Stop. I dubbed him Saint Peter because he is a saint—almost irritatingly so, sometimes, but a saint nonetheless. No one knows better than me that his caring nature isn’t an act.

But he might have done it for you, the inner voice says.

And I stop dead, because I know that, at least, could be…not true, obviously, but not impossible. Pete kept the stark reality about hypoxia from me that day because he wanted to protect me. He would never have stolen a healthy baby for his own sake—but might he, could he, have stolen a healthy baby because he thought I couldn’t cope with the alternative?

   Was it his very sainthood that prompted him to commit the most terrible of acts—not out of heartlessness, but the very opposite, love?

* * *

—

WE RARELY TALK THESE days about the period that brought us together. It was a wild time in my life—I’d moved to Sydney, gotten a job in television production, started working hard and partying even harder. I certainly wasn’t looking to fall in love, so when I fell for an older, married TV presenter it came as a shock. For three whirlwind months I convinced myself he was telling the truth when he said he was going to leave his wife and family for me. He didn’t, of course. I became depressed; there was a messy cry for help—an overdose I ended up not being able to keep down—followed by a long period of numb recuperation. And a good-looking, well-mannered English boy who didn’t seem in the least put off by the fact I was an emotional wreck, or by my frequent reminders that we’d never be anything more than friends. And slowly, friendship became something else—or rather, I suppose, I came to realize that friendship is actually a more important ingredient of a relationship than I’d given it credit for. When I did eventually sleep with him, it was more out of a sense of gratitude than anything else. There, that’s done now. But somehow, it didn’t stay as a one-off. On some level, I liked the comfort that sex with Pete gave me. And once you were sleeping with your best friend, you were effectively in a relationship. He was my rock, the one who cared for me at a time when to be cared for was what I needed more than anything else.

But would he really commit a crime for me? Surely not—the guilty conscience would plague him; his very sense of who he is would be shaken to the core. Yet here we are, with him effectively accused, and me doubting his innocence…

   This is what happens, I realize. This is how couples get torn apart by circumstances like these. Doubt and mistrust, combined with financial stress and the agony of not knowing whether a judge is going to order our child taken from us, would eat away at the strongest relationship. I mustn’t let it happen to me and Pete.

And yet I can’t help it, and the suspicion still lingers, deep in the recesses of my mind. That lie Pete told about the tag—was that really just to protect Bronagh, or was there something more to it as well? And what about the other insinuations in the NHS report? If the babies really were swapped deliberately, who else could it have been?

My phone rings. I answer it, thinking it must be Pete, out of his interview at last.

“Hello, Maddie,” Lyn the CAFCASS adviser says in her lilting Welsh tones. “Is now a good time? I need to chat with you about Peter, do you see?”

70

   MADDIE

   “WHAT ABOUT PETE?”

“It’s just that I’ve been alerted to a possible safeguarding issue, Maddie. I understand serious allegations have been made, which the police are now investigating.”

“Well,” I say slowly, “it’s true there have been some allegations—false ones, obviously. It’s fairly clear to us that Miles Lambert is somehow responsible—”

“Would you have any evidence regarding that at all, Maddie?” Lyn interrupts.

“Not as such, no.”

“Then I think you should be careful not to make statements like that. As it’s now a police matter.” Lyn’s tone, usually so soft and ingratiating, has turned steely.

“Of course. My point was, these are only allegations, with no evidence behind them.”

“Even so, my job is to think of Theo in this situation,” Lyn says firmly. “When a man is being investigated for a possible offense against a child, there are procedures, Maddie, do you see? We have to ask ourselves, is this child safe?”

   “But this is the same child he’s accused—wrongly—of taking,” I say, genuinely baffled. “Of course Theo’s safe.”

“Nobody wants to be talking about removing Theo into emergency protection at this stage.” The steely note in Lyn’s voice is becoming more pronounced.

“What? Who said anything—”

“So I think it’s best if Pete finds somewhere else to stay, for now,” Lyn continues as if I haven’t spoken. “He can still have contact, but it will have to take place when you’re in the house. Or it could be supervised by someone else, do you see—there are specialist centers where that can be arranged. I can give you a list of addresses.”

“I don’t understand,” I say slowly. “Are you saying you have the power to break up my relationship with Pete?”

“No,” Lyn says evenly. “I’m saying I have the power to remove Theo into safekeeping if I’m not entirely satisfied with the arrangement that currently exists. Which at the present time, I’m not. However, if you were to give a written undertaking that Pete won’t be staying in the house, won’t be alone with Theo, won’t have him in his sole charge, and will otherwise only see him under supervision in a registered contact center, I could be persuaded that you’re working with us to provide a safer and more acceptable environment. So really, it’s your decision, Maddie. Which is it to be?”

Even though I can barely speak, I know I have no choice. If Theo is taken away from us now, the chances of keeping him in the long term will shrink dramatically.

“I’ll do whatever it takes to keep Theo and to get David back,” I hear myself say. “So if you think Pete should go, I’ll tell him he has to move out.”

71

   MADDIE

   I WAIT IN A kind of daze for Pete to get back from the police station. It’s as if my brain is refusing to engage with what’s happening, unable to process more than one disaster at a time. Perhaps it’s a kind of defense mechanism. If I really grasped the enormity of everything that’s going on, I’d scream.

It’s another hour before I hear his key in the lock. He comes in looking exhausted. He drops his keys onto the desk, next to where his MacBook usually is. He glances at the dangling power lead but says nothing.

“They took it,” I say. “The police. They came earlier.”