The Touch of Innocents (34 page)

‘It’s over,’ he shouted at her, grabbing her by the shoulders to force her attention. It did. He lowered his voice. ‘A few minutes, that’s all it will take.’

She stepped back, repulsed by his touch, but his
words sank slowly in. She began sobbing. Bella. Bella was here! Could it be? It was over! The release flooded around her, threatened to sweep her away, her head ringing to the echo of his words and she felt herself buckling. He reached out again, this time in support, his arm on hers, and did not move. She searched his watery eyes, attempting to find the truth; they were subdued.

‘They’ll bring her back out through the Departure lounge. Any moment now. Try to be patient for just a little while longer.’

She had known she might have to confront him, had counted on aggression, threats, violence, but not calm reason.

‘Apologies will count for nothing with you, Isadora, although as a father I feel devastated for what you have been through. I am sorry. Truly. I had no idea what was going on with the adoption ring, please believe that, not until Paulette told me everything on the way here. I thought you were a troublemaker. I was wrong. I can make amends in the only way I know how, by returning your daughter to you. I only wish I were as fortunate.’

‘Fortunate?’ she spat, struggling to find the right words of abuse, but her mind was numb.

‘You are getting your daughter back. And she’s fine. I’d give everything I possess to share that privilege.’

‘Paulette …?’

‘God, you’ve seen her, what she’s like.’ His voice had a bitter, defeatist edge. ‘I’ve tried, so damned bloody hard, but I don’t think I will ever get her back. Not now. After everything she’s done I still want her back. I don’t know whether you can understand that.’ The watery eyes seemed to be on the point of melting completely, and suddenly he was
no longer the arrogant politician but a parent in great anguish. And she knew all about that.

He fought back the welling emotion. ‘Sorry. But …’ He looked despairingly at Izzy. ‘Let me explain. Please? She’s not as evil as it must seem to you. It’s … not completely her fault.’

‘Forget it, I’m not in the forgiving mood.’

‘I don’t ask forgiveness. At times I find what she has done difficult to forgive myself, but … she is my daughter. My only child.’ He swallowed hard, fighting for self-control. ‘Her mother died when she was eight. Committed suicide. What are the words people use on these occasions – a tragedy? A family blighted? A loss without reason, no one to blame? But to a little girl of eight who couldn’t understand why her mother was gone there was only one person to blame. Herself. Paulette never recovered.’ He braced his shoulders. ‘And I don’t believe she ever will recover. It’s too late for her.’

His emotion was infectious, contaminating her judgement and her anger. ‘You’re not trying to suggest I should turn a blind eye. Forget all about it.’

He shook his head as if every muscle in his body ached. ‘I turned a blind eye, for years. Persuaded myself there was nothing wrong with her, that it was a passing phase. You wake up every morning and hope that this is the morning when it will all be fine again, when she will be there at breakfast, smiling, loving, once again your daughter. But.… how do you show your love for a child intent on torturing herself? I thought by protecting her. I was wrong.’

‘You covered up for her.’

‘I did. I denied the drugs as vehemently as she did. And I was wrong and now I will suffer the consequences. I was weak. I love my daughter, she’s the
only thing that matters to me and I wanted to fight for her, to stop her being destroyed. Surely you of all people understand that?’

‘I understand that your daughter was destroying the lives of many others.’

He nodded. ‘I still find that unbelievable, but … yes, and now she will destroy me. But believe me, I knew nothing of what she was doing with Fauld, not until just now. How do you face up to the fact that your daughter …?’ He struggled to put it into words.

‘Sells babies.’

‘It will stop, has already stopped. Apparently Fauld, on top of everything, is a pervert. The Vice Squad got an anonymous tip-off, found him in compromising circumstances in a London hotel …’

So her phone call had worked.

‘It seems it was not the first time he has been caught at sexual misconduct. Nothing criminal, but he will have to resign, I shall ensure it. And if I have any power or position left after this mess I shall use it to ensure that Fauld and everyone like him engaged in these barbaric adoption practices is stopped and the system utterly destroyed.’

