Little Face (32 page)

The three Raes all shook their heads. `No,' said Richard. `Nothing.
As I said, I never met Alice. I didn't know David had married again.'

`You knew about his first marriage, then?'

`Well . . . ' Richard paused. He caught his wife's eye and they both
looked at their son.

`Oliver, love, go and do your homework,' said Maunagh.

David Fancourt's little brother shrugged and ambled out of the
room, apparently uninterested in the presence of two detectives in his
home. Simon, at his age, would also have done as his mother told him
without complaint, but he'd have desperately wanted to know what
was going on.

Richard Rae stood in the middle of the room, still rocking back and
forth. `Where were we?' he said.

`We only knew about Laura after she was killed,' said Maunagh,
with an exasperated glance at her husband. She sat where her son had
been sitting and folded her hands in her lap.

`You're not in touch with David at all, then?' said Simon.

`No.' Richard frowned. `Sadly, I am not.'

`Do you mind if I ask why?'

`His mother and I separated.'

`Surely you could still have seen your son,' said Charlie. There was
no way she'd ever let any man keep her away from her kids. Just let
one try.

`Well, yes, but it was, you know, one of those things. One doesn't
always know what to do for the best, does one?'

Simon and Charlie exchanged a look. Maunagh Rae was biting her
lower lip. Her face was flushed.

`So you decided it was for the best if you didn't have any contact
with your son?' Charlie's voice was sharp.

`He had his mother, who was more than enough of a parent. Vivienne was rather like two parents rolled into one. I was always a bit
superfluous.'

Maunagh Rae sighed loudly.

`It isn't good for children to be passed back and forth between
divorced parents,' Richard said, more to his wife than to Simon and
Charlie, it seemed.

`You must have missed David,' Charlie persisted. `Weren't you ever
tempted to write to him? At Christmas, on his birthday? When Oliver
was born?'

Richard Rae rocked more vigorously. `Vivienne and I decided it was
best not to confuse him,' he said. Maunagh muttered something
inaudible. Simon wondered if she knew her husband was lying. There
had been at least one letter, the one Alice had told him about. He wondered why Rae hadn't mentioned it.

Charlie was visibly impatient. She took off her glasses, rubbed the
bridge of her nose. It was a signal to Simon. Time for the old trick; the
two of them had done it countless times. `May I use your bathroom?'
Simon asked the Raes. They both appeared relieved, as if any other
question he might have asked would have been more difficult to
answer. Maunagh offered him a choice of three. He chose the nearest one, which turned out to be bigger than his own bedroom, and
draughty. It also contained a sculpture of a curvaceous naked woman's
torso. Simon couldn't imagine why anyone would want such a thing
in their home.

He locked the door, took his phone out and rang Charlie's mobile.
`Charlie Zailer,' she said. Simon said nothing. `Yes. Excuse me a
moment, I'll have to go outside and take this call,' he heard Charlie tell
the Raes.

He waited until he'd heard the front door shut, then flushed the toilet for the sake of authenticity. He tiptoed back into the hall,
approached the lounge door as quietly as he could, and listened. Maunagh Rae was already in full flow.

` ... can't bear to sit here and listen to you defend that woman!' she
was saying angrily. `Why did you tell them that you and Vivienne
agreed it would be better if you kept out of David's life? You didn't
agree at all! She drove you out and then poisoned his mind against you!'

`Love, love, calm down. I'm sure it wasn't quite like that.'

`What are you talking about?' Maunagh's voice rose to a higher
pitch. `It bloody well was like that.'

`It's all in the past now, anyway. Don't get angry. There's no point
in raking over all that unpleasantness.'

`It was clear from David's reply to your letter about Oliver that he's
been taught to hate you. .. 'Maunagh Rae sounded like a woman for
whom raking was still very much on the agenda.

