'How was she?'
'Distraught with grief and concern for her poor baby.' He paused between each word, implying that they meant exactly the opposite of what they said.
'You think she had something to do with it?'
'Almost certainly. Take a look at his face.'
We peered at him, his eyes screwed shut, his expression contorted as he fought with demons that he had no name for.
'He's not the bonniest baby I've ever seen,' Dave said, 'but he's not Down's Syndrome, is he?'
'No, he's not a Down's baby.'
'Alcohol whatsit?' I suggested.
'That's right, Inspector. FAS — foetal alcohol syndrome, caused by his mother drinking whilst pregnant.'
'How serious is that?' Dave asked.
'It's a setback,' the doctor replied, 'but it can be overcome with a caring, nourishing upbringing.'
'Which he won't get.'
'Not with his present mother.'
'You reckon she was trying to get rid of him?'
'No, she loves him, she says, but she's inadequate, has as many problems as he has, so she uses him to alleviate her own difficulties.'
Dave leaned over the cot's high side and started making noises. 'Hi, Rory,' he whispered. 'We haven't given you the best start in life, have we?' He reached in and covered the child's legs with the cellular blanket that he'd kicked off.
'I know what you're getting at, Doc,' I said, 'but my brain's not working. Tell me its name.'
'Munchausen syndrome by proxy. She damages the child to win sympathy for herself. I've come across it before.'
'That's a serious accusation.'
'I know, and Munchausen mothers are plausible liars. They appear to be overly protective of their children, take great interest in their treatment and become familiar with medical procedures. It's not always to win admiration as a wonderful mother — sometimes they do it to strike up a relationship with medical staff and impress them with their concern. I'd say Mrs Norcup is a classical example.'
'Have you seen her before?'
'Yes. Rory was in about a month ago, with an undiagnosed rash on his back.'
'And you think she caused it?'
'It cleared up in two days with minimum treatment. She stayed by his bedside throughout.'
'Perhaps we ought to talk to her GP.'
'I'd think you'd find, Inspector, that he's completely taken in by her. He'll say she's a caring mother.'
'We see the self-inflicted part often enough,' I said, 'but not the by proxy bit. Will he go into care?' 'Yes. We've notified social services.' 'You'd better give me the mother's address.'
'Why do they have kids if they don't want them?' Dave said as we drove through Heckley towards Gaitskill House, where Mrs Norcup lived. 'There's no excuse for it these days. They teach them birth control before they teach them their times tables, hand out free condoms to the juniors, and still every teenage girl you see has at least one youngster following her around.'
I looked sideways at him. 'It just happens.'
'Well it happens too often. Booze and sex, that's what does it, if you ask me.'
'Well, yes, sex does play a part,' I agreed.
A traffic light fifty yards ahead turned amber and Dave braked. Two cars behind us in the right hand lane accelerated through as it turned to red.
'Look at those two bastards,' he cursed. 'Did you get the numbers?'
'The second one,' I told him, reaching into my pocket for my notebook. 'Tell me the make and colour.'
The light switched to green and we moved off again. 'We could always adopt him,' Dave suggested.
'Who?'
'Young Rory.'
'What? You and me?'
'No, Dumbo. The police station. Not adopt him, just buy him treats, keep a weather eye on him, wherever he goes. Uncle Police.'
'Or Uncle Nick?'
'Something like that. It needn't cost much. The surplus on the coffee money would cover it.'
'Uncle Bill?'
'Are you taking the piss?'
'Not at all, Dave. It's a great idea.' I shook my head and smiled. There was a temptation to say that he'd probably have another of his own clinging to his legs before much longer, but I resisted.
Gaitskill House was one block in what was known as the Project, on the opposite side of Heckley to the Sylvan Fields estate. The tenants of the Project aspire to live in the Sylvan Fields. It had sounded like a noble idea, back in the Sixties. Housing for everyone, at an affordable price because of new construction methods. Modular design, prefabricated units, pre-stressed concrete. The councillors banded the terms around as if they knew what they meant, and the ugly, pebble-dashed facade of the Project soon scarred the landscape.
The underfloor heating was expensive and unreliable, the joints between the prefabricated sections leaked and you could hear your neighbour clack his false teeth. In the eighties the half-empty flats were condemned and marked down for demolition, but sociological trends were at work, the sanctity of marriage was under threat and there was an upsurge in demand for accommodation for one-parent families. Now the council regarded them as a dumping ground for problem tenants, and the influx of asylum seekers had put a further demand on them.
A researcher had estimated that one parking place for every two flats would be generous, but the single burned-out Sierra standing in front of them showed the error of that calculation. Dave parked well away from it, where his car was highly visible from the upper balconies. Mrs Norcup lived in number 419.
I gazed up at the bleak concrete walls, streaked with rust from the reinforcing bars, and felt as if I were part of Rumania's secret police when Ceausescu was in power. 'Third floor,' I said, warning my nostrils to brace themselves. 'We'll walk.'
'Just a tick,' Dave said, and strolled over to where four industrial-size dumpsters stood, next to the stairwell. He lifted a lid, looked in, closed the lid and looked in the next one.
'Bugger!' he declared. 'They're empty. Looks as if the bin men have just been.'
Mrs Norcup answered the door at the fourth knock, probably after doing a high-speed tidy of the flat. Her face was flushed pink but etched with concern as Dave made the introductions.
'Is it about Rory?' she demanded, a hand nervously raised to her face, her hair untidy. 'Is he all right? Has something happened to him? I was just about to go back to the hospital…'
'Rory's fine,' I assured her with a smile. 'We've just left him and he was chatting up the nurses. May we come in and have a word?'
She looked at me, bewildered.
'Rory's fine. Can we come in, please?'
The flat was about what I expected: cheap furniture; untidy and smelling of cooking. I try not to be judgemental, lest others judge me. It was reasonably clean and the carpets didn't stick to your feet as you walked across them, for which I am always grateful. The electric fire was on low and the television on high. A man with a toupee and an orange face was talking about antiques. Dave switched off the telly and settled into the only easy chair that didn't have something on it, giving me a smile that said: 'Beat you to it.' I found an upright one and invited Mrs Norcup to sit on her own settee.
'The doctor told us that Rory should make a full recovery, Mrs Norcup,' I said, 'with no after-effects.'
'Oh, thank God for that. I've been so worried about the little mite. I wanted to stay with him but I had to tell his daddy what had happened. I hadn't taken his phone number to the hospital.'
'Where is Rory's dad?' Dave asked.
'He lives in Sheffield.'
'Are you together?'
