Little Face (17 page)

The centre occupied a battered white three-storey townhouse in the
pedestrianised part of Spilling, with peeling black paint around the
windows. The only side of the building that was visible was covered
in deep cracks and rust-coloured stains. Inside, there was evidence of
money having been spent, money made from people's maladies and
inadequacies. The grey-green carpet was thick, so soft that Simon
could feel the spring and bounce of its fibres through his shoes. The
walls were ivory and the furniture minimalist: light wood, cream
cushions. Somebody had had the thought of a harmonious soul firmly
in mind.

Not Simon's soul, that was for sure. It occurred to him that Alice's
clothes, whenever he had seen her, had followed roughly the same colour scheme: beiges, greeny-greys, creams. He was inside a building
that was dressed like Alice. The thought made his chest feel heavy.
Now that she was nowhere to be found, she had become all-pervasive.
She was everywhere.

Embarrassing, but Simon felt lonely without her. How was that possible when he hardly knew her? He'd seen her a total of four times. It
was his idea of her that had kept him company since he met her, not
Alice herself. He should have reached out to her more. He'd wanted
to, but feared he would have ended up having to push her away.

More than twenty-four hours had passed since David Fancourt
had reported his wife and daughter missing. A case file had been
opened, and Simon had spent the morning chasing CCTV footage. For
the afternoon Charlie had assigned him the task of interviewing Alice's
colleagues. A ruse, to keep him away from The Elms and David Fancourt. He couldn't say he blamed her. She was bound to think that one
of the other Ds, someone who was less convinced of Fancourt's
unsavouriness, would stand a better chance of getting him to talk. All
the same, Simon felt slighted, at a distance from the real action.

He'd spoken to everyone apart from the emotional freedom therapist.
Her name was Briony Morris. She was with a client, keeping Simon
waiting. At least he'd heard of acupuncture and reflexology, and that
degree of familiarity made them seem almost respectable. Emotional
freedom therapy sounded unpromising. Its name made Simon scornful
and impatient, even a little nervous. He had spent his life trying to keep
his emotions under control. He wasn't looking forward to meeting a
woman whose life's work was to encourage the opposite policy.

Alice's office had yielded no clues as to her whereabouts, only a lot
of books and leaflets about homeopathy, two flat black suitcases full
of homeopathic remedies with peculiar names like `pulsatilla' and
`cimicifuga', and a box full of empty brown glass bottles. In one of the
desk drawers there was a Stanley Sidgwick Grammar School and
Ladies' College brochure with a glossy maroon cover, the school's crest
and motto in the centre. Simon didn't understand the motto, which was in Latin. Perhaps it meant `if you haven't got lots of cash, you're
fucked'. A yellow Post-it note was stuck to the front cover. Alice had
written, `Find out about F-when name down? How long waiting list?'

Poor bloody Florence, Simon thought. Not even a month old and
they're already planning her fucking Classics degree at Oxford. The
sight of Alice's handwriting made him feel wobbly. He touched it
with his index finger. Then he gritted his teeth and peeled off the postit to reveal a colour photograph of three grinning children in turquoise
uniforms-two girls and a boy-who were manifestly as well-fed as
they were diligent.

In the next drawer down, Simon had found a framed photograph of
Alice, David, Vivienne and, he assumed, Felix that looked as if it had
been taken in the garden at The Elms. Vivienne was sitting on the grass
with Felix on her lap, her arms around him, and David and Alice stood
on either side of them. Vivienne and David were smiling, Felix and
Alice were not. The river was behind them, and Alice was visibly
pregnant.

The only other picture occupied a prime position on the desk. It had
a large, wooden frame and was of a man and a woman in their fifties
or sixties. They were both open-mouthed and smiling, as if they were
joking with whoever was taking the picture. Alice's late parents. Her
mother had the same big, clear eyes. Again, Simon felt an oppressive
tightening in his chest.

He'd seen Alice in person only a few days ago, and he hadn't felt
then the way he did today, as if there were some strange force blazing
inside him, scorching him. What had changed, apart from her having
disappeared?

