The Dead Line Page 9

  ‘Can you remember anything about the man?’ asked Casey. ‘The man who brought Theo to you?’

  ‘Not really,’ Vivienne compressed her lips for a second. ‘He was taller than the average Bangladeshi.’

  ‘So he was Bangladeshi?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Vivienne said. ‘I suppose so. I remember thinking he was taller than you might expect. But I wasn’t looking at him. The only thing I could see was Theo.’

  ‘Did he speak English?’

  ‘Yes.’ Vivienne realised she knew more than she thought. She pondered for a second. ‘I can’t remember his name though.’

  The Labrador padded in, contemplated the room, then flopped down on a rug in front of the fireplace.

  ‘And then Josie?’ Miranda asked.

  ‘After all that, she just came along naturally,’ said Vivienne. ‘It can happen like that, they say. It felt like a miracle.’

  ‘So your father didn’t help you again,’ Casey paused. ‘But he did help other people.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Vivienne. ‘He never mentioned other people. And I’m sure he wouldn’t have . . . He was so angry when I first suggested it . . .’

  The flood of realisation rushed into Vivienne’s face.

  ‘He had to do it,’ she said haltingly. ‘Once he had done it once for me, they made him do it again.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Casey. ‘We don’t know that.’

  ‘Oh God,’ said Vivienne. ‘Oh my God.’ The tears spilled down her face. ‘I made him,’ she said. ‘He never wanted to do it. He hated it so much. And I forced him.’

  She stared around the room again. ‘And now he’s dead,’ she whispered. ‘He’s gone for ever. And I never once said sorry.’

  14

  They left her for a few minutes. Walked around the garden, teacups in hand. The willow was just coming into leaf, drooping gently over a pond. The clouds were low, a shaft of cold sunlight here and there. A little stream chattered past, on its way to join the river.

  ‘Nice place,’ Casey said, ‘for a child to grow up.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Miranda was distracted. ‘Did you see Jessie Miller’s article this morning? About that Labour MP.’

  Jessica Miller had taken over Miranda’s old job back at the Argus. The rivalry was superficially friendly.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d like that,’ Casey grinned.

  When they got back to the house, Vivienne had washed her face. She stood there, pink-cheeked, dry-eyed, the laundry basket at her feet.

  ‘I’ve told you everything I know,’ she said, as they came into the kitchen. ‘And I’m asking you, please, don’t do anything to my family. Robin would be terribly upset, to know you had even come here.’

  The sun flooded through the leaded windows, the shadows a cage on the wall.

  ‘You don’t know where she lived, this woman in Bangladesh?’ asked Miranda.

  ‘They never said anything about her at all.’ Vivienne looked exhausted. ‘I know I should have asked. But you just don’t.’

  ‘Not when you don’t want to know,’ said Miranda.

  One of the canaries chirped loudly.

  ‘I know,’ said Vivienne. ‘And I know what you must both think of me. If it’s my fault that my father . . . If I can think of anything else, I will call you. I promise. But you want to get the person behind all this, don’t you? You want to stop it happening again. So do that. Don’t come for me. Don’t come for my son, please, for God’s sake. He’s only three. He doesn’t deserve any of this.’

  There was ice in Vivienne’s eyes as she spoke, her back straight. The diplomat’s daughter, Casey saw.

  ‘You definitely never knew anything at all about the mother?’ asked Miranda.

  ‘I’m Theo’s mother.’ The words were sharp. ‘And, no, I never asked.’

  ‘Is there any way that there might be more information at the house on Paxos?’ Casey asked.

  ‘The Foreign Office archived my father’s papers,’ said Vivienne. ‘He was never interested in writing his memoirs, or anything like that. And I am sure he would never have written down anything about this.’ Her face crumpled for a second. ‘He would have been so ashamed.’

  ‘He just wanted to live a quiet life,’ said Casey.

  ‘I don’t know what we will do with that house now,’ said Vivienne, almost to herself. ‘I am sure the children would love it so much when they are a bit older. It is so very beautiful.’

  ‘It is stunning,’ agreed Casey, without thinking.

  There was a pause.

  ‘Did you go there?’ Vivienne’s words came slowly. ‘Before he died? Out to the house on Paxos?’

