Little Face

by Sophie Hannah

  Charlie had never felt like a bigger fool. Of course the matter of the handbag strap was peculiar. She was furious with herself for not having thought of it at the time. She was supposed to be good at her job. Not just good – excellent. That was her strong point, her ego’s compensation for an often unsatisfactory personal life. She couldn’t bear the prospect of losing her one source of pride.

  ‘Sergeant, I was satisfied at the time, and I still am, that you and your team did everything correctly,’ said Proust. ‘As you say, I supervised the case myself and it didn’t occur to me either. There was the DNA evidence, the guilty plea, the lack of a solid alibi, Darryl Beer’s character and record – I know all that, all right?’ Charlie nodded, feeling worse rather than better. Proust was being kind to her. For the first time in all the years she had worked for him, there was pity in his voice, which made this exchange all the more mortifying. ‘But now that the family’s come to our attention again and Waterhouse has raised a few . . . niggles, shall we say, we need to start from scratch, go over every piece of paper, every alibi, even more thoroughly this time. According to Waterhouse, before Alice Fancourt went missing she seemed to be suspicious and afraid of her husband. She believed that he knew his daughter had been swapped for another baby and was deliberately lying about it.’

  ‘But, sir, you agreed with me that the story about the baby was bollocks. You agreed we should cuff it.’ Charlie was ashamed of the whiny tone in her voice, but she was beginning to lose what little composure she had mustered. And if Proust referred to Simon again as if he were some sort of oracle, she feared she might be sick.

  The inspector sat down at his desk and pressed his fingers together at the tips. ‘On reflection, I think I might have made a mistake,’ he said, trying out humility for the first time at the age of fifty-eight. ‘Given that the Fancourt family were already known to us in connection with a serious crime, we should probably have taken the swapped baby story a little more seriously. We could have done a DNA test . . .’

  ‘Yes, we could,’ Charlie interrupted angrily, ‘and the lab would have taken weeks to get the results back to us, by which time Vivienne Fancourt would have arranged a private test anyway! That was what you said.’

  Proust glared at her. ‘Sergeant Zailer, your determination to be right at all times, at any cost, is unbecoming to say the least. If I can admit I was wrong, so should you be able to.’

  Charlie’s heart plummeted still lower, right down to her gut. Another insult to add to the list. And this was the first time she had ever, ever, heard Proust question his own behaviour or judgement. She wouldn’t have been surprised if the bastard had deliberately said that about being wrong in order to set her up, to reveal her as the only truly intransigent person in the room.

  She couldn’t understand why he was so determined to think the worst of her. She wasn’t stubborn and irrational, just terrified of turning out to be the idiot who’d fucked everything up. When she thought about some of the things she’d said earlier in the team meeting, she wanted to groan and pound the floor with her fists. Proust was right: she was losing it. Her feelings for Simon were distorting everything. Charlie needed to be alone, and soon. The furnace of her anger towards Simon had to be stoked, and she could only do that in private.

  ‘I want you to treat David Fancourt as your prime suspect,’ said Proust. ‘I want you to examine him from every angle, and I want you to assume he’s probably guilty of something until you’ve proved beyond the tiniest doubt that he isn’t. What I don’t want is this: I don’t want you to feel sorry for him because you’ve decided that he’s got a mad wife who’s given him a hard time and kidnapped his baby. I don’t want to hear you telling your team about the “conclusions” you’ve reached, when you’ve got no proof whatsoever to back up your suppositions and when there are still so many unknowns that to conclude anything would be premature to say the least. Clear?’

  Charlie nodded jerkily. She had never cried in front of Proust, or any other police officer. If it happened now, she would resign. It was as simple as that.

  ‘Give the Laura Cryer case files to Waterhouse. Let him talk to Beer, and anyone else he wants or needs to. And don’t take it personally. Waterhouse hasn’t worked on the case before, whereas you, Sellers and Gibbs all have. A fresh perspective and all that.’ Proust raised his eyebrows, drumming his fingers on his desk. ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, what, sir?’