He became aware that he was no longer alone in the waiting room.
A tall woman with an athletic, wiry body and shoulder-length ginger
hair stood beside him, staring down. She wore square, frameless
glasses and a stretchy black dress. Something about the way she
looked at him felt intrusive. `DC Waterhouse? I'm Briony Morris. Sorry
I've been so long. Shall we talk in my office?'

As he followed her along the corridor and up two flights of stairs,
she turned twice to check he was still behind her. She gave off an air
of being in charge, like a teacher supervising children on a school trip.
Too much self-esteem, thought Simon: the real curse of our age.

`Here we are.' Briony's office was the only one on the attic floor. She
opened the door and waved Simon in. `Have a seat on the sofa over there.'

The room smelled of a perfume that brought to mind fruit salad,
mainly grapefruit. There were two large, framed pictures on the wall
that Simon didn't like-colourful, swirling collections of buildings,
flowers, horses and apparently boneless people floating together in
space. Most of their limbs pointed in the wrong direction.

Simon lowered himself awkwardly on to the sagging beige sofa,
which offered little in the way of support or resistance. Each of the seat
cushions was concave, designed to swallow whole anyone who landed
on it. Briony sat at a desk identical to Alice's, on a straight-backed
wooden chair. She was several inches higher than Simon; he felt confined, claustrophobic.

`So, you're here about Alice and Florence. Paula told me.' Paula was
the reflexologist.

`Yes. They disappeared in the early hours of yesterday morning,' said
Simon. He'd told nobody he'd interviewed that the baby who disappeared from The Elms was not, according to Alice, her daughter.
After her original allegation that her baby had been swapped, Simon
had been strongly in favour of interviewing Alice's friends and colleagues to find out whether they thought she was trustworthy, whether
they knew of anything in her past that might shed light on her present
baffling behaviour. But Charlie had insisted on cuffing it. `I'm not wasting any more resources on this,' she'd said. `Alice Fancourt's got a history of depression, she's been on prozac, she's just had a baby in
about the most traumatic way possible. It's a shame for her, I agree, but
post-natal depression is not a police matter, Simon.' When he'd looked
doubtful, she'd said, `Okay, then, you tell me. Why would anyone want
to swap one baby for another? What could possibly be the motive? I mean, people steal babies, yes, but that's usually when they haven't got
one themselves and are desperate.' Simon knew it would have been
pointless to mention Mandy, the woman in the hospital that Alice had
told him about, the one whose boyfriend had wanted to call their baby
Chloe, after the daughter he already had. There was no proof of anything, as Charlie would have been quick to point out. And she'd have
demanded to know when, precisely, Alice had told him all this.

Now, he heard himself tell Briony Morris that Alice and Florence
had gone missing in the early hours of yesterday morning, and it
sounded like a lie. Did that mean that, deep down, he believed Alice?
Two people had disappeared, yet there was a prior, more fundamental mystery that remained unsolved.

Simon's confidence in his own judgement had been badly shaken by
what Charlie had told him last night. He'd always trusted his instincts;
they let him down less frequently than other people did. Yet he'd
been in serious trouble and hadn't even known about it. What else
might he have missed?

`So, how can I help?' said Briony Morris. `Do you want to know
when I last saw Alice? I can tell you exactly. September the ninth. I
think I saw her more recently than anyone else here.'

`You did.' Simon consulted his notebook. `No-one else has seen her
since she started her maternity leave.'

`I had a day off, and she came round. To my house, in Combingham.
Yes, I live in hideous Combingham, for my sins!' She looked embarrassed suddenly, as if she wished she hadn't told him. Simon didn't care
where she lived. `But you try buying a decent sized house in Spilling or
Silsford, or even Rawndesley these days, on a single woman's salary.
It's bloody impossible. I've got a detached house with four double bedrooms in Combingham. Mind you, I'm probably surrounded on all
sides by crack dens ...

`What was the purpose of Alice's visit?' Simon cut through her
nervous chattering. Perhaps Briony Morris wasn't as self-assured as he
had first thought.

`You know what I do? Emotional freedom therapy?'

Simon nodded, feeling a sudden uncomfortable warmth beneath his
skin.

`Alice was a bit tense. She was due to go into hospital at nine the
next morning to be induced. Do you know what that means? It's
when...'

