Death & the City Book Two (42 page)

Scarecrow Dorothy/Alice would probably find this revelation shattering to her illusions of ridding the world of a fantasy evil, but I don't, because I'm not one of those super-spy assassin women, who takes their dirty work to the bedroom in order to get something out of it for themselves. Whether it's for their ego, for a good fairytale, or for some other reason. Maybe my lack of emotionality in between personality disorders, means I don't automatically read the romance potential into every target like other women do. If I do have a chance to think about them beforehand, I wonder what they're planning to spend the money on, how long it's been since they went to the toilet after their last caffeine booster energy drink, and whether they've got eyes in the back of their head. Not if they've got DNA to spare while I'm meant to making a fast getaway afterwards.

I do have a little fantasy that Miriam is a contract killer, hired to kill Terry slowly with cream cheese and patisserie. Under the belief that the way to a man's heart condition is through his stomach. From what I've just gathered by observation though, it wouldn't necessarily be his assassination of choice. Now, I'm thinking he'd prefer being boinked to death by topless WAGs in a Jacuzzi on Antigua.

Maybe that's why all the fast food killers have failed so far. Lack of proper target research. Perhaps if
Scarecrow Dorothy
ends up as a contract killer for real, she'd be the one I'd have to watch out for if she went for Terry. Because I don't think catering is her preferred style. I think she's the
Going Out With A Bang
type.

I go back down the stairs, via the integral shopping mall and food court, and head to Maternity in the far opposite wing. Now it gets more secure, and the doors are manned, but luckily for me, Drury is already waiting outside the ward with a Social Services visitor pass for me.

"I've just spoken to Mr. Harte, and he's on his way down from the bus-stop now, with his eldest daughter LaCrystal, from his first relationship," she tells me, as I loop the pass-card around my neck on its flat woven tape. "We can go in, catch a quick de-briefing handover."

Mrs. Wong, the consultant on duty, introduces us to the tiny pink dot, under a white jersey hat and anti-scratch mittens, in a clear plastic crib.

"This is Baby Boy Harte," she says, double-checking the paperwork and his hospital tag. He sneezes with the sound of a mouse hiccup, and stays asleep. "Don't worry about that, he had steroids to advance his lung maturity on delivery, so he's a bit hypersensitive. Would you like to hold him? He likes cuddles."

I realise she's talking to me, and I barely get time to nod before she scoops him up in the white flannel blanket and deposits him efficiently in the crook of my arm. He's barely long enough to reach from my elbow to my wrist. His face is pale, pointed, pixie-like, with little goblin ears. Not the rounded chirpy contentment of a diaper commercial baby.

"No early indication of foetal alcohol brain damage, and he's gaining weight, but we will be keeping a close eye on him in the future," Mrs. Wong says, adjusting her glasses and smiling at him with proprietary indulgence. "His eyes are responsive to light, his hearing seems to be fine, all bodily functions currently working as expected. He's not much of a bawler, so there may be delayed vocal skills and emotional development later on. Reflexes all good though, so he'll run marathons. We'll be watching."

Barry Harte arrives, carrying a baby carrier, just as Baby Boy is tucked back up in the crib. He's followed by his half-Afro-Caribbean, twenty-four year-old daughter LaCrystal, in a grey pinstriped sweater and bleach-distressed jeans, who I've never met. I've only met Barry once. His suspicions led him to turn up unannounced at Crypto one night checking up on Sandra. Unluckily for him, he picked one of the few nights she was genuinely working, and one of the few moments she was genuinely on the front door, not pulling in the toilets. He went away reassured, but totally deluded. I'm not sure whether peace of mind in a deluded world is better than insecurity in an honest one, but a lot of relationships seem to run on it.

Drury introduces me as the baby's assigned Social Worker. He shows no sign of recollection, out of context.

"It's only a courtesy," she says. "Just so that there's someone to advocate on his and your behalf regarding any legal matters you might want to raise in future - so you know who your first call is to. Lara is your intermediary between you, the baby and the red tape world on the other side of the fence."

"What she means is, I'm not here to oversee your parenting, just someone to call for help with any of your and the baby's rights and benefits," I translate, improvising myself out of anything I'm not qualified for. "Although I'm sure you've all the experience parenting that you need. I'll give you my - head office's number later, to contact me with any questions."

He nods dumbly.

"Is this carrier all right?" he asks Drury. "I mean, I was told there's no baby seat in your police car."

"Sure, we can strap that in the back," she nods. "It's the unmarked car today anyway. Lara will follow us and check you've everything you need, then we'll leave you and the family in peace to get to know your new addition."

"This is his prescription, his formula requirements, and his first out-patient's appointment," Mrs. Wong says, handing over a large brown envelope. "The Health Visitor will ring to make an appointment time for your first home visit. And don't forget to register him, now he's discharged they will be expecting you. As your wife's married partner you are entitled to register him yourself in your name. If you have any medical concerns, bring him straight to A&E and he will be seen because he's a special case."

"Have you thought of a name?" Drury asks, making small-talk, as Baby Boy Harte and his blankets make the transition into the carrier.

"I like the name DeWayne," says LaCrystal. "Or Juan, or Selim, or Pharrell, or Cantona. But Dad's old-fashioned. If he'd chosen my name, I'd just be Sarah. My mum, Janealle - not Sandra - was more forward-thinking."

"Yeah, you can keep those crazy
Pop Idol
names for your own kids, in the future," Barry grunts, and looks down at the baby's face. He lets out a sigh. Due to the baby's foetal alcohol exposure, he doesn't resemble anyone, possibly least of all Sandra. I don't know whether this is a blessing or a pity, to her bereaved husband. "He looks like a mini
Peter Pan
. What do you think of Peter?"