  ‘Sergeant, I’m not an idiot. I know you’re hoping I’ll contract an unpleasant disease and die in agony so that you can dance gleefully on my grave, but I assure you, your rage is misplaced. I’m trying to help you to work more efficiently, that’s all. You’re taking everything too personally at the moment. Do you deny it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Charlie automatically. It was hard enough to be a woman in her job; she had no intention of admitting to an emotional reaction.

  ‘You deny it,’ Proust repeated incredulously.

  Charlie knew she had pushed it too far. ‘No. Maybe . . .’ she began, feeling her face heat up.

  It was too late. ‘You want Alice Fancourt to be the villain of the piece because Waterhouse has gone soppy over her. Ever since she went missing he’s been mooning around with a hazy look on his face, like a thirteen-year-old mourning the end of a holiday romance. He seems to spend hours just staring at her photo on the board out there. And you’re jealous, because you want to get into his pants. Oh – I’m sorry if I’ve offended your delicate sensibilities. You all think I’m some out-of-touch grandad when it comes to personal matters, that I’ve been married so long I don’t remember any of that stuff, but I know what’s what as well as the next person. I hear the same rumours everyone else hears. And even a fool can see that you’re eaten up with envy. You won’t consider any hypothesis in which Alice Fancourt is anything other than a hysterical nuisance, a total and utter waste of time. It’s stopping you from seeing the facts as they are.’

  ‘And what about Simon?’ Charlie snapped back at him. ‘Is he being objective? If you think I’m biased, you should talk to him. Alice Fancourt’s a saint as far as he’s concerned. Why isn’t he in here, being hauled over the coals? He’s the one who . . .’

  ‘Enough!’ Proust yelled. Charlie gasped involuntarily. ‘This is beneath you. Or rather, it should be. I know Waterhouse is as far from perfect as Land’s End is from John o’Groats, but I’ve been keeping a close eye on him, and, since you insist on making comparisons, my impression is that his judgement is a great deal less clouded than yours.’

  Charlie felt as if she’d been struck by a heavy object. That’s because you don’t know about his replacement pocket book full of lies, she thought, or the two illicit meetings he had with Alice Fancourt that would undoubtedly have cost Simon his job had Charlie not flown to his rescue. And what the fuck did ‘I hear the same rumours everyone else hears’ mean? Charlie’s blood turned to lead as it occurred to her that Proust might know about what happened at Sellers’ party. She had always taken it for granted that Simon wouldn’t have told anyone. Now she wasn’t so sure.

  As if to rub it in, Proust said, ‘Waterhouse, you see, is blessed with that important quality that you seem to lack, sergeant: self-doubt.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Charlie, who had never felt clumsier, more exposed, less dignified. She wished she were somebody else, almost anybody. Self-doubt? Proust must have been referring to the occasional, brief sabbaticals Simon took from breathtaking arrogance.

  ‘You need to get a grip on yourself, sergeant. Instead of casting about wildly for someone to blame, pull yourself together and do your job properly. Get over this idiotic jealousy and grow up. If Waterhouse doesn’t fancy you, there’s nothing you can do about it. Now, I’ve said all I’ve got to say on the subject, so I won’t keep you any longer.’ He waved her away with his hand.

  Charlie turned to leave, feeling shame of several different varieties swarm through her veins. She knew that Sellers, Gibbs and Simon, who were all still in the CID
room, would make sure not to catch her eye as she emerged from Proust’s office. She couldn’t bear the thought of going over to talk to them about some work-related matter as if nothing had happened, but if she avoided them, they would all imagine she was subdued after receiving the bollocking to end all bollockings from Proust; she didn’t know which was worse.

  ‘Oh, and sergeant?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That woman Alice Fancourt mentioned to Waterhouse, from the maternity ward . . .’

  ‘Mandy. I’ll track her down.’ Let Proust squander the department’s resources following up Alice Fancourt’s baseless speculations if he wanted to. Let him be the one to end up looking like an idiot for a change.

  ‘It wouldn’t do any harm to take DNA samples from her and her baby, would it? Check they match up?’

  Charlie nodded. Why not take a sample from every female child born at Culver Valley General Hospital in the past year, just to be on the safe side, King Herod style? It was bloody ridiculous.

