Playing Nice

She describes those early days to us, and it’s almost exactly what Annette predicted. The love-bombing that swept her off her feet—showering her with attention, with compliments, with charm. The proposal of marriage that came within weeks; the wedding that took place within months; the pregnancy that started soon after. The private maternity hospital, because nothing was too good for their child. And then the shock of premature birth—going into labor at twenty-nine weeks, as she did Pilates one morning.

“The obstetrician diagnosed something called cervical incompetence. It was rather unfortunate it was called that, actually. Because it made it clear that even the doctors thought it was my fault. I mean, not deliberately, nobody accused me of that. But it was my body that had been so useless. And there was absolutely nothing that could be done—the baby was on its way, and it couldn’t go back in. And Miles…” She hesitates, then says quietly, “I’ll never forget that moment. He took my hand and bent down so he could whisper in my ear. I expect the nurses thought he was saying something encouraging, to help with the contractions. But his voice—well, he just went still. That’s what I call them—Miles’s stillnesses. I’m used to them now, of course, as much as anyone can be, but that was the first time. He said…” She blinks back tears and swallows hard. “He said, ‘If you’ve killed my son, I swear I’ll kill you.’?”

She lets me put my hand over hers now. I squeeze reassuringly, but say nothing.

“I suppose I’d started to realize by then anyway. I mean, he’d been so distant all through the pregnancy. Like he didn’t need to bother with me anymore. As if everything before had been a massive effort, and now the job was done he could stop pretending. I mean, I’m sure he’d tried to love me, but when I didn’t measure up, he started to ignore me instead.”

She falls silent, remembering.

“And the baby was sent to the NICU,” I say.

“Yes.” She glances at Pete. “Where almost the first thing I saw was Pete, crying for his baby. I thought—well, that’s normal, isn’t it? That’s what a real father would do. I suppose I envied my child the life that baby was going to have. And then a few minutes later this grumpy nurse—Paula—marched up to the mobile incubators and said, ‘Which one’s David Lambert? This one?’ And I—I nodded, even though she was pointing to the wrong cot. So she wheeled it away, across the ward, and I followed her. It was a moment of madness. I didn’t even think it would last, not to begin with—I thought any second the mix-up would be discovered, and my little fantasy would be over. But then, when Paula was off getting something, I looked down and saw a paper tag in the cot as well, lying loose. So I pocketed it.”

“And David became Theo,” I say softly. “Safely stowed inside another family.”

She nods. “How did you guess that’s what happened?”

I hold her gaze. It’s important she understands this, that she doesn’t feel entirely alone. “Because I felt the exact same thing. Not back then, in the NICU. It was when Miles first made his move on Theo and David, and I decided we had to fight for David, too. It was crazy on so many levels, but it wasn’t something I thought through rationally. I just knew.”

I’m so rarely maternal, I hadn’t recognized it at first—not until Judge Wakefield was making it clear that, having won Theo, there was little point in pursuing our claim for David. I’d looked across at Lucy, wiping away tears of relief, and thought, At least he’s loved. And I’d realized that my desire to fight for David had been, at root, pure instinct—the overwhelming, urgent need to protect my son from Miles.

It was only last night, talking to Pete in the darkness, that I’d finally made the connection. If I’d felt that way, what were the chances Theo’s mother had, too?

Lucy’s saying, “Of course, I didn’t know the one I’d taken was brain-damaged, not at first. It was several days before the doctors found that out. When they told us—well, I accepted it as my due. I was pleased for you, actually. I thought, I might have done an unforgivable thing, but at least they got a baby that’s healthy. And I could love David, I knew I could. Perhaps even more than you might have. Because I had no one else, you see. Miles had absolutely no interest in either of us. The child was a failure and I was a failure and that was all there was to it. I mean, he put on a good show of being a caring father when it suited him, but when we were alone…” She pauses. “He can be quite cutting,” she finishes with vague understatement.

“But you’ve stayed with him.”

