The Deal (16 page)

“Take a chance with our daughter?” said Charles.

“We have considered it carefully,” replied DCI Rudd. “The fact is that we can’t find her as it is.”

“Is Tabitha still alive, Sarah?” asked Lucy in a small voice.

“I have only my instinct to offer you, Lucy. But yes, I think that she’s still alive. The police officers will be here again tonight. Please try to get some rest. Tomorrow is going to be a long one for you both.”

After she left, Lucy checked the girls. They were both exhausted and nearly asleep.

She changed into her dressing gown and went downstairs. Charles was staring at the bottle of scotch which he had placed on the table in front of him, together with a glass.

“It’s your choice, Charles,” said Lucy. “Do as you want. I’m only thinking about Tabitha right now.”

“There is no choice, Lucy. If I touch a drop, I’ll be letting her down.” He picked the bottle up and put it back in the cabinet.

They went to bed and, unusually, Lucy turned her back on her husband. She was lost in her dark, troubled thoughts.

Tabitha was scared. She cuddled the bear she had been given as a present. She also had milk in a cup and some biscuits. She’d been told that she must go to sleep and every so often she was aware that he was shining a torch on her. She’d enjoyed the fresh air and the picnic that they’d had together in the afternoon. But he’d got annoyed when she’d started crying. He would not say when she would see her mummy again. She put her thumb in her mouth and tried not to sob. She didn’t want to be told off again. She cried out for Scarlett but there was no reply.

“Want to talk?”

“You need your sleep, Nick,” replied his wife.

“You can’t find her can you?”

“She’s in Ealing and she’s alive. I’ll put my professional reputation on that.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“You’re so certain and yet you can’t find her.”

“I lost Lucy’s trust tonight. She didn’t believe me.”

“Remember the Primrose Hill case. What was his name? David Rensburg. I remember walking through Broadway discussing it with you. The Welsh girl. Megan something...”

“That ended happily enough though, Nick. The murderer walked in and confessed!”

“And you were looking in the wrong direction. Think Sarah. I remember our chat so well. Please think, my darling. You were looking in the wrong direction.”

“You’ve said that twice, Nick. Once is enough.”

“So, are you going in the wrong direction with Tabitha too? Maybe there’s some lateral thinking required?”

“Nick. We’re a good team. Our procedures are text book. You can always do more but we’ve not had a single break on this one. Nothing, Nick. Every bloody witness might be unreliable. We’ve turned the sex offenders over like never before. The teams are exhausted.”

“But you haven’t found her.”

“I know that, Nick. Please!”

“You were looking in the wrong place before.”

“Believe me – she’s in Ealing and she’s alive.”

Chapter Six

Sarah Rudd’s bedside telephone rang at 2.37am in the early hours of Thursday morning. She answered it on the third ring, simultaneously trying to untangle her husband’s arm from around her waist. She listened carefully to a brief message and replied that she would be at the station in less than an hour. She quietly got out of bed and took a quick shower. As she was putting on her uniform, Nick regained consciousness.

“Duty calls,” she said. “The chief superintendent has called me in. I think I’ll be looking at the body of a four year old child before long.

Nick leapt out of bed and gave his wife a quick hug.

“Would you like me to drive you? The kids can sleep in the back of the car.”

“No,” replied Sarah. “I’ll be fine.” She kissed him and went to leave the room, but turned back at the last moment. She put her arms around her husband and hugged him tightly. She turned and was gone.

As she entered Ealing police station she could sense the tension. She took the lift to the third floor and knocked on the door of Chief Superintendent Avril Gardner’s office. She responded to the instruction to enter and found her boss reading a news-paper and pounding her fist on the desk.

“Look, Sarah,” she exclaimed. “Look what they’ve done!”

Avril Gardner handed Sarah a copy of the local paper. She was shocked by the headline.

“Local doctor loses daughter in Madeleine McCann copycat case.”

It was clever journalism. They had pulled all the facts together to make their impact: local female doctor... delayed leaving surgery and therefore late for her daughter... Tabitha left wandering the streets of Ealing... uncertainty as to who was responsible for her... reported abduction... possibly now out of the country.

But what was worse, far, far worse, were the two photographs side by side, one of Tabitha and the other of Madeleine McCann. The facial resemblances were remarkable. Both were fair-haired and very pretty.

Sarah Rudd slumped into a chair and covered her face with her hands.

“The circus is on its way,” said Avril Gardner. “It’s already been on Sky News.”

“I’ll go and see the parents,” said Sarah. She stopped as she was leaving the office.

“Have you spoken to the editor?”

“He’s not answering his phone. Be back here at seven please, Sarah. I’ve brought the morning meeting forward.” Avril Gardner paused. “I suppose this gets us the publicity we need.”

“Or an abductor who panics,” Sarah replied, grimly.

Jody Boyle had woken early and was lying in bed, thinking about someone who meant a great deal to her. She was not the sort of person to obsess about the inequalities of life. Until that day in the autumn of 2007 when she was told the news, she had never heard of Lowe Syndrome. From that time onwards it was always to be referred to as LS.

She had accepted what she heard, although she later read up on the subject in great depth in the desperate hope that there was a cure. She knew it was a genetic condition which was caused by a single defective gene and resulted in an essential enzyme not being produced. She also learnt to her cost that it mainly affected boys.

She had spent the previous Sunday afternoon holding her son Ben’s hand and talking to him. She’d repeated this activity on so many occasions that she could now anticipate his mood swings. She loved his gurgling laughter more than anything.

Her pregnancy had come as a complete shock. The weight she gained only showed quite late and she’d convinced the staff at Agnew Capital that she was fighting a battle with the weighing scales. There had been two possibilities as to who was the father. After Ben had been born she’d persuaded the most likely candidate to have a paternity test. When the result was known and she faced him with the letter from the clinic, he was kindness itself and vowed to do all he could to support them. He was in a relationship with a long-term partner and felt unable to marry her, but she accepted that their brief groping had led to a lot more than either expected, and respected his decision.

