We eat warm pitta bread, hummus and chicken at a lovely Turkish restaurant on Oxford’s Cowley Road, before driving back up to Headington and booking into a guest house nearer to the hospital for the night. I’d given serious consideration to the idea of sending Alex off alone, and the irony of the situation was not lost on me when I asked the nurses for a camp bed so that I could spend the night on the floor next to Ben. But he was out for the count, the nurses had told me; he would be unlikely to wake tonight after the sedation and the additional medication he’d been given. It was true that he hadn’t stirred before or since I’d come back from the PICU ward. With a promise that they would phone me instantly if Ben took a turn for the worse, I had followed the nurses’ suggestion that I take a break, get a decent meal inside me and then try to enjoy a good, child-free night’s sleep.
The guest house is basic, but clean and comfortable. I drift in and out of sleep all night and am awake before dawn. I pull my phone out from under my pillow, shower and dress hurriedly and then whisper to Alex that I need to get back to the hospital before Ben wakes up. He nods sleepily, and pushes back the covers. Moments later, he too is dressed and we arrive back at the hospital just before seven. It flashes into my mind how strange it feels to be so unencumbered, to move around so quickly and easily, just me and Alex, without bags of belongings, without nappies and car seats, without Ben.
Ben is still sleeping soundly when we arrive back at the children’s ward. We’re told he’s had a good night and after sitting with me for a bit, Alex heads off in search of coffee and pastries. I pull out my iPad and my notepaper and write up Mary’s statement as the sun rises up over Oxford. I then kiss Ben and head up to the PICU ward to find Mary, the handwritten statement ready in my bag.
The same matron greets me as I enter the ward and gives me the bad news that, whilst she was supposed to be on shift today, Mary has phoned in sick. My heart sinks. What am I going to do? We’ve got to get back to London today. Alex has work in the morning and, although I’ve already decided to ask for a couple of days’ unpaid leave so that I can keep an eye on Ben, it’s not going to be practical to stay here in Oxford with him on my own. Even if I could, I don’t know how long it will take before Mary’s back at work again – or how I would get to see her in any event, with Ben in tow.
I consider my options – which are few. It’s Matt’s case now – I’m not even supposed to be here. Gareth will be furious if he knows I’ve got myself involved again. I can already imagine the fallout of my dumping of my next two days’ workload onto Matt and others in the office while Ben recuperates, while I watch him like a hawk for the next forty-eight hours, which I know is what I’ll be doing, whatever the doctors have said. Two days’ leave will be, reluctantly, granted, I’m sure. But anything more than that will be pushing my luck. Eventually, I leave the statement with the ward matron, in an envelope, for Mary, with a note asking her to sign it and send it back as soon as possible.
Ben is discharged by lunchtime and we head out of the hospital into the crisp, cool sunshine. We drive back down the M40 in a companionable silence; Alex appears to know instinctively that I don’t feel much like talking, and maybe he doesn’t either. We’ve been told that Ben will be sleepy for the next twenty-four hours following his ordeal, but it doesn’t stop me glancing over my shoulder every five minutes to examine his face for the characteristic dreaminess, the blank stares, the rolling of his eyes to one side that I’d checked for constantly for the first four years of his life – and that I’d so carelessly missed yesterday.
It’s true that, in the past year or so, I’ve gradually become accustomed to Ben’s new seizure-free status. Occasionally, if I hear a sudden thump or a bang – if he drops his sippy cup on the kitchen floor or turns over heavily in his sleep – my heart will skip a beat. But gradually, I’ve allowed myself to relax a little in the belief that his seizures are a thing of the past. Now, here I am again, back in that all too familiar place, that living, breathing state of hyper-vigilance that I know so well. I know that this is what my life is always going to be like and I know I will have to try my best to be pragmatic. I just have to learn to expect the unexpected, always. I have to come to terms with that, and in many ways I have. But, it’s such a huge responsibility. Even with Alex now sitting beside me, and with the hint of a possibility that I might not be facing the future with Ben alone, Ben will always be my day, my evening and my night job. It will always be me who is watching vigil over him, me who looks out for him, not just while he’s a child, but for the rest of my life.
