The Dead Line Page 10

  The man whispered something in Emily’s ear as they walked off, and she laughed up at him, stroking his face affectionately. And Casey and Miranda waited, and then they got up to follow.

  As they made their way down the cold streets, Casey stopped sharply.

  ‘Miranda,’ she said. ‘Are you sure we should be doing this?’

  Miranda turned around, scowling.

  ‘These people have set up a factory in Bangladesh, Casey. An actual human farm. Exploiting some of the most vulnerable people in the world. And these two, this pretty little couple, wandering down lovely Georgian streets, they know exactly what they’re doing.’

  ‘We think they know what they’re doing,’ said Casey. ‘They probably haven’t had the details spelled out to them.’

  ‘You mean they haven’t asked the right questions?’ spat Miranda. ‘Like Vivienne, sitting in her old farmhouse? Half these people probably think that having a baby made in Kenya for forty-five thousand dollars a pop is an absolute bargain. They’d spend that much on a boob lift and getting rid of the stretch marks after a standard delivery. Plus it doesn’t interrupt their busy schedules.’

  ‘I know,’ said Casey. ‘But maybe if we just went to Greystone? Told him we knew what he was doing. Told him we knew about Romida.’

  ‘We don’t have anything linking Romida to Greystone,’ snapped Miranda. ‘We’re not even sure if they are part of the same operation. For all we know, Romida’s disappearance is a complete coincidence.’

  ‘We could tell him that we knew, though.’

  ‘It wouldn’t work,’ said Miranda. ‘I’ve met Greystone, and I know. And we can’t have a baby made to a formula just to prove a story. Not even us.’

  Back in the Harley Street clinic, the receptionist had finally called Miranda’s name.

  ‘Again, Mrs Lancaster. I am so sorry for the wait.’

  ‘It really is no problem.’

  ‘He does work such very long hours, Dr Greystone.’ The receptionist looked supportive. ‘He’s here day and night.’

  Miranda had been shown into the elegant room across the landing. Dr Greystone was sitting behind a beautiful walnut desk, half-rising as she came in.

  It was a large room. Intricate old medical devices lined the shelves, juxtaposed by glistening technology worth millions. On a side table, a large ship in a bottle, a schooner in full sail. Next to Greystone’s desk, Miranda could make out a silver-framed photograph of a ravishing blonde woman and two immaculate children.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Lancaster,’ Dr Greystone had said. ‘How do you do?’

  He had sharp eyes and a weak chin. He must have been a good-looking teenager, thought Miranda, but his forties were being less generous. His hair was thinning and greying. His tan had faded, as if he had been back from skiing for a few weeks. He was quick though, and unctuously charming. They talked about the weather, just for a minute, and then ran through some of the treatments and problems Verity Taylor had described.

  ‘I got OHSS in the last round of IVF,’ Miranda ended, with a brave smile. ‘I was in hospital; it was pretty awful.’

  Ovarian hyperstimulation syndrome, when a woman’s ovaries are forced into such chaos by all the drugs that they swell catastrophically. It can kill, and gets mentioned in passing, quite casually, in the long list of side effects.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Greystone made a note. ‘It must have been very hard for you.’

  Miranda nudged forward.

  ‘Really, after all that, I am most interested in surrogacy. My husband and I have considered all the options, and we have decided it’s the best way for us. It’s been . . . a struggle.’

  He had nodded, glancing just for a second out of the window across Harley Street.

  ‘And we would be delighted to enable you in that, Mrs Lancaster.’

  The smooth explanation followed, punctuated with the occasional discreet nod. Dr Greystone took off his gold-rimmed glasses when he was being especially reassuring.

  ‘It’s all quite straightforward, I assure you,’ he ended.

  ‘And where?’ Miranda asked. ‘It would obviously be very important to me to know as much as possible about the person carrying my child. It’s such a crucial thing.’

  ‘Of course,’ he smiled. ‘I can promise you that every precaution would be taken at every step.’

  ‘Which country would the child be born in?’ Miranda persisted. ‘I know it is all becoming more complicated, these days.’

  He had a habit of steepling his fingers and pressing his thumbs to his mouth. Somewhere between a prayer, and a gesture to silence. He did it now, eyes fixed on hers. Wily, she thought. Cautious.

