Little Face (9 page)

Despite his obvious sadness about Felix, David kept saying that he
didn't want to ruin my day by being miserable, and spent the afternoon
entertaining and flattering me. He told me his Welsh joke, having first
asked, `You aren't, by any chance, at all Welsh, are you?' The joke was
about a man who went to the police station to report that his bicycle
had been stolen. `I came out of chapel, and there it was-gone!' David
delivered the punchline in an appalling accent that made me giggle for
days afterwards every time I thought about it. I couldn't get him out
of my mind. He had the warmest smile and twinkliest eyes of everyone
at the wedding, and looked as much like a caricature of a wonderful,
dream-come-true, romantic hero as the baddies in the games he and
Russell design look like caricatures of pure evil, with their red and
black capes, their mouths full of fangs and fire.

David and Russell never seem to run out of ideas for how baddies
might be killed. Thanks to my husband, young children all over the
country are able to simulate murder, some of it semi-pornographic, in
the safety and comfort of their own homes. And yet I have always been
supportive of David's work, approving of something I might normally have had qualms about in order to be loyal to him. If David does
it, it must be okay-that was my life's motto. I thought he felt the same
about me.

`Is there a quiet room somewhere where I can take your statement?' Detective Constable Waterhouse asks.

`There isn't time!' I protest. `What about Florence? We need to start
searching for her.'

`Nothing can happen until I've got your statement,' he insists.

David points to the kitchen. `Take her in there,' he tells Waterhouse,
as if I am an unruly dog. `I'll take Florence upstairs to the nursery.'

I begin to cry. `That isn't Florence. Please, you've got to believe me.'

`This way, Mrs Fancourt.' Waterhouse steers me into the kitchen, his
big, bear-like hand wrapped around my arm just above the elbow.
`Why don't you make us some tea while I ask you a few questions?'

`I can't-I'm in too much of a state,' I say honestly. `Get your own
tea if you want some. You don't believe me, do you? I can tell you
don't. And now I'm crying and you'll think I'm just a hysterical ... '

`Mrs Fancourt, the sooner we get this statement done, the sooner ...

`I'm not stupid! You're not out there looking for Florence because
you think that baby David's holding is her, don't you?'

`I'm making no assumptions.'

`No, but if there was no baby in the house, if David and I were both
saying our daughter was missing, it'd be a different story, wouldn't it?
The search for Florence would already be under way.'

Waterhouse blushes. He doesn't deny it.

`Why would I lie? What could I possibly have to gain by making this
up?' I try very hard to keep my voice level.

`Why would your husband? Or are you suggesting he genuinely
believes it's his daughter when it isn't?'

`No.' I consider carefully what I will say next. It goes against years
of love and habit to malign David, but I can't hold back anything that
might help to influence the policeman. `He fell asleep when he was in
charge of Florence. The front door was open. If he admits that baby's
not Florence, that means admitting he allowed her to be taken. Not
that I would ever blame him for what's happened,' I add quickly. `I
mean, who could predict something like this? But I think that's it, I
think David isn't allowing himself to see the truth, because he's scared
of the guilt he'd feel. But eventually he'll have to admit it, when he
realises that his pretence is getting in the way of you looking for Florence!' I feel as desperate as I sound. I must speak more slowly.

Detective Constable Waterhouse is starting to look jittery, flustered, as if all this might be too much for him. `Why would anyone
swap one baby for another?' he asks me.

It strikes me as a slightly cruel question, though I know he doesn't
mean it to be. Cruel is a bit strong, perhaps. Insensitive. `You can't ask
a mother to try to get inside the mind of the person who's stolen her
child,' I say sharply. `I honestly can't think of a single reason why anyone would do it. But so what? Where does that get us?'

`What is the difference between the baby I've just seen and your
daughter? Anything you can tell me about any difference of appearance
will help.'

I groan, frustrated. David asked me the same thing. It is a male
thing, this desire to tick off items on a list. `There is no significant difference that I can point to, apart from the absolutely crucial one that
they're different people! Different babies. My daughter has a different
face, a different cry. How the hell am I supposed to describe the difference between two babies' cries?'

