by Wendy James
“Stratford? I don’t think I know him.”
“What does it matter? Anyway, he said I should probably get a solicitor.”
“He told you to get a solicitor?” Chip shifted gears immediately, his voice suddenly brisk, businesslike. “Right. I’ll ring Hal. And I’ll be over in five. Tell them to wait until I get there.” He disconnected.
I passed on Chip’s message, but Stratford just gave an infuriatingly serene smile.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Wells, but there’s no actual legal requirement that I wait. You can have a solicitor here, as I said, to advise you, but he won’t actually have any jurisdiction over us.” He didn’t sound at all apologetic. “I’ve got a dozen officers being paid overtime, so if you don’t mind”—he motioned to his team, who crowded into the lounge room—“we’ll get started.”
I did mind, but there was no way to stop them. Moorhouse, who had already helped Mary get dressed, offered to keep her occupied in the kitchen while the search was underway, and I was grateful for this one small act of mercy.
Chip arrived, still in his work clothes, his shirt untucked, his hair full of dust. He tried hard to look stern, to assert some authority, but it was clear that he was as clueless as me.
“I think before you start that you’d better give us some idea of what you’re looking for, Inspector. Suzannah says it’s something to do with that girl, Ellie Canning. The one who was kidnapped.”
Stratford shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t give you any details at this stage, sir,” he said in his impeccably polite way.
“Why not?”
“I understand Hal’s on his way. I’m sure he’ll explain.”
“You know my brother?”
“I work with him a fair bit.”
“Right.” Chip nodded, then turned to me with what I assumed was meant to be a reassuring smile. “I guess we just wait, then.”
The detective coughed. “Actually, I’m not altogether clear on what your involvement is here, Mr. Gascoyne. I know this is your old home, but . . . ?”
“Ms. Wells, I mean, Suzannah and I are . . . we’re getting married.” Chip said the words steadily but avoided looking at me.
“Is that right? Ms. Wells didn’t mention that.” The look he gave me was faintly quizzical.
I swallowed, looked down at my feet. “We haven’t—it isn’t def—”
“We’re having a baby.” Chip’s statement sounded more like a proclamation.
“Right.” For a moment I thought the detective was going to offer up congratulations, but none were forthcoming. “Well, you’re quite welcome to watch that there’s nothing out of order as we conduct the search, Mr. Gascoyne. We’d like to do this as quickly as possible, and I’m sure you’d all like us out of your hair.”
I’d told Chip my news a few weeks before, had rugged up and tramped across the misty paddocks late in the evening, as soon as I was sure Mary was sound asleep. He hadn’t been expecting me, but there had been genuine pleasure in his voice when he answered the door.
“Can’t keep away, eh?”
“I’m pregnant.” I’d blurted it out, right there in the doorway.
“What?” He’d made a move to usher me in, but then he stood motionless, as if rooted to the spot.
“I’m pregnant.” I said it again, my face deliberately expressionless.
“Jesus.” His eyes were wide, his voice barely audible. “Holy shit. Are you sure?”
I’d kept the stick in a pocket of my purse for a couple of days, waiting for courage, for just the right moment, and now I held it out for him to see—both lines were a distinct blue. Chip looked at it for a long moment, and then at me, and smiled. It wasn’t his usual smile, full of charm, certainty, confidence, but something more tentative, as if he wasn’t quite sure how he would be received. He cleared his throat.
“So—this is good news for you, I’m thinking? You do want it?” He looked hopeful, and suddenly younger.
“Yes. I really want it, Chip. That’s definite. I’m not going to get many more chances. But I need to know what you want. How we’re going to make it work.”
“I guess we’ve got a bit to talk about, then.” He smiled again, and for the first time I relaxed. He reached for my hand. “I think we can make this work, Suze. Don’t you?”
It was more than a question—it was almost a plea. He squeezed my fingers.
I returned the pressure.
“So, you . . . you want to do this? Have this baby? Together?” I felt dazed, almost delirious, from the joy—or maybe it was just hormones.
“I can’t believe you even have to ask. I know it’s all happened pretty fast, but I’ve kinda been hoping we’d be doing a lot of things together. This is just the icing on the cake.” He held my fingers to his lips. “Speaking of ice, your hands are freezing.” He tightened his grip, pulled me inside. “I’ve got the kettle on. You look like you could do with a cuppa.”
There had been so many things I was going to say, that needed to be said. I’d had it all planned—even written a list—before I arrived. I’d decided what I’d say if he looked terrified, which was, I thought, the most likely scenario. After all, Chip was almost fifty, and while he may have wanted children once, things had probably changed.
I was ready to tell him that I was prepared to leave, if he’d prefer it. I would sell up, move elsewhere, maybe back to the city. It would be easier to find a place for Mary there, and I wouldn’t have to work full-time. I had enough money put away after the sale of the apartment to get me through a few years of part-time teaching. Whatever happened, I was going to have this baby. Even if he wanted nothing to do with it. With us.