  ‘I can take you through it all, Mrs Lancaster, as we go along.’ He changed the subject smoothly. ‘Surrogacy is such an excellent solution. And the money you give is so gratefully received abroad. It makes a huge difference to the people there. You’ll have heard the phrase, it takes a village to raise a child?’ He was smiling, as if at a private joke. ‘Well, now, they say, it takes a child to raise a village.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ said Miranda. ‘I am so glad you are able to help.’

  ‘We don’t have any real proof,’ Miranda said now, in the cold little street in Bath. ‘Greystone would deny everything, and what do we have? A scrap of silk? Some blue embroidery? An angry mother, out in the camps. Greystone wouldn’t even name the country to me.’

  ‘But the Burton-Smiths are happy now,’ said Casey. ‘And they just want this baby. And they will give their child a beautiful life.’

  ‘That happiness is built on someone else’s misery,’ said Miranda.

  Casey took a deep breath. ‘Miranda, are you sure we are doing this for the right reasons?’

  Miranda twisted away from her, long black coat swirling. ‘Casey . . .’

  They stood there, for a few minutes, next to the old Roman Baths. The crowds pottered around them, oblivious. One woman was carrying the Post, tucked neatly under her arm.

  ‘Come on,’ said Miranda. ‘You know what we have to do.’

  18

  Dominic Burton-Smith opened the door of the beautiful Georgian house. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Could I come in?’ Miranda arched her eyebrows.

  ‘This isn’t actually our house,’ he said. ‘We’re just staying here for a few nights. City break.’

  Dominic was good-looking, with dark brown hair, boyishly ruffled. He was wearing an old blue shirt and frayed jeans. His grey cardigan – chunky knit – was just right for a weekend away. He pushed his hair back as he looked at Miranda, all easy charm.

  ‘I know,’ Miranda was abrupt. ‘But I was hoping to speak to you and Mrs Burton-Smith.’

  He was confused, opened the door wider. ‘I’m sorry, have we met?’

  ‘No.’ Miranda took a step forward.

  She was past him before he realised, stepping into the hall. Casey was left on the doorstep, while Dominic gave her a rueful half-shrug. ‘I suppose . . .’

  ‘Who is it, Dom?’ Emily was on the stairs, pretty in her flowing silk dress. ‘Oh.’ She stopped as she saw Miranda. ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere . . .’

  ‘We met at the clinic on Harley Street,’ said Miranda. ‘Dr Greystone’s.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Emily, puzzled. ‘How odd to see you here.’

  ‘Your surrogate in Bangladesh,’ Miranda said bluntly. ‘We have a very strong reason to believe that the woman carrying your child is a Rohingya refugee, trafficked out of the camps in Bangladesh.’

  Miranda stopped. Dominic took three quick paces towards his wife as she wavered on the stairs. Emily’s jaw had dropped open.

  ‘That’s impossible,’ said Emily. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name is Miranda Darcey. I’m a journalist at the Post.’

  ‘You can’t come in here,’ said Dominic. ‘You can’t just burst in like this—’

  ‘She’s a refugee girl,’ Miranda said again, speaking straight to Emily. ‘A child who escaped all
sorts of hell in Myanmar. She has been snatched out of the one place where she should be safe, and now she is being exploited by Dr Greystone, and his clients.’

  ‘That can’t be right,’ Emily voice went higher. ‘Dr Greystone said . . .’

  ‘We are sorry to be intruding like this,’ said Casey. ‘Really sorry.’

  ‘That’s not much help, is it?’ Emily snapped at her. It was only when she took a step forward and almost missed her footing that Casey saw how much she was shaking.

  ‘Did you ask him’ – Miranda turned to look straight at Dominic – ‘who the surrogate is?’

  ‘Dr Greystone is a highly respected professional,’ said Dominic. ‘He assured us that everything is being managed impeccably in Bangladesh.’

  ‘But you didn’t ask for details?’ Miranda pushed him.

  ‘We wanted to know about the woman.’ The words burst out of Emily. ‘We did ask Dr Greystone who the surrogate would be. He just said that the girl didn’t speak English, and that it would be impossible for us to speak to her. There wasn’t much else we could do, after that.’

