Stolen Child

by Laura Elliot

  ‘What speculation?’

  ‘That you’re having an affair with him.’

  ‘So? What do you think, Robert?’

  ‘I know it isn’t true. I just don’t understand why he took such an interest in our case.’

  ‘Because I asked him. I told you we used to know each other.’

  ‘How well did you know him?’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Robert—’

  ‘I need to know.’

  ‘But that doesn’t give you the right to ask such questions. I’ve never questioned you about your past.’

  ‘This is different. Everything humanly possible was done by the police to find Isobel yet the two of you are constantly criticising my superiors. It’s implicit in everything you say, especially when you launched that campaign.’

  ‘So this cross-examination is about your superiors and what they think of you…and, by extension, me?’

  ‘No, Carla. I’m asking you as your husband. What is Edward Carter to you?’

  ‘A friend,’ she replied. ‘Someone who is willing to help us.’

  She bent down to pick up the newspaper pieces. He hunkered beside her and helped. If he touched her now they would tumble to the floor and make love, swift love, hurting and intense. Perhaps, afterwards, they would be able to reach each other’s thoughts, share the pain, her secret. His face was turned from her. Perhaps he was waiting for her to reach out to him. Robert, as if suspecting her turmoil, allowed the scraps of paper to fall from his hands. He made a sound; animals must moan in the same bewildered way when they were caught in traps, she thought. He straightened and walked away from her, away from the room, from their house, from the hope that if he had stayed an instant longer, they could have broken the back of their grief together.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Carla

  The letters had continued to ebb and flow, depending on the publicity she received. Since the anniversary of her disappearance, it was becoming more difficult to keep Isobel’s name in the public eye. The day marked a watershed for the public who had been following each twist and turn of the search. They were moving on. This morning only one letter lay in the hall when Carla came downstairs. She left it unopened on the kitchen table. She was running late this morning and Gillian would be waiting for her.

  Gillian’s strength was waning, although she still insisted on getting up each day, even for a short while. When the day was fine, they usually walked along Sandymount Strand, which was only a short distance from Gillian’s house. She had refused any further chemotherapy, settling instead for pain management and home assistance. Her determination to live until Isobel was found was a fragile hope but she never wavered in her belief that her grandchild was alive and would eventually be reunited with her parents.

  She was downstairs in her kitchen when Carla arrived at her house.

  ‘I suppose you haven’t eaten,’ she said as she removed eggs and smoked salmon from the fridge.

  ‘I’m not hungry.’ Carla flung her coat over a chair and sat down. ‘You don’t have to make anything for me.’

  ‘Who says I’m cooking for you?’ Gillian busied herself at the cooker. ‘I happen to be hungry and I don’t like to eat alone.’

  ‘Then let me do it.’ Carla stood behind her and placed her hands on her hips, shocked by the thinness Gillian disguised under her chunky cardigan and loose trousers.

  ‘I need to do it,’ Gillian replied. ‘Please, let me cook for you, Carla.’

  The scrambled eggs, flavoured with pink slivers of salmon, were fluffy and light. Carla forced herself to eat and knew that Gillian was making the same effort. Food, the great comforter. She had become Gillian’s chief carer. An end was in sight and, although Carla dreaded its inevitability, her days now had a structure and a purpose. When Gillian’s phone rang, she knew it was Raine calling from Hong Kong or Japan or wherever her job dictated. She knew it was Robert ringing from his desk, grabbing a few moments to enquire about his mother. A ring on the doorbell meant a nurse or a doctor. They arrived with relief-inducing morphine for Gillian and advice for Carla. Gillian’s friends also came with homemade soup or casseroles and offered to sit with her while Carla did the shopping or met Steve Robson, the private detective Edward had hired for the ‘Find Isobel’ campaign.

