by Lisa Stone
Chelsea nodded, while Grant said, ‘You are to blame, and I don’t want this inquiry of yours taking forever. I’m too upset to work, so I need compensation soon.’
‘Will you write a report too?’ Chelsea asked Beth. ‘I don’t want this all being swept under the carpet and forgotten about.’
‘I’ll be filing my report first thing tomorrow,’ Beth said. ‘Do you have any more questions for Mr Bridges?’ she asked them both.
‘No,’ Chelsea said.
‘Not right now, but I might in the future,’ Grant said.
‘In that case I suggest we leave Mr Bridges to get on with his work,’ Beth said, and stood.
Antony Bridges threw her an appreciative look.
‘I’ll be in touch as soon as we have any news,’ he reassured Grant and Chelsea. They too got ready to leave.
Outside, Matt and Beth saw the young couple off the hospital premises and continued to their car. It was only then that Beth asked Matt, ‘Did you recognize the name of the midwife?’
‘Yes,’ Matt said. ‘It’s the same one who delivered Mr and Mrs Jennings’s baby. Two stillbirths in a month – is that normal?’
‘Sadly, yes. I looked it up while I was investigating Mrs Slater’s complaint. One in every 223 births is stillborn, that’s 3,400 a year, so nine a day. And that’s just those that have to be registered because of the number of weeks’ gestation. The true figure is likely to be much higher. So in that respect Anne isn’t to blame.’
EIGHTEEN
Jan was ready by 6.30 p.m. and waiting in the living room for Chris to arrive. She’d fed Tinder, showered, washed her hair and spent some time trying to decide what to wear. It was the first time since she’d come to live in Ivy Cottage that she’d needed to change out of jeans and a jumper. She was now wearing a dress; one of three she’d packed in case she needed to look smart.
DC Matt Davis had been very helpful and thorough when he’d visited that afternoon. Not only had he checked the back garden, but he’d gone into the woods surrounding the cottage and down the lane where she’d seen the shadowy figure running from the front door and between the trees. He hadn’t found any signs of anyone living in the woods and suggested it might have been an animal she’d seen. She hadn’t told him otherwise. She would wait until she had some firm evidence. He’d suggested again that she went for a walk in Coleshaw Woods at the back of the cottage and she was considering it. Here she was, living in a renowned beauty spot and she’d hardly explored it at all.
At 7 p.m. Jan heard Chris’s car pull up outside. Tinder heard it too and pricked up his ears. ‘See you later,’ she said, standing, and ruffled his fur.
She shut him in the living room so he couldn’t get upstairs and then went into the hall where she put on her coat. Leaving the hall light on so she could see when she returned, Jan opened the front door. Chris was turning his car around as Wood Lane was a dead end. The only light came from his car’s headlamps. She waited until he’d completed the turn and then went round to the passenger side.
‘Hi,’ she said brightly, getting in. Immediately she sensed an atmosphere.
‘Hello,’ Chris said, his voice flat. He tried to smile but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Perhaps he’d changed his mind about taking her out after all.
‘Are you OK?’ she asked, pausing before fastening her seatbelt.
‘Yes, thanks, are you?’ He slipped the car into first gear and pulled away.
‘I’ve had a busy day,’ she said, making conversation. ‘I boarded up the hole in the hedge again, took Tinder to the village and then had a visit from the police.’ She had expected Chris to be surprised by the mention of the police, but he wasn’t.
‘I know,’ he said, concentrating on the road ahead. ‘DC Matt Davis was the officer you saw. Not sure why it merited CID. He stopped off at the village store after he’d been to see you. He knows Lillian and my brother.’
‘Oh, of course, I should have guessed,’ Jan said with a smile. Everyone knew everyone else here.
But there was an awkward silence.
‘Have you had a good day?’ she asked.
‘It was OK. I was working locally. But, Jan, I don’t understand why you involved the police. I thought we’d agreed it wasn’t necessary.’
She looked at him again, but his face was expressionless. ‘I just felt it was wise to report it,’ she said. ‘Why does it matter? What’s the problem?’
