by Delaney, JP
She lets me put my hand over hers now. I squeeze reassuringly, but say nothing.
“I suppose I’d started to realize by then anyway. I mean, he’d been so distant all through the pregnancy. Like he didn’t need to bother with me anymore. As if everything before had been a massive effort, and now the job was done he could stop pretending. I mean, I’m sure he’d tried to love me, but when I didn’t measure up, he started to ignore me instead.”
She falls silent, remembering.
“And the baby was sent to the NICU,” I say.
“Yes.” She glances at Pete. “Where almost the first thing I saw was Pete, crying for his baby. I thought—well, that’s normal, isn’t it? That’s what a real father would do. I suppose I envied my child the life that baby was going to have. And then a few minutes later this grumpy nurse—Paula—marched up to the mobile incubators and said, ‘Which one’s David Lambert? This one?’ And I—I nodded, even though she was pointing to the wrong cot. So she wheeled it away, across the ward, and I followed her. It was a moment of madness. I didn’t even think it would last, not to begin with—I thought any second the mix-up would be discovered, and my little fantasy would be over. But then, when Paula was off getting something, I looked down and saw a paper tag in the cot as well, lying loose. So I pocketed it.”
“And David became Theo,” I say softly. “Safely stowed inside another family.”
She nods. “How did you guess that’s what happened?”
I hold her gaze. It’s important she understands this, that she doesn’t feel entirely alone. “Because I felt the exact same thing. Not back then, in the NICU. It was when Miles first made his move on Theo and David, and I decided we had to fight for David, too. It was crazy on so many levels, but it wasn’t something I thought through rationally. I just knew.”
I’m so rarely maternal, I hadn’t recognized it at first—not until Judge Wakefield was making it clear that, having won Theo, there was little point in pursuing our claim for David. I’d looked across at Lucy, wiping away tears of relief, and thought, At least he’s loved. And I’d realized that my desire to fight for David had been, at root, pure instinct—the overwhelming, urgent need to protect my son from Miles.
It was only last night, talking to Pete in the darkness, that I’d finally made the connection. If I’d felt that way, what were the chances Theo’s mother had, too?
Lucy’s saying, “Of course, I didn’t know the one I’d taken was brain-damaged, not at first. It was several days before the doctors found that out. When they told us—well, I accepted it as my due. I was pleased for you, actually. I thought, I might have done an unforgivable thing, but at least they got a baby that’s healthy. And I could love David, I knew I could. Perhaps even more than you might have. Because I had no one else, you see. Miles had absolutely no interest in either of us. The child was a failure and I was a failure and that was all there was to it. I mean, he put on a good show of being a caring father when it suited him, but when we were alone…” She pauses. “He can be quite cutting,” she finishes with vague understatement.
“But you’ve stayed with him.”
“Yes.” She grimaces. “You must think I’m so pathetic. I know you’d never have stood for it. But somehow we muddled along. And I had David. He needs so much…I don’t think I could cope with him on my own. And Miles is much better once you’ve worked out how not to make him angry.”
Beside me, Pete twitches. I know he’s itching to say that Miles had no right to treat her like that in the first place, and that it certainly shouldn’t be her job to placate him, but now isn’t the moment. I put my hand on his leg, briefly, then turn back to Lucy.
“Lucy, there are several things about Miles I think you may not know. I suspect you do know that he was having sex with Michaela behind your back.” After a moment, Lucy nods reluctantly. “But what you probably don’t know is that he’s tried to kill people. And in at least one case, we think he’s succeeded.” I look at Pete. “Tell her.”
Pete explains about the hit-and-runs. He lays it out calmly and unemotionally, as if it’s an article he’s pitching to a newspaper. When he’s finished, Lucy takes a deep breath.
“He has a storage unit. I think he may have a second car in it—an old Passat. I found the keys once when I was folding his trousers. He was furious—that’s how I knew it was something important. But I don’t think it’s licensed—I’ve never seen any paperwork for it.”
“Do you know where the storage unit is?”
She shakes her head. “And I don’t want to. I don’t want anything to do with it.”
Pete leans forward and says gently, “I’m afraid you already are something to do with it. And there’s more. Lucy, you need to hear what he’s threatening to do next. To Theo. And what he’s already doing to David.”
110
PETE
IT WAS JUST AN ordinary day.
It was just an ordinary day in Willesden Green, north London. Summer had come to the city, but at eight thirty in the morning the streets were still relatively cool as I took Theo on his scooter to the Leyland Avenue Nursery and Preschool. He’d settled in well. Harvey Taylor’s report had helped a lot, by setting out exactly what extra support he’d need. It was working, too. Slowly but surely, he was getting there.
Having dropped him off, I went home, turned on my laptop and the coffee machine, then logged onto DadStuff. There was a thread for those whose kids had been diagnosed with CU. Music lessons helped, apparently, and simple body-language games. In any case, it was good to share the problem with others, particularly those whose children were older and had been through this stage already.
Then the doorbell rang, so I put down my cappuccino and went to answer it.