  She forgot about the letter until she returned to the house that evening. She glanced at the postmark. Co. Clare. When she was a child, she went there once with her parents for a holiday. A cottage overlooking the sea in Lahinch. She rode a donkey on the beach and Leo buried her in sand, only her head protruding, like a character from Endgame. She remembered the Burren, the strange rock formations, the exhilaration of jumping over them with her brother, then lying down, pretending to be dead, under the dolmen slabs.

  Rockrose

  Maoltrán

  Co. Clare

  22 November 1994

  Dear Carla,

  I’d like to offer you and your husband my deepest sympathy. Your struggle has moved me deeply. I hope constantly that there will be a breakthrough in the search for your daughter and, like the rest of the country, I hoped that the search of the industrial estate would be the end of your suffering. Sadly, that was not to be. How anyone could be so cruel is beyond belief – so I have to assume that the person who made that phone call was deeply disturbed. I wanted to write to you then and tell you how much I admire your courage and endurance. But I did not want to intrude on your privacy.

  However, after last week’s appalling press conference and the media’s behaviour since then, I simply had to make contact to express my disgust at the coverage you have received from certain newspapers.

  Do not allow them to deflect you from your search or diminish your courage. If faith can move mountains, then you have the power to create an earthquake. What lies beneath the surface is fragile and constantly shifting. Sooner or later, and I hope with all my heart it will be sooner, the cracks will appear and you will be reunited with Isobel.

  Please do not think I’m comparing my loss to yours – but I do understand the pain of being parted from a child. My son lives in Canada but I’m fortunate to be in contact with him and able to foster a close relationship. I hope that soon you can put this dreadful time behind you and look towards the future with your precious daughter by your side.

  Yours sincerely,

  David Dowling.

  Robert rang to say he would be late. Sharon Boyle was leaving the force, moving to Australia. Tonight was her send-off party. Carla wondered what it would be like to fly away to the other side of the world. Abandon everything and start over. Sometimes, when she was exhausted, when her strength was at its lowest ebb, she wondered what life would be like if Isobel had been stillborn. Dead and buried and mourned. If she had never felt the warm touch of her baby’s skin, the pull of her baby’s lips against her nipples, would her agony be more endurable? If she had never smelled the newborn baby smells, sweet and sour, heard those kitten whimpers or the arrogant wail that demanded space for Isobel Gardner in the bright, big world she had entered, could she and Robert have moved painfully forward into a different reality? If Isobel’s brief presence on earth was marked by a small white cross then they might have had a second chance at happiness instead of being caught in a static web of waiting.

  She unpacked bags of groceries and tidied the kitchen. Midnight came and went without any sign of Robert. She answered David Dowling’s letter. Her hand shook and she misspelled Maoltrán. Too tired to write another envelope, she crossed out the word and rewrote it.

  The front door slammed. Robert stood in the kitchen doorway.

  ‘How long have you been drinking?’ she demanded, knowing from his expression of concentration that he was very drunk.

  ‘Not long.’ He carefully enunciated his words.

  ‘Sleep in the spare room tonight.’

  ‘I told you I’d be late.’ He sighed heavily and swayed forward, gripped the frame of the door.

  ‘But not drunk.’

/>   ‘It was Sharon’s send-off party. Don’t make a drama, Carla.’

  ‘You’re drunk, Robert. I don’t want you in my bed.’

  ‘Drunk or sober…it doesn’t seem to make any difference.’

  ‘It might, if you occasionally came home to me.’ He is my husband, she thought. I love him…love him…love him…The words were meaningless.

  She guided him up the stairs. When his hands fumbled she helped him undress. Help was all they had to give each other. They lay together. His body was flaccid, hers unyielding, but, gradually, they grew warm and moved closer. They took comfort from this heat. Nothing else was possible.

