Stolen Child (7 page)

She came slowly towards me and sank to the edge of the bed. She seemed unable to take her eyes from the bowl. Blood had already seeped into the white covering. She swallowed loudly. I thought she was going to faint or throw up.

‘Let me hold my baby now,’ I said, and I took you back into my arms.

She stared down at the pair of us and wrinkled her nose. ‘Bit of cleaning up needs to done around here,’ she said. ‘Boiling water.’ She laughed suddenly. ‘It’s what happens in them films. I always wondered what the hell it was for. Now I know.’

She lifted a jug and matching basin from the dressing table, old porcelain, painted with blue roses. Miriam must have used it when David was a baby. His grandmother would have also bathed his father in it. The sense of tradition in Rockrose was never stronger than on that night.

I sponged the blood from the crevices in your skin. I cleansed you from all impurities then wrapped you in a soft white sheet. I wept tears upon your upturned face.

‘Tea and toast,’ said Phyllis. ‘My cousin says that’s the only thing when the tears start.’

The toast was thick and buttery, the tea stronger than I usually drank it. I’d never tasted anything so fine.

She asked if I’d decided on a name.

‘Only one name is possible,’ I replied. ‘I want to call her Joy.’

We rolled it around our tongues. Phyllis nodded, satisfied, and took you back into her arms. Her smile grew in importance. ‘Just as well I was able to manage that tractor,’ she said. ‘You’d have been truly stranded in your hour of need. I’m just sorry I wasn’t here for her birth.’

‘But you were,’ I said. ‘Or as close as makes no difference. I’ll never be able to thank you enough.’

She assisted me into the shower. The water coursed over my body, washing away the stain of blood. When I emerged she had a clean nightdress ready to slip over my shoulders. The bed had been made with fresh linen and the old sheets bunched out of sight into the laundry basket. But you had had enough handling by then and David, when Phyllis phoned him, heard you crying…such a loud, lusty roar.

‘I should have been with you,’ he kept saying. His voice broke, as if he too was crying. ‘I should never have left you alone…is our daughter as beautiful as she sounds?’

‘Even more beautiful,’ I said. ‘She is our miracle baby.’

Gales were blowing across the North Sea. No helicopters had been able to land on the rig for two days. The forecast was for milder conditions and he would be home as soon as humanly possible.

I gave Phyllis instructions on how to prepare your formula and she watched, her eyes moist with longing, as you sucked. But she was growing anxious about her mother who always needed to be taken to the bathroom at midnight.

‘Do you want me to dispose…?’ She hesitated and gestured towards the bowl.

‘Leave it be,’ I said, when she went to lift it. ‘I’ll look after it myself.’

She nodded when I told her to leave the sheets in the basket, understanding, as all women do, that dirty linen is best washed in private. I asked her to take our photograph before she left. It’s important that David is able to share that priceless moment when I named you into life.

After she left, I rested with you in my arms and imagined the water bubbling behind the drystone walls, forming deceptive puddles and dangerous dips, and raising the river levels that would soon burst their banks. But we were content, you and I; safe and warm in an ocean of calm.

David is in the air, flying towards us. Miriam also, with a full order book, both of them anxious to catch their first glimpse of you. In Rockrose, you sleep by my side, your tiny face puckered with concentration. Your lips move, blowing silent raspberries. I cannot take my eyes off you. Your blonde hair is downy, as fine as my own. Your eyes are still milky, unfocused. Hard to tell the colour; I pray they will be blue.

Carla Kelly will be on the news tonight. Her press conference is due to begin soon. This is her first public appearance, apart from the flurry of publicity that followed the birth of Isobel Gardner. I cannot bear to watch. The deed is done.

Carla braced herself to enter the hotel conference room. Three days had passed since Isobel’s disappearance and this was the most important public appearance she would ever make. Bottled water and glasses were laid out on the green baize tablecloth. She sat behind the table and greeted the cameras like old friends sent to comfort her. Each shot mattered. Flashbulbs would illuminate her daughter’s whereabouts. Adrenaline pumped through her body as she held up Isobel’s photograph. She allowed the intrusive lens to see her devastation, her bewilderment.

Her elder brother Leo, her protector since they were children, had automatically become her adviser and solicitor. Words were important, he stressed before the conference began. He went over the written statements she would read and advised her on how to answer questions. Keep it simple, appeal directly to the woman who had taken Isobel. She would be listening.

