Little Face (8 page)

He pulled in, turned the car round and headed back in the direction
of Spilling. He'd barely accelerated when he found himself in front of
The Elms. He could see a long driveway, a slice of tall, white house at
the end of it, cut off by trees on one side and what looked like a barn
on the other. In front of the barn, on the side nearest to the road, there
was a paved area on which two cars were parked under bent, overhanging trees-a metallic blue BMW and a maroon Volvo that looked
four hundred years old.

Simon waited not so patiently for a gap in the oncoming traffic so that
he could turn in to the driveway. As he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, Meakin's voice emerged from the static again. `Waterhouse?'

`Yep 5

`Are you confidential?'

'Yeah.'

`You're gonna love this. The woman's husband's just phoned. He
reckons the baby hasn't been abducted.'

`Hey?'

`There is a baby in the house. They both seem to agree on that. Husband reckons it's the one they brought home from hospital, wife says
it isn't.' Meakin chuckled.

Simon groaned. `Fucking hell!'

`Too late. You said you were taking it.'

`You bastard, Meakin.' Finally the traffic stopped and Simon was
able to get across the road. Not that he wanted to any more. Why hadn't he left this one for uniforms to deal with? He was too bloody conscientious for his own good. An abducted baby was one thing. That
was serious. A woman claiming her baby was the wrong baby, that was a whole different kettle of fish. Simon was sure he'd landed himself a
real winder. Alice Fancourt, he had no doubt, would turn out to be a
hormonal housewife who woke up on the wrong side of bed this
morning and decided to waste everybody's time.

And so more paperwork was generated. It didn't matter how absurd
the allegation was. In these days of ethical crime reporting, every
load of nonsense had to be crimed, given a case number and assigned
to a sergeant, who in turn would assign it to a detective. It was part of
the police force's attempt to pretend that it took all members of the
public seriously. Which of course it didn't.

It wasn't the paperwork that worried Simon. He'd been in his element, while on secondment to CID, as evidence officer. He was less
comfortable with the messy and often horrific human pantomimes he
encountered on a daily basis, the ferocity of feeling that his work sometimes brought him into contact with. He was embarrassed to be present at many of the scenes that required his presence, and did most of
his best work alone with his thoughts, or with a stack of files in front
of him. Away from other people, anyway, other people and their
mediocre ideas.

`Oh, and one more thing,' said Meakin.

`Yes?' It was unlikely to be good news.

`The address, The Elms-it's got an information marker against it
on the computer.'

`Saying?'

`Just says "See linked incident", and the incident number.'

Simon sighed and scribbled down the number Meakin gave him.
He'd check it out later.

He parked next to the BMW and the knackered Volvo, noticing that
the former was covered in dead leaves from the trees above, while the
Volvo had only two on its bonnet, one red and one brownish-yellow.
Simon walked up the driveway and rang the bell. The front door was
solid wood and looked absurdly thick, as if it might be as deep as it was
wide. The house was palatial, with a perfectly square, symmetrical facade. Its blank tidiness made Simon think of an article he had once
read in a newspaper about a hotel that was made of ice. There was something forbidding about the apparent perfection on display that made
Simon look even harder for chips and cracks. He found none. The
white paintwork on the outer walls and window frames was immaculate.

After a few seconds, a slim, clean-shaven man wearing a checked
shirt and jeans opened the door. He was a few inches shorter than
Simon, and the vastness of the house made him appear even smaller
than he was. His hair was light brown and looked as if it had been
expensively cut. Simon guessed that most women would find his regular, well-proportioned features attractive.

David Fancourt. He had looked guilty, or embarrassed, or furtive.
Something, anyway. No, not guilty. Simon hadn't thought that at the
time. That was hindsight, backwards projection, like when you watch
a film you've already seen and you know what's going to happen in the
end. `At last,' Fancourt said impatiently as he opened the door. He was
holding a very young baby in his arms and a bottle of milk in one
hand. The baby had a rounder head than many Simon had seen.
Some looked dented, squashed. This one had hardly any hair and a
couple of tiny white spots on its nose. Its eyes were open and it seemed
to peer with intense curiosity, although Simon was sure he'd imagined
that part. More memory tricks.

Behind Fancourt, he saw a spacious hall and a curved staircase made
of dark, polished wood. How the other half lives, he thought. `I'm
Detective Constable Waterhouse. You reported the abduction of a
baby?'

`David Fancourt. My wife has gone mad.' His tone implied that this
was, if not Simon's fault, then at the very least his sole responsibility
now that he had turned up.

And then, at the top of the stairs, Simon had seen Alice.

Friday, September 26, 2003

THERE IS ONLY one policeman. I'm sure they send two when they
think it's serious. That's what happens on television, at any rate. I could
scream with frustration. I decide not to. David has just told Detective
Constable Waterhouse that I am mad, utterly mad, and I must not
behave in a way that will instantly prove him right.

The policeman spots me at the top of the stairs and smiles briefly.
It is a worried smile, and he continues to look at me long after it has
faded. I cannot tell if he is trying to assess my mental state or find clues
somewhere on my person or clothing, but he certainly stares at me for
a long time. He is not wearing a police uniform. He described himself
as a detective. Maybe these are both good signs. I think I remember
someone telling me that plain clothes policemen are more senior.

I am heartened by his appearance. He is not handsome, but looks
solid and serious. Best of all, he seems alert. He does not have the air
of someone who is coasting along on autopilot, doing the bare minimum to get through his working day.

His big grey eyes are still locked on me. He is well-built, broadshouldered, heavy without being fat. Burly is the word that springs to
mind. The bridge of his nose is slightly misshapen, as if it has been broken. Beside him, David looks slight. Also vain, with his expensive, Italian salon haircut. Detective Constable Waterhouse has short bristly
brown hair that looks as if it has been cut by a barber for a few pounds.