But if Chip chose to share in the parenting, that would be okay, too, even if it was going to be a whole lot more complicated. After all, we barely knew each other; our relationship, if we could even call it that, had barely begun. We were, to put it crudely, only fuck buddies. But we could take it slowly. We could go on as we were for a few more months, at least while I was still working. We didn’t need to tell anyone, change anything. I was happy for him to be a part of this baby’s—our baby’s—life, if that was what he wanted. He was welcome to come to scans, clinic appointments, parenting classes, antenatal classes—but I didn’t need him to. I didn’t need anything.
We were older parents, old parents, which meant we would do things very differently. We would be able to avoid the disorienting passion of lovers and of younger, more idealistic parents, forge a more civilized connection. I’d thought it all through logically, conscientiously. I was going to be grown-up about this.
I didn’t allow myself to acknowledge what I was beginning to feel about Chip, how much I enjoyed his company, how much I wanted this—whatever it was between us—to keep going, to become something real, something more than a casual affair. I didn’t let myself imagine raising this child together, as a couple. I didn’t dare go there.
In all our wide-ranging nighttime conversations, we’d avoided almost any discussion of the two things that probably mattered the most right now—children and the future—and I hadn’t for a moment considered that Chip’s reaction to my news would be this. That he would be desperately, tenderly excited—that he would want this baby just as much as I did.
He pulled me to him the moment I walked through the door, held me tight for a moment, then stood back and looked at me, his eyes glistening.
“Let me look,” he said, unbuttoning my shirt.
“I’m only six weeks,” I protested. “There’s nothing to see.”
He ignored me, continued to unbutton the shirt, then ran his hand across my stomach. “Oh God, Suze. A baby. I can’t believe it.” He knelt down and laid his head against my stomach, pressed his ear against my middle, listening. I stroked his hair gently, all sensation, no thought.
“I didn’t think it would happen. That I’d actually ever meet anyone that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.” He spoke quietly, not looking up. “And then you came, and I was . .
. smitten. Like a, like I was a kid again.” His laughter was warm across my belly. “I was trying to take it slow; I didn’t want to terrify you with how badly I wanted you. And that’s all I was thinking of—just you. But now this. A baby. Our baby. It’s something I never thought would happen. It’s like . . . it is a bloody miracle.”
And then all the words I had planned, every single one, evaporated. I may as well have been a teenager again myself, with no thought but for the now, for the moment, full of lust, desperate for connection, and not a pregnant fortysomething woman with a mad mother to look after and an unplanned baby on the way.
By the time Hal finally arrived, the search was well underway. I’d met him briefly once before and been surprised by the differences between the two brothers. Physically, Hal was a complete contrast to Chip—bespectacled, balding, a big man running to overweight, dressed formally. Though he was the younger by a few years, he looked older, with a slight stoop and a permanent frown creasing his forehead. Chip was more compact, wore a uniform of jeans and boots, his shirt untucked and unironed, his graying hair messy and slightly too long. Hal’s voice was nothing like Chip’s lazy drawl; it was clipped, precise. Hal’s personality was lower key, too; he radiated good sense, calm decision. His composure in the face of the police presence was reassuring. My panic began to recede, and after a warning glare from his brother, Chip became noticeably less hostile.
The officers had already searched two of the bedrooms and were about to begin on the third. They’d looked through our wardrobes, our chests of drawers, under carpets, gone through desks, and though there was something shameful about having your messy underwear exposed to strangers and recorded on film, they had been surprisingly careful about it. There were none of the spilled-out drawers or messes of fingerprint dust that I’d seen in crime shows.
Hal insisted on checking over Stratford’s documentation, but there was nothing he could dispute; everything was completely in order.
He looked at me apologetically. “Sorry about this, but Inspector Stratford is right. There’s really nothing I can do to stop them.”
“But the whole thing’s ridiculous. How can she have anything to do with that girl’s abduction? Someone’s fucked up big-time.” Chip glared at his younger brother as if it were all his fault.
“I don’t know, mate. But the cops have managed to convince a judge that there’s a good reason. They don’t just hand out search warrants for nothing. Did something happen when they came this morning, Suzannah?”
“No. There was nothing, really. They called in and had a quick look around. Inside and then around the yard. They told me they were looking at a few properties around the place. We weren’t the only ones.”
“They must have found something.”
“But what? There’s nothing to find.”
“I don’t know.” Hal looked thoughtful. “The police work in mysterious ways. Anyway, you look all in, Suzannah. Why don’t you go and wait with your mother? Chip and I can watch the rest of the search.” He addressed the detective, who had just joined us. “If that’s okay with you, Inspector?”
Stratford nodded his assent, and I moved back to the warm kitchen, grateful to be released.
By the time they finished, it was almost midnight. I was sitting on the lounge, pretending to watch television. Mary was sprawled out beside me, snoring loudly. Constable Moorhouse was at the kitchen table, drinking her fourth cup of instant coffee and doing a crossword. She’d played three games of Trouble with Mary, losing them all, and between them, she and Mary had demolished an entire pack of Tim Tams.
“It does terrible things to your waistline, shift work,” Moorhouse said shamefacedly.