Time was against her and she’d negotiated six weeks extended leave from work so that she could visit her sister in New Zealand. The recession was already beginning to take effect in the United Kingdom and nobody at Agnew Capital thought her absence unusual. There was less work around and it seemed a good time to travel. Andrew had made public his approval of the idea, saying it was a reward for her outstanding service to the company and so it was accepted by everybody.

She had booked herself into a private clinic in London and given birth to a baby boy in July 2007. Within twenty-four hours she had been told that Benjamin William Boyle was suffering from LS. He was to spend three months at the health centre before being transferred to a specialist clinic in West London. He had several operations, including one for the removal of cataracts from both his eyes. He then developed glaucoma, kidney problems and, later, severe behavioural difficulties. She was told that his life expectancy was perhaps thirty years.

She determined from the beginning that she would raise him, as far as possible, as a normal boy. She talked to him for hours so that he would become comfortable with the sound of her voice. He slowly recognised her presence and when she fell into the routine of visiting him three times a week, he responded to her holding his hand and hearing her chatting with him. He was feeding well and putting on weight. After a time she no longer insisted on regular meetings with the doctors. She knew all there was to understand about LS and how Ben’s life was to progress. All parties agreed that there would be a major re-evaluation when Ben reached five years of age. His father stayed in touch and visited Ben after he’d settled into the children’s nursing home. The occasion so upset both father and son that she had decided that would be the last time she asked him to visit.

Ben grew to love Arsenal football club. Jody would read him the reports of their matches and he reserved a special gurgle for when they won a game. Jody convinced herself that he was improving and began to wonder what might lie ahead. When she left him she always told him how proud his father was of him.

He was in a room with three other beds. One boy stayed for a year but otherwise they came and went and Jody rarely had the opportunity to get to know the parents. She received a monthly financial report from the home. Payment was made by direct debit from her bank account but she found she continually had to ask about being charged the extra fees. The doctors could not change his drugs regime without her approval but there seemed to be a continual drip, drip, drip of additional costs. She spent many hours evaluating alternative health centres but always came to the conclusion that Ben was in the best place possible for him. The one thing she was certain about was that she would not let the NHS get hold of her son.

Jody wrapped up Ben’s life in her own. Apart from the occasional discussion with his father she talked to nobody else. She was ferociously busy at Agnew Capital and had little free time of her own, apart from her Sunday night treat. She never missed a visit to see Ben and never gave up the hope that he might improve. She knew that he could face further health problems, but she would deal with these if and when they came. She had a number of photographs of the two of them together around her flat. When, on the odd occasion, she had a visitor, she packed them away.

Initially, in the autumn of 2007, as she began to understand the situation, Jody had thoughts of changing her way of life. She argued with Ben’s father and then had to deal with the growing pressures of the declining business at Agnew Capital. She had to face one problem after another and began to dread the arrival of the post.

She never let Ben know any of this. She always dressed in bright colours and always made him laugh. Jody didn’t indulge in self pity in any way, but as the months and years progressed she was to face challenges that would have defeated a weaker person.

But she had Ben to worry about. He was her son and she was all he had in life, however long that was to last.

Alistair Wavering, as he often did, was working at his home computer at five-thirty in the morning. He was completing a lengthy email to his sister in Paris. He was pleased with the orders she had generated from Monsieur Chasseur and the other two retailers she had already met in Paris. Amanda was usually cheerful and positive in her approach to customers, but Alistair sensed that she was on top form.

He’d been thinking about the future of City Fiction. He was certain that Oliver would raise the two million pounds and he’d found his lunch with Sara Flemming very thought provoking. Was she right in her assertion that publishing was a continuous gamble? Was it all about finding the right author writing the one bestselling book?

It was a little too simplistic for Alistair, but he recognised that one or more of his authors needed to deliver a big winner. He decided to tell Amanda about his plans. He set out his reasoning in some detail and then delivered his bombshell.

Amanda was sitting in the restaurant of her Paris hotel eating a bowl of fresh fruit and yoghurt in preparation for another busy day. She was reading the paper attached to Alistair’s email. She covered her mouth with her hand as she read his proposals.

The red light on her mobile flashed to indicate an incoming message.

“Bonjour Amanda. Off to the gym. Missing you. x”

She returned to the paper she had just read. Alistair was convinced that he should become the full-time publisher and that the day-to-day operations should be run by a new chief operating officer – her! But he left the best till last. City Fiction was going places and, with two million pounds in the bank, would soon be ready to join a public market. For that, the board of directors would need a chairman and, since the team at City Fiction was young, he had decided that what was needed was a youthful City executive who was experienced in public companies… and he knew just that person – Oliver Chatham.

She texted Oliver back.

“Go for it tiger. xx”

She’d always liked compliments. The suggestion that she should be COO went down well – and she’d only recently been reading in the financial press about the City’s obsession that there should be more women directors on the boards of public companies.

She read the passage on the proposed chairman again. Alistair had made the basis for his selection with complete logic. She agreed with her brother. Oliver, if he would accept the position, could be a dynamic chairman and help propel the business forward. She did not really understand ‘the City’, but she knew enough. It made sense to her to have a chairman familiar with public markets.

There was just one, small obstacle. As far as she was concerned the way was open for them to accelerate their relationship and she anticipated that, on her return to England, the deal would be re-negotiated and they would go to bed together.

“Oh Christ,” she said.

DCI Rudd found both Lucy and Charles in a dreadful state. The media were already camped outside their house and several more police officers had arrived to try and ensure a certain amount of privacy for the family.