by Delaney, JP
“And I was surprised to find you back at St. Alexander’s. Pete told me you’d been suspended.”
Bronagh shrugs. “That’s routine when they’re conducting investigations. It’s all cleared up now.”
“You mean, the lie he told for you worked,” I say quietly.
Something flashes across Bronagh’s face. Alarm? Defensiveness? One thing is certain: She definitely knows what I’m talking about. “What lie?”
“When we were interviewed by NHS Resolution, Pete told the investigators he remembered seeing the security tag on Theo’s leg within a few minutes of him being transferred into your incubator. But in fact, a registrar noticed it still hadn’t been put on hours later.”
“Maybe the registrar was wrong, then, and Pete was right.”
“He sent me a picture that day—Pete, that is. From his phone, so it’s got the time it was taken on it. In that photo, Theo isn’t wearing a security tag.” I lean forward. “And, partly because of that stupid lie, Pete is now being investigated by the police. They’re accusing him of swapping the babies deliberately. He’s already been questioned under caution.”
“Jesus.” Bronagh’s hand flies to her mouth. Her look of dismay surely can’t be fake.
“As a result of which, he’s not allowed to be alone with Theo,” I continue, deliberately piling on the pressure. “Which, since we’re also facing a custody hearing with the Lamberts, means it’s quite possible we’ll lose Theo entirely. You can imagine what the prospect of that is doing to Pete.”
“Shite in a bucket.” Bronagh looks appalled. “I had no idea. The fact is, things got pretty crazy around here—there was one lot investigating how Theo and David got mixed up, and another lot crawling over why our mortality rates weren’t better. That’s when I messaged Pete—when it looked like they were trying to find someone to scapegoat. But as it turned out, once the review was over, they realized they needed every experienced nurse they could get.”
I frown. “The mortality review is over?”
Bronagh nods. “And not a moment too soon.”
“So what did it find? Was there a suspicious pattern of deaths?”
“What?” Bronagh looks pained. “Jesus, no. There’s only one thing wrong with our NICU, and that’s where it is.” When I still look puzzled, she gestures up at the atrium. “Right in the middle of central London. Over half my salary goes to rent, and since I can’t afford to live anywhere within fifty minutes of here, half of what’s left over goes to travel. Then there’s the fact that we do twelve-hour shifts to minimize the number of handovers—it’s a pretty grueling schedule even if you’re used to it. We’re permanently understaffed. I should be looking after one or two babies, tops, but it’s a rare week when I don’t have three or even four. Plus, our NICU gets all the cases like yours, the babies born in expensive Harley Street clinics that aren’t equipped to deal with them, as well as the health tourists and the mothers from deprived areas who maybe don’t use the midwifery system as well as they should. Oh, and we just had five years of government thinking we could probably manage just as well on half as much money. It’s hardly surprising we had a dip in our outcomes.”
“So nothing…sinister, then?” I say. “Nothing that could be attributed to an individual?”
“Oh heck. You haven’t been watching Nurses Who Kill, have you? Look, every single neonatal death here is investigated by postmortem and clinical review. And we’re a small team. If we had a Beverley Allitt in our NICU, she or he wouldn’t last a month without being spotted.”
Is Bronagh telling the truth? There’s no reason to think she isn’t. But then, if she had somehow been responsible for swapping Theo and David, she’d hardly say so.
“There’s something else I have to ask you,” I say after a moment.
“What’s that?”
“Have you seen Pete at all, since we left the NICU? As opposed to messaging, or speaking to him on the phone?”
Bronagh nods. “He and Theo came back to the NICU around Theo’s first birthday. He’d baked a cake. Little Theo looked so sweet, tucked up in that blue papoose Pete wore.”
“Any other time? After that? Or before?”
“Let me see.” Bronagh looks thoughtful. “I might have bumped into him on that bike ride the lads did. A group of us swung by a bar where they were drinking one night. But I can’t recall whether your man was there or not.”
