Playing Nice

by Delaney, JP

  Life imprisonment. Could this really get any worse? And what constituted “inappropriate contact,” anyway?

  When we got to the police station my lawyer, Mark Cooper, had gone to speak to the police on his own. He’d told me to expect that—it was part of the process, apparently, the “disclosure.” He came back somber but encouraging.

  “Well, they’re not obliged to tell me everything, but even so I’d say they’ve got very little. My advice is, we stick to ‘no comment.’ ”

  “Do we have to? It just feels wrong, somehow. When I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “Let me explain something.” Mark Cooper was no older than me, but he had the pale, flabby look of someone who’d spent too much time sitting in these grubby rooms with their flickering strip lights and discarded paper cups. “In this country, the criminal law is based on an adversarial system. That means it’s the police’s goal to get a suspect arrested, charged, and brought to trial, not to worry about whether he’s actually guilty—that’s someone else’s job. On top of that, they face intense pressure to improve their conviction rates. The police are trained in interviewing techniques, and they’re often very good at getting suspects to say something that, however innocent, will help to convict them later. Or, even worse, getting them to tell a small lie that will undermine all the rest of their evidence when it comes out in court. Right now, if they had enough evidence to charge you, they’d have done it. So our objective is to leave here today with that situation unchanged, and the surest way to do that is to answer ‘no comment.’ ”

  I understood his logic, but it had been agony. When the policeman—a pleasant, cheerful man who introduced himself as Detective Inspector Richards—cautioned me, and got to the words, “If you do not mention now something which you mention later, a court might ask you why you didn’t mention it at the first opportunity,” I shot Mark an anguished glance. He only shook his head warningly.

  When the caution was out of the way, DI Richards asked the first question. “I understand that you transferred to St. Alexander’s with your premature baby in an ambulance. That must have been a very difficult time for you.”

  “On the advice of my solicitor, I am answering, ‘No comment.’ ”

  DI Richards looked pained. “We’ve agreed to speak to you today to hear your side of the story, Pete. I’m neutral in this—I’m just trying to see what’s happened.”

  “On the advice of my solicitor, I am answering, ‘No comment.’ ”

  “No one’s currently accused you of any crime, Pete. We just want to make sure we’ve got your version of events as well as NHS Resolution’s.”

  “On the advice of my solicitor, I am answering, ‘No comment.’ ”

  DI Richards shrugged and picked up a document. “You told the NHS investigators you were in a state of complete panic when you got to the intensive care unit. Does that sound right to you, that you were panicking?”

  I hesitated. Had I really said that? “On the advice of my solicitor, I am answering, ‘No comment.’ ”

  “I can understand why you’d be anxious, Pete. You’d had a conversation with the paramedics in the ambulance, hadn’t you? They’d told you your little boy was probably going to be brain-damaged. That must have been hard.”

  “On the advice of my solicitor, I am answering, ‘No comment.’ ”

  And so it went on. Even when he asked about Bronagh, and whether I’d been in touch with her since leaving the NICU. I blinked but managed to say, “On the advice of my solicitor, I am answering, ‘No comment.’ ”

  And then there’d been the moment, near the end of the interview, when he’d sprung on me that they’d gotten a warrant to examine my computer. I must have looked anxious, because then he asked whether they’d find anything on it that related to the investigation.

  I started to shake my head, then remembered. “On the advice of my solicitor, I am answering, ‘No comment.’ ” But inwardly, I was already thinking of what I would now have to tell Maddie.

  Finally, he got to the end of his questions. Since I wasn’t answering, it hadn’t taken long—no more than fifteen minutes. “That’s it,” he said with a sigh. Then, as I relaxed, “Oh, just one last thing. We’ve been contacted by a Miles Lambert, who says he has information that may be relevant to our inquiries. Is there anything you’d like to tell me first?”

