It was Jess’s job to deal with the kids but she was in bed for some reason and he could hear Betsey crying. A sporadic whimper, more like a bleating lamb. He wasn’t really into babies. Far preferred children when they were properly mobile and you could kick a ball around with them – Kit was the perfect age; even Frankie, who could be hard work, had his moments – but still, this insistent demand for attention had wrenched at his heart strings. Humans are clever, he thought, as he pushed open the door to the nursery, which was closed for some reason. This cry was of just the right pitch and timbre to ensure a baby survived.
‘What’s up, Bets?’ He had crept into her room, less steady than usual, and peered into her cot, anticipating an end to the crying and a gummy smile. But she didn’t give her usual response and, instead, her big blue eyes filled with tears. Her bottom lip wobbled and a cry – more half-hearted now that she’d caught his attention, but still anguished – burst out. He snatched her up as the source of the smell hit him and he finally registered the reason for her distress.
He hadn’t taken her to the hospital because he clearly wasn’t sober and he knew that he must reek of alcohol. But it was also because on some level he assumed that Betsey would want her mum. The children were very much Jess’s domain. That was one drawback of having a baby at forty-two: a baby he hardly knew; that he’d never even bathed, for God’s sake. As his career had become more demanding, so the family had run along increasingly traditional gender lines. His job was to bring in the money; Jess’s, the children and home.
But now this has happened. A scenes of crime officer is photographing the corner of the fridge for any sign of a baby banging against it and recording the state of the floor: unnaturally shiny, as if cleaned with some sort of slippery spray. He will have to be interviewed, DC Rustin, the rather dry, unsmiling officer, has said: she and a DC Farron will do that; will video it, too, he discovers later, and then require a written witness statement. And she, and a social worker, a Lucy Stone, will have to talk to Frankie and Kit.
He scrubs at his face, as if to erase the tension of the last twelve hours. A throbbing headache clamps his temples and he is aware of his lack of sleep: three hours at most, something he can cope with if work demands it but here there’s no deadline, no sense that this is finite and eventually he’ll be able to relax. He needs to get a grip. This nagging anxiety isn’t something he – usually so calm, so ordered and in control – has previously experienced. But then he has never had police officers in his home before.
All he wants to do is to go and see Betsey. His last memory is of her with her face scrunched up and tearful, her breath sour, her little body twisting from him; resisting all attempts to be comforted and held. He hadn’t noticed that there was a bump to the back of her head. Had been too preoccupied with trying to get the Grobag and Babygro off her and with trying, ineptly, to clean her up. He wants to reassure himself that Betsey is as he always thinks of her: frequently beaming, always sunny, her face breaking into a smile when she sees him. Christ. He needs to get real: she’s in hospital with a skull fracture, for God’s sake.
He starts to shake. It surprises him, the depth of this need to see her: to check for himself if she’s getting better, or at least that she’s not getting worse. He has always been relaxed when the children have been ill; has never felt anxious when they’ve had high temperatures. He supposes Jess has always just dealt with it. But now? This is different. His baby is lying alone in hospital with a head injury no one seems able to explain.
He needs to check that Jess’s assessment of her condition is accurate – and he needs to talk to Liz. He’s always liked her and she’ll give him a straight answer, won’t she? A quick word in her ear and perhaps she’ll manage to stop this nightmare that’s been set in motion: will reassure the police and social services that this is a run-of-the-mill accident and everyone is overreacting. Why didn’t Liz curb this at the start? She knows Jess, knows how much she adores the kids. Jess said that the consultant seemed suspicious but Liz is no pushover: Ed’s always liked her for seeming so assured of her opinion, for holding her own in discussions. She would have argued ferociously against her boss, he knows that: so why wasn’t this consultant convinced?
He tries Liz’s mobile again, almost jabbing at the redial. Nothing. He’s already left a message; can’t harass the poor woman. He’s rung her landline, too. He tries one last time; redials the number; hangs on, and on.
The scenes of crime officer is still snapping away. He seems particularly interested in the layout of the kitchen, photographing the units where Jess apparently told them she made the smoothie and the kitchen table where Frankie drank it; measuring the distance from both to the fridge. Ed watches, every part of him wanting to tell the man to leave the room. For his suspicion not to contaminate the space.
Instead, he busies himself with ensuring the boys are occupied: Kit playing Fortnite on the Xbox, Frankie plugged into his addiction, Minecraft, settled on separate sofas in the snug. Two bent heads; one a tousled blond, the other, a silky dark brown. Two very different pairs of legs, too: Frank’s, jack-knifing in dark skinny jeans; Kit’s, lolling and muscular in football shorts. You wouldn’t know they were brothers. Kit, so clearly his boy; and Frankie – the child he doesn’t understand properly; that he doesn’t know how to handle. Two boys, dissimilar not just in looks but in temperament.
He has already told them that Betsey is in hospital and will remain there for the day; that Jess is in bed, and he will tell them what’s happening later.
‘You mean when the police have gone?’ Kit, a child who never usually makes a fuss, who accepts explanations without rancour, had looked at him, a look of trust on his open face.
‘Yes. But there’s absolutely nothing to worry about, understand?’ He gave him a look. The one that said, I’m not discussing this, I’m the adult and you need to accept it. Kit nodded, and went back to the screen. Frankie, predictably, started to kick off – ‘But why can’t I be with Mummy? I want to be with Mummy . . .’ His voice soared, high-pitched, and Ed gave him a different sort of look. He can’t handle Frank’s tendency to dramatise, at the moment – though, for once it was merited. ‘Mummy was at the hospital all night. She needs to sleep,’ he told them, once again.
‘Can we ask you a few questions?’ DC Rustin approaches him now, with a thin smile.
‘Of course.’ He gestures her back to the kitchen and the dining table. Keep calm; keep focused. Above all, remain courteous. He thinks of the advice he would give Jess; that he wishes he could have given her yesterday if only she’d told him what was happening. Be open. Be helpful. Don’t give them any grounds for suspicion. We’ve done nothing wrong.
‘This is just a fact-finding exercise at the moment. A chat to try and find out what went on here,’ the detective begins but he isn’t fooled. He cringes at her ‘at the moment’ with its implicit threat of a more formal interview, under caution, later; winces too as she explains about the Body Worn camera, used to record exactly what he says. ‘We’re just trying to find out who was in the house when Betsey was injured,’ she goes on. ‘Were you here yesterday afternoon from about four?’