‘No problem, but news travels fast round here.’
‘So? Matt didn’t find anything.’
‘He wouldn’t, not during the day.’
‘So he might have found something if he’d come at night?’ she asked, with a stab of unease.
‘I meant you only have the problem at night, don’t you?’
‘Mostly. Although I’m sure I saw someone today when I walked into the village.’
Chris didn’t reply but stared straight ahead, apparently concentrating on the uneven road surface.
Jan wished she hadn’t come. The evening was already a disaster and it had hardly begun. She was about to make an excuse to return home when Chris turned to her. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I can be a moody bugger sometimes. Let’s start the evening again, shall we? I’ve booked us a table at a really nice restaurant.’
‘Yes, I know,’ she said, relieved.
‘You do? How?’
‘Lillian told me. News travels fast round here.’
‘Touché,’ he said, and this time his smile did reach his eyes.
NINETEEN
At the same time as Jan and Chris were being shown to a candlelit table in Bon Appetit, a fine-dining restaurant in Coleshaw, Emma and Ian were sitting at their kitchen table, having just eaten egg on toast. It was all they’d wanted as neither of them was hungry. Ian had cooked it. He was calmer and more reasonable now he could see why Emma hadn’t ever told him she’d been conceived using donor sperm. Quite simply it hadn’t mattered to her. The man who had brought her up was her father and that was that.
Emma, for her part, now accepted that in order for Ian to continue his research into their genetic history – which was important to him – he needed to know who the donor was. She had agreed in principle to finding out but was reluctant to take the first step – to ask her mother for the details of the clinic they’d used. Emma knew she’d be upset.
‘Phone her rather than go there again,’ Ian said. ‘It will be easier than facing her in person.’
‘I might,’ Emma said, nervously fiddling with her fork.
‘Or I could phone her?’ Ian offered.
‘No, I should. But I know it’s going to upset her again.’
‘It might not. I mean, you’ve already told her why I need the information – to trace our genetic history. It’s not such a big step for her to realize we need the details of the donor.’
‘I think she’s hoping we’ll forget about it and you won’t continue with your research and just let the matter go.’
‘Emma,’ Ian said, reaching for her hand. ‘I thought we’d agreed we needed to know, whatever the outcome.’
She gave a small nod and slid her hand away.
‘Let’s phone her now,’ Ian said enthusiastically. ‘It’ll be easier for you if I’m here. If you get upset, I can take over and speak to her.’
‘No, Dad will be there. Mum won’t discuss it in front of him. She won’t have told him I’ve been asking about the donor. It’s never mentioned in my family.’
‘OK. So phone and ask her to call you back. All we want is the name of the clinic and I can do the rest. Please, Emma. It’s better to do it now and get it out of the way or you won’t sleep tonight.’
‘All right!’ Emma said.
Ian left the table and fetched Emma’s phone. Handing it to her, he sat opposite and watched as she pressed the number for her parents’ landline. They preferred using the landline to their mobiles if they were at home. A few rings and her father answered. Emma’s heart sank.
‘Hello,
Dad. How are you?’ she asked, immediately feeling deceitful.
‘I’m good, thanks, pet. How are you?’
‘Not too bad.’
‘It’s lovely to hear from you. Your mother said you’d stopped by. Now you’re feeling a bit better, why don’t you and Ian come over for some dinner at the weekend? I’ll do your favourite curry with my speciality rice.’
‘Thanks, Dad, that would be great.’ She felt another stab of guilt.
‘Good. Everything OK with you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you want to speak to your mother?’ he asked guilelessly. Emma felt even more guilty.
‘Yes, please, Dad.’
‘I’ll put her on. Love you, pet.’
‘Love you too, Dad.’
She met Ian’s gaze and he nodded encouragingly.
A moment later her mother came on the phone, ‘Hi, love, everything all right?’
‘Yes, thanks. Is Dad still in the room?’
‘No, he’s gone to check on our dinner. Why?’
‘Ian is here with me. He needs to know the name of the clinic – you know, the one we talked about.’