He has a square, slightly rugged face. It's the sort of face you could
imagine being carved into a rock. I have no difficulty believing that he
is a man who protects and rescues people, delivers justice. I hope he
will deliver some to me. I guess that he is about my age, maybe slightly
older, and wonder what his first name is.

`I'm Alice Fancourt,' I tell him. On legs that feel as feeble and inadequate as pipe-cleaners, I make my way towards him. When I am near
enough, I shake his hand. David is furious that I am not proving him
right by gibbering neurotically.

`She's drunk,' he says. `She came back stinking of booze. She shouldn't even have been out driving! It's only two weeks since she had
major abdominal surgery. She threatened to stab me.'

I feel my throat constrict with shock and hurt. I know he's upset, but
how can he be so quick to bad-mouth me in front of a stranger? I
would find it hard to do the same to him. It isn't as if love has a switch
that you can flick to `on' or `off' at will. Then it occurs to me that perhaps it is the strength of David's love for me that fuels his rage. I would
prefer to think this.

When he last spoke to Vivienne on the phone, he agreed with her
that it was safe for me to drive, despite what the midwife had said.
Now, it seems, he has changed his mind. David is not accustomed to
disagreeing with his mother. Faced with one of her strong opinions, he
is usually quiet and acquiescent. In her absence he spouts her theories
about life word for word, as if he is trying on a personality that is too
big for him. I sometimes wonder if David really knows himself at all.
Or perhaps it is just that I do not know him.

`Please, Mr Fancourt, there's no need to be unpleasant,' says Detective Constable Waterhouse. `You'll both get a chance to have your say.
Let's just try to sort out this mess, shall we?'

`It's more than a mess! Someone's kidnapped my daughter. You need
to get out there and start looking for her.' The policeman looks
uncomfortable when I say this. I suspect that he is embarrassed on my
behalf. How can she stand there and say that, he wonders, when there is a clearly visible infant in her husband's arms? He will be
tempted to draw the most obvious conclusion: there is a baby in the
house, therefore that baby must be our daughter.

`Florence is right here,' David snaps.

`I think my husband feels guilty,' I explain frantically, feeling my
composure begin to slip away. I realise what is wrong. There is a sense
of urgency missing from the proceedings. Everything is happening too
slowly. That means the policeman doesn't believe me. My words come
rushing out in a torrent. `His guilt is expressing itself as anger. He fell
asleep when he should have been looking after the baby. When I came
back, I found the front door open. It's never open! Someone must have
come in and swapped our daughter Florence for . . . 'I point, unable
to say any more.

`No, that's all rubbish, actually, because this is Florence, right here!
Notice who's the one holding her, Inspector, the one looking after her,
giving her her milk, comforting her while her mother cracks up.'
David turns to me. `Guilt expressing itself as anger-what a load of
rubbish. Do you know what she does for a living, Inspector? Go on,
tell him.'

`I'm not an inspector, I'm a detective,' says Waterhouse. `Mr Fancourt, you're not helping by being so aggressive.' He doesn't like
David, but he believes him.

`He's being aggressive because he's frightened,' I say. I believe this is
true. My theory (I have had to resort to developing theories about my
husband over the years, since he never confides in me) is that a lot of
David's behaviour is motivated by fear.

He appears to think my occupation is in itself enough to discredit
me. I feel wounded and belittled. I have always craved David's good
opinion. I thought I had it. I have been married to him for two years.
Before today, we have never exchanged harsh words, never argued,
sulked, rowed. I used to think this was because we were in love, but
in retrospect, our politeness seems entirely unnatural. I once asked
David which party he voted for. He dodged the question, and I could tell he was shocked I'd asked. I felt awful, like an oaf with no sense of
decorum. Vivienne regards it as bad manners to talk about politics,
even to one's own family.

David is a very handsome man. The mere sight of him used to make
me feel as if my stomach was doing somersaults. Now, I can neither
imagine nor recreate my former desire for him. It would seem absurd,
like lusting after an illustration. I admit to myself for the first time that
my husband is a stranger. The closeness I have yearned for since I met
him has eluded me, eluded us.

David works for a company that makes computer games. He and his
friend Russell set up the business together. Russell was an acquaintance
of mine at university, and it was at his wedding that I met David for
the first time. I had finally surfaced from my depression, but the
aching loneliness was still there. I could just about dodge it during the
day if I kept myself busy, but it always caught up with me in the
evening, when I would cry for at least an hour, usually more.

I am ashamed to admit it, but I even invented an imaginary friend
for myself. I gave him a name: Stephen Taylor. I chose a common,
everyday name to make him seem more real, I think. I could only get
to sleep at night if I pretended he was holding me in his arms and whispering that he would always be there for me.

Stephen disappeared on the day of Russell's wedding. Somebody
wrote my name next to David's on the seating plan and saved my life,
or at least that was how it felt.

Almost the first thing David told me was that his wife had left him
before their son was born, that he only saw Felix occasionally, for a couple of hours at a time. Ironically, I remember admiring his openness. I
didn't know then that he would never again confide in me in the way
that he did on that day. Perhaps there was an element of calculation
involved and the Felix story was David's equivalent of a chat-up line.

It worked. I told him about my parents, of course. Talking to David
made me realise that death is only one way in which we can lose those
we love. I wanted to console him in his misery, and for him to console me in mine. I felt as if I'd met him for a reason and was totally determined that we would rescue one another, that I would end up as his
wife. I was desperate to be Mrs Fancourt, to belong to a family again
and have children of my own. Fear of being alone, of remaining alone
throughout my life, was an all-consuming obsession.