  She closed Proust’s door carefully behind her and marched past her team before any of them had a chance to say anything. Simon looked up. Sellers and Gibbs did not. Charlie speeded up, heading for the ladies’ as quickly as possible. It was the only place she could hide, just in case Simon was planning to come after her and ask if she was all right. There was nothing Charlie hated more than to be asked that question.

  Inside the toilets, she locked herself in the nearest cubicle, leaned against the door and breathed heavily in and out for a few seconds, releasing some of the tension from her body. Then she sank to the floor and began to sob.

  21

  Tuesday September 30, 2003

  I am sitting in the little lounge, fuzzy with sleep, as disorientated as I was yesterday when I’d had none. Opposite me sits a doctor I have never seen before. She tells me her name is Dr Rachel Allen. I don’t know whether to believe her. Vivienne could have hired her. She might be an actress, for all I know. She is very young, a tall, pear-shaped woman with short, blonde hair and an excessively pink complexion. She is not wearing any make-up. Her thick calves are bare and blotchy, covered with fine fair hairs. Every time she catches my eye, she beams enthusiastically. I know that Vivienne is listening outside the door, anxious to hear the diagnosis, whatever it might be.

  Dr Allen leans forward, takes my hand and squeezes it in both of hers. ‘Don’t worry about anything, Alice,’ she says. I have never heard anything so stupid in my life. Who in my situation wouldn’t worry? ‘Don’t be nervous. We’ll soon have you feeling better!’ She beams again and hands me a piece of paper. There are questions on it. Do I ever think about harming myself? Often, sometimes, never. Do I feel that I have nothing to look forward to? Often, sometimes, never.

  ‘What’s this?’ I ask. I need to eat something. I feel weak with hunger, as if there are clawing hands in my stomach, reaching out and finding nothing.

  ‘It’s our practice’s post-natal depression survey,’ says Dr Allen. ‘I know what you’re thinking – forms, forms and more forms! I quite agree! Fill the silly old thing in and then we can talk properly.’

  ‘Where’s Dr Dhossajee?’ I ask. ‘I’d rather talk to my own doctor.’

  ‘She’s not available. That’s why I’m here. Why don’t you fill in the form now? Do you need a pen?’ She fishes in her pocket and pulls out a blue biro.

  I read all the questions. They are too simplistic. ‘It’s pointless,’ I say. ‘These questions aren’t the right ones for my situation. My answers won’t tell us anything useful.’

  Dr Allen nods thoughtfully, leaning forward in her chair. ‘Have you been crying this morning?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes.’ I have done practically nothing but cry in recent days. I cried when Vivienne locked me in the nursery. I curled up on the rug and sobbed, clinging to Hector, Florence’s big teddy bear, until I fell asleep. When I woke up sixteen hours later, I cried again. I haven’t seen Little Face since I went out to meet Simon. I am desperate to see her, just once, even if I am not allowed to touch her.

  ‘You poor thing! How often would you say you cry?’ Dr Allen’s eagerness to help me is almost tangible.

  ‘A lot. Most of the time. But that’s because my daughter’s been taken away from me and I don’t know where she is, and no-one will believe me.’

  ‘You feel that no-one believes you?’ Dr Allen looks as if she too might burst into tears.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Do you feel that people and circumstances are conspiring against you?’

  ‘Yes. Because they are. My daughter is missing and I can’t prove it, either to my husband or to the police. That’s a fact, not a feeling.’ I sound cold and heartless. I used to have a heart, but it has been ripped up. It no longer exists.

  ‘Of course!’ says Dr Allen vehemently. ‘I firmly believe that feelings are facts. I take the feelings of patients very seriously indeed. I want to help you. You have every right to feel what you feel. And it’s very common for women who’ve just had babies to suffer the most unbearable feelings of persecution, of alienation . . .’

  ‘Dr Allen, my daughter has been kidnapped.’

  She looks flummoxed. ‘Well . . . what have the police said?’

  ‘They’re not doing anything about it. They say there’s no case. They don’t believe me.’ I feel betrayed by the relief on her face. She is happy to let the opinion of other professionals determine hers.

  ‘You look tired,’ she says. ‘I’m going to prescribe some sleeping tablets . . .’