“Yes.” She grimaces. “You must think I’m so pathetic. I know you’d never have stood for it. But somehow we muddled along. And I had David. He needs so much…I don’t think I could cope with him on my own. And Miles is much better once you’ve worked out how not to make him angry.”

Beside me, Pete twitches. I know he’s itching to say that Miles had no right to treat her like that in the first place, and that it certainly shouldn’t be her job to placate him, but now isn’t the moment. I put my hand on his leg, briefly, then turn back to Lucy.

“Lucy, there are several things about Miles I think you may not know. I suspect you do know that he was having sex with Michaela behind your back.” After a moment, Lucy nods reluctantly. “But what you probably don’t know is that he’s tried to kill people. And in at least one case, we think he’s succeeded.” I look at Pete. “Tell her.”

Pete explains about the hit-and-runs. He lays it out calmly and unemotionally, as if it’s an article he’s pitching to a newspaper. When he’s finished, Lucy takes a deep breath.

“He has a storage unit. I think he may have a second car in it—an old Passat. I found the keys once when I was folding his trousers. He was furious—that’s how I knew it was something important. But I don’t think it’s licensed—I’ve never seen any paperwork for it.”

“Do you know where the storage unit is?”

She shakes her head. “And I don’t want to. I don’t want anything to do with it.”

Pete leans forward and says gently, “I’m afraid you already are something to do with it. And there’s more. Lucy, you need to hear what he’s threatening to do next. To Theo. And what he’s already doing to David.”

110

PETE

IT WAS JUST AN ordinary day.

It was just an ordinary day in Willesden Green, north London. Summer had come to the city, but at eight thirty in the morning the streets were still relatively cool as I took Theo on his scooter to the Leyland Avenue Nursery and Preschool. He’d settled in well. Harvey Taylor’s report had helped a lot, by setting out exactly what extra support he’d need. It was working, too. Slowly but surely, he was getting there.

Having dropped him off, I went home, turned on my laptop and the coffee machine, then logged onto DadStuff. There was a thread for those whose kids had been diagnosed with CU. Music lessons helped, apparently, and simple body-language games. In any case, it was good to share the problem with others, particularly those whose children were older and had been through this stage already.

Then the doorbell rang, so I put down my cappuccino and went to answer it.

There were five of them. Two in uniform, two in white forensic bodysuits, and one in plainclothes. It was the one in plainclothes who said, “Peter Riley, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Miles Leopold Lambert. You do not have to say anything, but if you do not mention now something which you mention later, a court might ask you why you did not mention it at the first opportunity. I have here a warrant to search these premises and to seize electronic devices or other evidence relating to this investigation.”

“I’d better call my solicitor,” I said, stepping back to let them in. “Before you take my phone.”

111

Case no. 12675/PU78B65: SUMMARY AND CONCLUSION by Catherine Jackson, Senior Crown Prosecutor.

The investigation into the death of Miles Lambert (12675/PU78B65) has now been ongoing for more than ten months, and, in the opinion of the police, is unlikely to yield any further high-quality evidence to assist the Crown Prosecution Service in the decision that must now be made regarding whether or not to bring any charges.

The circumstances of Mr. Lambert’s death—an apparent hit-and-run while returning home from a morning jog at approximately 6:50 A.M.—undoubtedly indicate a criminal act. However, the vehicle that struck him has not been identified, and none of those questioned by the police have admitted any involvement.

Suspicion was initially directed at Peter Riley and Madelyn Wilson, who prior to Mr. Lambert’s death had been involved in a court case with him over the custody of his biological son, Theo. There is ample documentation in the bundle showing that, despite initially being quite amicable, the relationship between the two families had become acrimonious. However, Mr. Riley and Ms. Wilson had been successful in that case, and—the communications with Tania Lefebvre and Harvey Taylor notwithstanding—might therefore be presumed to have little motive to harm Mr. Lambert once the judgment had been handed down.