There was silence before Mary said in a whisper, ‘I can’t discuss it now, your father may hear me.’
‘All I need is the name of the clinic and Ian will do the rest.’ She waited. More silence. ‘It’s not going to go away, Mum, not until Ian’s found out. Dad need never know, I promise you.’
‘No good will come of this,’ Mary said.
‘Please, Mum, just tell me.’
‘I will, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. It was called the Moller Clinic.’
‘Thank you.’
But already the line was dead.
‘There! I knew she’d be upset!’ Emma said angrily.
‘Did she tell you the name of the clinic?’ Ian asked.
‘Yes. The Moller Clinic.’
‘Did she say where it was?’
‘No! And I’m not asking her any more about it.’
‘Never mind. There shouldn’t be too many clinics with that name.’
Opening his laptop, Ian began tapping the keys.
Emma watched him for a moment and then stood. ‘I’m going to bed. I’ve got a headache.’
But Ian was too engrossed in what he was doing to reply or even look up.
Emma left the table, regretting she’d agreed to make the call. Her mother was right. No good would come of it – just the opposite, in fact.
TWENTY
Although the evening hadn’t started well, it had dramatically improved after Chris had apologized for being moody. Jan was pleased she hadn’t asked to return home. The restaurant was really nice – the sort of place she’d only have booked for a special occasion. Chris had clearly made an effort to impress her, which Jan appreciated. Gone were his trainers, jeans and zip-up windbreaker jacket; he was now dressed smart-casual in beige chinos, cotton shirt, navy blazer and brown leather shoes. As they’d entered the restaurant he’d complimented her on her appearance – ‘You look lovely.’ And Jan had felt a warm frisson of anticipation for the evening ahead.
He was being very attentive – refilling her glass and checking her food had been cooked to her liking. Their conversation flowed and became easier with every glass of wine. Chris had ordered a bottle of Merlot, having first checked with her that she liked red wine. She did and they discovered they had similar tastes in wine, as they did in coffee. He was sipping his wine slowly because he was driving, so Jan was drinking far more than him. It was many months since she’d had more than one glass of wine in an evening and she knew she was talking a lot. But Chris didn’t seem to mind. He was encouraging her, nodding in agreement and laughing at her jokes. She was making the most of it, as on many days recently she hadn’t had anyone to talk to apart from Tinder.
They’d finished the main course and the waiter had cleared away their plates and left the dessert menu. Neither of them had looked at it yet as they were too busy talking. Jan was now entertaining Chris with tales of Tinder’s antics.
‘He can be so naughty at times,’ she said, taking another sip of wine.
‘Why, what’s he done now?’ Chris asked, smiling encouragingly.
‘His latest mischief was in the spare bedroom – you know, where Camile has stored the boxes of her belongings? I couldn’t have closed the door properly because this morning he came downstairs, guilt written all over his face, carrying a little white bootee in his mouth. I knew it wasn’t mine,’ she laughed. ‘So I went upstairs and found Camile’s belongings all over the floor. Perhaps he was missing her and could smell her on them. I don’t know. I’ve repacked them, but I couldn’t really tell him off because he gave me one of those adoring looks, the picture of innocence.’
Glass in hand, Jan paused, expecting Chris to be laughing as he’d been doing at her other anecdotal stories. But he wasn’t.
‘What sort of bootee?’ he asked.
‘Like a baby’s or a large doll’s,’ Jan said. ‘I put it back with the other one and a little matching outfit.’
Chris paused. ‘Was there anything else in the box?’ he asked, his expression serious.
‘Just a photograph album. I’ve repacked everything. I’ll make sure Tinder doesn’t get in there again.’
But Chris was still looking at her sombrely, pensive and deep in thought. Their conversation seemed to have dried up, although Jan didn’t know why. He was frowning now. Why? What was he thinking about? She finished her glass of wine.
‘Dogs can be mischievous,’ she added.
‘Yes, I suppose they can. Make sure the door to that bedroom is kept closed in future. Camile would be upset if she knew Tinder had got in there and destroyed her personal items.’