`All right, Mrs Fancourt, calm down. Don't get upset.' Detective
Constable Waterhouse looks as if he is slightly afraid of me.

I adopt a more soothing tone. `Look, I know you come into contact
with a lot of unreliable people. My job's the same. I'm a homeopath.
Do you know what that means?' I prepare to launch into my usual
introductory speech about conventional medicine being allopathic
whereas homeopathy is based on the idea of curing like with like. His
eyes widen briefly. Then he nods and blushes again.

I once had a patient who was a policeman. He was younger than me
but already married with three children and suffering from severe
depression because he hated his job. He wanted to be a landscape gardener. I told him he ought to follow his heart. That was how I felt at
the time, having recently left a tedious administrative job at the Inland
Revenue to become a homeopath. When I met David, when he and
Vivienne rescued me from my miserable isolation, I was so grateful that
all I wanted to do was help people. Now I wonder if I helped or hindered that poor man with my idealistic, impulsive advice. What if he
resigned from the police force and was plunged into poverty as a
result? What if his wife left him?

`A lot of my patients have their own unique perception of reality,'
I say. `In layman's terms, a lot of them are nutters. But I'm not, okay?
I am a sane, intelligent woman, and I'm telling you, that baby upstairs
is not my daughter Florence!' I open my shirt pocket, pull out the camera film and put it down on the table in front of him. `Here. Hard evidence. Get this developed and you'll see lots of photos of the real
Florence. With me and David, at the hospital and at home.'

`Thank you.' He picks up the film, puts it in an envelope and writes
something on it that I can't see. Slow, steady, methodical. `Now, if I
could take some details.' He produces a notebook and pen.

His lack of urgency infuriates me. `You still don't believe me!' I snap.
`Fine, don't believe me, I don't care if you believe me or not, but,
please, get a team of detectives out there looking for her. What if you're
wrong? What if I'm telling the truth, and Florence is really missing?
Every second we waste could be a second closer to disaster.' My voice
shakes. `Can you really afford to take that risk?'

`Do you have any other photos of your daughter, Mrs Fancourt?
Ones that are already developed?'

`No. Call me Alice. What's your name? Your first name, I mean.'

He looks doubtful. `Simon,' he says eventually, cornered. Simon. It
was on David's and my shortlist for Florence, if she'd been a boy. I
wince. For some reason the memory of the list is particularly painful.
Oscar, Simon, Henry. Leonie, Florence, Francesca. ('Fanny Fancourt!
Over my dead body,' said Vivienne.) Florence. Mrs Tiggywinkle. Little Face.

`The hospital photographer was supposed to come and take her picture while we were on the ward, but she didn't come. Her car broke
down.' I begin to sob. My body convulses, as if an electrical charge is
running through it. `We never got a "Baby's First Photo". Oh, God.
Where is she?'

`Alice, it's okay. Try to calm down. We'll find her, if ... we'll do the
best we can.'

`There are other photos, apart from mine. Vivienne took some when she came to see us in hospital. She'll be back soon, she'll tell you
I'm not mad.'

`Vivienne?'

`David's mother. This is her house.'

`Who else lives here?'

`Me, David, Florence, and Felix. He's David's son from his first marriage. He's six. Vivienne and Felix are in Florida at the moment, but
they're coming back as soon as Vivienne can get them on a flight. She'll
back me up. She'll tell you that baby's not Florence.'

`Your mother-in-law's seen Florence, then?'

`Yes, she came to the hospital the day she was born.'

`Which was?'

`The twelfth of September.'

`Has Felix seen Florence?'

I flinch. It's a sore point. I wanted Felix to meet Florence before he
went to Florida. He could have come to the hospital after school,
before going to the airport, but he had a snorkelling lesson at Waterfront that Vivienne insisted he should attend. `The last thing you need
is for him to associate Florence with missing something he loves,' she
said. `There's no rush for him to meet her, there'll be plenty of time
later.' David agreed with his mother out of habit, and I didn't challenge
her because I knew she was afraid on Felix's behalf. You can't argue
with fear.

