Little Face (25 page)

`But, sir, you agreed with me that the story about the baby was bollocks. You agreed we should cuff it.' Charlie was ashamed of the
whiny tone in her voice, but she was beginning to lose what little composure she had mustered. And if Proust referred to Simon again as if
he were some sort of oracle, she feared she might be sick.

The inspector sat down at his desk and pressed his fingers together at the tips. `On reflection, I think I might have made a mistake,' he
said, trying out humility for the first time at the age of fifty-eight.
`Given that the Fancourt family were already known to us in connection with a serious crime, we should probably have taken the swapped
baby story a little more seriously. We could have done a DNA test ... '

`Yes, we could,' Charlie interrupted angrily, `and the lab would have
taken weeks to get the results back to us, by which time Vivienne Fancourt would have arranged a private test anyway! That was what
you said.'

Proust glared at her. `Sergeant Zailer, your determination to be
right at all times, at any cost, is unbecoming to say the least. If I can
admit I was wrong, so should you be able to.'

Charlie's heart plummeted still lower, right down to her gut.
Another insult to add to the list. And this was the first time she had
ever, ever, heard Proust question his own behaviour or judgement. She
wouldn't have been surprised if the bastard had deliberately said that
about being wrong in order to set her up, to reveal her as the only truly
intransigent person in the room.

She couldn't understand why he was so determined to think the
worst of her. She wasn't stubborn and irrational, just terrified of turning out to be the idiot who'd fucked everything up. When she thought
about some of the things she'd said earlier in the team meeting, she
wanted to groan and pound the floor with her fists. Proust was right:
she was losing it. Her feelings for Simon were distorting everything.
Charlie needed to be alone, and soon. The furnace of her anger
towards Simon had to be stoked, and she could only do that in private.

`I want you to treat David Fancourt as your prime suspect,' said
Proust. `I want you to examine him from every angle, and I want you
to assume he's probably guilty of something until you've proved
beyond the tiniest doubt that he isn't. What I don't want is this: I don't
want you to feel sorry for him because you've decided that he's got a
mad wife who's given him a hard time and kidnapped his baby. I don't
want to hear you telling your team about the "conclusions" you've reached, when you've got no proof whatsoever to back up your suppositions and when there are still so many unknowns that to conclude
anything would be premature to say the least. Clear?'

Charlie nodded jerkily. She had never cried in front of Proust, or any
other police officer. If it happened now, she would resign. It was as simple as that.

`Give the Laura Cryer case files to Waterhouse. Let him talk to Beer,
and anyone else he wants or needs to. And don't take it personally.
Waterhouse hasn't worked on the case before, whereas you, Sellers and
Gibbs all have. A fresh perspective and all that.' Proust raised his eyebrows, drumming his fingers on his desk. `Well?'

`Well, what, sir?'

`Sergeant, I'm not an idiot. I know you're hoping I'll contract an
unpleasant disease and die in agony so that you can dance gleefully on
my grave, but I assure you, your rage is misplaced. I'm trying to help
you to work more efficiently, that's all. You're taking everything too
personally at the moment. Do you deny it?'

`Yes,' said Charlie automatically. It was hard enough to be a woman
in her job; she had no intention of admitting to an emotional reaction.

`You deny it,' Proust repeated incredulously.

Charlie knew she had pushed it too far. `No. Maybe ... ' she
began, feeling her face heat up.

It was too late. `You want Alice Fancourt to be the villain of the
piece because Waterhouse has gone soppy over her. Ever since she went
missing he's been mooning around with a hazy look on his face, like
a thirteen-year-old mourning the end of a holiday romance. He seems
to spend hours just staring at her photo on the board out there. And
you're jealous, because you want to get into his pants. Oh-I'm sorry
if I've offended your delicate sensibilities. You all think I'm some outof-touch grandad when it comes to personal matters, that I've been
married so long I don't remember any of that stuff, but I know what's
what as well as the next person. I hear the same rumours everyone else
hears. And even a fool can see that you're eaten up with envy. You won't consider any hypothesis in which Alice Fancourt is anything
other than a hysterical nuisance, a total and utter waste of time. It's
stopping you from seeing the facts as they are.'

`And what about Simon?' Charlie snapped back at him. `Is he being
objective? If you think I'm biased, you should talk to him. Alice Fancourt's a saint as far as he's concerned. Why isn't he in here, being
hauled over the coals? He's the one who ... '

`Enough!' Proust yelled. Charlie gasped involuntarily. `This is beneath
you. Or rather, it should be. I know Waterhouse is as far from perfect
as Land's End is from John o'Groats, but I've been keeping a close eye
on him, and, since you insist on making comparisons, my impression
is that his judgement is a great deal less clouded than yours.'

Charlie felt as if she'd been struck by a heavy object. That's because
you don't know about his replacement pocket book full of lies, she
thought, or the two illicit meetings he had with Alice Fancourt that
would undoubtedly have cost Simon his job had Charlie not flown to
his rescue. And what the fuck did `I hear the same rumours everyone
else hears' mean? Charlie's blood turned to lead as it occurred to her
that Proust might know about what happened at Sellers' party. She had
always taken it for granted that Simon wouldn't have told anyone.
Now she wasn't so sure.

As if to rub it in, Proust said, `Waterhouse, you see, is blessed with
that important quality that you seem to lack, sergeant: self-doubt.'

`Yes, sir,' said Charlie, who had never felt clumsier, more exposed,
less dignified. She wished she were somebody else, almost anybody.
Self-doubt? Proust must have been referring to the occasional, brief
sabbaticals Simon took from breathtaking arrogance.