There were five of them. Two in uniform, two in white forensic bodysuits, and one in plainclothes. It was the one in plainclothes who said, “Peter Riley, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Miles Leopold Lambert. You do not have to say anything, but if you do not mention now something which you mention later, a court might ask you why you did not mention it at the first opportunity. I have here a warrant to search these premises and to seize electronic devices or other evidence relating to this investigation.”
“I’d better call my solicitor,” I said, stepping back to let them in. “Before you take my phone.”
111
Case no. 12675/PU78B65: SUMMARY AND CONCLUSION by Catherine Jackson, Senior Crown Prosecutor.
The investigation into the death of Miles Lambert (12675/PU78B65) has now been ongoing for more than ten months, and, in the opinion of the police, is unlikely to yield any further high-quality evidence to assist the Crown Prosecution Service in the decision that must now be made regarding whether or not to bring any charges.
The circumstances of Mr. Lambert’s death—an apparent hit-and-run while returning home from a morning jog at approximately 6:50 A.M.—undoubtedly indicate a criminal act. However, the vehicle that struck him has not been identified, and none of those questioned by the police have admitted any involvement.
Suspicion was initially directed at Peter Riley and Madelyn Wilson, who prior to Mr. Lambert’s death had been involved in a court case with him over the custody of his biological son, Theo. There is ample documentation in the bundle showing that, despite initially being quite amicable, the relationship between the two families had become acrimonious. However, Mr. Riley and Ms. Wilson had been successful in that case, and—the communications with Tania Lefebvre and Harvey Taylor notwithstanding—might therefore be presumed to have little motive to harm Mr. Lambert once the judgment had been handed down.
They were also able to give each other consistent alibis for the time at which Mr. Lambert’s death occurred. Mr. Riley was engaged in a heated exchange about head lice on the internet forum DadStuff from 7:02 to 7:38, making a total of eleven posts from his home network. Ms. Wilson’s as
sertion that she was making Theo’s breakfast is consistent with phone tower data showing that her mobile remained in the house until she left for work as usual at around 8:18.
Police also questioned Mr. Lambert’s wife, Lucy, but again found nothing that would indicate a motive to harm her husband. Footage from the Lamberts’ nannycams places Mrs. Lambert in her house drinking coffee until after the arrival of the emergency services at the scene at 7:14. She told investigating officers that she was unaware her husband lay dying outside their front door until she was alerted by the police at approximately 7:25.
Perhaps most important, forensic scrutiny of both the Lamberts’ BMW and the Volkswagen Golf owned by Peter Riley yielded no signs that either had been involved in an incident of this nature, and nothing of direct relevance was found in the search histories of any of the electronic devices seized and examined by police.
In short, there appears to be no reasonable chance of a conviction in this matter, and I therefore conclude that no further action be taken.
Catherine Jackson
Senior Crown Prosecutor
112
MADDIE
TREVOSE HEAD IS JUST as beautiful as Miles promised—a huge house right on the beach, with only the coast path and the sand dunes between us and the sea. Miles was right, too, in his prediction that Theo would love it. We’ve bought him a tiny little wet suit to run into the sea in, while Pete, also looking quite cute in his matching shortie, stands sentinel to protect him from the treacherous currents. Even David, it turns out, loves to sit in a rock pool and splash, so most mornings Lucy and I sit with him, our feet in the cool water, chatting.
We rarely talk about Miles. Sometimes Lucy feels the need to say something, and then I simply listen while whatever’s on her mind spills out in a rush. Then, just as suddenly, she’ll stop, shake her head as if clearing it of the memory, and talk about something else.
But I can see her confidence growing day by day. It’ll take years, I imagine. But already she’s a different person than the nervous, jumpy creature we sat opposite in the café almost a year ago.
I suspect she would never have helped us on her own account, though. It took Pete telling her what Miles was threatening to do to the children to do that. She let out a cry, and her hand flew to her mouth. Some of the other mothers in the café glanced at her briefly, then went on with their chatting.
From that moment, her resolve never wavered. It was her who tracked down the address of the storage unit, her who stole the key from Miles’s desk. When we went to look, it was just as she’d said—an old Volkswagen station wagon, the tax many years out of date. There were dents on the bonnet, and a crack in the windscreen where it might have been hit by a flying, tumbling skull.
But it was me, not her or Pete, who drove it to Haydon Gardens the next morning. In my mind, there was never any question about that. Pete had been shocked when I first told him what I was planning. Then he said that, if it had to be done, it should be him. But I knew something like that would have eaten away at him afterward. For me, it’s different.
It was when I was researching Miles’s personality that I began to realize something about myself, something important. Psychopathy is a spectrum, Annette told me: These are traits most people have none of, a few have in abundance, but some have a scattering of—just enough to make them fearless, or lacking in squeamishness, or clearheaded in a crisis. Just enough to make them ruthless, too. When I found the psychopath test online I filled it in out of curiosity, but even before I calculated my score I knew I’d be on a very different part of that spectrum from Pete.
