Was he leaping to ridiculous conclusions, with little or no proof? He’d been working too hard. He was sleep deprived. It had been way past late when he’d stopped tossing in his bed, thinking about Georgie and her family—and his. Even now, hours later, his eyes still felt gritty and tired.
Yes, that had to be it. His fatigue had made him delusional. Nobody in the twenty-first century went around stealing babies and falsifying their deaths. It was something out of the dark ages. Or the sixties and seventies, at least. A lot of years had passed since then.
Society’s views had changed with regard to single women and their ability to raise children on their own. People no longer frowned on them or whispered about them behind their backs. They lived their lives openly, without fear of being ostracized or censured. Yes, times had certainly changed from half a century ago—and for the better.
There could be other explanations for the high rate of newborn deaths and with that thought, he squashed the faint flare of hope that his baby niece might still be alive. If he went down the path of suspecting Georgie’s family, he’d have to include the funeral directors in the abhorrent scheme and that was simply way too far-fetched. As if two hospital employees could convince a third party to pretend he had a body in the coffin. It was ridiculous, by anyone’s standards, to contemplate the possibility for even another second.
Still, he could always put his questions to Georgie’s relatives when he interviewed the hospital staff. He’d arranged with Deborah Healy to have the relevant people available to meet with him later that afternoon. He’d ask them about the adoption agency and gage their reaction. Hopefully he’d get the answers he needed. Then he’d know once and for all.
Until he could obliterate the bizarre notion from his mind, he’d never get a moment’s rest and that meant every minute he spent with Georgie would also be affected. That was beyond acceptable. He cherished their time together and didn’t want a second of it tarnished by the ugly cloud of suspicion that now filled his head. Once and for all, he wanted to satisfy himself that Georgie’s family wasn’t involved.
Needing to hear her voice, he reached for his phone and then pulled up short. He wasn’t going to be able to warn her about the forthcoming interviews and it wouldn’t be fair to speak with her beforehand and pretend all was well when who knew what might come out during his meeting with the staff. He was hoping the interviews would put an end to his ridiculous speculations, but what if they didn’t? What if they implicated her family members rather than exonerated them? He might
have to interview her, too.
Common sense told him it would be best to stay away from Georgie Whitely, at least until he’d spoken to the staff. Hopefully, after today, he’d have a better understanding about what—if anything—had happened to end the lives of fifteen babies so unexpectedly.
* * *
Deborah Healy stared down at the sheet of paper in her hands and tried to still her trembling. The words were bold and succinct. She’d been summoned before the hospital board for a formal interview with regard to increasing concerns the members of the board had over her management of the hospital.
When Detective Sergeant Dawson phoned and requested she make available for interview certain staff members who worked on Ward Seven, she knew she had to bring it to the attention of the board before it turned into a major police investigation. She’d waited too long on the previous two cases and the results had been disastrous.
The board had summoned her within the hour after Doctor Alistair Wolfe’s high profile arrest outside the Glebe Morgue. A stern censuring had followed and an overt threat of disciplinary proceedings had been made in the event her leadership skills were found wanting again.
At the time, she’d been grateful to be let off with a warning and had been determined not to let anything like what had happened with Doctor Wolfe occur again. But it looked more and more like she’d failed again and she had no one else to blame.
The fact that her husband was terminally ill with a rare form of liver cancer was of no one’s concern. She should have been strong enough to keep the pressures and fears she had on the home front well away from her thoughts while she was at work. But the truth was, she couldn’t.
Hours disappeared every day. She found herself staring blindly out her office window, thinking about Alan and wishing with all her heart that there was something she could do to stop the inevitable greed of the disease that slowly consumed him.