  I tried very hard not to react, but whatever he read in my face—fear, perhaps, or despair, or even loathing—it evidently satisfied him, because he nodded.

  “On the advice of my solicitor, I am answering, ‘No comment,’ ” I mumbled, but DI Richards was no longer listening.

  * * *

  —

  GREG AND KATE HAD replaced their downstairs curtains with blinds, which lit up with every car that passed. Sleep was impossible. I lay on their narrow sofa, my mind churning. Theo. I’d told him I was going away for a few days. He’d barely reacted, just asked who was going to take him to Moles’s house tomorrow. Maddie. I couldn’t help thinking she didn’t seem desperately upset by the social worker’s demand that I move out. She’d seemed distant, almost wary of me as I packed my things. Perhaps she needed time to process what I’d told her. Did she despise me now? Did I disgust her? I’d tried so hard to be the person she wanted me to be, but the truth is, I wasn’t, and never had been. I was a fraud.

  Which was ironic, because if I was convicted of child abduction, I would almost certainly be charged with fraud as well. Everything had gone wrong, and our family was going to pay the price.

  And with that thought, finally, I allowed myself to weep; in the darkness, quietly, so as not to wake Greg’s sleeping kids upstairs.

  73

  Case no. 12675/PU78B65, Exhibit 38: Extract from CAFCASS safeguarding letter regarding Theo Riley, addendum to previous recommendations, presented to the family court by Lyn Edwards, Family Court Adviser.

  CONCLUSION

  In the light of these revised circumstances, the court should direct CAFCASS to complete a Section 7 report to further explore the issues raised, including:

  The possibility of child abduction and any subsequent psychological implications for the child.

  The possibility of alcohol abuse. Madelyn Wilson has stated that she regularly drinks more than double the maximum of ten units per week recommended by NHS guidelines for women.

  Madelyn Wilson’s mental health and how it could impact on the child. In addition to a history of psychosis, she has stated that she is no longer taking the medication she was prescribed for her condition, a fact of which her GP was unaware.

  What the child’s wishes are. Although Theo is very young, CAFCASS advisers are trained to use indirect techniques to elicit a young child’s feelings in situations such as these.

  Acrimony from Mr. Riley and Ms. Wilson toward the applicants, and how it may alienate or otherwise affect the child.

  The report should conclude by making recommendations to the court regarding the child’s long-term situation.

  Lyn Edwards,

  Family Court Adviser

  74

  MADDIE

  THAT NIGHT, I GET drunk—properly, mind-numbingly drunk. With Theo asleep and no Pete to give me disapproving looks every time I top up my glass, I drink myself into a miserable oblivion.

  I wake up next morning with a stinking hangover, made worse by having to get Theo dressed, breakfasted, and off to the Lamberts’ on my own. Usually, I slink off to the Tube in silence, leaving Pete to do all this. I hadn’t really appreciated just how draining Theo can be at this hour.

  “Daddy cuts my toast inter soljers.”

  “Daddy isn’t here today, Theo.”

  “Daddy gets my toofbrush all ready.”

  “Like I said, Theo, Daddy isn’t here.”

  I miss him—not just the practical Pete, laying a preci
se three-millimeter fuse of toddler-safe toothpaste on a brush, but also Pete the warm presence in our bed, making room between our backs for Theo as he clambers between us. Was I too quick to let him go? Should I have fought Lyn’s monstrous proposal more fiercely? And should I have been more affectionate before he left? We’d barely spoken as he packed a bag, nor when Theo finally fell asleep, exhausted, in his arms. “Don’t forget his snack in the morning,” Pete had said as he opened the front door, and I’d simply nodded. The truth was, I didn’t know who I was saying goodbye to any longer. It was ridiculous to conflate a commonplace weakness like looking at porn with thinking he could have stolen someone else’s child, but I didn’t know what to think now. We’d become strangers to each other.

  And that was how we parted, with strangers’ distant nods.