Monday and Tuesday pass peacefully at home. Ben is subdued and happy to spend the first day lying on the sofa in my arms, watching Teletubbies DVDs. By Tuesday morning, though, he’s up and ready for his next session on YouTube. I smile in pleasure as I watch him surf the website, finding clips of his beloved Tubbies in a multitude of languages that are not English, which he watches and listens to intently. I entertain myself by learning how to say ‘tubby-toast’ in German and ‘naughty noo-noo’ in Spanish. I can also count to four (sadly, there are only four Teletubbies) in at least five different languages by the end of the day. I even learn a whole sentence in Polish, when Ben finds one particular clip that’s worthy of a half-hour rewind session. And, to Ben’s delight, I can hum the tune and dance along with a cheery Romanian folk tune, one which the Teletubbies and the noo-noo appear to have adopted as their own.
I phone the John Radcliffe PICU every day, first from home and then from the office when I return on Wednesday. Mary is still off sick; Mary hasn’t come in this morning; they don’t know when Mary’s next shift is; they can’t say when she’ll be back. On Thursday I phone Mark Greenhalgh and leave a message. By the following Friday, when I haven’t heard from him, I ring again.
It’s two days before Christmas when he returns my call. The signed statement from Mary still hasn’t materialised. I already know that it’s too late; Mary will be back in Ghana by now, picking out her jewellery and trying on her wedding dress. My heart sinks in despair as I think how close I just got to a major breakthrough, but that we’re now back to where we were: square one.
That’s not strictly true, of course. I may be able to give evidence myself of what Mary has told me, if the judge allows it. But it doesn’t alter the fact that it will be hearsay; it won’t have come directly from the horse’s mouth. I’m not sure how persuasive I’ll be when I tell the court, second-hand, that Mary had said, ‘fifty or sixty’, not ‘fifteen or sixteen’. I can just picture the prosecutor, Carmel Oliver, leaping to her feet to cross-examine me, suggesting that it’s me, not the police officer, who has got it wrong. It’s me who has misunderstood Mary, who has struggled with her accent, she’ll tell me. My evidence is no more than wishful thinking on my part.
The fact is that nothing is certain, and that’s what I thought I’d achieved for Ellie: certainty. Even though I know that it was simply the unfortunate hand of fate that caused Ben to fall ill at the precise moment he did, it feels as though I’ve let an opportunity slip through my fingertips, and that I’ve let Ellie down.
*
Christmas is a low-key affair. Alex is unavoidably called away overseas on a last-minute business trip, an investment opportunity that can’t wait until the New Year. Ben and I are invited to have Christmas lunch with my brother, who invites my father too. My brother lets Ben use his computer to play on YouTube while the presents are being unwrapped, but the internet connection is slower than Ben is used to, and before long, he is wailing and wobbling around on his unsteady legs, looking for the exit to the house. He gets more and more upset as he tries doors and cupboards, looking for the way out, while I try to steer him back into the front room again. It’s a house which he doesn’t know and which is full of people that he doesn’t know either, at least not well enough for them to be of any comfort to him when he’s this upset. I watch, hopelessly, as my father and my brother attempt to entertain him with various toys and gadgets in which I know instinctively he will have no interest, while my sister-in-law does her best to get the dinner onto the table as quickly as she can. The stress of the situation is too much for me and for everyone, not to mention Ben. After half an hour of this, I apologise, gather my crying son up in my arms and put him back in the car.
Back at home, I let Ben spend his Christmas in the way that he now loves best: on YouTube, surfing for video clips of nursery rhymes. I sit next to him and sing along, making the Makaton signs for ‘Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star’ and ‘Five Green and Speckled Frogs’ with one hand, a glass of wine in the other.
In early January, Ben’s MRI results come back. My GP tells me that everything is normal and I breathe a sigh of relief. A week later, a letter comes through from the SRA to tell me that, while my conduct is regrettable, they won’t be taking the matter any further. Gareth calls me into his room to tell me the news.
‘So I can go back to court?’ I ask.
‘Yes.’
I stand up. ‘Thank you. That’s great.’