She assumes he will be as reluctant to share his kingdom as she herself was as a child. I think she's wrong. Not many children are as territorial as Vivienne was. She even objected to sharing her parents'
attention with the family dog, who had to be given away when she was
three. I wanted to ask his name when she told me this story but didn't dare. Ridiculously, I'd have felt disloyal showing an interest in Vivienne's rival.

`No,' I say. `Felix was at school when Vivienne came to the hospital, and then they went away later that same day.'

`He's been away for a fortnight? Isn't it term time?'

`Yes.' At first I don't see the relevance of the question. `Oh, but the
school Felix goes to is very accommodating,' I add when I do. They
have little choice. Vivienne is one of their more generous board members. They wouldn't dare to tell her when she can and can't take her
grandson on holiday. `He's at Stanley Sidgwick.'

Simon raises his eyebrows a fraction. Everybody has heard of the
Stanley Sidgwick Grammar School and Ladies' College, and most
have strong views about them of one sort or another. They are
unashamedly elitist, fee-paying, single sex, strong on discipline. Vivienne is a big fan. She sent David to Stanley Sidgwick, and now Felix.
Florence's place at the ladies' college was reserved as soon as my
twenty-week scan revealed I was having a girl; her name went down
on the list as `Baby Fancourt'. Vivienne paid the three-hundredpound registration fee herself, and only mentioned it to me and
David afterwards. `There's no better school in the area, or, for that
matter, in the country, whatever the league tables say,' she insisted. I
probably nodded vaguely and looked bemused. All I wanted was to
deliver my unborn child safely into the world. I hadn't given schools
a thought.

`Felix doesn't live with his mother?' asks Simon.

I wasn't expecting him to ask this. I admire his thorough approach,
the way he asks questions around the obvious point of focus. I do the
same with my patients. Sometimes, by looking only where you're
directed to look, you miss everything that's important. 'Felix's mother
is dead.' I watch Simon carefully as I say this. He doesn't know, evidently. It is absurd to assume that every policeman will be familiar with
the details of every case. Or maybe he knows, but hasn't yet made the
connection. Laura's surname wasn't Fancourt. She didn't change it
when she married David. That was the first thing that annoyed Vivienne about her, the first of many.

`So, apart from Vivienne Fancourt, who's seen Florence?'

`Nobody. Oh, Cheryl Dixon-she's my midwife. She's been round
three times. And she was on duty at the hospital when Florence was born. Why didn't I think of that before?' I wonder aloud. `Cheryl'll
back me up, talk to Cheryl.'

`Don't worry, I'll be talking to everyone, Mrs ... '

'Alice,' I insist.

`Alice,' he repeats awkwardly, trapped in a familiarity that he is
clearly uncomfortable with.

`What about a search?' I ask. I still have not had a satisfactory
answer to this question. `Someone might have seen something. You
need to appeal for witnesses. I can give you precise times. I went out
at five to two ... '

Simon shakes his head. `I can't get a search started just like that,' he
says. `That's not the way it works. I'd need to get approval from my
sergeant, but first I'll need to talk to everyone and anyone who could
corroborate your story. I'll need to talk to your neighbours, for example, see if anyone saw anything unusual. Because your husband. . . '

`Isn't corroborating. I know. I've noticed,' I say bitterly. `There
aren't any neighbours.' Vivienne told me proudly, the first time David
brought me to The Elms, that the only people with whom she shares
a postcode are those she welcomes into her home. She smiled, to
make it clear that I was included in this category. I felt privileged and
protected. When my parents died and I realised there was no-one in the
world who truly loved me, I lost a lot of my self-esteem. I couldn't
shake off the conviction that my tragedy was a punishment of some
kind. To be so warmly accepted by a woman like Vivienne, who took
for granted her own value and importance and had absolute confidence in her every opinion, made me feel that I must be worth more
than I'd imagined.

`I can't get a search started or do anything on your say-so alone,'
says Simon apologetically.

I sink into a chair and rest my aching head on my arms. When I
close my eyes, I see strange shifting spots of light. Nausea rocks my
stomach. For the first time in my life, I understand the people who lose
the will to fight. It is so hard to try and try to make yourself heard when the whole world seems to have its fingers in its ears, when what
you have to say sounds so unlikely-impossible, almost.