With regret, she’d returned to Nantwich and traded her hire boat for piles of paper. Eventually, her diligence paid off. She found the anomaly in the records from the Manchester hospital where Joseph had previously been treated. One report mentioned an earlier admission, to a hospital near Leeds, where Joseph had been prescribed medication for gastric reflux. And yet in the current doctor’s report to Social Services, he stated that Joseph had never been treated for any of the ailments described by his parents. How had he missed it?
Or perhaps more to the point, Annie thought,
Her suspicions aroused, she began interviewing hospital staff and checking the doctor’s record. The doctor had a reputation, she found, for his lack of patience with parents who questioned his judgment or took up too much of his time. He had, in fact, made a diagnosis of MSBP in three other cases. Even assuming one believed in the validity of the diagnosis, such a high incidence of the disorder was statistically absurd. All the families had been low income; all had lost their children to foster care.
Annie had, of course, recommended that Joseph and Marie Wain not be added to the council’s “at risk” register, or placed in foster care. Joseph’s health continued to improve, an occurrence that the other doctors Annie consulted told her was not unusual—sometimes children simply healed themselves as their development progressed.
She had also made a formal complaint against the doctor in question, but no action had been taken by the hospital authorities. And in spite of all her efforts, Rowan Wain’s records still carried the diagnosis of MSBP, and the stigma of child abuse and mental illness.
It could not be expunged.
Now Annie patted Rowan’s hand in an effort at reassurance.
“There’s no reason anyone should look at the children,” she said, yet the scenarios played out in her head. What if Rowan were seriously, even terminally, ill? What if some eager doctor or nurse looked at her records and decided that Rowan—or Gabriel, on Rowan’s death—could not provide suitable care? It could start all over again, and this time she would be unable to protect them.
Rowan simply shook her head, as if the effort of speech had exhausted her.
With growing panic, Annie turned to Gabriel. “You must see she can’t go on like this. You’ve got to do something.” The sight of the children’s anxious faces as they pressed against their father kept her from adding Or she might die, but his expression told her he knew. He knew, but he couldn’t risk his children, and the choice was tearing him apart.
“No hospitals,” he repeated, but the force had gone from his voice and his rugged face was creased with anguish.
at the very least it would tell them what they were dealing with.
She gave Rowan’s hand a squeeze, then looked back at Gabriel.
“What if . . . what if I could find someone to come and have a look at Rowan? What if it were strictly off the record?”
“I’m sure there’s no reason to worry,” Kincaid said. “You know Jules’s temper—after last night, I’m not surprised she couldn’t get through Christmas dinner with Caspar. And she’s always liked to go off on her own when she’s in a funk.”
After speaking to Lally, his mother had rung Juliet’s mobile number and her home phone, with no response. Then, despite Lally’s pleas, she had rung Caspar to confirm the girl’s story. Rosemary’s mouth had tightened as she listened, then she’d hung up with unnecessary force. “He says it’s true,” she’d told them. “Juliet walked out without a word to anyone before dinner was even served. He says she meant to inconvenience everyone.”
Now his mother shook her head. “I don’t like it.” Worry shadowed her eyes, and with a pang, Kincaid saw that she had aged more than he’d realized since he’d seen her last.
Gemma had gone back to the washing up, but he could see that she was listening with quiet attention. A strand of hair had come loose from her clip, curling damply against her cheek, but he wasn’t quite close enough to reach out and smooth it back.
His father had come to stand beside his mother; Toby had slipped away from the table and settled on the dog bed, alternating tussling with the three dogs and stroking Geordie’s long ears. And Kit, Kit was watching them, fear flickering in his eyes.
If Kincaid’s job inclined him to glimpse the potential tragedy in the commonplace, for Kit the possibility was ever real and ever present.
In Kit’s world, mothers who left their children might not return. This was a strain the boy didn’t need.
Inwardly cursing his sister, Kincaid said, “Mum, let’s not call out the cavalry just yet. We know she’s taken the car. She’s probably just gone home for a good sulk, and you may not be doing her any favors by interfering. And in the meantime, Gemma and I can take the boys for a walk while the light lasts. We’ll give the queen a miss, eh?” he added with a wink at Kit. It was a family joke that the queen’s traditional Christmas Day speech was the perfect soporific.
Gemma nodded towards Toby, who had curled up with an arm round the cocker spaniel, his eyelids at half- mast. “You and Kit go,”
she said softly. “Toby and I will stay here and keep your mum and dad company.”
Tess, Kit’s little terrier, raised her head and tilted it expectantly.
“Leave her,” Kincaid said softly, not wanting to disturb Toby, and Kit signaled her to stay. They slipped into the front hall, grabbed their coats from the pegs, and eased out the door, quiet as burglars.
The snow still lay bright on the land, but the light had softened, a harbinger of the early winter dark. The scent of wood smoke, pure and painfully sweet, caught at Kincaid’s throat.
Without speaking, he led the way around to the back of the house and picked up the footpath that led across his parents’ field. After all these years, his feet still seemed to know every rise and hollow, and after so long in London, it surprised him how little the countryside had changed. Once, he glanced back, but the farmhouse had disappeared behind its sheltering screen of trees.
Tromping along beside him, Kit placed his feet with deliberation, as if the imprint of each boot were of colossal importance. He seemed equally determined not to meet Kincaid’s gaze, but after a few moments he said, “Aren’t you going to lecture me?”
“I hadn’t planned on it.” Kincaid kept his tone light. He’d realized, after yesterday’s shouting match, that his first priority was to reestablish communication with his son. “Do you want me to?”
This provoked a surprised glance. “Um, no, not really.”
“Do you want to tell me what’s going on at school, then?” Kincaid asked, just as easily.
Kit hesitated for so long that Kincaid thought he might not answer, but at last he said, “Not now. Not today, anyway.”
Kincaid nodded, understanding what was unsaid. After a moment, he squeezed Kit’s shoulder. “It’s been a good Christmas.”
“Brilliant,” agreed Kit. Swinging his arms, the boy picked up his pace, as if he’d been given permission to delight in the walk.
The tension had drained from him, and suddenly he seemed an ordinary boy, one without the weight of the world on his shoulders—
or as ordinary as any thirteen-year-old could be, Kincaid reminded himself.
They went on, the silence between them now stretching in an almost tangible bond. Round spots of color bloomed on Kit’s cheeks from the cold and exertion. Then they crested a small hill and saw the sinuous curve of the canal before them, like a hidden necklace tossed carelessly across the rolling Cheshire countryside.
Kit stopped, looking puzzled, then scanned the horizon as if trying to get his bearings. “But I thought— Last night, I thought the canal was running alongside the main road.”
“It was.” Kincaid stooped and drew a line in the snow with his finger to illustrate. “That was the main branch of the Shropshire Union, which goes more or less north to Chester and Ellesmere port.”
He then drew another line, intersecting the first at right angles, and nodded at the canal in front of them. “This is the Middlewich Branch, which meanders off to the northeast, towards Manchester. The two intersect at Barbridge, where we turned onto the main road last night.
