Authors: Samantha Hayes
Lorraine stopped herself.
It?
she thought.
It’s a boy
, she chastised herself inwardly.
A little baby boy.
She thought of her own children and glanced at her watch. Stella had a piano exam tomorrow morning and practice hadn’t exactly been top of her agenda recently.
She had to think of these things – force her mind to focus on the normal, the everyday, the mundane.
Then there was Grace and her damned A levels. She had several exams after Christmas and Lorraine had no idea if she was on track with her work. She made a mental note to find out as she stared at the mess in the bath. Images of her girls as babies flashed through her mind.
It’s OK
, she thought.
I’m fine . . . just grounding myself in this fucked-up world
. What didn’t seem OK or fine was thinking about her family in the same headspace as whatever shit had done this.
The woman was young. Early to mid-twenties, Lorraine reckoned, though it wasn’t easy to tell. Her once-pregnant abdomen had been cut open – quite cleanly, she had to admit – from sternum to pubic bone and was now puckered and deflated. There was still the slightly sweet smell of amniotic fluid swirled up with the metallic tang of blood, but mostly the nauseating stench was from decomposition. The plug was keeping safe whatever secrets the inch or so of viscous liquid contained. It would soon be on its way to the lab for careful analysis.
‘He wouldn’t have passed his medical exams,’ Lorraine said through her mask and over her shoulder. She’d noticed DC Ainsley wobbling in the doorway, his hand clamped over his mouth. ‘Wrong way, look.’ She indicated with her finger, drawing a line in the air above the body. ‘My scar’s down low.’ She felt compelled to touch it, the neat little opening through which both Stella and Grace had been pulled wriggling and screaming, but she didn’t.
Lorraine stared at the woman’s death face. Twisted with agony, a bitten tongue lolling, fingers matted with her own hair as she’d torn it out in pain, claw marks down her cheek – this woman had left life in a fit of bloody terror and fear.
‘What do we know about her?’ Lorraine said, turning away. She had to get out. She felt claustrophobic in the tiny bathroom.
‘Sally-Ann Frith,’ DC Ainsley said. ‘Single mum. Well, she was going to be a single mum,’ he corrected. ‘We don’t know who the partner or father is. Neighbours say a couple of men visited occasionally. That sometimes there was shouting.’
‘Keep talking to the neighbours. I want everyone in the building interviewed today,’ Lorraine said, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. She walked slowly around the small living room, her eyes dancing over the contents. A patterned sofa, an old telly, a lamp, a fireplace with a few photo frames on the mantelpiece. Beige carpet with a few stains. All normal. There was a small desk in one corner with a laptop and a few papers and text books strewn over it. ‘She was some kind of student, by the looks of it,’ she said, casting an eye over the books. ‘
The Basics of Management Accounting
,’ she read. ‘Sounds like fun.’
‘Ray . . .’ There was an urgent voice. ‘I got here as soon as I could.’
Lorraine froze, but only for a second. She turned to greet him. ‘Hello, Adam,’ she said wearily. She’d secretly hoped someone else would have been assigned this one. Having her husband lead a case never got any easier. ‘Don’t call me that, please.’
‘Sorry. Lorr
aine
,’ he said, knowing full well she hated being called Ray on or off duty. ‘Do we know what’s happened?’ He came right up to her, ignoring the way she tensed. He’d borrowed her new body wash. She could damn well smell it.
‘There’s a dead woman in the bath. She was pregnant.’
Adam went off to inspect the scene while she carefully lifted a few of the files on the desk. Most were typical student folders and paper files but one was different. It was bound with light grey plastic and had Willow Park Medical Centre printed in silver on the front. The words were topped by an image of a navy-blue willow tree – the surgery’s logo. She heard Adam gag in the bathroom.
Lorraine opened the file. The first page contained general details about Sally-Ann. Date of birth, phone numbers, next of kin – someone called Russ Goodall, although she noted that a previous name had been scrubbed out in black pen so comprehensively that she couldn’t read it. A previous partner, she wondered? The father?
The next few pages were charts and details of her pregnancy – weight, blood pressure, urine sample results. It all appeared perfectly normal. It was November now and the entries in the file had started in late April, apparently when she’d first visited the GP. Her due date was in two weeks.
Adam came back sweating and extremely pale. ‘Jesus.’