And that’s how I know she’s telling the truth about the mortality review, and there not being anything untoward going on in the NICU. Because, as it now turns out, Bronagh is a very bad liar indeed.
* * *
—
BRONAGH LOOKS ACROSS THE café. “There’s Paula.” She sounds relieved. “I’d best be getting back upstairs.”
I look in the direction of her gaze. Paula, the nurse who’d been so stressy about David that day, is coming toward us. “Do you know Paula well?” I ask.
“Sure, she’s a grand girl. Why?”
“There’s no chance she could have swapped David and Theo, is there?”
Even as I say it, I know how desperate it sounds. Bronagh looks at me askance. “And why in God’s name would she do that?”
I can’t answer. My suspicions, which had sounded so logical when I was listing them to Pete, now just seem silly and melodramatic. “I don’t know,” I say helplessly. “Because she could?”
“Look,” Bronagh says patiently. “First, she’s not a nutter, any more than I am. Second, if a NICU nurse was going to go crazy and start playing God, they wouldn’t do it by swapping babies around. A simple DNA test, and it would all come out. No—what happened to Theo and David was a tragic mistake in a busy, understaffed ward.” She lowers her voice. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, given that you’re suing the place. But there were five admissions that day—that’s almost double the norm. Every one an emergency. And we were down two nurses, what with the winter vomiting bug that was going around. Everyone knows that’s the kind of environment where mistakes get made. And if that isn’t mentioned in the case report—well, someone’s trying to buff something, because it should be.”
Paula’s reached our table now. “Coming up?” she asks Bronagh. “Or are you busy?”
“Remember Theo Riley’s mum?” Bronagh says, indicating me. “We were just chatting.”
Paula looks no more pleased to see me than she did two years ago. “Oh, right. Well, it’s almost handover, so…”
“Sure.” Bronagh stands up.
“Wait,” I say quickly. “I’ve got a question for you, Paula. That first day, when David and Theo got swapped, were either of the Lamberts around?”
Wariness flashes across Paula’s face. “I’ve already told the hospital investigators everything I remember.”
“I’m sure. But it might help if you could tell me, too.”
Paula shrugs. “Mrs. Lambert got here a couple of hours after the babies were admitted. I’d been given David to look after—I was just setting things up for him when she arrived. That’s when I realized no one had thought to put a tag on him.” Paula glances at Bronagh. “It didn’t occur to me to check with Bron, to see if hers had no tag, too. Why would I? I just typed his details into our software.” Her voice catches, and for a moment I think she might be going to cry. “I’m so sorry. It must have caused you so much heartbreak. But I really think it was just a freak accident.”
I feel my shoulders sag. If the Lamberts had arrived too late to be responsible for the swap, and it was neither of the nurses, I can see why the finger of suspicion keeps coming back to Pete.
“Besides, I won’t forget them in a hurry,” Paula says. “The Lamberts, I mean.”
My ears prick up. “Why’s that?”
“He was a cold fish. Both of them were. You get used to the way people react when they first come onto the NICU—the shock, I mean, and t
he worry. You could tell she was anxious, but with him it was like he was being given a guided tour—as if it was interesting, but nothing personal.” She stops. “I remember looking over and seeing your partner, Pete, by Bronagh’s station. He was sobbing his eyes out. And why not? A lot of men do that, particularly when they think no one’s looking. You’ve just become a father, maybe a whole couple of months before you thought you would, and suddenly you’re on a ward like ours, being told your baby might not live. I remember turning back to my incubator and seeing Mr. Lambert. He was watching your partner, too. Studying him, is the only way I can describe it. Like he was fascinated, but also a bit puzzled. And then he looked at his wife and said, ‘Well, I’d better get back to my desk.’ As if he’d just popped out to get a sandwich. And she only nodded, as if that was totally normal, too.”
80
Case no. 12675/PU78B65, Exhibit 43. Texts from Bronagh Walsh to Peter Riley. Peter Riley’s iPhone was in police custody at the time.