`Love, please, I'll get upset . . . '

`Well, maybe you should be upset. Maybe you should be bloody
angry, like I am! David adored you and Vivienne couldn't handle it,
that's the truth. She had to be the only one. If a woman like her were
having her children now, she'd use donor sperm. She's a megalomaniac,
and you know it! So why don't you bloody well say so when you're
asked?'

`Love, what good would it do? It's got nothing to do with David's
wife and daughter being missing. . .

`You're a moral jelly, that's what you are!'

`I know, you're right, love. But come on, now, you know that if I
knew anything about Alice or the baby, I'd tell them.'

`You know what happened to David's first wife,' said Maunagh. Out
in the hall, Simon raised his eyebrows. He froze, waiting. He had an
odd feeling of unpreparedness. `She was murdered, for heaven's sake.'

`Oh, come on, Maunagh.' Richard Rae sounded faintly irritated.
From what he'd heard so far, Simon doubted the man could manage
full-blown anger. `One can't accuse people of murder willy-nilly.
You're not being fair.'

`Fair! God, it's like talking to a sponge! Why don't you tell them you
wrote to David about Oliver?'

`It can't be relevant. They're looking for Alice and the baby. How
could my letter be important?'

`You'd do the same again, wouldn't you?' said his wife bitterly. `If
we split up, and I decided to be a bitch and keep you away from Oliver,
you'd bloody let me. Is anything worth a fight, as far as you're concerned?'

`You're being silly, Maunagh. There's no need for this. We weren't
arguing before the police arrived, were we? And nothing's changed.'

`No. Nothing ever does.

`Come on, now...'

`Do you know the name of Oliver's form teacher? Do you know
what his favourite subject is?'

`Love, calm down... '

`It was only because of me that you wrote to David at all! I wrote
the bloody letter for you, word for word. You copied it out! If I'd left
it up to you, you wouldn't even have tried, and he's Oliver's only
brother, the only one he'll ever have . . . '

Simon wondered what would have happened if his own parents had
separated. Kathleen would have wanted her son all to herself. Would
his father have fought for equal rights?

He couldn't listen to any more of Maunagh Rae's recriminations. He was about to knock on the door of the lounge when he became aware
of a presence behind him. He turned and saw Oliver on the stairs, now
dressed in jeans that were too big for him and an Eminem T-shirt. `I
was just ... ' Simon fumbled for an excuse to explain his eavesdropping. How long had the boy been there? Maunagh and Richard Rae
had made no attempt to lower their voices.

`Mrs Pickersgill. That's the name of my form tutor,' said Oliver,
sounding, for a moment, much older than he looked. `And my
favourite subject's French. You can tell my dad if you like.'

Thursday, October 2, 2003

I AM SITTING in the rocking chair in the nursery, with Little Face on
my lap, giving her a bottle. Vivienne suggested that I should. David's
face turned puce with anger, but he didn't dare to object. I was appropriately effusive in showing my gratitude and made sure not to appear
at all suspicious. It feels like a long time since I took anybody's kindness at face value.

Vivienne is changing the cot sheet, watching me without looking at
me, to check that I am behaving appropriately. Little Face stares up at
me every now and then, her expression intent and serious. Experts say
newborns are not able to focus until they are about six weeks old, but
I don't believe that. I think it depends how clever the baby is. Vivienne
would agree. She is fond of telling the story of her own birth, of the
midwife who said to her mother, `Uh-oh, this one's been here before.'
I cannot imagine Vivienne ever looking, or being, anything but completely focused, even as a baby.

Little Face keeps turning away from her bottle. She wriggles on my
knee. Her mouth twists into a crying shape, though no sound
emerges.

Having dealt with the cot, Vivienne throws open the doors of Florence's wardrobe. She starts to empty the piles of clothes into a large
carrier bag. I watch the Bear Hug babygro fall in, the sleep suit with
the pink hearts on it, the red velvet dress. One by one Vivienne pulls the garments from their hangers. It is the most brutal sight I have ever
seen, and I flinch. `What are you doing?'

