Little Face (16 page)

`There was a woman in the hospital at the same time as me . . . ' I
begin, but Vivienne has started to speak as well, and it is her voice that
everybody hears. I wonder if I ought to try again to tell them about
Mandy. Vivienne's presence stops me. I know what she would say: that Mandy was too stupid to plan anything as imaginative as a substitution of one baby for another. I have a little Vivienne in my head all the
time, as if she's fitted a representative of herself in my brain, one that
reacts exactly as she would, even when she isn't there.

`You could take DNA samples from Alice and David and see if
they're the biological parents of the baby.' I notice Vivienne's wording.
The baby, not Florence.

`We could.' Sergeant Zailer flashes us a cold-eyed smile. `But we're
not going to. If you want to pay for that, you're welcome to arrange it
yourself. It'd probably be a good deal quicker to do it that way, in fact.
There is no case here, Mrs Fancourt. No baby is missing. We've spoken
to your nearest neighbours and nobody saw anything suspicious.
There's no evidence that anything at all is amiss, apart from in the mind
of your daughter-in-law. My detective here ... '-she pauses and looks
pointedly at Simon-'
. . . has been extremely thorough. He has contacted the hospital in pursuit of physical evidence in the form of a placenta or umbilical cord, but since neither is available ... well, I'm afraid
there's not a lot more we can do. Even if they had been available ... our
lab is very busy with DNA analysis relating to serious crimes. It's a question of resources, Mrs Fancourt, as I'm sure you'll appreciate.'

I wonder how Simon feels about being described as her detective.
She didn't even look at me when she suggested to Vivienne that I was
mentally impaired. I can feel the beams of her hostility as they radiate
across the table. She is busy and regards me and my ludicrous babyswap story as a waste of her time, but I sense that it is more than that.
She dislikes me personally.

I tell my patients, or I used to, that the best way to deal with someone who is aggressive towards you is to follow the DESC script:
describe, explain, strategies, consequences. You describe the unacceptable aspects of their behaviour and explain how they make you
feel. Then you suggest strategies for change-normally, that they stop
doing whatever it is that they are doing-and point out the positive
consequences of such a change for all concerned.

I do not think I will try the DESC script now.

`Thank you for your suggestion,' says Vivienne. `I certainly will
organise a DNA test, to put my family's minds at rest.' There is no gratitude whatsoever in her voice.

`Do I take it, then, that you also think the infant in your house is not
Florence Fancourt?' asks Sergeant Zailer.

Since she returned from Florida, Vivienne has not said what she
believes. She is observing me and David very closely. We both find it
unsettling. She prefers asking questions to answering them. She always
has. She fires them at you, one after another, and listens attentively to
your replies. When I first met her, I was amazed and profoundly grateful to discover that no detail of my daily life, no thought or feeling I had,
was too small to hold her interest. One doesn't normally expect that sort
of attention from anyone but a parent. Vivienne seemed determined to
know everything there was to know about me. It was as if she were collecting facts for a future test. I was only too keen to help her in her mission. The more firmly the data of my existence was lodged in Vivienne's
sharp mind, the more real and substantial I felt. I have felt less concrete
since I started to hide aspects of myself from her.

`I only saw Florence once, on the day she was born,' says Vivienne.
`I then went to Florida with my grandson. When I got back yesterday,
I had already spoken to Alice. I know that she believes the baby at The
Elms is not her daughter, and I am inclined to take her seriously. The
memory plays tricks, Sergeant Zailer, as I'm sure you know. A DNA
test is the only way to resolve this.' She appears calm, but inside she
must feel the same churning, restless agitation that I feel, as if the contents of my head have been repeatedly stabbed at, mashed to a pulp.
Yet here I sit, here Vivienne sits: polite, demure. We are both in
disguise.

`Does the baby at The Elms resemble the baby you saw in the hospital?' Simon asks. His gentle tone provides a welcome contrast to his
colleague's brusqueness.