Just thought you’d want to know—M came to St A’s today. Told her the only times we met were when (a) you came to the ward after Theo’s birthday and (b) that maybe I’d bumped into you at the bike ride and said hello but couldn’t really remember. Didn’t mention the other day—she seemed to think it was just messaging. Hope that all tallies?
That OK? X
P? Everything OK? Really hate to cause u any trouble. She told me about the police and Theo etc. Jesus. You poor guys.
P??? You getting these?
81
MADDIE
IT’S NEARLY TIME TO go and pick up Theo. I’d gone to St. Alexander’s by car, to give myself more time. Now I sit in a car park on Marylebone Road, looking at Facebook.
Or, more specifically, at Pete’s Facebook. So many pictures of Theo, his little limbs gradually shrinking as I scroll backward in time. Theo at eighteen months. Theo crawling. Theo in a babygrow.
And then the bike ride. The pictures I stopped looking at when my psychosis kicked in. The grinning young men in bike helmets taking selfies in Scotland, the Lake District, the Yorkshire Moors…
York. A rest day in the city, followed by a whole weekend off. No helmets or Lycra in those photos, just massive breakfasts in cafés and pints of beer in pubs. A night in a club—and yes, there are women around. Nothing untoward, just chatting, drinks in hand.
I do a search for Bronagh Walsh. And lo, there’s Bronagh’s profile. The picture shows her at what looks like a music festival, a sparkler in each hand, pulling a pose. I tap PHOTOS, but she’s set them to private. She hasn’t done that with her friends, though—all 412 of them. I scroll through until I find Paula, then go to Paula’s page. She hasn’t made any settings private, so I can look at her pictures and search them by location. Sure enough, some are tagged “York.” Facebook even identifies the bar where they were taken—Vudu Lounge, on Swinegate.
With Bronagh Walsh and seven others, it adds helpfully. And there’s Bronagh, holding a cocktail, with three other girls, all in short dresses. It’s the first time I’ve seen her with makeup on and her hair down. She’s undeniably striking. No sign of Pete, though.
I suddenly feel ashamed. What am I doing, spying on my partner like this? And in any case, what am I hoping to prove? Bronagh’s already admitted she was there. It doesn’t mean anything happened.
But even so, I’m sure she was being evasive about something. Just as Pete was.
I put the iPad down and start the car. I’m going to be late for Theo. Again.
As I drive to the Lamberts’, cutting the traffic lights as fine as I dare, I think about the other things I heard today. Presumably what Bronagh said about the NICU being exonerated by the mortality review could be checked. More interesting, perhaps, was what Paula said about Miles. As I’d told Pete, lack of emotion is typical of a psychopath, as is clearheadedness in a crisis. And studying Pete when he was crying—that, too, is something I’d read about: Without strong feelings of their own, psychopaths learn to study and mimic the emotions of others.
But I can’t get away from the fact that Paula said the Lamberts came onto the ward later that day, when the swap must have already happened. And from the sound of it—“I’d better get back to my desk”—Miles hadn’t spent much time in the NICU even when he did come.
I’d gone to see Bronagh with such high hopes. But the more I learn, the more I seem to go around in circles. Circles that have at their center just one fixed point, one person with both motive and opportunity.
Pete.
I sigh aloud. At least the traffic is flowing. I reach Haydon Gardens in under thirty minutes. When I buzz the Lamberts’ intercom, the front door is opened by someone I haven’t seen before, a sandy-haired woman in her thirties.
“Hello,” she says pleasantly. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Maddie. Theo’s mum?”
“Oh, of course. He’s just getting his coat. I’m Jill, by the way.”
Now that I look closer, I see she’s wearing what could almost be a uniform—dark trousers and a dark-blue pullover, with a lighter-blue polo shirt under it. The pullover has a discreet logo on the chest, a small embroidered N.
“The new nanny,” Jill adds smilingly, seeing my incomprehension.
A small fair-haired boy roughly the same age as Theo peers around the edge of the door. “Are you Theo’s mummy?” he demands.
“I am, yes. Who are you?”