  Casey hesitated a long moment. But there was no way of lying: ‘Yes. Yes, I went out there.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Not long ago.’

  Vivienne was watching her face. ‘You were there’ – there was an eruption of rage – ‘when my father died. You were there!’

  Casey looked across the room at Vivienne. Upstairs, the baby started to cry again. The awareness was growing, creeping across Vivienne’s face.

  ‘You went to my father, with all your accusations. With all your threats and menaces. You . . .’

  ‘It wasn’t—’

  ‘Get the hell out of here,’ said Vivienne. ‘Get away from me.’

  She spun away from them, out into the hall, and paused for just a second. ‘You killed my father,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘You can leave the rest of my family alone.’

  15

  ‘You think he jumped, don’t you?’ Miranda was climbing into her car. They had left it, parked neatly in the village, beside the thatch of a Ring of Bells.

  ‘Of course he jumped.’ Casey was staring at an old tree. It had grown so slowly around a barbed-wire fence that the steel was completely embedded in the wood. Like a flawed relationship, Casey thought. Digging in so gently that nobody noticed.

  ‘She’s wrong, though, you know,’ said Miranda.

  ‘Is she?’

  ‘If anything’ – Miranda was firm – ‘she destroyed her own father. She knew what she was doing, when she asked for his help.’

  ‘She didn’t know the consequences.’ Casey watched the hedgerows slide past.

  ‘No one ever does.’

  By the time they got back to the office, Hessa had pulled together a package of research on Dr Greystone.

  ‘A Dr Greystone operates out of one of the big Georgian houses on Harley Street. The building itself is owned by a company in the British Virgin Islands.’ Hessa was reading from her notes. ‘Aceso Limited. There are several doctors operating from different sets of rooms in the building, which is quite usual in these properties. Greystone is the only fertility specialist in that building. I’ve found a house, wife and kids in Hampstead. Huge place, must have cost a fortune. There is a website for Greystone’s clinic, pretty standard stuff. Bouncing babies and big smiles, and however-can-I-thank-yous?’

  ‘Heartwarming. He’s British?’ asked Miranda.

  ‘Seems to be.’ Hessa sounded more enthusiastic about her work now.

  ‘GMC register?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Cuttings?’ Casey’s voice was quiet.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Hessa. ‘He has no profile at all. There are whispers on the chatrooms though. They say he can work miracles.’

  ‘How much does he charge?’

  ‘If you have to ask . . .’ Hessa shrugged. ‘“It’s a baby,” I found on one forum. “I’d give anything. Everything.” It’s a good industry to be in, when the customers have that sort of mindset.’

  ‘Can’t put a price on life,’ Casey said flippantly.

  ‘Well, it turns out,’ Hessa replied, ‘that you can.’

  ‘And I suppose babies,’ Miranda said almost to herself, ‘are the closest thing you can get to immortality, even with all of Harley Street at your disposal.’

  ‘Did you scout out the building?’ Casey glanced at Hessa.

  ‘Yes,’ Hessa�
�s mouth twitched. ‘I went along and rang the top bell, and then I had a good look at each floor, before – oops – realising I was in the wrong building. There’s a big basement, in those buildings, and then four floors of doctors. Smaller rooms in the attic. There’s a plastic surgeon on the first floor of Greystone’s building, and then a dentist. Greystone is the next storey above, up a couple of flights of stairs. There’s a secretary on the landing, who shows people into a big waiting room. Greystone’s office is to the left, and there’s another room on the same floor too. A lab, maybe? Or perhaps a small surgical theatre.’

  She stopped.

  ‘Well done,’ said Casey. ‘Great work, Hessa.’

  ‘I suppose,’ Miranda said, ‘that it’s time for a visit to Dr Greystone.’

  16

  It was immaculate: the shiny grey door, the grape hyacinths spilling out of the window boxes, the polished brass door number and the glossy black railings. A Harley Street townhouse impeccably repurposed. Miranda paused on the marble steps, and rang the doorbell.

  ‘After all,’ she had said to Casey as she left the office, her mouth twisted to the side, ‘I am the right age for a visit to Dr Greystone.’