‘One more thing...’ he adds. ‘Ellis Stephens wants you back.’ I sit down again. Gareth turns to face me and presses his lips together. I can tell that he’s finding this hard. ‘She and Matt don’t... they don’t see eye to eye. She says that if we don’t allow you to run her trial, she’s leaving and going to another firm.’
I bite my lip, trying to hide my delight. ‘So I’m back on the case? As from now?’
‘It seems that way.’
I immediately phone Ellie, then Will for a conference. He suggests we meet at Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese the following day.
He’s sitting at a table next to the fire when I enter. He looks up when I walk in and takes off his glasses. ‘So. What happened to you?’ He smiles. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to call in your winnings.’
I smile. ‘I found the nurse; I lost the nurse. I guess that makes us quits.’
I sit down at the table opposite him. He pushes a glass across the table towards me. ‘Well, I got you this. Lime and soda, right?’
I nod. ‘Thanks for remembering.’ I shrug off my coat and turn to warm my hands against the amber flames that are flickering in the grate.
‘So how did you find her?’
‘Her sponsor called me eventually and told me where she was. But without her signed evidence, we’re back where we started, aren’t we? Even if the judge allows me to give evidence of what she told me, it’s all hearsay. Carmel’s just going to say that it’s me who’s misunderstood her, that it’s me who’s got it wrong.’
Will looks at me kindly. ‘I suspect so. I don’t think he’ll allow it. Especially not now you’re her defence lawyer.’ He looks up. ‘But well done, Sarah. Really. Ellie was made up when I told her what you’d done.’
I shrug. ‘It’s not quite the news that I was hoping to give her.’
‘You’re on her side. That’s what matters to her. She’ll be very pleased to have you back on board. I know I am.’ He grins at me and narrows his eyes. ‘Matt’s OK, but he’s not my type.’
I smile. ‘He’s not Ellie’s, either, by the sound of things.’
Will shakes his head. ‘He wanted her to plead guilty. He said she didn’t have a defence.’
I frown. ‘Seriously?’
Will puts his glasses back on and looks me in the eye. ‘I am concerned, though. It’s less than three weeks until the trial and we don’t have much to work with.’
‘We have enough,’ I say.
Will leans forward and opens a fresh page on his notebook. ‘So, what have we got?’
‘OK.’ I pull out my iPad. ‘As regards the injuries, we have the schedules from the escort agency that confirm that Ellie was away for several dates between September and December last year, crucially for a whole week, on business with that politician, before Finn was hospitalised in December with the biggest and most pronounced of the bruises – the ones on his tummy, arms and legs.’
‘But we don’t have a name of the politician,’ Will says, ruefully.
‘No name. No politician, I’m afraid.’
‘I bet it’s Boris Johnson,’ says Will.
‘Maybe it’s Theresa May?’
Will raises his eyebrows and we both burst out laughing.
‘So, anyway,’ I continue. ‘Maria Shapiro, the owner of the escort agency, is happy to give evidence if needed, which is great.’ I scroll through the notes on my iPad. ‘We have some concessions from Paula Moore, Ellie’s heath visitor, who says in her statement that she observed Finn and Ellie together, that they had bonded well and that Finn appeared to be thriving – which rebuts some of the things that Heather Grainger says. We have the expert report from the family proceedings, which Anna faxed across to me this morning. This is the expert that can’t be sure that the injuries were deliberate. And we have our own toxicology report regarding the sodium levels, which is inconclusive and not very helpful, to be honest.’
‘Let me have a look at the expert report.’
‘Which one?’
‘From the family proceedings. The one you got this morning.’
I hand it to him. Will puts on his glasses and inspects it.
‘Oh, and Anna sent this, too. She got permission from the family judge last week.’
I hand the statement to Will. ‘Ah-ha. Jay Barrington-Brown. Let’s see what he has to say.’
‘Not a lot,’ I concede. ‘I don’t think you’ll want to witness-summons him.’
Will scans the page and turns it over. ‘Liss?’ he queries, as he reads on. ‘Who’s Liss?’
‘That’s his name for Ellie. It’s her escort name.’
