by C J Parsons
‘What can I do to make things better?’ Josh asked. ‘Can I get you a coffee or something to eat? A pillow to rest your head against?’
‘No.’ Some dim corner of her mind registered that she’d forgotten to tag on a ‘thank you’, but right now she didn’t care. ‘I’m going to try Simon again.’
‘You’ve already left a message. What’s the point of calling again and again?’
‘He’s her father. He needs to know what’s going on.’
It had taken Carrie by surprise, how much she wanted Simon here. Because he was the one person who would truly understand how she felt – the one who would be feeling exactly the same way. Simon alone could help her shoulder this burden of terror.
But his mobile went straight to voicemail. She’d left a message telling him to call her, that it was urgent. But more than an hour had gone by and he still hadn’t replied. Which wasn’t like him. Maybe he’d gone back to Clearbrook? He’d said the new medication was working . . . but was he taking it every day? Maybe he no longer felt there was a compelling reason to, since she’d cut him off from Sofia.
The thought brought a sliver of guilt, which she pushed aside immediately. She couldn’t worry about Simon. Not now.
Carrie sat perfectly still on the fake-leather chair, as if a bomb were strapped to her chest that might go off at the slightest tremor, staring through her ghost self in the glass barrier, past the nurse’s station, to the sleet-grey door just beyond. The room where Sofia had been taken, where her fate was being determined right now. She sat and stared at that door, not moving a muscle, until finally it opened and one of the doctors emerged in a flash of white.
Twenty-nine
‘I’m going to swing by Carrie Haversen’s office,’ Juliet said, logging off her computer.
Alistair, who was eating a bacon sandwich and reading Clarissa Weldon’s medical records, looked up in surprise.
‘Really? Why?’
‘I want to go back over some of the Bring Your Kid to Work footage with her boss. Get him to identify a few more people.’
‘Can’t you just email him?’
‘I’d rather do it in person.’ She reached for her corduroy jacket. ‘You’re welcome to come along for the ride.’
He took a large bite of sandwich, staring at her thoughtfully as he chewed. She could hear bacon crunching.
‘Are we still pursuing that angle, given that the guv has instructed us, in no uncertain terms, to focus our resources on building an air-tight case against Tara Weldon?’
Juliet threaded her arms through her jacket sleeves.
‘The case against Tara is purely circumstantial. No DNA and no confession.’ She bent to retrieve her satchel from under the desk. ‘Until that changes, I think it would be a mistake to ignore the possibility that she’s innocent.’
Alistair’s chair creaked as he leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head, elbows jutting sideways.
‘We’ve got CCTV evidence placing her in both parks at the time of the abductions. She’d had prior interaction with Sofia, during which she obtained knowledge of her interest in penguins. Plus she tracked down and befriended Sofia’s mother after the abduction was thwarted.’
‘“Tracked down?”’ She pulled the satchel strap up over her shoulder. ‘I don’t think we can say that. There’s nothing to disprove Tara’s claim that she bumped into Carrie at the play centre and the two of them bonded.’
Alistair snorted. ‘Please. Who “bonds” with Carrie Haversen? She’s un-bondable.’
‘Simon Ryder did,’ she pointed out. ‘And until we’ve got something more concrete, I’m going to keep an open mind.’
‘As circumstantial cases go, it’s pretty strong. And not just the facts of the abduction itself, but Weldon’s background too: what happened to her daughter. Her history of mental health issues. It all fits.’
‘I agree.’
‘You agree. And yet you’re running off to pursue other lines of enquiry.’
Juliet’s eyes did a quick sweep of the room, not wanting to be overheard. But they were alone, apart from Ravi, who was speaking into his phone at a desk near the back. A personal call, most likely, since he didn’t have his notebook out.
‘Yes. I am.’
‘So, are you just covering all bases as a matter of principle . . . or do you genuinely believe Tara Weldon could be innocent?’
Juliet’s eyes moved to the whiteboard as she thought about her answer, scanning the photos of Carrie, Simon, Nick Laude, Sofia, Zoe. And Tara – the only one with arrows linking her to both victims.
‘Maybe a bit of both.’
‘Why won’t you let me help you?’ Josh’s voice had risen a few octaves. ‘All I want is to be here for you.’
Carrie’s gaze didn’t move from her daughter’s face: the closed eyes and bruise-blue lips. The terrifying rash. Three days ago, she had wanted more than anything to know what was wrong. But as her eyes travelled along the IV tethered to her daughter’s arm, she wondered whether this was any better.
She could feel Josh rubbing her back as she caressed Sofia’s burning cheek. She knew he was trying to be supportive, but the truth was he was getting on her nerves. He kept offering her things: cups of tea, a blanket around her shoulders, even an architecture magazine (‘to take your mind off things’, as if that were possible).
Bacterial meningitis, the consultant had said, those two words sending everything inside her plunging, with a high-diving-board lurch, into icy darkness.
Meningitis. Children died from meningitis. Died, or were changed for ever, their lives stunted.
‘We are flooding her body with massive doses of antibiotics to fight it,’ the doctor had said. ‘It will be a few day before we know whether it’s worked.’