  ‘But did you ask where she lives? Where she came from?’ asked Miranda. ‘Did you ask where she would be staying over the nine months?’

  No.’ Emily hesitated. ‘Dr Greystone said that his team out there would arrange for everything.’

  ‘She is being paid,’ Dominic insisted. ‘Part of our payment is going directly to her, they promised us that.’

  ‘But didn’t you want to know,’ Miranda asked, ‘who this woman actually is? This is the probably the most important event in your whole lives, and you didn’t even ask?’

  ‘What could we do?’ Dominic said, almost angry. ‘I don’t know anything about Bangladesh. It’s thousands of miles away. But Greystone promised us it would be done properly, that the girl would be well looked after while she was pregnant.’

  ‘To guarantee you a healthy child,’ said Casey.

  ‘Well,’ said Dominic. ‘Yes.’

  ‘These women,’ Miranda said, ‘are being kept in a factory. A farm for human beings. They are forced to get pregnant, and then they are forced to hand over the baby. It’s barbaric.’

  ‘That can’t be true,’ Emily mumbled.

  ‘It is,’ Casey said. ‘It is.’

  ‘Well,’ Dominic said, ‘even if it is true, what can we do about it?’

  He was so quick to dismiss them that Casey realised that he had known all along. Or guessed, at least. Miranda’s eyes were slits.

  There was a long silence.

  ‘Casey will go out to Dhaka instead of you.’ Miranda’s voice was like ice. ‘And while she’s out there, she will find out where they are keeping these women.’

  ‘No.’ Emily leapt to her feet in horror. ‘You can’t do that. That’s my baby out there.’ Her voice rose to a scream. ‘Our daughter.’

  ‘It’s the only way,’ said Miranda.

  ‘You can’t.’ Emily’s legs gave way and she slid into an armchair. ‘You mustn’t.’

  Dominic had his arms around his wife now, was crouching down beside her. ‘You’re mad,’ he said to Miranda. ‘Of course we won’t do that. Never.’

  ‘I can’t . . .’ said Emily. ‘No . . .’

  ‘How are you planning to get that baby home?’ Miranda was like a viper striking. ‘You know the clinic won’t be able to get a passport for the baby if the authorities find out. It will take months to resolve, this sort of thing. You don’t want your daughter stuck in Bangladesh for years while you try and sort this.’

  ‘But what if something goes wrong?’ screamed Emily. ‘You don’t care about our child at all. You only care about your bloody story. We have to go out there to get her. We need to bring her home.’

  There was a primitive rage in Emily’s voice, and a fast-rising despair.

  ‘The loose clothes, the big winter coats,’ said Miranda stonily. ‘You’ll just say she was early, and that everyone carries them differently, and that I felt so awful all the time – I suppose I just haven’t seen you for a while.’ As Miranda spoke, they could all hear Emily. ‘But you can’t keep that going, not if there’s a proper investigation.’

  ‘You wouldn’t do that.’ Emily was pleading now. ‘You wouldn’t do that to us.’

  ‘I would.’ Miranda’s eyes were dead. ‘Oh, I would.’

  There was a long silence. A grandfather clock somewhere upstairs clanged the hour.

  ‘This is blackmail,’ said Dominic. ‘What you’re doing is illegal.’

  Miranda met his eyes. ‘What you’ve done is illegal. And I think you knew it, all along.’

  ‘Never.’ Emily looked up, wiping away the tears. ‘I will never let you do this.’

  ‘Get out,’ said Dominic. ‘Get out of this house and get away from my wife. Stay away from us.’

  ‘Mr Burton-Smith . . .’ Miranda tried one last time.

  ‘Get out.’ The veins stood out on his neck. ‘Get out, or I will call the police.’

  19

  ‘They won’t call the police,’ Miranda said.

  They were in the Pump Room, incongruously, just around the corner from Elton House. Jane Austen’s ghost hovered in the corner. A waitress had brought them a tower of little cakes and cucumber sandwiches, which Casey was ignoring.

  ‘They might. It’s as if we’re throwing hand grenades into people’s lives, one after the other. Eventually, someone will fight back. Or . . .’

  A straw hat ripped away, a half-smile frozen . . .

  ‘I think Dominic knew something,’ said Miranda. ‘He guessed things weren’t right with Dr Greystone.’