Will glances up at me and then continues to read. ‘Well,’ he says, finally. ‘He may regret the relationship with “Liss”, but this guy clearly loves his child.’
‘Yes. It’s quite touching,’ I agree. ‘He seems completely distraught that Finn has been harmed. But in terms of hard evidence against Ellie, there’s nothing there, nothing that he’s witnessed or can corroborate for himself.’
Will wrinkles his nose. ‘Forget him,’ he says. ‘He’s not on the list of prosecution witnesses. Let’s move on.’
We spend another hour running through the expert reports and create a schedule of both Finn’s and Ellie’s medical records. There are one or two helpful references to Ellie’s impetigo back in 2008 and a note of the advice given: just keep the area clean and come back for antibiotic cream if it doesn’t improve. When we’ve finished, we run through the prosecution response to our disclosure request. Will gives me some final pointers as to the remaining items of disclosure I need to chase up from the prosecution, and then we are done. We part company at the bus stop on Fetter Lane and agree to meet again with Ellie in a week’s time.
*
On the Friday before the trial begins, Lucy calls up to tell me that Ellie is downstairs in reception to see me. I’ve just got back from Highbury Magistrates’ Court across the road. It’s freezing outside and I’ve grabbed a hot soup from the deli opposite the Tube station. Matt’s gone to the pub with some of the others and the office is empty.
Ellie is tucked up warmly in a stylish, figure-hugging navy-blue parka and custard-coloured corduroys. Her face is framed by a plush fur ruff.
‘So what are you wearing, then?’ I smile. ‘And who made the handbag?’
‘Canada-goose down,’ she says, pushing her hood down and flicking her hair out with one hand. She takes a seat. ‘The handbag’s Michael Kors.’
‘Never heard of him,’ I say, dismissively.
Ellie smiles. ‘It’s not what you’re thinking. They’re presents from a grateful ex-client, that’s all.’
‘So, how are you feeling?’ I ask her.
‘Nervous,’ she says. ‘In a way. But in another way... well, the sooner this is over, the sooner I get Finn back.’
I push my soup to one side. ‘Look, Ellie. Don’t get your hopes up too much, OK? I mean, it’s always good to be optimistic, but... the case against you is strong.’
‘But I’ve got you back now and Will’s a brilliant lawyer,’ Ellie says. ‘If anyone can get me off, it’s him.’
‘I agree with that statement, Ellie. I agree with it entirely,’ I tell her. ‘But it’s still a big “if”. As Will told you the very first time he met you, in the absence of anything to rebut it, the presumption is going to be that it was you; you that injured Finn, you who poisoned him... and, therefore, you that pulled out his dialysis line.’
Ellie heaves a big sigh. ‘But what about the escort agency? Maria says she will attend court if I need her to.’
‘I know. But she can only tell the jury that you were away from Finn some of the time. She can’t tell them that you didn’t hurt him.’
Ellie looks away towards the window.
‘And the same with the salt poisoning,’ I tell her. ‘We will imply that it was Marie, that she’d been careless when she fed Finn. Or that it was Darren. That he’d come home from the pub and given Chinese food to Finn, or something equally salty. We just have to hope that the jury can’t be sure.’
‘That won’t exactly clear my name, though, will it?’ Ellie says. ‘If they’re not sure?’
‘They’d have to find you not guilty of attempted murder. You would walk free.’
‘But I still might not get Finn back?’
‘Ellie, I don’t know,’ I tell her. ‘I’m sorry. I just don’t know. Anna told me that he’s going to be released from hospital next week. He’ll go to the Barrington-Browns, to the house in Richmond. And as soon as the trial is over they’ll apply for a care order. He’s got his dad, his grandmother and his grandfather and a huge house. I don’t want to alarm you, but I don’t want to raise your expectations too high either. The fact is, you’ve got strong competition.’
Ellie heaves a sigh. She looks down and picks at the cuticle around her thumb.
‘You’ve talked to Marie again?’ I ask her, tentatively.
She lifts her chin up. ‘I’ve tried. She’s broken up with Darren, for good this time. But she doesn’t want to know. She’s worried that the finger is going to point at her. She’s doing a childcare qualification. She wants to do childminding, properly, for a living.’