‘If it doesn’t work, she’ll die, won’t she?’ The doctor had taken off his glasses and given her a look that was probably meant to convey something, which of course she couldn’t read. ‘Tell me the answer. In words.’
‘Yes. You need to be prepared for that possibility.’
A ludicrous thing to say. Because she could never be prepared for that possibility. If Sofia died, she was certain her own life would end too, as her heart recognised that it had lost its reason to beat.
So, no, she didn’t want a blanket and, no, she didn’t want a cup of tea and she sure as bloody hell didn’t want to look at pictures of other people’s buildings. She took a deep breath, fortifying herself for another night of waiting. Who could have imagined that there would be more nights just as long and as terrible as those two when Sofia was missing – trapped once again in the limbo between ‘before’ and ‘after’.
At least, last time, there’d been a happy ending. Last time, she had been lucky. Lucky that Josh liked to go walking along an unused path. Lucky that he happened to be passing at a moment when Sofia was awake and calling out. Lucky that he was a good man. All of it had been lucky. Now she found herself wondering: what if it was too much luck? What if luck was a resource that could run out? What if there was none left?
Carrie hadn’t realised that her hands were clenched in her lap until she felt her nails bite into the soft skin of her palms. Josh placed a hand on top of hers, and she willed him to take it away, to leave her be. She felt as though she was made of spun glass, ready to shatter at the slightest touch.
He gave the back of her hand a squeeze.
‘You’re not alone,’ he said. ‘I hope knowing that, feeling another hand on yours, provides some comfort.’
‘Yes,’ she said. Then her free hand reached automatically for the wrist trapped beneath his, giving the underside a hard pinch.
Juliet had only just arrived at Wescott Architects when she saw it.
Osman Baig was leading her through rows of desks towards his office, talking about the way architecture was changing (‘I kind of miss the days when
it was more about drawing skills and less about computer skills’) while she listened and nodded, trying to imagine the dynamic between Sofia’s mother and this sociable, cat-loving man, when they walked past Carrie’s empty desk. Juliet shot a quick glance at it and had gone another few paces before her mind processed what her eyes had just seen. She stopped short. Turned around.
Last time she’d come here, Carrie had been sitting in the now vacant chair working on a design, her desk papered over with drawings and notes. Now, in her absence, she was able to see something that had been hidden beneath them.
A framed photo of Carrie and Sofia.
It was clearly taken in the spring, because cherry blossoms were in full bloom among the trees lining the now familiar fence. A list of ‘Granger Park Playground Rules’ was visible on a wooden sign in the corner of the shot. Mother and daughter were standing in front of the swings together, Carrie in jeans and a grey jumper, her face wearing the now-familiar blank expression; Sofia, on the other hand, was grinning from ear to ear. But only half her smile was visible because the other half was hidden behind a large, stuffed penguin.
Juliet picked up the photo, scanning the background: it must have been taken in the afternoon, judging by the light and the length of the shadows trailing from the children running by. None of them were wearing school uniforms.
Juliet’s thoughts were moving fast, clattering over the assumptions she’d made and the theories she’d constructed. Tearing them down and starting over. Because she could see now that Bring Your Kid to Work Day was irrelevant. Anyone who’d seen this photo would have had all the information they needed – about the way Sofia looked, her love of penguins and her habit of hugging soft toys right up against her face. The fact that she went to Granger Park playground on weekend afternoons.
‘Officer Campbell? Is everything OK?’
Osman Baig’s voice seemed to be coming from a long way off. She turned to find him standing beside her, wearing a puzzled smile.
‘I’m going to need a list of everyone who works here and has access to this floor. And all your visitor sign-in sheets for the last three months.’
Thirty
Carrie must have dozed off, because she had the dream again: the one where Sofia was buried somewhere on an endless beach and she was digging, digging, screaming soundlessly, clawing at the sand.
She jolted awake, taking a moment to make sense of her surroundings: the chair beside the bed, its wooden arm digging into the side of her waist. Pastel walls. Her daughter, hooked up to machines. Tubes carrying liquid in, wires carrying data out, sending spiky waves across the monitor. Reality came slamming back. She was in hospital. Meningitis had reduced her daughter’s life to numbers and scribbles on a screen. And Carrie could do nothing but sit there and hope that the two lines kept rising and falling. That they weren’t suddenly replaced by the flat signature of death.
She heard a soft snore and saw that Josh had fallen asleep in the next chair, mouth ajar, head tipped back against the mint-green wall. She watched his face for a moment. Was it bad that she was relieved he wasn’t awake, that she couldn’t stand another minute of his relentless support? That she wished her ex was here instead?
She and Simon had come to this very hospital when Sofia was eighteen months old. A terrifying virus had struck in the night, bringing vomiting so severe and persistent it had left her small body dangerously dehydrated.
Just because she’s little, that doesn’t mean she’s weak, Simon had said, as they journeyed side-by-side through that long, terrifying night, stationed at their daughter’s bedside, eyes never leaving her. Babies are hardy little things. Their bodies are still under warranty. It’s us knackered old adults that should be worried. She had got the joke about the warranty and taken comfort from the point behind it: about their daughter’s newness and strength. By morning, the vomiting had stopped, leaving Sofia sleeping peacefully.