`I'm going to put Florence's things in the attic,' says Vivienne. `I
thought I'd save you the job. It'll only upset you to look at them if they
stay here.' She smiles sympathetically. A feeling of nausea swells inside
me. Not knowing where Florence is or what might have happened to
her, Vivienne is willing to empty her wardrobe as if she no longer
exists. `David led me to believe that you didn't want the baby to wear
Florence's clothes,' she adds, as an afterthought.

`No. Don't.' I cannot keep the anger out of my voice. `Little Face has
to wear something. I only said that at first because I was upset. It was
a shock to see her in Florence's babygro, that's all.'

Vivienne sighs. `I'll pick up some second-hand things from a charity shop in town. Little Face, as you and David both insist on calling
her, can wear those. I'm sorry if I sound cruel, but these clothes belong
to my granddaughter.'

I have to press my lips together to hold in the scream that fills my
mouth.

Little Face begins to cry, just a whinge at first but it rises to a highpitched wail. Her face turns red. I have never seen her like this before,
and I panic. `What's wrong with her? What's happening?'

Vivienne looks over at us, unperturbed. `Babies cry, Alice. That's
what they do. If you can't cope with it, you shouldn't have had one.'
She turns back to the wardrobe. I lean Little Face over my hand and
try to wind her by patting her back, but she only howls louder. Her
misery distresses me so much that I begin to cry too.

David appears in the doorway. `What have you done to her?' he yells
at me. `Give her to me.' Vivienne allows him to snatch her from my
hands. He holds her small body close. Her cheek squashes out against
his shoulder, and she is instantly silent, content. Her eyelids slide
closed. Together, a perfect image of father and child, they leave the
room. I hear David murmuring, `There, there, little darling. That's better, isn't it, now that Daddy's here?'

I wipe my face with the muslin square in my hand, the one that I
tucked under Little Face's chin to catch stray drops of milk. Vivienne
stands over me, hands on her hips. `Crying is the only way babies can
communicate. That's why they do so much of it. Because they can't
control themselves.' She pauses, to make sure I take in her full meaning. Then she says, `You know I disapprove of emotional incontinence.
This is a difficult time for all of us, but you've got to try to pull yourself together.'

Bit by bit, my soul and ego are being destroyed.

`Whatever you might say, I can see that you are very attached to ...
Little Face.'

`She's a tiny baby. It doesn't mean I'm trying to pretend she's Florence, or to substitute her for Florence. Vivienne, I'm as sane as you
are!' She looks doubtful. `The police have said nothing about any
babies being ... you know. Found. I'm sure we'll get Florence back.
You must know that's all I want. And for Little Face to be reunited
with her mother, whoever she is.'

`I have to go and pick Felix up from school. Do you think you can
manage without me for an hour or so?'

I nod.

`Good. I'll tell David to make you some food. I assume you haven't
eaten today. You're starting to look gaunt.'

My throat closes, stopping my breath. I know that my stomach
would protest violently against anything apart from water. Silently,
I watch Vivienne leave the room. Alone again. I sit and cry for a
while, I don't know how long. My tears run out. I feel empty, like a
void. I have to remind myself to think, to move, to continue to
exist. I would not have imagined, if someone had asked me before all
this happened, that I could fall apart so quickly. It has been less than
a week.

I know that I must go downstairs, if Vivienne has told David to
make me some food. I am about to, and then I remember that David's
Dictaphone is still in my trouser pocket. I listened to the tape in the bathroom a while ago, and there was nothing of any significance on
it, just a business letter David had dictated.

I cannot bring myself to go into his study. It is inconceivable to me
that I was ever brave enough to do so. Instead, I put the Dictaphone
in David's wardrobe, in the pocket of a pair of trousers he hasn't worn
for ages. I sit down in front of the dressing-table mirror and brush my
hair, not because I care how I look but because it is something I used
to do every day before my life was ruined.