‘Bit late for a conversion, isn’t it? An hour ago you brought a posse of police to arrest me.’

He uttered a choked, hollow sound. ‘Good God. I was not pursuing you; I had no idea you were even there. I came with the police in pursuit of my daughter. To arrest Paulette. Don’t you see, my years of excusing her and always bailing her out have been a disaster. That wasn’t the way to love her, it has all but killed her. But can you imagine what it takes, as a parent, to hunt down your child with a pack of police hounds?’

She thought she could. She remembered Daniel’s
mother. Devereux was beginning to make sense.

‘I’ve learned a lot of lessons recently about parental love. Many from you, Isadora. In some ways we are very much alike, you and I. Parents who would give anything for their child. Only I gave blindly. A great pity my education came too late.’

She felt sorrow for him. She could never have imagined it up to that point, but the anger and bitterness was stifled. She could sense and share the loss he must feel. He stood before her amidst the ashes of his pride, a charred and broken husk.

And suddenly she realized what he was at.

‘Bella. My baby. She’s the only evidence there is. Against you. Against your daughter.’

He stiffened as if slapped in the face. And suddenly she was disengaged from his entrancing tale, her senses back in the airport. The minutes had ticked away, the final call for Abu Dhabi long since expired.

‘You’re not bringing her back at all. You bastard, you’re here to make sure she’s put on that plane and there’s not a trace of evidence left for what your daughter’s done. What you’ve done. Damn my blindness!’

And Izzy leapt for the departure gate.

The security arrangements leading air-side serve a number of purposes. The central search area is intended to examine passengers for appropriate authority to travel and their baggage for hazardous contraband. The checking procedures are usually sluggish and methodical as befits a slow-moving column of travellers, the various checkpoints for boarding cards, passports and baggage generally close together. The arrangements therefore provide a distinct albeit short-lived advantage for those who have neither boarding cards nor passports nor baggage but who meet the security gates at the charge.

Izzy had brushed aside the security guard checking boarding passes before he’d even looked up. The archway metal detector could do no more than buzz in impotence as she ran through, leaving behind the flailing arms and reproachful shouts of baggage inspectors, while the immigration officers who handle passport control are neither trained in nor encouraged to use martial arts. She was through the lot before they had time to do anything other than raise their voices and activate a variety of security alarms. But alarms warn, they do not stop. And by the time the Search Control Officer had begun lowering the metal fire shutters to secure the area, she was already well past.

Izzy ran down the long glass-sided walkway leading to the gates. On either side she passed faces full of bewilderment. To the front of her people drew back in concern in the attempt, not always successful, to avoid her onward rush. From behind she could barely hear the sound of heavy-booted pursuit. Hope collided with terror, blotting out all sense of danger. Panic lent extraordinary speed to her endeavours. ‘Bella!’ she screamed, ‘Bella!’ until her lungs could cry no more and she forced herself onward.

From corridors to her side and through the gateways she passed came other pursuers. They were armed, intent. The shouts and alarums of pursuit were growing louder, drawing unmistakably closer. A dog barked. She thought she heard the sharp metallic rattle she knew so well from other battlefields: of activating gun mechanisms, breeches being loaded, safeties being thrown. She knew they were gaining, tried to look behind, stumbled, almost fell, careening into a large stuffed Santa bear which was sent sprawling across the walkway along with the pile of gaily wrapped cartons and parcels that surrounded
it. And from up ahead, beyond the crowds milling around the Duty Free, she could discern the dark blue uniforms of armed police, waiting for her, spread across her path like a human net. Three of them were down on one knee, both arms raised, combat position, guns pointing directly at her. From somewhere close came shouted commands for her to halt and for others to get down. Screams. Travellers in the long avenue began throwing themselves to the floor, like felled trees in a forest. She seemed to be the only one left standing. And more guns had been readied, were pointing at her. She could not stop.