  * * *

  —

  AT THE LAMBERTS’, THEO eagerly runs to push the intercom button, then bounds up the steps without waiting for it to be answered. I’d been expecting Lucy, or possibly Tania, so it’s a shock to be met by Miles himself, pulling open the door in a T-shirt and jeans.

  “Maddie. How nice to see you.”

  “Fuck off, Miles.”

  Miles grins. “Please—I must ask you to moderate your language in front of the children.” Theo had briefly rugby-tackled Miles’s legs before running into the house, so there was absolutely no chance he could have heard.

  He eyes me with amusement. Annoyingly, it makes him even more good-looking. “It’s fun, this, isn’t it?” he says cheerfully. “Makes life so much more interesting.”

  “What are you doing here? I thought you’d be at work.”

  “I might ask you the same question. My answer, by the way, is that I’m taking time off to be with my children. It’s so important for both parents to be actively involved, don’t you think?”

  “Again, fuck off.” I wonder if he knows Pete has been made to move out. I suspect he does—some weaselly back channel of information, lubricated by money. “And actually, I’m on my way to work now.” I hesitate. “I need to ask if you’ll have Theo until a bit later for the next few days. Say, four o’clock. I can’t really get away any earlier.”

  “And if I said—how did you put it just now?—‘Fuck off, Maddie’?” He waits, but I can tell he’s only playing with me. Eventually he sighs happily. “Of course. It will be a pleasure to have my son with us for longer during the day.”

  As I go down the steps, he adds, “It’ll be good preparation for when he moves in permanently. I’m sure the court will see it that way, too. Particularly when they learn that it was your toe-rag of a partner who stole him from us. Who would have thought Perfect Pete had it in him to do a thing like that, Maddie? Perhaps he’s not quite the man you thought he was.”

  Again I don’t rise to it, although I’m shaking with fury. As I turn the corner he calls after me, “I’ll see you at the hearing. On Tuesday. Make sure you turn up this time, won’t you?”

  * * *

  —

  I’D MEANT TO GO straight on to work, but I go home instead. I’m amazed by how focused I am. At the Lamberts’ house, listening to Miles’s taunts, I’d felt adrenaline coursing through me, the ancient fight-or-flight reflex prickling my skin, blood pounding in my ears.

  The CAFCASS letter is waiting on the mat. I open it and read the revised list of recommendations with a mixture of anger and resignation. So now Lyn has me in her sights, as well as Pete. I scrunch the letter up and let it fall to the floor. As if in a dream, I pull two big suitcases out of the understairs cupboard where they’re kept. In Theo’s room I work quickly, transferring clothes—five T-shirts, five pairs of jeans, ten pairs of socks—into the first case. All so neatly ironed and folded by Pete, still smelling of the eco-friendly fabric conditioner he uses.

  For my own suitcase, I just throw in a few things from my wardrobe.

  The passports are downstairs, in the desk drawer. I check mine’s in date. The photograph shows me with long, unstyled hair down to my chest, an unflattering center parting falling around a fresh, innocent face. So innocent, from a different time. And Theo’s—he was less than a year old when his was taken. Incredible to think he’ll be eleven when this passport expires.

  But of course, he won’t be. Miles will get his surname changed to Lambert; a new, British passport issued.

  I check Skyscanner. There’s a Cathay Pacific flight leaving tonight via Hong Kong. One-way tickets are only six hundred pounds. In a little over forty-eight hours, I could be waking up in my old bedroom at home with Theo beside me. The sun will be shining, my parents will be overjoyed. Dad will be making plans, taking care of things. If I leave it even a few more days it’ll be too late: At the hearing, the court will undoubtedly agree to Miles’s request and issue an order stopping me and Theo from traveling.

  I sit on the bed, the passports in my hands, and sob. Because I know, in my heart, that flight is not an option.

  Which only leaves the other thing.