  ‘He might realise,’ said Casey, ‘that he’s screwed either way. And that means he could go to Dr Greystone, and tell him we’re on the hunt. That would blow the whole thing.’

  ‘He might,’ Miranda shrugged. ‘It’s always risky at this point.’

  Casey was staring at a table of tourists, posing with a woman in a Georgian dress.

  ‘They knew,’ said Miranda flatly. ‘The Burton-Smiths couldn’t get it done here, because of the strict rules in place, and they know those rules are there precisely to keep people safe. To stop people being exploited. And because they couldn’t get it done here, they went there. And they’re paying a big chunk of money, partly so they don’t feel too bad about it.’

  The woman, picturesque in her Empire-line dress, smiled and bobbed her head. She was wearing a pretty little bonnet, and carrying a posy of roses.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Miranda asked. ‘Not like you to have a crise de conscience.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’ Casey pushed it away.

  ‘Is it Cavendish?’ asked Miranda. ‘Has Hessa been OK?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Casey. ‘No.’

  Hessa had sidled up to her in the investigations room the night before. ‘How do you make it right in your head?’

  ‘By not thinking about it,’ Casey said. Then she saw Hessa’s face, and dropped the flippancy. ‘You have to make your own rules, Hessa. And make sure they make sense for you. That you can live with them.’

  Speaking to Hessa, Casey had remembered Miranda’s words, years earlier: ‘Remember who your friends are. You’ve got a billion possible sources, and a finite number of friends. Never screw over a friend.’

  ‘Anything else?’ Hessa had looked hopeful.

  ‘Decide what you’re happy with, and don’t break your rules,’ said Casey. ‘And if someone is a source, you never, ever throw them under the bus. Never.’

  ‘But isn’t that so artificial? Just giving us an excuse to keep secrets.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Casey pondered it. ‘Like barristers insisting on the cab-rank rule, so that they can nod and shrug to each other, “You know how it goes. Everyone needs representation.” But there has to be something. Some truth.’

  ‘But we lie’ – Hessa hesitated on the word – ‘all the time.’

  ‘I know,’ said Casey. ‘But that is why it matters. If I give my word to a source, I don’t break
it.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘Never.’

  She didn’t tell Hessa the indescribable truth: it will be hard. It will be hard, and it will change you, for ever.

  Casey looked up at Miranda now. ‘Hessa’s fine,’ she said.

  ‘Good.’ Miranda gave her a long look.

  ‘I’ll go to Emily,’ Casey said. ‘I’ll talk to her, just the two of us.’

  ‘In Surrey? Are you sure? You hate Surrey.’

  ‘Yes.’

  It was in the car, driving back to London, that Casey spoke.

  ‘You’re being too hard on them,’ she said.

  ‘Given what they’ve done?’

  ‘You know,’ Casey said carefully, ‘that it’s irrelevant right now.’

  Miranda was silent, watching the columns of cars on the other side of the road. Headlights, blurring in the rain. She knew it was irrelevant. Facts, not opinion: all that mattered. Usually, it was Casey who struggled.

  ‘All right.’ Miranda forced down the anger.

  ‘Is everything OK?’ Casey’s voice was expressionless.

  I am going to work on my marriage. As if it were a tapestry, for some lofty medieval altar.

  I’m going to save my marriage . . .

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’m sorry. But that’s not their fault.’

  ‘I know. I know.’

  The car fell into silence. Miranda stared out of the window, clenching her jaw, and abruptly felt her throat close up, the memories overpowering as cheap perfume.

  He’d caught her one Sunday morning. Not one Sunday morning: the Sunday morning her father died. Crying in that grand old court, in the dawn, the blossom still wet from the dew, as everyone quietly slept.

  Are you OK?

  I’ve got to . . . I’ve got to get the train . . . My father . . . I don’t know . . .

  I’ll help.

  He helped her pack. Then the trains were chaos. Sunday: of course.

  I’ll drive you.

  Don’t be ridiculous, it’s the other side of the country.

  It doesn’t matter.

  You can’t. It’ll take hours.

  Anyone would.

  ‘No,’ she had told him later, as his car purred down the motorway. ‘Anyone wouldn’t.’