`That's irrelevant, detective,' Sergeant Zailer snaps at him. `There's no evidence of a crime having been committed here.' She turns to him
and mutters something that sounds like ` . . . cuff it.'

`She resembles her very closely, yes,' Vivienne replies.

`Of course she does!' I blurt out. `I've never denied that.'

`Would you like to deliver the other bad news, DC Waterhouse?'
Sergeant Zailer prompts. Simon doesn't want to say it, whatever it is.
She is forcing him to be horrible to us. `My detective is tongue-tied, so
I'll tell you myself. You gave us a camera film, Mrs Fancourt.'

`Yes!' I sit forward in my chair. Vivienne puts her hand on my arm.

`It was damaged. Light contamination, we were told. None of the
photos came out. Sorry.' She doesn't sound it.

`What? No!' I am on my feet. I want to slap Sergeant Zailer's smug,
snide, gloating face. She has no idea what it feels like to be me, doesn't even try to put herself in my place. Somebody with so little empathy should not be allowed to do the job she does. `But ... those were
the first ever photos of Florence. Now I haven't got ... oh, God.' I sit
back down and squeeze my hands together in my lap, determined not
to cry in front of this woman.

It is almost unbearable to think that I will never see those pictures,
not even once. The one David took of me with my cheek pressed
against Florence's. Me kissing the top of her head. David with Florence's fingers curled round his thumb. Florence bent over the midwife's knee with a comical yawn on her face, during a burping session.
A close-up of the sign that dangled from her glass cot in the hospital:
a pink elephant holding a bottle of champagne, with the words `female
infant of Alice Fancourt' written in blue biro on its stomach.

I shut these things out of my mind before they destroy me.

`This is very peculiar.' Vivienne frowns. `I took some photographs of
Florence myself, with my new digital camera, on the day she was born.'

`And?' asks Simon quickly. Sergeant Zailer looks resolutely
uninterested.

`The same thing. While I was in Florida, I noticed that all of them
had been deleted. They simply weren't there any more. I couldn't understand it-all my other photographs were still there. It was only
the ones of Florence that had vanished.'

`What?' She is telling me this for the first time now, in front of two
police officers. Why didn't she mention it as soon as I told her Florence
was missing? Was it because David was also there?

I bought Vivienne the digital camera for her birthday. She is usually
resistant to anything she regards as modern, but she wanted to take the
best possible photographs of her new grandchild. I still have a vivid
picture in my mind of her frowning at the manual, too proud to
admit she was daunted by its many instructions, determined not to be
defeated by new technology. She refused to accept help from David,
even though he could have saved her a lot of time.

When Vivienne was a child, her parents used to tell her that there
was nothing she couldn't do. She believed them. `That is how you instil
confidence in a person,' she told me.

`This is impossible,' she mutters now, lost for a moment in her own
thoughts.

`Now will you admit something funny is going on?' I demand.
`Come on, what are the odds of two sets of photos being wrecked accidentally? This is evidence!' I plead with the sergeant. `Two films, both
ruined, and they just happen to be the only photos of Florence ever
taken!'

The sergeant sighs. `It appears that way to you. But I'm afraid it's
not what any police officer or court of law would regard as proof.'

`Cheryl Dixon, my midwife, believes me,' I say tearfully.

`I've read her statement. She said she wasn't sure, couldn't say
either way. She sees dozens of babies every day. If I were you, Mrs Fancourt, I'd make an appointment with your GP and see what he can do
for you. We know about your history of depression. . . '

`Don't make out that's got anything to do with this! My parents had
just died. That was grief, not depression!'

`You were prescribed prozac,' says Sergeant Zailer with exaggerated
patience. `Maybe you need some sort of medication now. Post-natal depression is a very common complaint and it's nothing to be ashamed
of. In fact, it affects ... '

`One moment, please, Sergeant.' Vivienne's interruptions are so
polite, they make the original speaker appear rude for not having
stopped in time. `Alice is right about the photographs. It is simply
impossible that the same thing should happen to both of our cameras.
It has never happened to any camera of mine before.'