`I know what it means.' Another interruption. Tough. `So she came
to see you as a patient? At home?'

`She wanted a session with me, yes. To boost her confidence. It was
a sort of last minute thing. I mean, we're friends as well, of course.
Well, friendly, anyway. Alice doesn't really have close friends.' Briony
leaned forward, tucking her hair behind her ear. `Look, you're probably not allowed to tell me, but ... do you have any leads yet, about
Florence? I mean, she's only two weeks old. I know it's early days ... '

`It is,' said Simon. He wondered why Alice hadn't simply prescribed
herself a homeopathic remedy if she was nervous about giving birth.
A perk of the job, he'd have thought, being able to cure oneself relatively easily, and for no charge.

Eight years ago, Simon had been to see a homeopath. Not in
Spilling; he'd made sure to pick a place in Rawndesley, at a safe
remove from home and anyone his parents were likely to know. He'd
heard a programme about homeopathy on Radio Four, heard people
talking about how they had been cured of psychological hang-ups as
well as physical conditions, and decided it might be good for him to do
something so entirely out of character. A kind of escape from the confines of his usual self.

An hour in the hot-seat was all he'd been able to manage; he'd
stormed out halfway through what his homeopath had called the
introductory session. When it came to the crucial moment, Simon had
been unable to tell the man-a kind, bearded ex-GP named Denniswhat the problem was. He talked about his subsidiary concerns easily enough: his inability to hold down a job, his fear that he was a
disappointment to his mother, his anger about the amoral, vacuous state of the world, anger he hadn't known he possessed until Dennis
asked him that particular combination of questions.

But when their conversation strayed on to the subject of women and
relationships, Simon got up and headed for the door without a word of
explanation. He regretted that now-his rudeness, not his departure.
Dennis seemed like a good bloke. He'd been a bit too good at getting
things out of Simon, who was afraid that if he stayed, he'd talk. He
couldn't imagine what his life would be like once someone else knew.

`You say Alice doesn't have any close friends?'

`Don't get me wrong, she's very friendly,' Briony went on. `We all
like her, I certainly do. And I'm sure everyone else does. Haven't
they said so?' She spoke frenetically, like someone on speed. But
what did Simon know? Perhaps all emotionally free people talked
like this.

`Yes,' he said. Harmless, to share this information. All Alice's colleagues had said she was lovely, kind, considerate, sensitive. Sane, too,
was the unanimous verdict.

`But she didn't have time for proper friendships. She was so caught
up in family stuff. We invited her to social things, you know-drinks
out, meals, birthday parties, but she could never come. Every minute
of her spare time seemed to be taken up with ridiculous . . . ' Briony
stopped and covered her mouth with her hand. `Sorry,' she said. `I
shouldn't really stick my oar in.'

`You should. Without oars stuck in, we're unlikely to find Alice and
the baby. Anything you can tell us might help.'

`Surely no-one would harm a two-week-old baby.' Briony frowned.
`I mean, obviously I know there are people who would, I'm not naive.
But, I mean, most people. . . '

Simon talked over her, desperate to stop the frantic flow of words.
`Every minute of Alice's spare time seemed to be taken up with ...
what?'

`Well ... ' Briony rubbed her collarbone with the fingers of her left
hand, leaving pink marks on her pale skin. `Okay, well, I might as well tell you, then. It was her mother-in-law.' She exhaled, relieved to have
spoken the unspeakable.

`Vivienne Fancourt.'

`Yes, that old bat. I can't stand the woman. She was always popping
in here, to tell Alice some stupid trivial thing that could easily have
waited till Alice got home, some pointless crap-sorry!-when Alice
was busy working. And if ever Alice had arranged a night out with any
of us, she'd end up cancelling because Vivienne had reminded her that
they were going here or there, or Vivienne had arranged a surprise do,
or Vivienne had got tickets for this show or that in London. It drove
me mad. And Alice seemed to worship the old witch. You know what
Alice is like, so tolerant and patient and kind. I think she was looking
for a surrogate mother, with her own parents dead, but Jesus Christ on
a bicycle! Sorry, you're not a Christian, are you? I'd rather belong to
the bloody Plymouth Brethren than to Vivienne Fancourt-you'd get
more freedom, that's for sure.'