I’d drifted in and out of sleep myself, slightly queasy, my head pounding. I heard the heavy tread of footsteps across the veranda, and then Chip and Hal came back into the kitchen, followed by the inspector. He was carrying several small ziplock bags and the two framed pictures that Moorhouse had photographed earlier in the day.
“I’ll get you to sign for these, if you don’t mind, Ms. Wells.”
I looked over at Hal, who nodded his approval. “What am I signing for?”
“We’ll be taking away some items for verification. We’ve also taken swabs from a number of surfaces.” He held up a plastic bag. “The first item is a plastic cup, taken from the basement bedroom.”
The cup was a familiar one—an old infant’s sippy cup that had been stored in one of the boxes. I felt a sharp pang at the sight of it.
“But that was . . . I’d really rather you didn’t take that.”
“You’ll get it back,” said Stratford. “And there’s this. Also taken from the basement room.”
He held up a second bag that contained a pair of lacy black-and-red underpants, brief, and far too small to be mine. I’d never seen them before.
“And this.” It was the Neel print.
“What on earth do you want that for?”
He held up the smaller Preston print. “And this one, too.”
“I don’t understand. What are you taking them for? How are they evidence?”
I looked at Moorhouse, who was frowning steadfastly down at her puzzle.
“We’ll make sure they’re looked after, Ms. Wells. Don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried, I—”
“There’s just one more thing,” he interrupted, holding up another clear bag, this one containing a cheap plastic brush. “Now, if you could just sign here, we’ll get these processed as quickly as we can.”
“That girl can’t have been here,” Chip said quietly as I signed the forms.
The officer raised his eyebrows.
“If she’d been here, I’d have known.” His voice was louder, more certain.
“And how would you know, Mr. Gascoyne?”
“I told you, we’re engaged. I’ve practically been living here for the past couple of months. If that girl had been here, I’d have seen her, wouldn’t I?”
The detective looked at him dubiously. “Is that right? It doesn’t look like Ms. Wells is sharing a bedroom.”
Chip didn’t hesitate. “I still keep all my stuff at home.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t speak up earlier.”
“It’s only just occurred to me.”
“And you’re completely sure about the timing?”
“Chip.” Hal put a hand on his brother’s shoulder, shaking his head. “You should probably leave it for now, mate, sort it out when things are a bit clearer.”
“You really should think about this overnight, Mr. Gascoyne. If you’re certain, you can come down to the station tomorrow morning, and we can take a statement.”
Chip said nothing, but Hal gave a short nod.
“We’ll be in touch again shortly, Ms. Wells. Now, we’ll let you get to bed.”
I was desperate for sleep, the headache worse, my stomach churning, and every part of my body aching, but first there was Mary to deal with. Tonight, even though I had to wake her to get her to bed, she was perfectly docile and let me lead her to the bedroom and tuck her in.
She grabbed my hand as I turned to go. “Mummy?” she whispered.
“No, it’s me, Mary. It’s Suzannah.”
“But I want my mummy.” The eight-year-old child she once was looked at me with frightened eyes. “When’s she coming back?”
I smoothed back her hair, kissed her gently on the forehead. “She won’t be long,” I said.
“Where’s she gone?”
“I don’t know. But I’m sure it isn’t far.”
“Maybe I’ll see her in my dreams,” Mary said sleepily, her eyelids fluttering.
I turned out the bedside light. “Maybe you will.”
Chip and Hal were in the kitchen. Chip had found a bottle of red, poured them each a glass, and the brothers were leaning against the countertop talking, their voices low and intent, their expressions grim. I watched them for a moment. Though the two men couldn’t have been more different, they shar
ed a sort of ease in the world, and with other people, that I envied. But right now there was no trace of Chip’s habitual good humor; he seemed angry, the tension apparent in his rigid jaw, the vein pulsing near his temple. I was suddenly aware of how little I knew him, how little he knew me. And yet he was here, now. We were in whatever happened next together, linked forever by this unexpected life within me. I wasn’t sure whether to be comforted or frightened by this fact. Right then, I was simply exhausted.
They paused in their conversation when I entered the room. Chip attempted a reassuring smile, held out the bottle. “You’re probably not meant to, but you look like you could do with one of these.”
I shook my head, tried to smile back. “I don’t think that’s going to help at this point. I might just have a hot chocolate. So what was that all about? Do they seriously think I have something to do with what happened to that girl?”
I addressed my question to Hal, who took a moment to answer.
“A search warrant is always serious. They have to get permission from a magistrate, which means they must have some sort of corroborating evidence from the girl. Did you get any sense when they came this morning that they thought anything was out of order?”
“Not really. They took pictures of all sorts of things, and of us, but I assumed it was just for elimination.”
“Surely that’s illegal?” said Chip.
“No. Not if Suzannah said it was okay,” said Hal. “I assume you signed something? And you hadn’t been singled out, had you? They were just checking possibilities.”
“Yeah. They said they had a heap of places to visit. I imagined they were probably checking all the properties around here.”
“That’s probably true, too. But there must have been something here that she recognized. That’s why they came back with the warrant. And isn’t the girl saying there were two women? One younger, one older? On the surface, it seems . . . possible, I suppose.” Hal looked at me steadily. “Do you want to engage me as your solicitor?”