  3 Longley Crescent,

  Ranelagh,

  Dublin 6

  25 November 1994

  Dear David,

  Thank you for your letter. I appreciate the time and trouble you took to contact Robert and me. We are heartbroken over Isobel’s disappearance but the letters of support we receive help us to cope with each day. You called me courageous. I’ve never seen what I do as courageous. There is simply no other way to behave. If I don’t hold on to the hope that Isobel will be found, it will be impossible to continue. She was in my life for such a short sweet time, yet now she dominates my every waking moment. She enters my dreams where I hold her close to me. You may think I would find it difficult to awaken and discover I was only dreaming, but when the dreams are kind, they nurture me through another day.

  You wrote about your son and your separation from him. How very sad. But continents cannot separate you and you must use every opportunity to see him. I wish you every happiness in your life and thank you again for your kindness.

  With my best wishes,

  Carla Kelly-Gardner.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Susanne

  Eighteen months later

  Last month we were seven years married. Seven years since we exchanged rings and vowed to love each other for eternity. Miriam insisted on babysitting.

  ‘Go…go…go!’ She waved us away from Rockrose, ordered us to be happy. Like my mother used to do. I swore I would never sit opposite my husband in silence and I never do. It’s easier since you came. Eighteen months of age and running like a sprinter, you bind us together. Or so I believed.

  We dined by candlelight in Giuseppe’s Bistro on Howe Street. Throughout the meal, we talked about you, laughed over your antics and wondered if there was another child in Maoltrán with your intellect and cuteness.

  Imelda Morris entered with her brother Angus and a man with a sinister black goatee, whose name is Marcus. His pale grey eyes bulged slightly when she introduced David.

  ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’ He stared pointedly at David and, behind the goatee, his smile hid secrets. He’s gay, I saw that at a glance. Her gay best friend, her confidant. What had she told him about my husband?

  ‘You must come to Molloy’s later,’ she said. ‘No…no,’ she insisted before I could even open my mouth. She wagged her finger warningly at me. ‘I don’t want to hear excuses about your babysitter. Life’s too short. We must grab the moment and enjoy.’

  Molloy’s is not enjoyment. It’s cigarette smoke and loud music and the impetuous Imelda with her clattering shoes and flouncing hair.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me borrowing your husband,’ she said, coy and determined as she pulled David to his feet. ‘We were dancing together when we weren’t making mischief in our prams.’

  For some reason she seemed to find this hilarious and so did Marcus.

  I watched them twirl and come together, separate and form fantastic manoeuvres. The crowd stood back and gave them the floor, whistling and stamping them on. I saw her red lips aching for the touch of him. And he held her firmly to him, his strong supple body bending her every which way.

  Marcus stood too close to Angus, their fingers just touching, their minds dancing fast and furiously to the same tune. But this is a country village where discretion is a necessary tool for survival.

  ‘Watch your back,’ Marcus whispered into my ear. ‘Imelda’s claws are long and sharp as hooks.’

  Seven years married. Seven-year itch. Something was definitely going on.

  What else was I to think when he left for Dublin the following day? Men cheat. It’s a fact of life. My father cheated on my mother. Tessa did not enter his life suddenly. She let the cat out of the bag once when she’d had a glass of wine too many. So did David’s father. Edward Carter cheated, double-cheated, treble, probably.

  David claimed he was meeting someone called Paul. Someone he’d never mentioned before. He wanted to talk to him about a consultancy he plans to set up in Miriam’s converted studio. That’s where I searched first. Nothing. No indiscreet Visa payments or crumpled hotel receipts. But I found a letter in a drawer in his desk, postmarked Dublin, the writing carelessly formed and slanting. Impetuous.

  Carla Kelly.

  Her signature seemed to leap from the bottom of the page. Five months hidden in his desk. How come the wood was not scorched or burned to ash? How dare she…how dare he…? I replaced it where I’d found it and ran outside.

  I entered that green hollow space where it all began. Nettles stung my knees when I knelt and cursed her. Was there no end to her intrusion? She had entered my space. I had to vanquish her.