The story of her daughter’s disappearance had swept like a bushfire through the media.
Anticipation Tot Robbed While Model Mum Slept…Mysterious Disappearance of Anticipation Baby…Celeb Mum Waits in Anticipation.
The
broadsheet headlines were more circumspect than the tabloids.
Two Days Old Baby Stolen from Luxury Clinic…Shocked Parents Seek Missing Baby.

The public response was immediate. Sightings were reported and investigated but the Garda had nothing new to report at the end of each day. Borders were checked, ferries searched. Everything that could be done was being done, claimed Detective Superintendent Murphy, who was in charge of the investigation. Initially, Carla believed everything he said. His words were the lifebelt that prevented her sinking.

The Garda Press Office dealt with all the media queries and Detective Superintendent Murphy had insisted she keep a low profile while the Garda continued their investigations. Slowly, she became aware of other ripples in the background.

‘For your husband’s sake, we need to keep a tight rein on your public appearances and utterances,’ the superintendent warned her.

But Robert’s career as an undercover detective was over. No more dark deals against the walls of derelict warehouses. A desk job in the future, if there was a future…and Carla could not imagine their lives moving on if Isobel was not found. On the day following Isobel’s disappearance, Matron, stiff-necked with shame, embarrassment and nerves, had discharged her from the clinic. Bookings were being cancelled and investigations of the security procedures in place within her clinic were underway. Journalists hung around the courtyard waiting for staff to emerge and be questioned. They were leeches, the matron declared, feeding off the good reputation of the Valley View Maternity Clinic, which she and her staff had worked so hard to maintain.

Leo stood on the steps of the clinic and issued a statement to the assembled journalists while Carla left by the
back entrance. She was driven in an unmarked Garda car to Raine’s apartment in Dundrum where Robert had been staying since the story broke. It was safe to weep there. No one to tell her to stay calm and focused. When she had exhausted herself into silence, she tried to eat the meal Raine had prepared.

‘I have to face the media sooner or later,’ she said. ‘I can do the press conference alone. The Garda Press Office should be able to issue a statement as to why you can’t appear.’

‘I want to be with you,’ Robert said. His cheeks were gaunt, his eyes shadowed from lack of sleep.

‘What if you’re recognised?’ she asked. ‘I couldn’t bear it if anything happened—’

‘No one’s going to make the connection,’ he assured her.

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘It was my job.’ His mouth tightened. ‘That’s why I was one of the best.’

She noted his use of the past tense. Their lives were out of control and they were powerless to halt the slide. He was in contact with the search team, constantly seeking the latest information. Her antennae had become attuned to every nuance in his voice. She could gauge the information he was prepared to share with her by the shift of his eyes.

‘I strongly advise against this press conference,’ Detective Superintendent Murphy had said when he heard what Carla was planning to do. ‘You could be putting your husband’s life in danger.’ He was a solid, bald-headed man with a strong neck and intimidating black eyebrows that reminded her of beetles. She found herself staring at them while he spoke, her eyes following their twitching movements in the vain hope that she could read beyond his professional calm. ‘You must allow the Garda Press—’

‘My wife and I have already made our decision,’ Robert had interrupted his superior. ‘In this instance, it is my rights as a father that take precedence over any other authority.’

Now, he sat silently between her and Leo, a nondescript figure, his hair slicked sideways, rimless glasses high on his nose. Nothing about his face demanded attention. He was, as the press statement had claimed, an administrative Garda whose job was dealing with driving misdemeanours.

Leo read out a brief statement and reminded the journalists that his clients were undergoing an intensely personal trauma. Their questions should be brief and to the point.

Robert’s hands shook as he poured bottled water into a glass and began to speak. He was used to operating in shadows and seemed dazzled by the flashbulbs, appalled by the crouching, crawling movements of the photographers and the blaze of the television cameras. The clicking of cameras became more audible as his voice faltered. He bowed his head, unable to continue. Microphones were shoved forward to capture his harsh weeping. Carla held his hand and spoke for him.

‘Isobel is our child,’ she said. ‘She is only five days old. Please have pity and return her to us. Please…please, if you have taken her for some misguided reason, talk to someone you can trust – a friend, a priest, the police. They will treat you with understanding and we are waiting to forgive you. But please…please return our darling baby to us.’

Her eyes felt like stones, hard and bright. She longed for tears but they refused to fall and give the photographers the shot they needed. Leo asked if there were any questions from the floor.

‘Carla, how did you feel when you woke up and discovered your daughter was missing?’ A journalist sitting in the front row raised her pen.

