Little Face (31 page)

I tried to explain that the case was closed as far as the police were concerned, and that the best thing for Mrs Fancourt to do was wait for the
results of the DNA test. I told her that in my opinion it was rash to assume
that the baby at The Elms was Richard Fancourt's child; there was no proof
to indicate this was the case. 'It would explain why David's so kind to Little Face, so bothered about her, if she's his sister', said Mrs Fan court. I
repeated that there was no reason to assume this, and reminded Mrs Fancourt that only minutes ago she had attempted to persuade me that the
baby at The Elms was the child of her husband and his mistress. Mrs Fancourt became angry and said, 'I can't win, can I?'

During the interview, Mrs Fancourt's manner towards me was intermittently hostile, pleading and apathetic. I made a mental note to mention
my concern for her welfare to Sergeant Zailer, with a view perhaps to contacting Mrs Fan court's GP.

Thursday, October 2, 2003

VIVIENNE, DAVID AND Little Face are in the garden when I return
from my meeting with Simon. It is a chilly, bright day, and their faces
are patched with light and shade, the effect of the sun shining through
the leaves of the trees overhead. They remain perfectly still as I
approach, like three figures in a landscape painting, only ever seen at
a distance.

Little Face is in her pram, wrapped in blankets, wearing a yellow
woolly hat. I cannot help remembering the day the three of us bought
the pram. It was the day after I found out I was pregnant. I didn't want
to do anything to tempt fate, but Vivienne insisted we needed to celebrate, so we went to the Mamas and Papas superstore in Rawndesley and spent hours examining pushchairs, prams and travel systems.
We were happy then, all of us. Vivienne even allowed David to tease
her a little when she insisted that a straightforward old-fashioned
pram was the only kind worth considering.

`It's not like you to go for the traditional option, Mum,' he said, and
Vivienne smiled. Normally she objects to all teasing, claiming that it
is disrespect under another name.

`Where have you been?' Vivienne's hands grip the handles of the
pram we eventually chose. As usual, she got her way. `Why didn't you
say you were going out?'

`Just for a drive,' I say, avoiding David's eye, pretending he is dead. Fleetingly, I wish that this were the case. I don't think I will ever get
over the indignities he has inflicted upon me, not as long as I know that
they exist in his mind as well as in mine.

Vivienne looks dissatisfied. She doesn't believe me. `I was about to
take the baby for a walk round the gardens. Would you like to come?'

`Oh ... yes, please.' I am thrilled. The grounds of The Elms are vast.
I will be able to spend at least half an hour with Little Face, perhaps more.

`Would you like to push the pram?' Vivienne asks.

`I'd love to! Thank you.' I look at David. He is furious. I resist the
temptation to smile at him. I am shocked to acknowledge that there is
now a small part of me-one that didn't exist until this morning-that
relishes his suffering.

`David will take your handbag inside,' says Vivienne.

I unhook the bag from my shoulder. David snatches it from me
roughly and retreats indoors.

`Come along then.' Vivienne lets go of the pram and allows me to
steer it. My heart nearly bursts as I push Little Face across the grass.
I am performing an action that every mother takes for granted, and it
makes me want to weep with joy. `What's wrong?' asks Vivienne. `You
look upset.'

`I was just thinking ... this is so nice, but ... much as I'm fond of Little Face, I wish I was pushing my own baby.' I wipe away a tear. Vivienne
turns away, and I have the sense that she wishes she hadn't asked.

We walk along the side of the old barn towards the vegetable garden. `You didn't mind about the handbag, did you? You don't really
need the encumbrance, I wouldn't have thought.'

I am surprised. `No,' I say. `Not to walk round the garden.'

`It's not as if you're going to need any money for the foreseeable
future, is it? Or your diary or anything. Not while you're recuperating.
You need to get a lot of rest, give yourself the best possible chance of
a full recovery. Are your car keys in your bag?'

I nod as a new dread takes hold of me.

`Right. Well, I think I'll hold on to it for the time being. I'll put it on the kitchen counter where you can see it, but . . . you're not well
enough to be out and about on your own at the moment.'

`You're treating me like a child,' I whisper.

`I hope I am, in the best possible sense,' she says. `Why are you so
protective of your things? I noticed while you were pregnant that
you'd taken to walking round the house clutching your possessions,
like a commuter on a train who's afraid of being robbed.'

Did Vivienne perceive me as paranoid when I was pregnant, then?
It's true, I did often walk around with a notebook and pen in my hand,
or my bag, or whatever novel or pregnancy manual I was reading at
the time, but only because I wanted to have certain things within easy
reach in case I needed them later. The Elms is such a big house, and I
was so heavy and uncomfortable towards the end of my pregnancy, I
did everything I could to minimise the amount of walking back and
forth I had to do.

I know I shouldn't argue. It is so nearly Friday. Friday begins on
Thursday night, at midnight. We walk across the paddock towards the
river. I lean over to stroke Little Face's soft cheek. I cannot stop myself
from saying, petulantly, `I want to keep my handbag, and my car keys.
I don't want them to live in the kitchen.'

Vivienne sighs. `Alice, I wish I didn't have to bring this up ... '

`What?' I ask, alarmed. Is there anything else she and David can take
away from me? I have nothing left, apart from David's stupid Dictaphone
which is still in my trouser pocket. I have forgotten it until this moment.