  You had awoken from your afternoon nap. I heard you crying when I entered the house, your outraged howls at being ignored. I carried you downstairs. I kissed your wet, angry face and held you tightly in my arms. When you were calm again, I strapped you in the car seat and drove to Doolin, drawn there by the violence of my mood. The waves were high, roaring and raging against the rocks, flinging question marks into the air. I left you in the car and walked to the edge of the rocks. A dangerous place to stand on a wild day when the wind is high and the spume salts my face. But I stood there and tempted fate. One wave was all it would take. But you drew me back. A cloud, black and flat as a tabletop mountain, crossed the sun and the world darkened. That is how it will be in death but I could not go there, not when you still needed me.

  I’ve done a terrible thing but there’s no going back. One deed borrows another and when, on the way home, I stopped off at Miriam’s Glasshouse, I knew what I had to do. Miriam was delighted to see us and agreed immediately to mind you for a long weekend. Things between myself and David have not been easy, I admitted. Hormonal. I sighed and she nodded in agreement.

  Those cursed hormones, she joked – cursed with them, cursed without. She’s in the throes of the menopause, hot flushes, mood swings. She wrapped her arms around you. Even the most adorable babies can play havoc with a marriage, she said. Paris is a wonderful place, perfect for a short break. She went there once with her husband. A wonderful city, she said, especially for lovers. Her mind drifted back to younger days, then she shrugged, unwilling to allow her faithless husband space in her busy thoughts.

  We’ve been here for three days now. Tomorrow we’ll fly home. Miriam was right. Paris is wonderful. We swooped in a taxi along the Champs Élysées. The city lights twined around us like a necklace as we circled the Arc de Triomphe. We relaxed in cafés along the banks of the Seine and talked about you. We shopped for baby clothes and wooden toys that spin in dizzying loops or chime gently. When we rang home, Miriam assured us you were both getting on like a house on fire.

  David stopped at an open grill and bought two cones of roasted chestnuts. Above us, the Eiffel Tower glittered like an arrow winging towards heaven. We showed your photograph to a pavement artist and watched you come to life on parchment.

  We lay together on a vast bed and made love. Afterwards, he was silent as we rested. The emptiness between us was so vast I was afraid to move in case he heard the sound of our breaking apart.

  My memory is a storehouse of useless information, lying dormant until the moment it becomes useful. Then it opens like a flower and the scent is sweet and powerful. The post boxes in Paris are yellow. We sent you a postcard, a picture of a kitten chasing butterflies, know
ing we’ll be home before it arrives. I slipped it through the slit of the post box. The letter to Josh Baker followed. Anonymous. He can do with it as he wishes. A mother will always protect her young. It is written in our genes.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Carla

  Carla placed the tray on Gillian’s bed and settled the pillows behind her. She drew back the bedroom curtains and looked down over Sandymount Strand. The tide was a shimmer on the horizon, the beach busy with joggers and dog walkers. Her mother-in-law was feeling energetic this morning and hoped to manage a short walk after breakfast.

  They walked slowly across the hard-packed sand. Occasionally, Gillian’s lips compressed but she was determined to stay on her feet as long as possible.

  ‘A day at a time.’ Gillian stopped and gazed out towards the frill of the retreating tide. ‘I wish I’d had the good sense to live my life like this, cherishing the little things, the moments like this. But the years went so fast. They ran away on me, Carla.’

  The sun continued to shine and the wind stayed soft. Josh Baker was upon them before Carla became aware of him.

  He had rung her earlier before she left her own house and asked if he could interview her.

  ‘I already told you I’m not prepared to do any further interviews unless they have been arranged through Kay Communications,’ Carla had replied.

  ‘You mean Carter & Kay.’ His tone, filled with the same brash confidence he had shown at the last press conference, unnerved her.

  ‘Carter & Kay no longer exist,’ she snapped back. ‘If you ring Norma Kay, I’m sure she’ll give you any information you need. Goodbye.’

  She had debated ringing Edward; then, anxious to reach Gillian, she had left her house, half-expecting Josh to be waiting outside.