"Peter's a good name," LaCrystal nods dubiously. "My old next door neighbour had a dog called Peter."

"Peter Harte." Barry reaches out for the first time, and tickles the baby's tiny cheek with his fingertip, rewarded with a squeaky yawn. "My Grand-dad was called Peter. On my mum's side…"

We all look at Peter Harte in silence for a few seconds, as the name sinks in. He does look like
Peter Pan
, I think. Kind of elfin, and otherworldly. Maybe it's not just me who's suggestible by stories and fairytales in real life.

No wonder
Peter Pan
never grew up, my psychosis chips in. He never knew his real mother. Maybe she liked a few large gins as well while she was pregnant, retarding his future emotional development.

Maybe somebody shot her, too.

Chapter 36:
Encounters Of The Nth Kind

Edina Harte, aged nearly three, is pleased to see her new baby brother, although she insists on calling him 'Peeder Wabbid.' The elder three are old enough to be aware of their mother being dead, and variously display ambivalence on their white/red/slightly jaundiced faces. Until the eldest, Harmony Louise, is persuaded to hold him, and her tight little frown melts, when his tiny hand clamps around her forefinger.

"He's so strong!" she says, startled. Peter's eyes open roundly and stare, so dark blue they are nearly black.

"Can I give him some Wettuce?" Edina asks hopefully.

"No, Popsie, he won't eat that for a long time yet, but you can help with his milk bottle later though," says LaCrystal, pulling Edina up onto her lap alongside on the sofa. "Look at his eyes. What colour do you think they'll be when he's bigger?"

"Pink," Edina announces, decisively, then equally confident, adds: "No - Lellow."

Barry's mother arrives home shortly after us, in her suburban Range Rover - a very young-looking, slim sixty-five in Goldmeister gym wear, her dyed black hair in a ponytail, with fingers covered in replica sovereigns and massive hoops for earrings, not unlike Terry's Miriam. Typical older-woman, city-estate casual bling. She's fully armed with bags of diapers and wipes, and immediately falls in love with the newcomer, exclaiming over his tiny stature.

"We've stuffed the under-stairs cupboard already," Barry tells me wryly, opening it and displaying the baby-related loot packed in there. "Luckily, Sandra kept all Eddie's baby stuff. She always wanted a boy, so all the girls wore boy's stuff. We've got tons - although it might be a while before he fits into the smallest of it."

"How are you doing financially?" I ask.

"Well, to be honest, it turned out Sandra had life insurance from before we met, which she took out when she was a psychiatric nurse. They've waived an extended investigation because of the baby and offered me a monthly payout scheme, rather than a lump sump. So based on that, I needn't go back to work for another four years, if I wanted to be a full-time Dad until he starts pre-school." Barry looks at me with an expression of ongoing disbelief in the whole situation. "I'll be all right. I might call you if I need advice on stuff if he turns out to be special needs. I don't know anything about education or entitlements for that sort of thing."

"Sure," I nod, and scribble one of head office's free-phone public redirection enquiry lines onto a piece of paper. "Just ring this number and you can get any information you need from my head office, or make an appointment if you want me to come visit."

I know Drury is sticking around to update Barry on whatever they've decided to disclose about investigation into Sandra's death, so I say my goodbyes, and take a last look at Peter, who is taking to his older sisters very well.

"He done a wee," Edina announces, as I say goodbye to her while she follows me to the front door.

"That's good," I smile at her.

"Do you know Mummy?" she asks.

I stop in the doorway, look down at her appealing face, and give her a nod.

"I did know Mummy, yes," I tell her.

"Mummy's always at the pub," she says. "Daddy says she never comes home now."

"I know." I can't think of anything else to say.

"Tell Mummy she's naughty," Edina tells me. "Daddy says so all the time."

"Yes, I agree with Daddy," I nod. "Very naughty. Bye bye, Sweetpea."

Edina waves and runs back up the hallway as I close the door, chattering to herself aloud about going back to keep an eye on 'My Peeder Wabbid.' I walk down the path to my car behind Drury's at the kerb, with my own mixed feelings.

Contact with victim's families isn't something I've had to do before. And I've had two different close encounters with that perspective today. It's putting more questions in my head than my personality disorders have answers for.

Back in the driver's seat, before I start the ignition, I take my phone out and think about it for two or three minutes before I'm brave enough to ring Connor. It goes to voicemail after six rings, so I disconnect, but before I can start the engine, he rings back.

"Hey, you," he greets me. "Everything all right?"

"I guess so, yeah," I say.

"You don't sound very sure. Where are you?"

"Just leaving Barry Harte's. Had to Social Worker escort Sandra's baby back for head office. I just wondered if you were free later - I'm a bit confused for some reason."

"I'm free now, just wrapping up a meeting with Environmental Health and Customs & Excise. Do you want to meet up?"

"If you're not busy."

"No, it's fine. Finished here for now. I was going to head up to Scamways and do my shopping. That's on the right route for your side of town, about five or six minutes from the Hartes' house. I'll meet you inside and we can grab a coffee."

"Okay. I'll see you there."

"Be about ten minutes," he says. "Drive carefully."

"Yes, Dad," I mutter, but not before I've already hung up.

It's well before the rush hour, but already traffic is backed up at every junction, so it takes me slightly longer to get to the 24-hour Ash district Scamways than five minutes. As I filter off at the supermarket's own roundabout, the car joining behind me from the adjacent junction flashes its lights, and I realise it's Connor in the black Audi already caught up and arriving simultaneously. It's the kind of serendipity or coincidence that would have my mum all nostalgic, and Miss Haversham shopping for a new wedding hat. Modern technology has done a good job of all but destroying romance, ever since the telephone was invented.