“I’m Saul.”
Lucy appears in the hallway, holding Theo’s hand. He’s in his coat, carrying a drawing. “Oh, hello Maddie,” she says in her usual vague way.
“What’s going on?” I say. “Where’s Tania?”
“Look, Mummy!” Theo says impatiently, waving the drawing at me. “It’s a exploshun!”
“You’ve drawn an explosion. That’s a nice drawing, Theo. What’s exploding?”
This is a detail Theo clearly hasn’t considered. While he’s thinking, Lucy says in a rush, “It was Pete’s idea, actually.”
“Pete’s?” I echo.
“Yes—he mentioned it to the CAFCASS woman. About how Theo might benefit from a nanny with better English. And the suggestion there should be another little boy for him to play with. Saul’s going to be with us three days a week from now on.” As I stand up from looking at Theo’s drawing, Lucy adds, “So you see, we are listening. When it’s something for Theo—something that’ll help him—we’ll always try to do the right thing. Really, we’re very reasonable people. And Jill’s terrific. She’s a Norland, you know—they’re the absolute best. We’re already seeing such a difference. I mean, Theo is always adorable, isn’t he, but sometimes he can be a bit of a live wire, and not always do what he’s asked. He’ll do anything for Jill.”
Theo, looking at his drawing, comes to a decision. “ ’S’an exploding house, Mummy! Pow! Pow! Pow!”
82
PETE
“I ALMOST EXPLODED MYSELF,” Maddie said.
“I think I would have.” I finished the last mouthful of coffee. “God, I miss this coffee machine. Greg and Kate have one of those pod things.”
“What’s really annoying is that now Miles and Lucy will take all the credit for the improvement in Theo’s behavior. When the truth is, it’s down to you.” Maddie gestured at my star charts, still Blu-Tacked to the walls. I noticed she hadn’t kept up with most of them.
I sighed. “I suppose the chances of getting Theo out of that nanny share and into a nursery are now precisely zilch.”
Maddie nodded. “And guess what? I looked up Norland nannies’ salaries. Experienced ones earn over sixty grand a year.”
“Bloody hell!”
“Which Miles and Lucy will no doubt invoice us for half of, when they claim child maintenance for David.” Maddie straightened her back. “But we are not going to let this get us down. We are going to win.”
I didn’t rep
ly. It increasingly seemed to me that Miles wasn’t putting a foot wrong, while we were floundering. “What about St. Alexander’s? How did you get on?”
“Oh—they’re out of special measures, or whatever it was called. That spike in mortality was due to staff shortages, apparently. And Bronagh and Paula have both been reinstated.” Maddie shook her head. “On reflection, that was probably a bit fanciful, to think they might have had anything to do with it. After all, how much of a coincidence would it be if there was a psychopath and a rogue nurse on the same ward at the same time?”
“Which one did you speak to—Bronagh or Paula?” I turned and put my cup under the Jura’s spout. “I think I’ll have another cup.”
“Both. They’re friends, actually. Which reminds me—you didn’t tell me they came to meet the bike ride in York.”
“Didn’t I?” I pushed the button, and the noise of the grinding beans meant I had to wait a few moments before replying. “Greg did mention that some of the nurses turned up. But I wasn’t there by then. York was where I peeled off and came back here, remember? I got back on the Friday morning.”
“Oh.” Maddie thought. “Was it Friday? The days were a bit of a blur by then.”
I nodded. “So I gathered.”
“And when Bronagh told you about her suspension, when exactly was that? She messaged you, presumably?”
“Maddie, what is this?” I protested.
“I’m just trying to get a time line in my head. Unless you don’t want to tell me, of course.”
I shrugged. “I can’t remember the exact date. It was the morning after the Lamberts served the Notice of Proceedings—that day we both took Theo to their house, and Lucy offered to make us tea. And yes, Bronagh messaged.” My cappuccino was done now, so I took it out of the machine. “And I messaged back, but she wanted to meet, so we had a coffee at a Starbucks near the hospital.”