  Miranda was wearing a sensible skirt and a fawn silk shirt. ‘Drab,’ she had moaned to Casey. An upside-down Cinderella.

  The shiny grey door unlocked with a purr. On the second floor, the receptionist was beautiful in a black linen suit, half-hidden behind a sleek computer and a huge bunch of lilies.

  ‘Miranda Lancaster.’ She gave her married name, almost unfamiliar. She was Miranda Darcey in her head; she forgot that Miranda Lancaster existed, too often. That Miranda Lancaster was brought out for the lie. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m terribly early,’ Miranda went on. ‘My previous appointment was cancelled. Would you mind awfully if I just sat in your waiting room and read my book?’

  ‘Not at all.’ The professional polish gleamed. ‘Can I bring you a cup of tea?’

  There were only a few women in the waiting room. Miranda smiled around the room, and then sat down to leaf through piles of Country Life and Good Housekeeping and House and Garden. Not Mother and Baby, though. Not here. There were more lilies in the waiting room. The sofas were a soft pink, with framed watercolours of flowers on the wall.

  Miranda sat down, and waited. It never took long to learn a routine.

  The receptionist came for the women, some of the appointments taking just a few minutes. Only one of the women was accompanied by a husband. He was awkward, not sure quite where to look. Several women were pregnant already, touching their bumps self-consciously. Not them, thought Miranda. Not them.

  Miranda began chatting to the women as they arrived. Have you come far? Aren’t the lilies lovely? I’ve heard he’s brilliant, Dr Greystone. You hear such encouraging things.

  And then gently: It’s just not working, not for us. No matter what we do. You too? I know. It’s devastating.

  The receptionist popped in. ‘I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Mrs Lancaster. It’s just such a busy day that I haven’t been able to squeeze you in earlier.’

  ‘There’s really no rush,’ said Miranda. ‘I would have to wait somewhere else anyway, and it’s much nicer here. My husband and I are getting the train home together, you see.’

  ‘Of course.’ That gleaming smile. ‘Another cup of tea?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Just then, a woman came out of Greystone’s office, crying. She stood on the landing, tears trickling down her face. A sound like an animal in pain came from her throat, as she stared blankly at the stairs. And the other women in the waiting room looked away, because this horror was too raw.

  Miranda’s heart twisted for this woman, crying outside an anonymous waiting room. She stood up sharply.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘It’s failed.’ The woman could barely speak. ‘It’s failed, again.’

  It wasn’t fair, talking to her. Not here. Not now. Not ever.

  But Miranda hugged the woman, because she was there. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. She felt the thin shoulders shake, the despair physical.

  The receptionist had her routine. She patted shoulders caringly. She handed out tissues. She called a taxi. Don’t cry, Mrs Abbott. Next time. Next time. Next time. And the woman was ushered away, still crying, out of sight.

  Forgive us our trespasses.

  Miranda sat there for a long time, staring at the white lilies in a silver bowl, orange stamens stripped, seeing nothing at all.

  ‘Another cup of tea?’ the receptionist asked.

  Miranda looked up only as a pretty girl slipped shyly into the room. She was tall and slim, her long brown hair falling out of a ponytail. She wore a loose blue-and-white tunic, sailor-striped, over black leggings. In her late twenties, Miranda judged. A wedding ring, and a big diamond on her left hand. The woman moved delicately, as if she had been a trained dancer, once.

  Flat stomach, Miranda noticed, disguised. ‘Hello,’ she said.

  They smiled at each other across the quiet of the room. ‘Gorgeous day,’ said Miranda.

  ‘Have you been waiting long?’ The woman had a soft voice, so that Miranda had to lean close to hear her.

  ‘Not too long.’ A big smile. ‘Are you waiting for your results?’

  ‘Not really. No.’ The smile gone, the woman was staring at the lilies with solemn grey eyes. ‘At least . . . No.’

  ‘He’s so good, isn’t he? Dr Greystone. Everyone says he’s a genius.’

  ‘Yes.’ A sweet smile. ‘That is what people say.’

  The woman picked up a magazine. Flicked through it, without reading the words. She jumped at a bang from the street.