  ‘No. I don’t need pills. I’ve just slept for over twelve hours. I’ll fill in your form, but I’m not taking anything. There’s nothing wrong with me. If I look tired it’s because I’ve slept too much. Give me that pen.’ She hands me the biro. I tick a few of the boxes strategically, try to make myself sound as well-balanced as possible.

  ‘How are you feeling physically in general?’ she asks.

  ‘A bit dizzy sometimes,’ I admit. ‘Light-headed.’

  ‘Are you taking Co-codamol?’

  ‘Yes. Is that why I feel dizzy?’

  ‘It’s a very strong painkiller. How long ago did you have your Caesarian?’

  ‘I’ll stop taking it,’ I say. I need a clear head. I was never happy about taking allopathic painkillers, but Vivienne told me I needed them. I believed her. ‘I’m also taking two homeopathic remedies, hypericum and gelsemium.’

  ‘That’s fine.’ Dr Allen smiles tolerantly. ‘They might not do you any good, but they won’t do you any harm.’ Patronising bitch, I think.

  I hand my completed quiz back to her. For a bonus of one hundred points: is Alice crazy or not?

  ‘Thank you,’ she enthuses, as if I have given her the crown jewels. She sets about reading my answers with great concentration, breathing heavily over them as if trying to get to grips with an impenetrable problem. She reminds me of a horse.

  ‘What if the baby is sick?’ I whisper. ‘Little Face. What if she’s sick?’ My head reels with all the fear and excitement of a new idea. ‘Maybe that’s why someone wanted to swap her, for Florence, who’s healthy.’ I remember the Guthrie test, blood being taken from Florence’s heel. David joked that the test involved singing a selection of Woody Guthrie songs to newborn babies and seeing how many they could identify. Florence’s results were fine; there was nothing wrong with her. ‘She seems healthy, but . . . perhaps . . . could you arrange for some tests to be done? On the baby? On Little Face?’ I begin to hyperventilate. ‘That might be it!’ I squeeze my hands together. ‘And if that is the reason why Mandy swapped the babies, or why somebody did, that means Florence is probably safe! Do you see what I mean?’

  Dr Allen looks as if she might be a bit scared of me. ‘Excuse me a moment, Alice,’ she says. ‘I’ll just nip outside and have a quick word with Vivienne.’ If I were at all interested in her opinion, I would object to her sharing it with Vivienne instead of me, but since I know that I am not mad, I don’t care what she says, or to whom.
I watch her hurry from the room. I wish she would leave. I wish she and Vivienne and David would all leave. I could take Little Face away from The Elms and never come back. David would never be able to torture me again. But I know I cannot do anything so spontaneous. People would see my car. They would see me and Little Face. We would be found and brought back here.

  I hear Dr Allen talking to Vivienne outside the door. ‘Well?’ Vivienne demands. ‘What’s the verdict?’

  ‘Oh dear! I’m afraid I am quite concerned about her,’ says Dr Allen. Neither she nor Vivienne cares that I can hear them. She tells Vivienne most of what I said. I feel terrible when I hear her say that I seem to want Little Face to be sick because that will prove Florence is well. I don’t want anything bad to happen to any baby, any child. That should be obvious.

  ‘Look at this,’ Dr Allen says to Vivienne. ‘For the question “How often do you feel you can’t cope?” she’s ticked “Never”. That’s one of our key warning signs. Everybody who’s just had a baby sometimes feels that they can’t cope. It’s natural. So those who deny it . . .’

  ‘. . . are deluding themselves,’ Vivienne concludes.

  ‘Yes. And heading for possible trouble. That sort of denial puts too much pressure on a person. Eventually something has to give. I’m so sorry,’ Dr Allen croons. ‘I think perhaps Alice ought to see a therapist or a counsellor.’ I would love to. He or she would have to be on my side; that is a therapist’s job description. I could cope, if just one person were on my side. But Vivienne would never allow my mind to fall into the hands of a psychiatric professional. She believes such people try to control the thoughts of others.

  ‘. . . seems to be a very firmly embedded delusion,’ Dr Allen is saying.

  ‘What makes you so sure it’s a delusion?’ Vivienne asks. My heart crashes wildly around my chest. What has happened to my confidence, to make me so grateful for even the smallest sign that not everybody is against me? ‘Can I ask you a question, Dr Allen?’