`When I arrived home yesterday, I found the upstairs bathroom in
what I can only describe as an unacceptable state.' My face heats up
as I remember the morning's events, but at the same time I have no idea
what she is talking about. I scrubbed that bath on my knees, until it
gleamed. `I can see that you know what I'm referring to,' says Vivienne.

`No. No, I ... '

She raises a hand to stop me. `I do not wish to go into the matter in
any more detail, I assure you. I've made my point.'

My head swims with disbelief and I feel my perceptions, my whole view of the world, tilt yet again. An urge to be violent seizes me, and
I clutch the pram until my knuckles turn white. I do not want to imagine what Vivienne might mean, to reach the obvious conclusion. How
could David stoop so low? `When I left the bathroom, it was clean,' I
whisper, mortified.

`Alice, we both know that's simply not true,' says Vivienne patiently,
and for a moment I wonder whether I might really be going mad.
`You're clearly more unwell than I thought. You have to admit, you
really don't know what you're doing at the moment. You can't seem
to control yourself.'

I swallow and nod, my head reeling. If I agree that I am ill, she will
trust me. She wants me to be ill.

`I also found your mobile phone in the bathroom cupboard, under
all the towels. Were you trying to hide it?'

`No,' I whisper.

`I don't believe you,' says Vivienne. `Alice, you've got to face facts.
You're sick. You're suffering from an extreme case of post-natal
depression.' She pats me on the shoulder. `It's nothing to be ashamed
of. We all need to be looked after once in a while. And you're luckier
than most people. You've got me to look after you.'

Thursday, October 9, 2003, 12 PM

CHARLIE AND SIMON sat side by side on a large green sofa that was
covered in milky white and beige stains. They were in the home of
Maunagh and Richard Rae, Richard Fancourt as was. The house was
a three-storey semi-detached on a wide, tree-lined road in Gillingham,
Kent. The drive down from Spilling had been awkward, the conversation stilted and polite, but at least Charlie had not been actively
hostile.

Opposite Simon, in an armchair that had a dark, greasy, headshaped patch in the middle of its back-rest, sat a young boy wearing
a maroon school uniform jumper and black trousers. He had messy,
sand-coloured hair, a half-eaten sandwich in his hand, and an institutional smell about him that reminded Simon of Gorse Hill, the comprehensive school he had attended in the seventies and eighties.

`Mum and Dad won't be a minute,' said Oliver Rae, whose own
school was closed for the afternoon because the central heating had
broken down. Simon watched him chew the thick, flecked bread,
which looked unappetisingly wholesome. David Fancourt's halfsibling. About thirteen, Simon guessed. Definitely not a baby girl. Not
Little Face, as Alice had claimed in desperation.

The lounge door, which did not fit properly in its frame, creaked
open, and a large black labrador ran in, barking furiously, plunging its
nose straight into Simon's crotch. `Down, Moriarty! Down, boy!' Oliver shouted. The dog reluctantly obeyed. Maunagh Rae came into
the room in a cloud of strong musky perfume. She was a plump
woman with straight silver hair cut into a long bob, and a smattering
of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Simon could see the resemblance to Oliver. She wore a purple roll-neck sweater, black trousers
and court shoes, and small, discreet gold and pearl earrings. A woman
of taste, his mother might have called her.

Her smart appearance was a surprise. From the state of the house,
he had expected somebody more dishevelled. He was used to seeing
houses in worse states of disrepair than this one, but they weren't usually quite so big. They tended to be council-owned and to contain
crack heads, dealers, benefit cheats. And much skinnier dogs that
were not called Moriarty.

The lounge, where they were sitting, had two large street-facing
windows, the tops of which were stained glass. Their frames were rotten. Every time there was a breeze, the panes rattled. The carpet was
thin and shiny, more like a maroon sheen on the floor. Yet the six
paintings, asymmetrically arranged on the walls, all appeared to be
originals, so the Raes must have had a bit of money to play with.
Simon couldn't imagine why they'd chosen to spend it on huge canvases spattered with coloury blobs. He surmised that Maunagh or
Richard must have a friend who was a struggling artist, and they'd
bought all this crap from him out of sympathy. All four corners
where the walls met the ceiling were blackened, as if they had been
singed by flames.

`I gather it took you a while to track Richard down,' said Maunagh.

`Because he'd changed his name,' said Charlie. Colin Sellers, when
he'd eventually located David Fancourt's father, had been loudly
scathing about men who adopted their wives' surnames after marriage.
Charlie had called him a Neanderthal brute, but privately Simon
agreed. Traditions were traditions.

`More and more men are doing it,' said Maunagh, as if she sensed
some disapproval and felt the need to defend herself.

A small, shambling garden gnome of a man with hunched shoulders
and a white beard entered the room. His grey cardigan was buttoned
incorrectly and his shoelaces were undone. The state of the house
immediately made more sense. Richard Rae hurried over to shake
hands with Charlie and Simon. As he clutched each of their hands in
turn, he rocked back and forth, nearly head-butting Charlie at one
point. `Richard Rae,' he said. `It's good of you to come all this way. As
I said on the phone, I'm not sure I can help you.'

`Have you seen or heard from Alice Fancourt at all since last Thursday?' asked Charlie. Simon had heard her ask him the same question
over the phone. This trip to Kent was probably pointless.

`No.'

`Have you been contacted by anybody out of the ordinary? Can you
think of anything that has happened in the past few weeks, something
that seemed odd at the time, somebody hanging round outside the
house?'