  ‘Actually’ – Miranda dropped her voice confidingly – ‘we are thinking about surrogacy.’

  The woman glanced up, eyes wide. She hesitated, for a moment. Then: ‘Yes. Actually, that is what we decided, too, in the end.’

  ‘How lovely,’ Miranda smiled at her. ‘When is your baby due?’

  The woman’s face lit up. ‘Just a few weeks now. Dr Greystone wanted to talk over a few last things. I can’t . . . I still can’t quite believe it.’

  The words were flooding out of her, the joy overwhelming.

  ‘How wonderful,’ said Miranda. ‘Where will you go to pick up the baby?’

  The receptionist came into the room. ‘Emily Burton? Dr Greystone is ready for you now.’

  The woman got to her feet, smiled at Miranda over her shoulder.

  ‘Bangladesh,’ she said, the joy overflowing for a moment. ‘We’re going out to Dhaka.’

  17

  Miranda and Casey watched the Burton-Smiths pick their way down the cobbled street. They were hand in hand, smiling in the light at the end of the day.

  ‘Thank fuck,’ Miranda whispered, ‘for that.’

  They were in Bath, just next to the great Abbey. The grand old church soared above them, the East Window like a frozen dream. The Burton-Smiths paused to look up, still holding hands.

  They’ve gone to Bath for a few days, a neighbour had said. A babymoon, that’s what they call it nowadays. At Elton House, or something, she said. Not long now, they say. It’s lovely news.

  It had taken days and days to find Emily Burton. We’re running out of time, Casey had fretted, curved over her desk.

  There were hundreds of Emily Burtons, right the way around the country. And dozens of them were about the right age. Miranda had travelled hundreds of miles. Not an Emily Josephine Burton, near Ludlow in Shropshire. Not Emily Rose Burton, just off the Royal Mile, in the heart of Edinburgh. Not an Emily Nugent, married – unhappily, from the quiet sag in her shoulders – to a choleric Nigel Burton, a chartered surveyor from Ipswich.

  ‘It’s taking up so much of your time,’ said Casey to Miranda, late one night.

  ‘But I’m the only one who saw her,’ said Miranda. ‘And Emily Burton was the only woman at Dr Greystone’s to fit our profile. It has to be her.’

  And finally, Hessa had
done one last search. ‘Emilia Burton-Smith,’ she announced to the room. ‘She’s an artist. Lives in Surrey, with her husband.’

  Miranda studied the website Hessa had found. She worked in oils, Burton-Smith, huge splashing canvases, red on red. The photograph of the artist was small, though, black and white, blurred, half turned away from the camera.

  ‘It could be her,’ hesitated Miranda. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘She looks beautiful,’ said Hessa. ‘But that website is old, now.’

  ‘I should have asked one of you to wait outside the clinic,’ said Miranda. ‘So that at least you would have seen her too.’

  ‘I like her paintings,’ said Casey. ‘How long have they been living in Surrey?’

  Hessa tapped at her computer.

  ‘They moved there a few years ago,’ said Hessa at last. ‘Out from Notting Hill.’

  Waiting for the babies, Casey thought, that never came.

  Hessa, tapping databases, found out more about Emilia and Dominic Burton-Smith. His family owned a swathe of Gloucestershire, it turned out. ‘Very low-profile,’ Hessa said. ‘But smart. They got married ten years ago. When she was twenty-one, and he was twenty-nine.’

  ‘Photographs?’ Miranda asked. ‘Of the wedding?’

  ‘No.’ Hessa sounded apologetic. ‘I can’t find them anywhere. There’s an address though.’

  As Hessa read it out, Casey turned away, gouging at her desk with a pen.

  ‘I’ll go,’ said Miranda.

  But when Miranda got to Surrey, an hour from the office, the house was still, empty.

  ‘They travel a lot.’ A neighbour ambled past, with a small terrier. ‘I keep an eye on it for them. I can let them know they missed you? Here, Choccy.’

  Miranda smiled at the neighbour, and the terrier, and chatted on. And finally Casey and Miranda reached Bath, and the busy little square beside the Abbey. Now they watched, invisible from a small café, as the Burton-Smiths explored a little longer, and then turned away down the little street that ran next to the Roman Baths.