Then she had reached the departure gate for KR 432 and had flung herself around the corner and into its waiting area. To the side stood a policeman, flak jacket, nervous eyes bulging in apprehension, side arm unholstered and being raised to its firing position, safety catch slipped, a warning shout on his lips.

And at the far end, walking out of the hall through the exit that led directly to the aircraft, was a woman dressed in a white nurse’s uniform, and holding something in her arms. Arms which Izzy, on the charge, had seized, had twisted round, had forced with demonic strength to release their charge.

‘Bella!’

The pursuit had caught up with her. The far end of the hall had been stormed as though by a charging herd, policemen spilling in and around until there was a solid wall of blue flak jackets from which protruded shafts of grey steel, aimed, ready for an order to fire.

Time travelled as slowly as melting wax. Barrels wavered; like the heads of snakes preparing to strike. Eyes fastened onto her, unblinking. The officer in
charge filled his chest, seemed to hesitate and freeze. And the expression on the baby’s face changed like the phases of the moon. From alarm, to the suffusion of pleasure, and finally – triumphantly – to the glow of recognition.

Isadora Dean clasped her baby in her arms and let forth a shattering roar of triumph.

Then Devereux was there – God, he was always there, like slime she could not scrape from her shoe, like the stench of death in the charnel house – whispering in the officer’s ear. Guns were lowered, he stepped forward. His face had become grey stone, the watery eyes ice. Then he was beside her. She could restrain her feelings no longer.

‘I would gladly shoot you myself, but others will save me the trouble. You’re going to roast and I shall enjoy turning the spit. I’ll sing for joy every time they carve a new slice. I shall destroy you.’

He found a thin smile. ‘I think not.’

Izzy was shaking her head in contemptuous dismissal, but he continued.

‘If you try, you will lose your baby.’

She taunted his suggestion. ‘Not again. No one can ever take her away from me again.’

‘Oh, but they can, Isadora.’

He appeared so arrogantly confident that the smallest rivulet of apprehension ran down her back. She clutched the infant more closely. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Simply this. Within five minutes of the first sign that you are causing trouble with your wild accusations about baby rings, I shall ensure that a warrant is issued for your arrest.’

She laughed in his face. ‘On what charge?’

‘Take your pick. Drug dealing? After all, you have been consorting with known drug dealers, and fled
after being apprehended by police in a coffee shop notorious for its drug deals. Or would you prefer murder? Based on Paulette’s evidence. Of Daniel Blackheart.’

She found her lips stammering. ‘But that’s ridiculous. The charges won’t stick. Anyway, I shall be out of this wretched country.’

‘But you see – and listen carefully, this is important – the charges don’t need to stick. Merely be laid. For within a further five minutes of the charges being laid I shall ensure that your husband is informed of all the details. You are trying to fight him for custody. You’ve already abandoned one child, no court in the world is going to give you custody of a second with accusations of murder and drug dealing hanging round your neck.’

‘But … you can’t.’

‘But I can. And will. Look, you have your daughter, that’s what you wanted all along. Don’t throw that all away with ridiculous ideas of revenge.’

‘This is monstrous,’ she exclaimed, vainly trying to find the flaw in his argument.

‘Utterly monstrous,’ he concurred in supercilious tone. ‘But effective, wouldn’t you agree? The slightest sniff of trouble from you and you will lose the baby once again. This time entirely legally, by court order.’

‘People will listen to me …’

‘They haven’t up to now. Why should they change? My dear, you grossly overrate the credulity of your audience. Put an hysterical American woman against a solid English statesman, and the American will lose every time.’

‘What on earth are you suggesting?’

‘I’m suggesting that I go over there to the commander of this little posse and tell him that it has
all been a dreadful mistake. That you are not the dangerous terrorist we all thought you were, but a distraught mother, the victim of a domestic dispute. They’ll accept that with very little persuasion after your performance with the baby. Then you get a plane out of the country. Immediately. Tonight. Forget about Britain, forget about everything you’ve seen here and never come back.’