`Nor mine,' I say. I feel like a coward, hiding behind the swagger of
a braver, more powerful protector.

Sergeant Zailer's nostrils flare and her lips move slightly as she stifles a yawn. `Coincidences happen.' She shrugs. `It's not enough for us
to use as the basis for an investigation, I'm afraid.'

`Is that also your opinion, Detective Constable Waterhouse?' asks
Vivienne.

A good question. Simon is trying not to let his expression give anything away.

`Mrs Fancourt, I'm the senior officer here, and I say there's no
case. Now, you can give DC Waterhouse your statement, if it'll make
you happy, but I'm afraid that'll have to be the end of it. I'm sure you'll
agree, we've been more than patient with this whole matter ... '

`I do not agree, Sergeant Zailer.' Vivienne stands up. She reminds me
of a cabinet minister, about to demolish her opposition. I am glad to
have her on my side. `On the contrary. I've never seen anyone in more
of a hurry. You were in a hurry the last time we met, as I recall. You
are a woman who would rather do lots of things badly, in order to be
able to tick off more items on your list, than do fewer things properly.
I'm sorry that you are Detective Constable Waterhouse's boss. We
would all be better off if it were the other way round. Now, I'd like the
name of your boss, so that I can write a letter of complaint.'

`By all means: Detective Inspector Giles Proust. Make sure to mention, when you drop him a line, that you have a solid case based on
two knackered cameras and the wild paranoia of a woman who's just
had a baby.' The sergeant's face is stony.

`Shall I get on with taking Mrs Fancourt's statement, then?' Simon
interrupts, before any more ill-will has a chance to seep into the air
between us. He scowls at Sergeant Zailer. He is angry with her for
ratcheting up the animosity. Her manner strikes him as unnecessarily
nasty, but he cannot criticise her because she is his superior officer,
which frustrates him. I wonder if Simon is really an ally, or if I am simply making it all up, putting into his head the thoughts I want to be
there. I have had imaginary friends before.

`I'm going to get to the bottom of this, with or without your help,'
says Vivienne. `My grandchildren are everything to me, Sergeant, do
you understand that? I live for my family.'

This is true. Vivienne could have risen to the top of any profession
she chose, but she was not interested in being prime minister, chief constable, QC. She once told me that mother and grandmother were the
only titles she ever wanted. `If you have a career, you will, if you're
lucky, spend five days a week with people who admire and respect
you,' she said. `But if you make your family your life's work, you get
to spend all your time with people who admire, respect and love you.
I can't see that there's any comparison. My mother never worked,' she
added. `I wouldn't have liked it at all if she had.'

But a family is not a single entity with a single character. A family,
Vivienne's in particular, comprises different people, each with his or her
own needs. Sometimes the many demands for trust and loyalty cannot
be reconciled. Sometimes you have to choose: child or grandchild, husband or daughter, son or daughter-in-law.

Vivienne agrees that the damage to the photographs cannot be a
coincidence, but I wonder if she has pursued her hunch to its logical
conclusion. She has been too busy resenting Sergeant Zailer's abandonment of us. How long before it occurs to her that, if it wasn't an
accident, that means someone sabotaged the pictures of Florence
deliberately, someone who must have had both motive and opportunity? Somebody like David.

Saturday, October 4, 2003, 3.1 5 PM

SIMON SAT IN the waiting room at the Spilling Centre for Alternative
Medicine. He'd spoken to a reflexologist, an acupuncturist, a Reiki
healer, and now stared at the books in the glass-fronted wooden cabinet by the door. Nothing tempted him to cross the room and take a
closer look. How to Heal Your Self. The Spiritual Road to Enlightenment. Simon didn't want to be healed or enlightened by a battered
paperback with yellowing pages. He didn't subscribe to the view peddled by most of these alternative quacks, that spirituality was a fast
track to happiness. He believed the opposite was true: spiritual people
suffered more than most.