‘I told you not to phone.’ The Yorkshire accent is more pronounced over the phone, flat and slightly nasal. ‘I told you I’d phone you.’
‘But you didn’t.’ This comes out as a whine.
‘And that’s because I don’t have any free time in which to work on your case. I did explain to you how I’m fixed.’ He emphasises every other word, as though speaking to a child.
‘Yes, but things have changed since then.’ I’m aware that I sound desperate. I am desperate. ‘There have been more developments.’
‘I’m sorry, Ms Palmer, but, like I said, I can only offer you the name of one of my industry associates.’ He hangs up.
I sit on the edge of my bed, head in hands. My stomach feels gassy, crampy, and I lurch into the bathroom and sit on the closed toilet seat for a few minutes, until the sensation has passed. I seem to have permanent indigestion these days. I gulp down a mouthful of Gaviscon, grab my bag and walk to the tube station to catch a train to Whitechapel.
James Cardle is not pleased to see me and doesn’t attempt to hide it.
My first few attempts to get into his office are ignored. Then a man in a suit comes out of the building, opening the front door for me, and I take the lift to the second floor.
‘Was that you ringing the bell?’ Cardle asks tersely, opening the door to me. ‘Only I was with a client. Thought you might have worked that out for yourself.’
Once again he doesn’t offer me a seat, but I sit down on the sofa anyway.
‘You’re persistent, I’ll give you that,’ he says grudgingly. He’s wearing a pink-and-white gingham shirt and dark blue chinos; the sleeves of the shirt rolled up to reveal brawny forearms. This is the first time I’ve seen him standing up and he’s tall as well as broad; I estimate about 6’3”.
‘Please just let me explain why I’ve come back,’ I say. ‘And if you still aren’t interested in helping me, then I’ll leave you in peace, I promise.’
He raises an eyebrow, but sits down opposite me anyway. ‘Really? Hold you to that, can I?’
I manage a faint smile, before filling him in on the Met’s conclusion that the real Dominic Gill was killed by the man calling himself Ben MacAlister. I tell him about the note left for me, but not about the trainers I found, or the atropine. I’m not ready to give voice to those awful thoughts: not yet.
‘Only it turns out Ben MacAlister was also just an alias,’ I say with more sangfroid. ‘He used a passport in that name, but it was fake.’
Cardle narrows his eyes at me. ‘But, if I understand you correctly, the police have now closed the case. That’s a good thing, surely?’
I stare at him. ‘Well no, of course it’s not. I still want answers.’
‘We have a saying where I come from: least said, soonest mended. Maybe that’s advice you should be following.’
‘Easier said than done,’ I say quietly.
I can tell that he’s trying to employ patience, and that this doesn’t come naturally to him. ‘Look – the guy was a conman, and now he’s dead. Which means he can’t take you to the cleaners in a divorce, which it sounds like he was planning to.’ He twists the heavy gold watch on his wrist, not so subtly checking the time. ‘So, if you want my professional opinion, you’re better off leaving well alone and moving on with your life. So you don’t know this bloke’s real name – so what? What difference does it make? He was just some dangerous psychopath who wanted to rip you off.’ Cardle’s tone is brisk, but not unkind. He stands up.
I feel a spasm of stomach ache grip me, and I have that peculiar sensation you get when the blood drains from your face. ‘I feel pale,’ I used to say to my mother when I was little.
‘But I still want to know,’ I say weakly. ‘I need to know. I can’t put it behind me until I do.’
And then I feel my waters break. This can’t be right, I think, my mind racing back to the pregnancy textbook I devoured recently. I’m only just into my second trimester. My waters can’t break now, surely.
I gaze dumbly up at Cardle as though he can help me, then down at my lap as I feel another little gush of liquid. I’m wearing a pale blue dress, and it has a huge, dark stain on it. I lift the hem, and there’s blood streaking my thighs, reaching past my knees. Not amniotic fluid, blood.
‘Bloody hell!’ Cardle says without irony, as drops of red pool on the light grey carpet.
‘I need to go to hospital.’ My voice is high and thin, as if it’s coming from someone else. ‘I think I’m having a miscarriage.’
The car moves briskly through the seething traffic on the Mile End Road, heading for the Royal London.
‘They’ve got a good maternity unit,’ Cardle says, but offers nothing else, not even a reproach about my ruining the upholstery in his battered Subaru. The interior of his car is a mess anyway, which is a relief. An empty can of Red Bull rolls around in the footwell, alongside empty crisp packets, a cigarette carton, chocolate wrappers and tickets from parking payment machines.
The car is unceremoniously dumped in a disabled space near the door to Accident and Emergency and I hobble inside, pausing every few seconds as further gushes of blood ooze down my thigh.
