Little Face (42 page)

Simon had volunteered to talk to David Fancourt. He'd said he
thought Fancourt might find it easier to deal with a man. Charlie had
agreed, after some persuasion. If she was aware of Simon's ulterior
motive, she gave no indication of it. The truth was, he wanted-more
than wanted-to go back to The Elms one more time before he spoke
to Alice. He needed to see the house she'd come to regard as her prison,
to feel that grand, suffocating stillness that he'd had only an inkling of
on his first visit. Maybe then he'd understand why Alice had done what
she'd done. Maybe then he wouldn't be quite so angry with her.

It had been such a shock, seeing her alive. And her appearance ...
she looked as if she had deliberately dressed up as Charlie. Simon had been so repulsed both by the idea and the reality of this that he had
been unable to move at first. Only when he heard Charlie yell did he
rouse himself to drag Vivienne off Alice, and he only managed it with
The Snowman's help. He could easily have been too late.

Simon knew he ought to be relieved that Alice was alive, but all he
felt was a biting fear. He had imagined, in her absence, that he wanted
some sort of relationship with her. The old Alice, the one who looked
nothing like his sergeant. But perhaps that person, the one he thought
he had seen that day at the top of the stairs, no longer existed. Maybe
she never had. And even if Simon could somehow find her, he knew his
insecurities and hang-ups would ruin everything.

That and what he now knew about her. There was only one way in
which you could know a person, Simon decided. Observe his or her
actions, and make inferences accordingly. Instead of focusing on the
sort of person he believed Alice was and trying to predict how she
would behave, he should have worked backwards from the facts.
What must she have done? Therefore what sort of person is she?

Perhaps it would be better never to get close to anyone. Other people intruded too far into one's psyche. They asked too many difficult
questions. Simon, are you a virgin?

He was aware of feeling angry, but it wasn't the boiling rage he was
used to. This was a cold, stodgy disillusionment that had settled like
a lump of lead in his stomach. For once, he didn't want to hit and
punch and spit until he got it out of his system. He didn't want to rush
into action of any kind. This new feeling had to be hidden, nurtured.
It was proud, and complicated, and wouldn't be hurried. It required
dwelling on. Simon didn't know if it was Alice or Charlie or both who
had made him feel like this. All he knew was that he wanted to be left
alone with his thoughts for the time being.

David Fancourt opened the door, just as Simon was about to press
the bell for the third time. `You,' he said. He was wearing maroon paisley pyjamas and a brown towelling robe. Stubble darkened his face,
and his eyes were red and watery.

`Is now a good time?'

Fancourt laughed bitterly. `I don't think there's much point waiting
for one of those. You might as well come in now.' Simon followed him
through to the kitchen and sat down. This was the chair I sat in last
time, he thought, the same chair. Fancourt sat across from him.

The inside of the house was very different now. Dirty plates and cups
littered every surface. Rubbish had spilled out of the overflowing bin on
to the floor. In the hall Simon had spotted a scuffed pile of newspapers
that looked as if they had been kicked around by someone in muddy
boots. `You don't seem to be coping very well on your own,' he said. He
felt sorry for the man. Fancourt couldn't handle the knowledge that his
mother was a murderer. When Charlie had told him, he'd not said a
word, apparently. He'd just stared at her. `You shouldn't be alone at a
time like this. Wouldn't you rather be with your son?'

Fancourt scowled. `Felix is better off without me,' he said.

`Why? I don't understand.'

`It's better that way.'

Simon lowered his head, trying to make eye contact. `Mr Fancourt,
you've done nothing wrong. You shouldn't feel guilty for something
your mother did.'

`I should have known. The night Laura was killed, I should have
known that story was nonsense.'

`What story?'

`About Laura asking Mum to have Felix overnight so that she
could go to a club. She'd never have done that. She couldn't stand
Mum. I always thought it was a bit strange, but ... I was too stupid
to work out the truth.'

`You weren't stupid. No son would suspect his mother of murder. In
your shoes, I wouldn't have done.'

`I'm sure you would. Simon.' Fancourt flashed an exaggerated
mock-smile at him.

`About Felix coming home ... maybe you'll feel differently in a few
days.'

`I won't.'

Simon sighed. Now was perhaps not the best time to assail the poor
man with new information, but he needed to know. The test results
were back. There was no excuse for not telling him. And, depressed
and apathetic as Fancourt seemed, there was no indication that he was
delusional or in any way unstable. Anyone would be depressed in his
situation. Simon thought his reaction was entirely normal. Maybe he
was even right about leaving Felix with Maggie and Roger Cryer. It
was better for the boy to be in a stable family environment while his
father recuperated.

Simon felt guilty for having thought so badly of Fancourt, whose
only crime, as far as he could see, was abrasiveness, irritability under
pressure. And for that, and because of his own jealousy, Simon had
hated him, slandered him. He owed it to him now to tell him the truth.
If anything would jolt Fancourt out of his torpor, this news would.

`We've found your daughter,' Simon said gently. `We've found Florence.'

Fancourt looked at him, finally. The expression on his face was
unmistakable: boredom. `I don't want her here either. Give her to
Alice.'

`But...'

`Alice is a good mother. I'm not a good anything. I won't change my
mind.'

`I feel as if I owe you an apology, Mr Fancourt.'

`I've got what I'm owed. What goes around comes around, as they
say.'

Simon couldn't understand the man. Wasn't he going to fight for his
wife and daughter, for the chance to be happy? Whether Fancourt was
interested or not, Simon had to say what he'd come to say. He decided
to proceed with his planned speech. `We found Alice and the baby in
the home of Briony Morris, Alice's friend from work. After the ...
business at the health club, we arranged for tests to be done on both
of them.'