The door bursts open and Matt appears. ‘Sarah, there are two in at the cop shop. Holborn. Can you cover?’
‘What time is it?’
‘Just gone two,’ he says.
It’s going to be pushing it, to get to Holborn, deal with two cases and then get back for Ben at six. But I can’t say no, not this time. Matt’s already upset about losing Ellie’s case back to me, and I’m going to be out of the office all next week, shadowing Will on her trial.
‘OK,’ I agree, knowing that I’ve just created an afternoon of utter stress for myself.
Matt’s face lights up. ‘Good one,’ he says.
‘I’ll just finish up with Ellie here, and then—’
‘No worries. I’ll get Lucy to let them know you’re on your way.’ He shuts the door.
‘I’m going to have to go,’ I tell Ellie. ‘Sorry. Is there anything else you needed to talk to me about?’
‘It can wait,’ Ellie says. ‘I’ll see you on Monday, won’t I?’
‘Of course you will. Get there early. We’ll have time to talk before the jury selection begins.’
I say goodbye to Ellie at Highbury Corner and take the number nineteen bus towards Battersea. As soon as I settle onto the bus, I realise I’ve left my iPad on my desk. Damn. That means I’ll have to go back to the office over the weekend to pick it up. It’s little things like this – parking and running up to the office, or running anywhere come to that – that are hard to do with Ben in tow. Hopefully Alex will be over at some point this weekend and won’t mind staying in the car with Ben while I run up to my desk.
What am I saying? Of course he won’t mind. He never minds. And in actual fact... I pull my phone out of my bag and check the time again. It’s now half past two. If there are any delays at the police station – and there often are – I am going to be in big trouble. I wonder if Alex is at work today?
I sit there looking at my phone for a moment, before tapping the little envelope on the front screen and finding his name.
Hi, love, I type into the screen. You around this pm per chance? On way to cop shop and have horrible feeling I won’t get back for Ben.
There. Done. He won’t mind me asking; he might even be pleased. It will show him that I trust him, I tell myself, as I think back with shame to my rather insensitive quizzing of him at the hospital in Oxford, the way I shouted at him on the morning that Ben was sick and didn’t turn up at school.
I open my bag to check that I have, if not my iPad, my Police Operational Handbook, the forms I need and a notepad and pen. I pull out the notepad and flick through the pages to check there’s enough paper left. From the back of the notepad the faxed copies of the statements from Anna flutter to the floor of the bus.
I bend down to pick them up and glance at them again. I flick through the medical report. Is there anything, anything at all, to hold onto, I wonder? I scan through its pages, once again, before turning to the conclusion at the back. Based on the data available to me, I can’t conclude with a sufficient degree of certainty that the injuries were deliberately inflicted. However, this opinion may be subject to modification in the light of any additional information that becomes available. And well it might, I conclude in turn. Calling this expert to give evidence on Ellie’s behalf could easily backfire. If he changes his mind in court and agrees with the prosecution, our position could weaken substantially.
Behind the report is the statement from Jay Barrington-Brown. Here’s another one that might potentially help us, but probably won’t. Will has already said that we should leave him well alone. I scan through it one more time. Will’s right. There’s nothing there.
As I get off the bus at Holborn, my phone whistles. I quickly pull it out of my bag. I can get him. Don’t worry. See you at home. X. At home. The tension melts out of me and I smile to myself as I text back, You’re a lifesaver. Love you. Hopefully back by 7. X
It is, in fact, nearly seven when I walk out of Holborn police station and head for the Tube. I won’t make it back before half past. It really is a very good job that I made the decision to text Alex and arrange for him to collect Ben. I pull my phone out of my bag and switch it back on, then send a quick text to Alex: All done. On my way. X.
I walk down Theobald’s Road and turn the corner past Red Lion Square, towards the Tube station. I wonder what Alex wants to do about dinner; there’s not much in. I click on the icon next to his name and call his number. It rings out, so I leave a message. As I turn into High Holborn I spot the Sainsbury’s Local ahead of me on the other side of the road. I could pick something up here; it’ll save me stopping off when I get off the Tube at the other end. I call Alex’s number again, and then ring my own landline. No answer. He’s probably changing Ben.
