Playing Nice

Wariness flashes across Paula’s face. “I’ve already told the hospital investigators everything I remember.”

“I’m sure. But it might help if you could tell me, too.”

Paula shrugs. “Mrs. Lambert got here a couple of hours after the babies were admitted. I’d been given David to look after—I was just setting things up for him when she arrived. That’s when I realized no one had thought to put a tag on him.” Paula glances at Bronagh. “It didn’t occur to me to check with Bron, to see if hers had no tag, too. Why would I? I just typed his details into our software.” Her voice catches, and for a moment I think she might be going to cry. “I’m so sorry. It must have caused you so much heartbreak. But I really think it was just a freak accident.”

I feel my shoulders sag. If the Lamberts had arrived too late to be responsible for the swap, and it was neither of the nurses, I can see why the finger of suspicion keeps coming back to Pete.

“Besides, I won’t forget them in a hurry,” Paula says. “The Lamberts, I mean.”

My ears prick up. “Why’s that?”

“He was a cold fish. Both of them were. You get used to the way people react when they first come onto the NICU—the shock, I mean, and the worry. You could tell she was anxious, but with him it was like he was being given a guided tour—as if it was interesting, but nothing personal.” She stops. “I remember looking over and seeing your partner, Pete, by Bronagh’s station. He was sobbing his eyes out. And why not? A lot of men do that, particularly when they think no one’s looking. You’ve just become a father, maybe a whole couple of months before you thought you would, and suddenly you’re on a ward like ours, being told your baby might not live. I remember turning back to my incubator and seeing Mr. Lambert. He was watching your partner, too. Studying him, is the only way I can describe it. Like he was fascinated, but also a bit puzzled. And then he looked at his wife and said, ‘Well, I’d better get back to my desk.’ As if he’d just popped out to get a sandwich. And she only nodded, as if that was totally normal, too.”

80

 

Case no. 12675/PU78B65, Exhibit 43. Texts from Bronagh Walsh to Peter Riley. Peter Riley’s iPhone was in police custody at the time.

 Just thought you’d want to know—M came to St A’s today. Told her the only times we met were when (a) you came to the ward after Theo’s birthday and (b) that maybe I’d bumped into you at the bike ride and said hello but couldn’t really remember. Didn’t mention the other day—she seemed to think it was just messaging. Hope that all tallies?



That OK? X



P? Everything OK? Really hate to cause u any trouble. She told me about the police and Theo etc. Jesus. You poor guys.



P??? You getting these?

81



   MADDIE



   IT’S NEARLY TIME TO go and pick up Theo. I’d gone to St. Alexander’s by car, to give myself more time. Now I sit in a car park on Marylebone Road, looking at Facebook.

Or, more specifically, at Pete’s Facebook. So many pictures of Theo, his little limbs gradually shrinking as I scroll backward in time. Theo at eighteen months. Theo crawling. Theo in a babygrow.

And then the bike ride. The pictures I stopped looking at when my psychosis kicked in. The grinning young men in bike helmets taking selfies in Scotland, the Lake District, the Yorkshire Moors…

York. A rest day in the city, followed by a whole weekend off. No helmets or Lycra in those photos, just massive breakfasts in cafés and pints of beer in pubs. A night in a club—and yes, there are women around. Nothing untoward, just chatting, drinks in hand.

   I do a search for Bronagh Walsh. And lo, there’s Bronagh’s profile. The picture shows her at what looks like a music festival, a sparkler in each hand, pulling a pose. I tap PHOTOS, but she’s set them to private. She hasn’t done that with her friends, though—all 412 of them. I scroll through until I find Paula, then go to Paula’s page. She hasn’t made any settings private, so I can look at her pictures and search them by location. Sure enough, some are tagged “York.” Facebook even identifies the bar where they were taken—Vudu Lounge, on Swinegate.

With Bronagh Walsh and seven others, it adds helpfully. And there’s Bronagh, holding a cocktail, with three other girls, all in short dresses. It’s the first time I’ve seen her with makeup on and her hair down. She’s undeniably striking. No sign of Pete, though.

I suddenly feel ashamed. What am I doing, spying on my partner like this? And in any case, what am I hoping to prove? Bronagh’s already admitted she was there. It doesn’t mean anything happened.

But even so, I’m sure she was being evasive about something. Just as Pete was.

I put the iPad down and start the car. I’m going to be late for Theo. Again.

As I drive to the Lamberts’, cutting the traffic lights as fine as I dare, I think about the other things I heard today. Presumably what Bronagh said about the NICU being exonerated by the mortality review could be checked. More interesting, perhaps, was what Paula said about Miles. As I’d told Pete, lack of emotion is typical of a psychopath, as is clearheadedness in a crisis. And studying Pete when he was crying—that, too, is something I’d read about: Without strong feelings of their own, psychopaths learn to study and mimic the emotions of others.

But I can’t get away from the fact that Paula said the Lamberts came onto the ward later that day, when the swap must have already happened. And from the sound of it—“I’d better get back to my desk”—Miles hadn’t spent much time in the NICU even when he did come.

   I’d gone to see Bronagh with such high hopes. But the more I learn, the more I seem to go around in circles. Circles that have at their center just one fixed point, one person with both motive and opportunity.

Pete.

I sigh aloud. At least the traffic is flowing. I reach Haydon Gardens in under thirty minutes. When I buzz the Lamberts’ intercom, the front door is opened by someone I haven’t seen before, a sandy-haired woman in her thirties.

“Hello,” she says pleasantly. “Can I help you?”

“I’m Maddie. Theo’s mum?”

“Oh, of course. He’s just getting his coat. I’m Jill, by the way.”

Now that I look closer, I see she’s wearing what could almost be a uniform—dark trousers and a dark-blue pullover, with a lighter-blue polo shirt under it. The pullover has a discreet logo on the chest, a small embroidered N.

“The new nanny,” Jill adds smilingly, seeing my incomprehension.

A small fair-haired boy roughly the same age as Theo peers around the edge of the door. “Are you Theo’s mummy?” he demands.