A harassed woman at reception tries to make us sit down and wait, but Cardle tells her with authority and a touch of menace, ‘This lady needs urgent attention. Now. She’s haemorrhaging. And she’s pregnant.’
I’m whisked into a side room and the junior doctor – who looks about fourteen – pages the on-call obstetric registrar.
‘It’s okay,’ I say to Cardle, ‘you don’t have to stay.’
‘I’m going nowhere.’
Someone fetches a portable ultrasound and the registrar arrives, introduces himself and starts running the probe over my stomach. A kindly healthcare assistant has helped me into a hospital gown and is having a stab at cleaning me up.
‘Right,’ says the doctor eventually, after looking at the screen carefully for a few seconds. ‘The good news is: we still have a strong heartbeat.’
He turns the screen round a little so that I can see. The baby is sucking its thumb.
I gasp. ‘It’s okay?’
The doctor nods. ‘Baby looks absolutely fine.’
Cardle exhales hard. ‘Thank Christ for that.’
I stare at him, amazed.
‘But the less good news is that you have what’s called “placenta praevia”. It’s when the placenta grows over the cervix. That’s what’s causing the bleeding. How many weeks are you now?’
‘Around fourteen.’
‘Okay, so…’ The doctor lifts my gown and takes a look between my legs. Cardle tactfully turns away, and I’m grateful to him. The doctor walks to the small basin in the corner of the room to wash his hands. ‘In most cases as the uterus expands, the placenta moves out of the way. Usually by no later than thirty weeks.’
‘And if it doesn’t?’ I ask.
‘Then you’ll need careful monitoring in your third trimester, and if it hasn’t moved by thirty-seven weeks, then you’ll need to be delivered by Caesarean section.’
I stare, rapt, at the image on the screen. This is the second time I’ve seen my baby, but it’s no less thrilling.
The doctor turns back and smiles at me as he wipes his hands dry with paper towels. ‘We’ll admit you overnight just for observation. The bleeding seems to be slowing down, but we need to be sure it’s going to stop. If it does, you can be discharged, but I’m afraid it will be bed rest for a few days, followed by restricted activity.’
‘What does restricted activity entail?’ I ask, with a sinking feeling.
‘No sport or exercise, no heavy lifting, no sex.’ He gives Cardle an apologetic smile.
‘Oh no!’ I say. ‘God no! He’s not my… I just happened to be in his office when the bleeding started, and he gave me a lift.’
I have to wait for another hour and a half before a bed is vacated on the already full-to-capacity ward. Cardle, who insists he won’t leave until I’m settled in upstairs, fetches me a cup of tea and a packet of chocolate biscuits from the shop.
‘Thanks, James,’ I give him a weary smile. ‘You’ve been incredibly kind.’
‘It’s Jim,’ he says gruffly, helping himself to one of the biscuits. ‘Nobody’s called me James since I left school.’
‘Thanks Jim, then.’
‘I’m just glad you’re okay. That – you know – you haven’t lost it.’
I place my hand instinctively over my lower abdomen. ‘It’s the size of a peach now,’ I murmur, to no one in particular.
‘Few more weeks and you’ll feel him or her moving around.’
I look at Jim with interest. ‘Have you got children?’ Hard to imagine this inscrutable, slightly dour man in a family environment.
‘Two. Zachary and Eloise.’
‘You’re married?’
‘Divorced. They live with their mum, back in North Yorkshire, so I don’t get to see them as often as I’d like. But they’re nearly grown up now anyway. Doing their own thing. Zac’s seventeen and Elle’s nearly fifteen.’
‘Gosh,’ I say, then realise what an airhead I sound.
‘I get it a bit more now,’ he says, sipping from his own polystyrene cup of coffee.
‘Get what?’
‘Why you need to chase down the shit who married you.’ He nods in the direction of my stomach. ‘Because he also knocked you up. Your kid is also his kid. It makes sense why you would want to find out who the guy was.’ He hesitates a second. ‘It is his? Only I know in my job not to assume—’
‘It’s his.’ I take a sip of tea. ‘But thanks,’ I say quietly, without looking at him. ‘That means a lot. That you understand why I need answers. Why I can’t just chalk it up and walk away. Despite what he’s done, I need to be able to tell my son or daughter who their father was.’
A nurse pops her head round the doorway of the cubicle. ‘We’ll take you up to the ward now, Alice,’ she says cheerfully. ‘I’m just waiting for a porter.’
‘You can go now, Jim,’ I say. ‘I’ll be fine. In fact, I quite fancy a nap.’
He stands up, his large frame filling the space. ‘Right you are.’ As he reaches the door, he turns and says, ‘Look, I would like to try and help you. I can’t promise I’ll be able to devote a whole lot of time to it, but give me a ring when you’re off bed rest and I’ll see what I can find out.’