Sister

“Yes. I live here. Georgina likes having me here when Mr. Bevan is away.”

I noticed that the mum was “Georgina” but the father, “Mr. Bevan.”

“It would be nicer for you to live out?” I asked, back on my Mr. Bevan-as-dad scenario. I’m not quite sure what I imagined, a sudden confession along the lines of “Oh yes, and then the master of the house won’t be able to have his wicked way with me at nights.”

“I am happy here. Georgina’s a very kind-hearted person. She’s my friend.”

I instantly discounted that; friendship means some kind of parity between two people.

“And Mr. Bevan?”

“I don’t know him very well. He’s away a lot on business.”

No further info from going down that track. I watched her as she carried on ironing, meticulous and perfect, and thought how Georgina’s friends must envy her.

“You’re sure that the father of your baby carries the cystic fibrosis gene?”

“I told you. My son has cystic fibrosis.” The sharp tone I’d heard earlier was back and unmistakable. “I see you because you are Tess’s sister,” she continued. “A courtesy. Not for you to question me like this. What business is it of yours?”

I realized my impression of her had been completely false. I’d thought her eyes didn’t meet mine out of shyness, but she had been carefully guarding the territory of herself. She wasn’t passively shy but fiercely private.

“I’m sorry. But the thing is, I’m not sure if the cystic fibrosis trial is legitimate, which is why I want to know if both you and your baby’s father carry the CF gene.”

“You think I can understand a long English word like ‘legitimate’?”

“Yes. I think I’ve patronized you enough, actually.”

She turned, almost smiling, and it was like looking at a completely different woman. I could imagine now that Georgina, whoever she was, really was her friend.

“The trial is legitimate. It cured the baby. But my child in the Philippines cannot be cured. It’s too late for him.”

She still wasn’t telling me who the dad was. I’d have to revisit it when I hoped she’d trust me with the answer.

“May I ask you another question?” She nodded. “Were you paid to take part in the trial?”

“Yes. Three hundred pounds. I need to collect Barnaby from nursery school now.”

There were so many questions I still hadn’t asked and I felt panicked that I wouldn’t have another opportunity. She went into the sitting room and coaxed the toddler away from the television.

“May I see you again?” I asked.

“I’m babysitting next Tuesday. They’ll be out from eight. You can come then if you like.”

“Thank you, I—”

She motioned at me to be quiet, the toddler in her arms, protecting him from a possibly unsuitable conversation.

“When I first met Hattie, I thought she wasn’t anything like Tess or Kasia,” I say. “She was a different age, different nationality, had a different occupation. But her clothes were cheap, like Tess’s and Kasia’s, and I realized that one thing they had in common, as well as being on the cystic fibrosis trial at St. Anne’s, was that they were all poor.”

“You found that significant?” asks Mr. Wright.

“I thought they were more likely to be seen as financially persuadable or open to bribery. I also realized that with Hattie’s husband in the Philippines all three were effectively single.”

“What about Kasia’s boyfriend, Mitch Flanagan?”

“At the time Kasia was put on the trial, he had already left her. When he did come back, they were together for only a few weeks. I thought that whoever was behind this was deliberately choosing women on their own because there would be no one who would look too hard, care too much. He was exploiting what he thought was an isolated vulnerability.”

Mr. Wright is about to say something kind, but I don’t want to go off on a guilt/reassurance tangent so I briskly keep going.

“I’d seen footage on TV and at Chrom-Med of babies who had been in the trial, and there were fathers as well as mothers very much in the picture. I wondered if it was only at St. Anne’s Hospital that the women were single. If it was only at St. Anne’s that something terrible was happening.”

Hattie had carefully settled the blond toddler into the stroller with drink and teddy. She set the security alarm and picked up her keys. I had been looking for signs of a young baby, but there had been nothing—no sound of crying, no baby monitor, no basket of nappies. She herself had said nothing. Now she was leaving the house and it was clear that there could be no baby upstairs somewhere. I was on the doorstep, halfway out, before I could muster the nerve or the callousness to ask the question, “Your baby …?”

Her voice was quiet so that the toddler couldn’t hear.

“He died.”