I drove up behind Miles as he got home from his run. The sound, or perhaps some sixth sense, must have alerted him, because he half turned and glimpsed me over his shoulder. For a moment, he kept going—speeded up, in fact, as if he meant to try to outrun me. Then he’d slowed and turned. Facing me. Staring me down, as if his gaze alone might be enough to make me stop.
When I kept on coming, and he saw I meant to hit him, he grinned. There’d been no fear in his eyes, only a kind of alert, exultant excitement.
And a nod. Whether that was a gesture of acceptance, or something else—of recognition; welcome, even—I couldn’t have said.
* * *
—
I ALMOST DIDN’T TELL Pete it was done. I felt no guilt, no inner need to confess, and in many ways the less he knew the better. But I had to go home anyway, to get my phone, and I decided that, on balance, he should know our children were now safe.
He sat very quietly, his head bowed. He was torn, I knew—both horrified at the thought I’d actually done it, and relieved our nightmare was over.
“By the way,” I added when I’d finished. “I think you should tell me what happened with you and Bronagh now.”
He stared at me. “How do you know anything did?”
“Well, for one thing your account didn’t quite tally with hers. For another, you told a stupid lie. You said you came back from York on the Friday morning. You were right, of course, that I had no idea what planet I was on by then, let alone what day of the week it was. But it’s all there in my medical notes—the date and time I was sectioned and admitted. You got back on the Saturday.”
“Oh God.” Pete took a deep breath. “It’s been eating me up, not telling you. I was going to tell you—I spent the whole time on that train working out what I was going to say. And then—well, obviously I couldn’t say anything when I found you in the state you were in. Or when you first came back from hospital. So I just kind of left it and then it became harder and harder.”
So, hesitantly, he told me. How Bronagh had dropped a heavy hint or two when they were all drinking at the Vudu Lounge—“This is my first big night out in six months, Pete. If I don’t find a ride tonight, I think I’ll go crazy.” A dance. An arm—his—around a waist—hers, pulling her close. And then she’d looked him in the eye and said softly, “You do know a blow job wouldn’t count, Pete Riley, don’t you? What with you not even being married?”
He stopped, shamefaced.
“And?” I said.
“But that was just the point. Of course it would count. And once she’d said it out loud like that…I suddenly realized where this was heading. How squalid it was. And I—I was just letting it happen. So I went and packed my bag and got on the first train to London.”
Now it was my turn to stare. “You mean—nothing happened?”
He frowned. “That happened. It was hardly nothing. I’d realized I’d almost risked everything—you, Theo, everything I care about—for some stupid, momentary ego boost. And then of course I came back and found you ill, so I felt even worse. I think that’s why I threw myself into looking after Theo—to try to make it up to you. And I realized that I loved it. I mean, I loved him already, but it was more than that. I loved caring for him. Being his dad. I’d finally found what I was good at.” He looked at me. “Can you forgive me? It’s the only time I’ve even come close to doing something like that, I promise.”
“Of course I forgive you,” I said. “I love you, stupid.”
* * *
—
CAN PEOPLE LIKE ME love? Really love, the way Pete so clearly loves me and Theo, from the very bottom of his heart? Opinions on that are divided, I gather. But then, I’m only marginally on the spectrum—the way I reacted to the NICU confirms that. And when I look at Theo, soaking up the emotional literacy Pete’s teaching him, I know that change is possible.
Pete will be my conscience. He’s already persuaded me to drop our legal action against the NHS. It’s right that David receive a payout to help Lucy look after him, he argued, particularly as Miles left her nothing but debts. But we, and Theo, don’t need it. So we settled for getting our costs paid, to get Justin Watts off our backs, and with the police investigation effectively closed, NHS Resolution was only too eager to accept.
&nb
sp; As for my own slipups, I don’t see any need to confess those to Pete. I guessed that was what Miles was telling him, of course, when we collected Theo after the hearing. I was waiting for Pete to say something to me, or for Miles to follow it up with some evidence—a witness statement through the letterbox, an affidavit pinging into Pete’s inbox—but he never did.
He had nothing, I eventually realized. Perhaps it was never much more than a shot in the dark in the first place. Perhaps Don Maguire had picked up some gossip, one of those rumors that float around a busy office like mine. If he’d had more, the Lamberts’ barrister would surely have found a way to use it at the hearing. Then I’d have been accused of perjury on top of everything else, and the balance between us and the Lamberts would have tilted yet again—and who knows what the judge’s decision would have been then? So gradually, I realized my secret was safe, and with that grew my resolve not to tell Pete. It would only hurt him at a time when our relationship needed rebuilding, not undermining.
Sometimes I find myself wondering what, in the end, the difference is between pretending to be nice, the way people like Miles and, I suppose, I do, and trying to be nice, the way Pete, Lucy, and, it now seems, many other people as well do. Perhaps, I think, it isn’t so much about what you actually do, but why. Those like Pete whose hearts are pure—the fundamentally decent, honest, loyal ones, the ones Miles would dismissively sneer at as the meek—they’re living, somehow, in a bigger, richer way. Psychopaths are like tone-deaf people at a concert, mocking those who cry at the beauty of the music as fools.