‘I know,’ Lorraine said with heavy eyes. It didn’t matter any more. None of it did. They had their girls, their home, their jobs. They were all right, weren’t they?
‘I’m sorry about earlier, Ray,’ Adam said. She heard him forcibly swallow something down. He looked green.
‘Yeah,’ she said, and knew nothing more would be said about the outburst at breakfast. It had been a pointless tiff, fuelled by family logistics and petty jealousy. ‘She was an accounting student,’ she continued. She wouldn’t even tell him off again for calling her Ray. ‘Aged twenty-four. Next of kin is a chap called Russ Goodall. I’ll get on to the medical centre.’ She held up the file.
‘Why would anyone do that to a pregnant woman?’ Adam said, shaking his head and staring out of the window.
In the house opposite, a woman was folding sheets in an upstairs room, pretending not to stare across the road where half a dozen police cars were parked and the entire building was cordoned off with crime-scene tape. They needed to speak to her, Lorraine thought. She had a bird’s-eye view.
‘Someone had made an attempt to cut the umbilical cord. Did you notice?’
Adam nodded. He’d never had a good stomach for mess. She knew he’d need to run at least five miles to get this one out of his head.
‘Maybe she went into labour, got into difficulties and whoever was with her thought they’d be a hero and perform an emergency C-section,’ she continued. He picked up one of three cards that were lined up on the window sill. ‘It went wrong, they got scared and ran off.’
‘Look at this.’
‘Good luck! All my love, Russ.’ Lorraine let out a sigh. ‘No doubt the same Russ as in the medical file.’
‘None of the cards actually says what she needs luck for,’ he said, placing them back on the sill with gloved hands. ‘One’s from someone called Amanda and the other’s from Sally-Ann’s mum.’
‘Do you really send good luck cards for giving birth? They could be for something else. A driving test or exams, perhaps.’
‘Don’t the cards usually come after you’ve had a baby?’ Adam said.
‘Are you asking me or telling me?’ Lorraine said, feeling something inappropriate welling inside her. ‘But then you’re not great at sending cards for any reason, are you Adam, especially anniver—’
‘Stop.’ Adam held up a hand.
He was right. Lorraine was tempted to take hold of his rubber-clad hand but decided against it. In all the years they’d worked together – and God, she’d lost count of those – displays of physical contact or affection while on duty were their own personal no-no. It often came as a surprise to colleagues who didn’t know them well that they were even married. Different surnames, regular bickering, and Lorraine refusing to wear a wedding ring all pointed to them having nothing to do with each other outside of work. And inside it they often went out of their way to avoid each other. It was only the big cases – cases like Sally-Ann’s – where they knew they’d be joining forces and combining decades of experience.
‘They could be “good luck for the operation” cards.’ Lorraine was delving into the medical file again. She’d missed it first time round.
‘What operation?’ Adam said, joining her at the desk. He’d definitely been using her bloody Acqua di Parma body wash at nearly thirty quid a pop. He’d be shampooing the carpet with it next.
‘This one,’ she said, planning on hiding the stuff later. She’d only wanted a little treat, something to make her feel half an ounce special. Lorraine pointed to the neat handwriting in the top margin of the page. It was the same as the writing on the student folders – Sally-Ann’s, they supposed.
Adam read out the jottings. ‘Caesarean. Eighteenth November. Arrive before eight a.m. Dr Lamb. Bradley Ward. Pack bag.’
‘That’s tomorrow,’ Lorraine said, staring at her husband. ‘Except someone else got there first.’
HER BEDROOM’S FINALLY
ready. I’ve made it as homely as I can. Oscar and Noah are fighting over whose teddy she will want on her bed. ‘I think she might be too old for a teddy,’ I tell them. They don’t agree.
I’m exhausted. Even making up a bed does me in these days. At this rate, I wonder if I’ll ever get my body back. James offered to help me, of course, but I told him it would be better if he entertained the boys. Clearly he didn’t succeed as they’ve been snapping round my ankles the last hour, flopping onto the duvet with wafts of giggles as I wrestled it into the pretty pink-and-cream flowery cover. I’m pleased with how the room looks, and the living room. I want her to be comfortable, even though I’m a little nervous about her arrival. It’s taken a lot to get my head round having a nanny again.