No reaction from Fancourt.

`There was a match,' Simon continued. `The baby Alice took from
here on Friday 3 October was her daughter.' He sighed, shaking his
head. He wished he could feel even a fraction of Fancourt's indifference, assuming it was genuine. `There was only ever one baby, Mr Fancourt. Mr Fancourt? David? Do you understand what I'm saying?
There has only ever been one baby. There has only ever been Florence.'

David Fancourt yawned. `You don't need to tell me that,' he said.
`I've known it all along.'

Tuesday, October 14, 2003

SIMON SITS ACROSS the room from me in Briony's long, narrow
lounge. Briony sits beside him on the sofa. I'm glad she's here. The
redecoration process is still far from complete, so the furniture is all
covered in white sheets. I feel as if our surroundings are a stage set, not
a real place.

And the combination of the three of us is odd, jarring. Though I am
grateful for Briony's presence-and I sense Simon is too, because this
exchange might otherwise be too awkward-there is a connection
between me and Simon, a connection of understanding, from which
Briony is excluded. Her company will force us both to play roles for
a little while longer.

I can see that he knows. When he arrived, the three of us moved hesitantly, suspiciously, around the room like nervous lions who could not
see their prey clearly enough to pounce on it. Briony didn't ask Simon
to sit down; she forgot her manners in her eagerness to discover Florence's whereabouts. It was Simon who suggested sitting down. I was
glad he did. He had news, he said. I needed to be still before he spoke.
No amount of preparation for a moment like this can ever be adequate.
But then, there aren't many moments like this in the average lifetime.
For most people, there are none.

Simon waited until I had settled myself in a chair. Then he told us.
There was-is-only one baby. The baby I took from The Elms on Friday 3 October is my daughter. Little Face is Florence. He expressed
himself in all these different ways, one after the other, as if he were
making three separate points. Briony might have wondered why he
was repeating himself, but I knew what he was trying to say: that there
is no way of looking at this situation, no way of phrasing it, that allows
for the existence of an alternative perspective. For my benefit and
Briony's, Simon was determined to round up all the ambiguity at the
margins and drag it out into the open, where it could be illuminated
by the cold spotlight of his factual approach.

And now we're all sitting here in silence, as if someone has cut out our
tongues. It won't last for ever. Someone will break the silence. Not me.
Maybe that's part of Briony's role: to speak when Simon and I can't.

`What are you saying?' she asks eventually. `The baby upstairs is Florence? Little Face is Florence?'

They let her come back to us, straight after the DNA test. I was still
recovering in hospital from Vivienne's attack, and they brought Little
Face back here, to Briony. I was amazed. I'd assumed they would take
her straight to David. `No.' I shake my head. `That's not true.'

`Yes,' says Simon with equal force. `The DNA test proved it beyond
doubt.'

`A DNA test proved beyond doubt that Darryl Beer murdered
Laura. And now we know he didn't.'

`I'm not wasting my time answering that. You know the difference.'

`It must be a mistake,' I say. `I'd know. She's my daughter. I'd
know.' I slump in my chair. My lower lip is trembling. I try to still it
by clamping it in place with my teeth. I must look like a truly mad person. There would be a certain amount of relief in being truly mad. Noone could hold you accountable for anything.

Briony has crossed the room and is leaning over me. `Alice, are you
okay? Don't worry, all right? We'll sort out this ... misunderstanding.
Of course those tests can be wrong. And the police-no offence ... 'she glanced at Simon-` ... but they've got pretty much everything
wrong so far ... '

`I don't know which police you're talking about, but it's not me,'
says Simon, with a voice like stone. `Me, I only got one thing wrong.
Pretty seriously wrong, as it turns out.'

I do not like the sound of that-his voice, his words. I can imagine
him being unforgiving. Because he tried so hard, in his own hesitant
way, to save me. Haven't I learned from living with David that sadism
can be the flip side of chivalry, when the object of one's attention slides
off her pedestal somehow?

`Little Face is my daughter. I swear she is,' I whisper. I need water.
My throat is so dry that soon it will be sore.

`That's what he's saying,' Briony murmurs, her hand on my
shoulder.

`No, I mean Florence. Florence is my daughter.'

`I need to talk to Alice on her own,' says Simon.

`I need a glass of water,' I say, but nobody hears me.

`I'm not sure now's ... 'Briony starts to protest. She doesn't want
Simon to put any pressure on me. She's afraid my mind won't be able
to take it.

`Now,' he insists.

`It's okay,' I say. `I'm all right. Honestly, Briony. I'll be fine. You go
upstairs and check on the baby.'

She looks unconvinced but she leaves the room. Slowly. She is a
good friend.

Once she's gone, I look at Simon. He stares back at me with blank
eyes. His fierce determination seems to have left the room with Briony.
A few moments ago I was slightly afraid of his anger. Now I feel as if
we will never reach one another, either in rage or in understanding. I
am as cut off from him as if there were a glass screen between us. It's
funny: when Briony was here, I imagined that she was the only thing
standing in the way. Obviously not.

`Good performance,' says Simon. `Excellent, in fact.'

`What? What do you mean?'

`How are you feeling? After ... you know. Actually ... that's none of my business. We should talk about Laura Cryer. I need a statement
from you.'

`Simon, what do you mean? What performance?'

He makes a point of not hearing me. I can't say I blame him. I
should try to talk to him properly, as I've imagined doing many times.
But in my fantasies it has never been like this, with Simon so stony and
remote. I am hurt. I suppose this is a good sign. After everything I have
been through, I can still feel normal emotions. My heart has not shut
down completely.

`You knew Vivienne had killed Laura. Let's start there,' Simon says
dispassionately, writing in his notebook. `When did you know?'