I cross the road and head into Sainsbury’s, where I walk up and down the cold aisle trying to decide what to buy. I choose a pack of salmon and a tray of Mediterranean vegetables and join the queue at the checkout. I glance at my phone again, but there’s still no word from Alex, so I pay for the food and head out of the shop. I join the crowd standing at the pelican crossing, a vague sense of unease tugging at my gut. Why isn’t he answering? It doesn’t take this long to change Ben.
I cross the road and head into the Tube station. This is the quickest route home, but I also know that I’ll have no signal once I head down into the tunnel. It would be good to know before I start my journey that the boys are home, safe and sound, that everything’s OK. On a whim, I turn round and leave the station, crossing back over the road the way I’ve just come. I’ll give him another five minutes, I tell myself, and then I’ll call again. And if there’s still no answer, I’ll just go on home; I’m sure I’m worrying for nothing. I’m sure everything is just fine.
I head back into Sainsbury’s to escape the cold, but stop just inside the doorway; I don’t want to risk losing my phone signal and missing a call. I glance at the magazine rack on the wall to my left and my eyes alight on a copy of Hello! magazine. I reach out and take it off the rack. I flick past the pictures of Princess Catherine, who’s on a trip abroad somewhere, long-legged and beautiful as always. Victoria Beckham and her glamorous family are next, followed by the inevitable group photo of the latest society wedding – the goddaughter of some duke that I’ve never heard of who’s marrying some wealthy European prince. I’m just about to flick on past it when I suddenly see Eleanor Barrington-Brown smiling out at me from the row at the front near to the bride and groom. She’s wearing a huge wide-brimmed white hat with a grey trim, and a matching grey coat-dress with a fur batwing collar. Next to her is a handsome man in his sixties, wearing a pinstriped morning suit: Lord Barrington-Brown.
The instant I see his face, I know I’ve seen it before. I know that expression; I know those deep-set navy-blue eyes, the way they crinkle at the corners. I know the shape of his nose, the set of his jaw. I stand there and peer at him for a moment in confusion. Suddenly, my gut tightens... it can’t be, can it? I quickly scan the rest of the group. There at the very back, head and shoulders only just visible, barely noticeable to anyone who’s not looking for him, is Alex.
My blood runs cold. I stare into his face, my heart hammering against my chest, my body numb. Someone bumps into me from behind and I jerk forward like a puppet, the magazine sliding from my fingers onto the floor. I bend down to pick it up, but my legs are so weak that I think they might give way, that I’m going to fall into a heap on the ground. My fingers fumble for the magazine and I manage to stand up and place it back on the shelf, before moving in a mindless daze out of the shop.
And then I’m running. I’m running across the road, without waiting for the lights to change. I’m vaguely aware of a row of cars, all screeching to a halt in front of me, horns blaring, people stopping and looking around in alarm. I run into the Tube station, fumbling in my bag for my Oyster card as I go. I flash it at the card reader, simultaneously slamming my body into the barriers, barely waiting for them to open before I push my way through and run down the escalator, edging my fellow passengers out of my way.
I swear out loud as I round the corner onto the platform and a train pulls away. I stagger backwards on the platform and sink down onto the wooden bench behind me, clutching my bag against my chest and trying to control my breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth, isn’t that what they say? Or is it the other way round?
I pull my bag open and reach inside, my hands now shaking uncontrollably as I pull apart my notepad, and sift through page after page of my handwritten scribble, the notes from the cases I’ve dealt with this afternoon. Where are they? There they are. I pull out the faxed statements from Anna, which are tucked untidily in between a police custody record and a disclosure notice. I flick past the expert report and pull out the statement of Jay Barrington-Brown. The font is small and the faxed print is faint. I squint at the statement of truth and then cast my eyes upwards to read: Statement of: James Alexander Barrington-Brown. Occupation: Neurologist.
And in that moment, I know for sure.
I know what’s been happening to my little boy.