And as the doors of the hospital had slid apart to release their little family back into the world, there had been a moment, captured in Carrie’s memory, when she’d turned and looked at Simon’s profile, and felt love rising through the heavy layers of exhaustion, making her reach for his hand, holding it tight.
Carrie checked her mobile again, but there were no messages or missed calls.
She closed her eyes and inhaled through her nostrils, holding on to the breath for a moment as she fortified herself, drawing on whatever reserves remained to get her through this day.
But just as she was about to exhale, she heard something. Not quite a whisper, it was fainter than that: air in the shape of a word. The best word in the world.
‘Mummy.’
Her eyes flew open as the paused breath left her lungs.
Sofia’s lids had lifted just enough to reveal a sliver of dark brown eyes, now aimed her way. Carrie leaned forwards slowly, carefully, as though this moment, and the precious cargo of hope it was carrying, might break with a sudden move.
She placed a hand on her daughter’s forehead. The furnace had gone out. Sofia’s skin was damp and warm.
‘My love,’ she said softly. ‘How do you feel?’
Sofia’s eyes closed and, for a second, Carrie thought she had slipped away again. But then the lids lifted, a little higher this time. And her whisper was clearer, more substantial.
‘Thirsty.’
Carrie knew she should summon the doctor, tell him there’d been a change, let him start poking and prodding, running tests and shining lights and taking temperatures. But she wasn’t quite ready to break the spell cast by the sound of her daughter, awake and alive, asking for water. She filled a glass from the pitcher on the bedside table, then cradled Sofia’s shoulders, easing her upright and tipping the glass to her lips.
Sofia took a few sips, then fell back against the pillows. She blinked a few times, eyes opening wider. Then she smiled, and it was like the sun streaming through the window of some buried prison cell. Carrie tipped her face towards it, basking.
‘She’s back!’ Josh’s voice boomed from right beside her, making her jump.
‘Yes.’ Carrie touched the sweat-damp curls without removing her eyes from Sofia.
‘Have you called the doctor?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Shall I go and get him? Or at least tell the nurses what’s happened?’
‘Yes.’
His shoes made a squeaking sound on the hospital floor. She was dimly aware of the sound pausing for a moment just before he left the room, as though he were waiting for her to say or do something.
But Carrie didn’t turn around.
Juliet divided the stack of papers in two, tossing half onto Alistair’s desk before sitting down heavily with her share. She glanced around the room, glad that the others were all off chasing leads, building the case against Tara Weldon. She didn’t want anyone else to know that she was looking in a different direction.
Alistair flipped through the top few pages, pulling a face.
‘Christ, this is a lot of traffic for an architects’ firm. Who are all these people?’
‘Clients, interns, cleaners, visiting architecture students, friends and family of staff, delivery people . . . I could go on.’
His cheeks puffed into a sigh.
‘I don’t suppose you could give me some clue as to exactly what it is we’re looking for?’
‘Nope.’ Juliet rapped the bottom edges of her stack against the desk until the pages lined up, then picked up the top sheet, with its list of names and signatures. ‘But we’ll know it when we see it.’
The doctors said Sofia had to stay in hospital for three more nights, so they could finish the course of antibiotics and monitor her progress. But anyone could see she was getting better, the rash retreating, the colour seeping back, her eyes regaining their focus.
She was sitting up in bed. She was talking. Soon she would be co
ming home.
Everything was going to be OK.
Simon was on his way. He’d been four days into a ‘man versus nature’ camping trip in the Highlands when he’d finally picked up her messages. He’d jumped on the first train back.
Josh held Carrie’s hand as they sat beside the hospital bed. But she no longer found it annoying. Quite the opposite, in fact. It felt good, knowing she had someone she could depend on in a crisis, someone who cared so deeply for her and Sofia. Josh had proven his dedication time and again, in a hundred small acts of kindness.
A bag of Solly’s sesame-seed bagels sat on the bedside table, half eaten. He knew they were Carrie’s favourite, so had run out to buy them for her the moment her appetite returned. Josh was a thoughtful, generous man and she was lucky to have him in her life. She had been through a terrible ordeal and he had stayed by her side, holding her tight. And if at times it had seemed a bit too tight, she had only herself to blame; Carrie could have told him how she felt, asked him to back off and give her some room to breathe. But she hadn’t. And it wasn’t as if he could read it in her face.
Josh pressed the tip of Sofia’s nose with a forefinger.
‘You gave us quite a scare, young lady.’
Sofia yawned hugely.
‘How could I do something scary without knowing? All I bermember is feeling pukey when I ate spaghetti and then waking up in the hospital.’
Carrie stroked her daughter’s forehead, revelling in the temperature there: still warmer than usual . . . but only a bit.
‘You were very sick,’ Josh said. ‘And it’s scary seeing someone you love get sick.’
‘Oh.’ Another yawn. ‘Sorry. It was the bad germ’s fault.’