‘Devastated.’ Carla sucked in her breath and wondered why the answer was not blindingly obvious to anyone with feelings.

The journalist, young and eager, waited for a more dramatic response.

‘I felt as if a knife had gone through my heart.’ Carla winced. Her emotions, veering from manic hope to utter desolation, could not be described in a mawkish soundbite but the journalist seemed satisfied.

‘Mr Gardner, as a member of the Garda Síochána, have
you
been personally involved in the search for your daughter?’ another journalist shouted from the centre of the room.

‘I’ll take that question.’ Detective Superintendent Murphy held up his hand. ‘In any case directly involving a member of the Garda Síochána they are automatically disqualified from participating in the investigation.’

‘Are you satisfied with the progress of the investigation so far?’ Again the question was thrust at Robert, who nodded.

‘I have the utmost faith in my colleagues and appeal to the woman who has our child to trust the Gardaí—’

‘How do you know it’s a woman?’ shouted a journalist. ‘Have you inside information that—’

‘We don’t know who took our child,’ Carla swiftly intervened. ‘And it doesn’t matter. We don’t want revenge. We simply want our daughter back in our arms.’

‘Carla, has a ransom been demanded?’ Josh Baker from
The Week on the Street
, a prime-time television programme, moved forward in tandem with his cameraman.

‘We’ve heard nothing—’

‘No ransom demand has been made,’ snapped the superintendent. Carla could sense his desire to bring the conference to a conclusion but Josh had now reached the table and the camera was zooming in for a close-up of her expression.

‘Carla, had you any suspicions that you were being stalked during your pregnancy?’

Carla shivered. She had not believed it would be possible to feel even more terrified. The camera was drawing her terror to the surface, beaming it outwards as she struggled for composure.

‘I’ve no reason to believe I was being stalked.’ She forced conviction into her voice and tightened her grip on Robert’s hand. He trembled, knowing as she did that she would not necessarily have noticed a stalker. She was used to the gaze of men, indifferent to their eyes studying her as she walked past. No, she would not have noticed a stalker, just as she had not noticed a thief entering the ward where she was supposed to be keeping her daughter safe from harm.

‘I agree with Mrs Gardner.’ Detective Superintendent Murphy leaned towards the microphone. ‘We have absolutely no evidence to back that theory.’

‘Is there a link between Isobel’s disappearance and the excessive promotion surrounding your pregnancy?’ Alyssa Faye asked.

‘Excessive…?’ For an instant Carla’s mind went blank. She shuffled the papers in front of her and stared at her statement. ‘What do you mean?’

Leo calmly answered the question. ‘Carla worked in a professional capacity throughout her pregnancy. There was nothing excessive about her public appearances—’

‘The Anticipation advertising campaign exposed you to a wide audience,’ said Alyssa. She glanced quickly to either side, aware that she had the media’s attention. ‘As a celebrity, you were constantly in the public eye. Is it possible that a woman who has recently lost a child could have been influenced by the disproportionate attention you received throughout your pregnancy?’

Once again the superintendent took the microphone. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I agree with Mr Kelly. That theory is groundless. Thank you for your time.’ He raised his voice above the protesting babble. ‘As you can understand, this is an extremely distressing experience for Mr and Mrs Gardner. This conference is over. No more questions…I repeat, no more questions.’

Leo placed his hand under Carla’s elbow, raised her to her feet. ‘Keep walking,’ he whispered. ‘Look straight ahead and don’t respond to any further questions.’

She followed his instructions, vaguely aware that the journalists were on their feet and shouting her name. It was a familiar scenario.
This way, Carla! That way! The other way!
They stepped backwards, clicking, clicking. She recognised Colin Moore, the photographer from
Pizzazz.
He had phoned her yesterday to offer his support and sympathy. He lowered his camera and smiled encouragingly, jerked his thumb into the air. Instinctively, she found courage in his confident gesture. Her lips moved in response, a grimace, thanking him. Then she was ushered into the anteroom off the conference centre where she collapsed into Robert’s arms.

Next morning, her photograph appeared on the front pages of the newspapers. Why was she smiling? She had not smiled from the moment she awoke to find her daughter missing yet there she was, her grimace morphed into her catwalk smile. Years of experience radiating from the pages. Placed beside her smiling image was the photograph of Isobel, her scrunched-up, newborn features partly hidden by a blanket. A photograph of Robert, his face white and haggard, had been placed on the other side; a lost trinity that should have been a family.