‘He didn’t destroy them,’ Jan said, slightly affronted. ‘He didn’t do any real damage. I’m sorry it happened, and I will tell Camile. I’m not sure what else I can do.’
Chris nodded, placed his napkin on the table and said, ‘As we’ve finished I’ll get the bill.’ Without waiting for Jan’s reply, he raised his hand and signalled to the waiter.
‘The bill, please?’ he said, not meeting her gaze.
‘Yes, sir. Would you like a coffee?’
‘No, thank you.’ He was already taking out his wallet.
‘I’ll pay my half,’ Jan offered.
‘No. I asked you out. I’ll pay.’
She watched him settle the bill with no idea what she’d done wrong or how to put it right. Why should he be so worried about Tinder getting into Camile’s spare bedroom? The dog hadn’t done any real harm. Perhaps there were things in there he didn’t want her to see. The photograph album of their last holiday? But she hadn’t admitted to looking at that, thank goodness.
They stood and walked towards the exit in silence. She could have kicked herself for telling him Tinder had gone into the spare bedroom. The wine had loosened her tongue, but she hadn’t seen any reason not to mention it. She still didn’t.
She walked beside him to his car and they got in.
‘Chris, have I done something wrong?’ she asked as he started the engine.
‘No.’
‘So why have you gone all quiet on me?’
‘I hadn’t realized I had,’ he said dourly, and starting the car he pulled out of the car park.
‘I can get a cab if you like,’ Jan offered.
‘No, I’ll take you home.’ And that was all he said for a long time.
TWENTY-ONE
It had been easy for Ian to find the Moller Clinic on the Internet. There was only one listed with that name in the UK. It was situated in a small village on the other side of Coleshaw, about a thirty-minute drive away. A well-established fertility clinic, the tagline read, set up by Carstan and Edie Moller thirty years ago, and offering a sensitive and personalized service. There was a photograph of the couple standing outside their clinic as if welcoming in their clients. A homely couple in their sixties with greying hair. The clinic itself appeared
to be an extension built on the side of what Ian assumed to be their house, but with its own front door. The pictures of the inside of the clinic were like many other private clinics, showing a comfortable waiting area, and a consultation and treatment room.
By 9 p.m. Ian had read all the information on every page of the Moller Clinic’s website, including a whole page of testimonials, some with pictures of babies. The clinic, he’d learnt, specialized in intrauterine insemination (IUI). This involved placing donated sperm inside a woman’s uterus using a cannula, where it would hopefully fertilize one of her eggs. The clinic treated heterosexual couples, lesbians and single women. All donated sperm was screened for sexually transmitted and genetically inherited diseases – just as Emma’s mother had said.
The clinic’s mission statement was that treatment should be available to anyone who needed it. Because they were only a small clinic specializing in IUI, they could keep their costs down. Ian was surprised just how little they charged: £300, much less than most other clinics. There was a warning that often more than one treatment was required, but payments could be spread. The couple also offered counselling, with a note stating that clients should be aware that in the UK, children born as a result of donor sperm had the right to know the donor’s identity once they reached eighteen.
It was all very reassuring and efficient, Ian thought, and he was hopeful his questions would be answered satisfactorily. After all, Emma had a right to know about her donor. He entered the clinic’s number in his phone. He’d call first thing in the morning as soon as they opened. Even the contact page of their website was reassuring, with its pledge that Edie Moller personally answered all enquiries.
Having read all the pages on the Moller Clinic’s website, Ian began clicking on other links where the clinic was mentioned. There were reviews praising Carstan and Edie Moller for their wonderful treatment and thanking them for the gift of their child. Ian only found one negative review. Don’t go anywhere near this place! They are in it for their own selfish ends. Ms L.
Ian dismissed it. There were always one or two negative reviews. The Mollers certainly weren’t in it for the money, as they charged so little, so selfish ends didn’t really make sense. Perhaps the poor woman hadn’t been able to conceive using their treatment. In which case, it wasn’t the clinic’s fault; they warned the treatment didn’t always work.