  75

  MADDIE

  I GO TO GREG and Kate’s and bang on the door until Greg answers. Behind him I can see Pete at the kitchen table, supervising Play-Doh with Lily and Alfie. The two men, as well as the children, are wearing matching red plastic aprons, and for a moment my heart swells at the sweetness of it all.

  “Pete,” Greg calls, seeing me. “Maddie’s here.”

  Pete comes to the door. Now that I see him close-up, he looks gaunt. He hasn’t shaved and the whites of his eyes are pink. “Yes?” he says blankly.

  “We need to fight this,” I tell him. “Properly fight it. Not just with lawyers. We need to fight it like Miles is fighting—with every fiber.”

  “Come in,” he says after a moment, holding open the door.

  * * *

  —

  “THE ONE THING THAT will make all this go away is if we can work out who did swap those babies.”

  Greg has taken the children to Kidzone, to give Pete and me some space. We sit on either side of the kitchen table. Both of us, without thinking, have reached for handfuls of Play-Doh and are kneading it as we talk. Pete’s still wearing Kate’s apron, which is several sizes too small for him.

  “Okay,” Pete says cautiously. “But how?”

  “The way I see it,” I say, pulling a child’s pad toward me to make notes, “there are five possibilities. First, that Miles somehow swapped the babies himself.”

  “But why would he do that?”

  “I don’t know. But for example, what if he planned to sue the hospital all along? What if it was all some giant moneymaking scheme? After all, he knew he’d be able to use a DNA test to get his own child back whenever he wanted. He just had to make sure he exposed the swap before the children were three years old and we’d acquired parental rights.”

  Pete stares at me. “But no one, surely…He would have to be a—a—”

  “A psychopath? But I think that’s exactly what Miles Lambert is. I’ve been reading up about it online. A while back, people used to think psychopaths were all chaotic, disorganized murderers, because those were the ones who ended up in prison and got studied. But there’s mounting evidence that many successful CEOs and politicians are actually psychopaths, too; or at least, fall somewhere on the psychopathic spectrum—that is, they score low on tests for remorse, conscience, and moral judgment, and high for fearlessness, quick thinking, and cold-bloodedness. And there are certain psychopathic traits that we know Miles has. Something called shallow affect, for example—having a very limited range of emotions. Getting bored easily. Impulsiveness. Charm. Not really caring about other people’s feelings, except as a tool to manipulate them by. Having very few long-term friends. Seeing life as a contest where, for you to win, others have to lose. And treating your children as trophies, flattering extensions of yourself.”

  Pete has been nodding at each point, but now
he stops. “The flaw in your theory is that Miles is already stinking rich. Why go to all that trouble, if they don’t need the money?”

  “I don’t know. Because he can? Because he enjoys the game? Or maybe they’re not as rich as they look. The mortgage on that house must be millions.” I snap my fingers. “Lucy said something about him not having many friends since he left Hardings and set up on his own. Hardings is an investment bank, isn’t it? Presumably he earned a fortune there. Maybe now he’s losing a fortune instead.”

  “That theory depends on him having left Hardings by the time he made the swap,” Pete points out.

  “Which he hadn’t,” I say, instantly deflated. “I’m pretty sure Lucy also said something back in the NICU, about him getting fired if he spent too long away from his desk.”

  “But that’s interesting in itself, isn’t it?” Pete’s frowning. “If, back then, he was going through some kind of crisis at work—maybe was right on the verge of getting pushed out—swapping the babies might have seemed like a way out of his problems. He couldn’t know he’d end up with a disabled child, of course, and a correspondingly high payout, but he’d know the odds were pretty high.”

  “Well, that’s something we can investigate, then,” I say, making a note. “Whether he was in trouble at work.”

  Pete nods slowly. “Okay. So Miles is suspect number one. Who else?”

  “Lucy. Can you remember when she first turned up in the NICU?”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t think I noticed her at all. Not until she came over to chat to you that day. It was such a blur before then.”