Clare Mackintosh - I Let You Go

‘Standard practice,’ the midwife said briskly.

I stared at her but she didn’t back down, and I stood up. ‘Fine.’ I took my time leaving the room, and went to stand by the coffee machine where I could see the door to the midwife’s room.

I looked around at the other couples: there were no men on their own – no one else was being treated this way. I marched across to the consulting room and opened the door without knocking. You had something in your hand and you slipped it between the pages of your pregnancy notes. A small rectangular card: pale blue, with some kind of logo in the centre at the top.

‘We need to move the car, Jennifer,’ I said. ‘We’re only allowed to park for an hour.’

‘Oh, okay. I’m sorry.’ This last was directed at the midwife, who smiled at you and ignored me completely. She leaned forward and put her hand on your arm.

‘Our number’s on the front of your notes, so if you’re worried about anything – anything at all – ask.’

We drove home in silence. You held the scan picture in your lap and every now and then I saw you put a hand to your stomach, as if trying to reconcile what you felt inside with what you held in your hand.

‘What did the midwife want to talk to you about?’ I said when we got home.

‘Just my medical history,’ you said, but it was too quick, too rehearsed.

I knew you were lying. Later that day, when you fell asleep, I went through your notes, looking for that pale-blue business card with the round logo, but it wasn’t there.

I watched you change, as your stomach grew. I thought your need for me would increase, but if anything you became more self-sufficient, more resilient. I was losing you to this baby, and I didn’t know how to get you back.

That summer was hot, and you seemed to revel in walking around the house with your skirt rolled down under your bump; a tiny T-shirt riding up above it. Your belly button popped out and I couldn’t bear to look at it; couldn’t understand why you were happy to wander around like that, answer the door, even.

You stopped working, even though you weren’t due for weeks, and so I cancelled the cleaner. It made no sense to pay for someone to clean the house when you were at home all day doing nothing.

I left you with the ironing one day, and when I returned you had finished it all and the house was spotless. You looked exhausted, and I was touched by your commitment. I decided I would run you a bath; pamper you a little. I wondered if you might like a takeaway, or perhaps I would cook for you. I carried the shirts upstairs and turned on the taps before calling you.

I was hanging the shirts in my wardrobe when I noticed something.

‘What’s this?’

You were immediately abashed. ‘It’s a scorch mark. I’m so sorry. The phone rang, and I got distracted. But it’s on the bottom, I don’t think it will show if you tuck it in.’

You looked so upset, but it really didn’t matter. It was just a shirt. I put it down and stepped forward to give you a cuddle, but you flinched and drew an arm protectively across your stomach, your face turned away and screwed up in anticipation of something I had never even intended to happen.

But it did happen. And you had only yourself to blame.

42

Ray’s mobile rang as he was manoeuvring his car into the last available space in the yard. He pressed ‘accept’ on the hands-free and twisted round to see how much further he could inch backwards.

Chief Constable Rippon got straight to the point. ‘I want you to bring forward the Op Falcon briefing to this afternoon.’

Ray’s Mondeo nudged the blue Volvo parked behind it.

‘Shit.’

‘That wasn’t quite the reaction I was hoping for.’ There was an amused note in the chief’s voice that Ray had not heard before. He wondered what had happened to put her in such good humour.

‘Sorry, ma’am.’

Ray got out of his car, leaving the keys in the ignition in case the owner of the Volvo needed to get out. He glanced at the bumper but could see no obvious mark. ‘You were saying?’

‘The Op Falcon briefing is scheduled for Monday,’ Olivia said, with uncharacteristic patience, ‘but I want to bring it forward. You might have seen on the news this morning that several other forces have been criticised for their apparently tolerant approach to drug possession.’

Ah, Ray thought. That explained the good mood.

‘So it’s the ideal time for us to launch our “tough on drugs” stance. We’ve already got the nationals lined up – I need you to pull the relevant resources together a few days early.’

Ray’s blood ran cold. ‘I can’t do it today,’ he said.

There was a pause.

Ray waited for the chief to speak, but the silence stretched unbearably between them until he felt he had to fill it. ‘I have an appointment at my son’s school at midday.’

It was rumoured that Olivia conducted parents’ evenings at her children’s school via telephone conferencing, so Ray knew this was unlikely to sway her.

‘Ray,’ she said, all traces of humour dispelled, ‘as you know, I am extremely supportive of those with dependants, and in fact championed the introduction in this force of flexible working for parents. But unless I’m very much mistaken, you do have a wife , do you not?’

‘I do.’

‘And is she going to this meeting?’

‘She is.’

‘Then what, may I ask, is the problem?’

Ray leaned against the wall by the back door and looked up at the sky for inspiration, but all he saw were heavy black clouds.

‘My son is being bullied, ma’am. Badly, I think. This is the first opportunity we have had to speak to the school since they admitted there was a problem, and my wife wants me there.’ Ray cursed himself for pushing the blame on to Mags. ‘I want to be there,’ he said. ‘I need to be there.’

Olivia’s tone softened slightly. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Ray. Kids can be a worry. If you need to go to this meeting, then of course you should go. But the briefing will go ahead this morning, with the national coverage this force needs in order to cement itself as a progressive, zero-tolerance force. And if you can’t lead it, then I’ll have to find someone who can. I’ll speak to you in an hour.’

‘Talk about Hobson’s choice,’ Ray muttered, as he put the phone back in his pocket. It was as simple as that, then: career prospects on one side; family on the other. Upstairs in his office, he shut the door and sat at his desk, pressing the tips of his fingers together. Today’s operation was a big deal, and he was under no illusions that this was a test. Did he have what it took to go further in the police? He wasn’t sure himself, any more – he didn’t even know if that was what he wanted. He thought about the new car they would need in a year or so; the foreign holidays the kids would start clamouring for before too long; the bigger house Mags deserved. He had two bright kids who would hopefully go on to university, and where was the money going to come from for that, unless Ray continued climbing the ladder? Nothing was possible without sacrifices.

Taking a deep breath, Ray picked up the phone to call home.

The launch of Operation Falcon was a triumph. Members of the press were invited to the conference room at headquarters for a half-hour briefing, during which the chief introduced Ray as ‘one of the best detectives in the force’. Ray felt a surge of adrenalin as he answered questions on the scale of the drugs problem in Bristol, the force’s approach to enforcement, and his own commitment to restoring community safety by eradicating on-street dealing. When the ITN reporter asked him for a final word, Ray looked directly into the camera and didn’t hesitate. ‘There are people out there who are dealing drugs with impunity, and who believe the police are powerless to stop them. But we do have powers, and we have resilience, and we won’t rest until we have taken them off the streets.’ There was a smattering of applause, and Ray glanced at the chief, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. The warrants had been executed earlier, with fourteen arrests made from six addresses. The house searches would take hours, and he wondered how Kate was getting on as Exhibits’ Officer.