`You need to get a grip on yourself, sergeant. Instead of casting
about wildly for someone to blame, pull yourself together and do your
job properly. Get over this idiotic jealousy and grow up. If Waterhouse
doesn't fancy you, there's nothing you can do about it. Now, I've said
all I've got to say on the subject, so I won't keep you any longer.' He
waved her away with his hand.

Charlie turned to leave, feeling shame of several different varieties
swarm through her veins. She knew that Sellers, Gibbs and Simon, who
were all still in the CID room, would make sure not to catch her eye
as she emerged from Proust's office. She couldn't bear the thought of
going over to talk to them about some work-related matter as if nothing had happened, but if she avoided them, they would all imagine she
was subdued after receiving the bollocking to end all bollockings
from Proust; she didn't know which was worse.

`Oh, and sergeant?'

`Yes?'

`That woman Alice Fancourt mentioned to Waterhouse, from the
maternity ward ... '

`Mandy. I'll track her down.' Let Proust squander the department's
resources following up Alice Fancourt's baseless speculations if he
wanted to. Let him be the one to end up looking like an idiot for a
change.

`It wouldn't do any harm to take DNA samples from her and her
baby, would it? Check they match up?'

Charlie nodded. Why not take a sample from every female child
born at Culver Valley General Hospital in the past year, just to be on
the safe side, King Herod style? It was bloody ridiculous.

She closed Proust's door carefully behind her and marched past her
team before any of them had a chance to say anything. Simon looked up.
Sellers and Gibbs did not. Charlie speeded up, heading for the ladies' as
quickly as possible. It was the only place she could hide, just in case
Simon was planning to come after her and ask if she was all right. There
was nothing Charlie hated more than to be asked that question.

Inside the toilets, she locked herself in the nearest cubicle, leaned
against the door and breathed heavily in and out for a few seconds,
releasing some of the tension from her body. Then she sank to the floor
and began to sob.

Tuesday, September 30, 2003

I AM SITTING in the little lounge, fuzzy with sleep, as disorientated as
I was yesterday when I'd had none. Opposite me sits a doctor I have
never seen before. She tells me her name is Dr Rachel Allen. I don't
know whether to believe her. Vivienne could have hired her. She might
be an actress, for all I know. She is very young, a tall, pear-shaped
woman with short, blonde hair and an excessively pink complexion.
She is not wearing any make-up. Her thick calves are bare and blotchy,
covered with fine fair hairs. Every time she catches my eye, she beams
enthusiastically. I know that Vivienne is listening outside the door, anxious to hear the diagnosis, whatever it might be.

Dr Allen leans forward, takes my hand and squeezes it in both of
hers. `Don't worry about anything, Alice,' she says. I have never
heard anything so stupid in my life. Who in my situation wouldn't
worry? `Don't be nervous. We'll soon have you feeling better!' She
beams again and hands me a piece of paper. There are questions on
it. Do I ever think about harming myself? Often, sometimes, never.
Do I feel that I have nothing to look forward to? Often, sometimes,
never.

`What's this?' I ask. I need to eat something. I feel weak with
hunger, as if there are clawing hands in my stomach, reaching out and
finding nothing.

`It's our practice's post-natal depression survey,' says Dr Allen. `I know what you're thinking-forms, forms and more forms! I quite
agree! Fill the silly old thing in and then we can talk properly.'

`Where's Dr Dhossajee?' I ask. `I'd rather talk to my own doctor.'

`She's not available. That's why I'm here. Why don't you fill in the
form now? Do you need a pen?' She fishes in her pocket and pulls out
a blue biro.

I read all the questions. They are too simplistic. `It's pointless,' I say.
`These questions aren't the right ones for my situation. My answers
won't tell us anything useful.'

Dr Allen nods thoughtfully, leaning forward in her chair. `Have you
been crying this morning?' she asks.

`Yes.' I have done practically nothing but cry in recent days. I cried
when Vivienne locked me in the nursery. I curled up on the rug and
sobbed, clinging to Hector, Florence's big teddy bear, until I fell asleep.
When I woke up sixteen hours later, I cried again. I haven't seen Little Face since I went out to meet Simon. I am desperate to see her, just
once, even if I am not allowed to touch her.

`You poor thing! How often would you say you cry?' Dr Allen's
eagerness to help me is almost tangible.

`A lot. Most of the time. But that's because my daughter's been
taken away from me and I don't know where she is, and no-one will
believe me.'

`You feel that no-one believes you?' Dr Allen looks as if she too
might burst into tears.

`That's right.'

`Do you feel that people and circumstances are conspiring against
you?'

`Yes. Because they are. My daughter is missing and I can't prove it,
either to my husband or to the police. That's a fact, not a feeling.' I
sound cold and heartless. I used to have a heart, but it has been ripped
up. It no longer exists.

`Of course!' says Dr Allen vehemently. `I firmly believe that feelings
are facts. I take the feelings of patients very seriously indeed. I want to help you. You have every right to feel what you feel. And it's very common for women who've just had babies to suffer the most unbearable
feelings of persecution, of alienation ... '

`Dr Allen, my daughter has been kidnapped.'

She looks flummoxed. `Well ... what have the police said?'

`They're not doing anything about it. They say there's no case.
They don't believe me.' I feel betrayed by the relief on her face. She is
happy to let the opinion of other professionals determine hers.

`You look tired,' she says. `I'm going to prescribe some sleeping
tablets ... '

`No. I don't need pills. I've just slept for over twelve hours. I'll fill
in your form, but I'm not taking anything. There's nothing wrong with
me. If I look tired it's because I've slept too much. Give me that pen.'
She hands me the biro. I tick a few of the boxes strategically, try to
make myself sound as well-balanced as possible.

`How are you feeling physically in general?' she asks.

`A bit dizzy sometimes,' I admit. `Light-headed.'

`Are you taking Co-codamol?'