‘How’s it going, darling?’ Just as I’m thinking about him and that awful, imminent date marked on the calendar when he goes away again, James comes up the top flight of stairs – two at a time by the sound of it – to see how I’m getting on. ‘It looks super. She’ll love it.’ He’s only been home for a fortnight this time.
‘I hope so,’ I say thoughtfully. He puts his arms round me and attempts a kiss but I’m too knackered even for cuddles. I flop down into the rocking chair. ‘Ouch,’ I say, grabbing my bump.
‘Careful with her,’ he says, giving me a tentative rub on the belly. He’s been fussing over me from the minute I told him I was pregnant. Not surprising, really. He’s not had the chance to grow with me and therefore get used to my new shape, the preciousness of it or even the resilience of it. I think it disorientates him, me being so huge, so incapable of doing all the things I used to, though he’d never say it. He’s very respectful and we follow doctor’s orders to the letter. My friend Pip says her husband adores her pregnant body and can’t get enough of her. I guess, considering everything, James is being ultra-cautious and I appreciate that. I miss him though. I miss
us
.
‘Counting the days ’til we can,’ I say, and blow him a silent kiss over the boys’ heads as they kick the teddy around the room. He knows what I mean. ‘Oh, I forgot the towels,’ I say, thinking of the trek down and up the stairs.
‘Take a break now. I came up to tell you I’ve made supper.’
‘You have?’ Hence the boys not being entertained, I suppose, but I can’t complain. When he’s home, James is the perfect husband and father. He’s a real Navy man but he also loves nothing more than pottering about at home. The two halves of his life couldn’t be more dissimilar. ‘Yes, Lieutenant Commander,’ I say, snapping a quick salute. I can’t stand to see him in his uniform, even though it’s the sexiest thing he owns. It means only one thing – that he’s off to sea again.
‘Come on.’ James hauls me out of the chair by the hands. ‘Let’s get you two fed.’ He grins and strokes his baby.
It’s incredibly hard for him, too. I knew what I was letting myself in for when we married; knew what I was taking on. My friends said I was mad, that being mum to two baby boys who’d lost their birth mother just a few months before was crazy enough, let alone getting hitched to a Naval officer who was away from home two thirds of the year.
‘Well, I really hope Zoe likes working here,’ I say, flicking off the lights to her quarters. It was a joint decision to hire her although I feel utterly responsible for whether it works out or not.
‘Time will tell,’ James says, and he leads me down to the most glorious smell of chicken basking in a white wine and fresh thyme sauce.
*
I yawn. It’s early and I didn’t sleep well last night. I’m too huge and not used to having someone else beside me. Plus I was sweltering in my thick winter pyjamas. Poor James was woken with every toss and lumbering turn of my body as I tried to get comfortable so I quickly retreated to the spare room. After midnight, he tapped on the door, saying he couldn’t sleep either. He was trying his luck, even though he knows it’s hopeless and we can’t.
‘Just a cuddle then,’ he complained through the door.
‘Oh James,’ I replied, and the ensuing silence sent him back to our bed alone.
When he returned from his last mission two weeks ago, I showed him once again the letter from my obstetrician spelling out the strict rules, ‘no sex’ included. ‘It’s serious,’ I told him. ‘You know my history. I won’t do anything to put this baby at risk.’ His expression nearly killed me. I hated lying to him. I’d not really told him everything about my previous losses because talking about them was so hard. ‘Shore leave or not, we can’t risk it,’ I insisted. ‘Not long now.’
*
The doorbell rings exactly at eight o’clock and there’s a mad scramble from the boys to answer it.
I follow them through to the hall. I am swamped by doubt and second thoughts. I’m still in two minds about having a stranger in the house, and also in doubt about my ability to cope alone when the baby arrives. The whole situation makes me feel a bit useless, to be honest.
James and I both agreed over the weekend that Zoe was pretty much perfect. We offered her the job at lunchtime on Monday once I’d had a chance to check out all her references and done an hour’s worth of Googling to see if there were any Zoe Harper horrors lurking online. I found nothing. Her referees couldn’t speak highly enough of her. When I phoned her, she was over the moon and said she could start Wednesday morning, which actually worked out perfectly because I have an antenatal appointment at ten-thirty today so I’ve taken the entire morning off work. First up, though, we will take the boys to school together. I want her to meet their teacher.