Water Like a Stone (15 page)

Annie closed her eyes and took a breath as the memories flooded back. The case had landed on her desk, one of many, and she’d seen enough abuse in her years as a social worker that at first she’d been predisposed to take the report at face value, a fact that now shamed
her. She’d held such power, to have taken it so lightly. If her findings had agreed with the doctors’, the Wains’ case would have gone to the civil courts. There, the family, marginally literate and with no funds for counsel, would have been helpless against the unlimited resources of the state and the testimony of so-called expert witnesses. It was almost certain that both Joseph and little Marie would have been taken into foster care, and possible that one or both parents would have faced criminal charges.

She had first interviewed the Wains aboard the
Daphne
. She’d been unexpectedly charmed by the boat, and by Rowan’s shy hospitality. The first niggle of doubt had crept in as she’d observed a mother whose devoted care of her son seemed in no way calculated to call attention to herself, a father who was surly to her but unfailingly gentle with the little boy. By this time, Joseph’s seizures seemed to have stopped, and neither parent displayed anything but heartfelt relief.

Although puzzled as she continued to visit the family, as she watched them time after time with their child, Annie became more and more convinced that the charges against them were unfounded. So she had gone with her instincts, but it had taken her months of investigation, of interviews, of sifting through medical records, to come up with the means to prove herself, and them, right.

Their nomadic life had made the process enormously difficult. They spent little time in one place, had no extended family, no intimate contact with others who could substantiate their accounts of little Joseph’s illnesses. But during one interview, Rowan told her about Joseph’s first seizure.

They’d been on the Grand Union Canal, below Birmingham, moored alongside several other boats. Gabriel had been on deck and Rowan in the cabin with the sleeping toddler when the boy had stiffened, his back arching, his arms and legs flailing. Then the child had gone limp, his skin turning blue. Rowan had lifted him, shaking him frantically while shouting to Gabriel for help.

Gabe had come plunging down the hatchway with Charlie, a quiet, lanky young man who drifted from one mooring to the next on an old Josher. But when Charlie saw the still child in Rowan’s arms, his indolence vanished. “Ambulance training,” he’d said shortly. Taking Joseph from Rowan, he’d laid him out on the cabin floor, and after checking his airway, had given the baby a quick puff of breath, then pressed on his chest. Once, twice, three times, and then Joseph’s body had jerked in a spasm and he’d begun to wail.

They had never run across Charlie again, however, and Rowan didn’t even know if he was still on the boats.

But Annie was determined to substantiate Rowan’s story, and her search for the elusive Charlie proved her true introduction to the Cut. She’d begun by car, working in a widening circle from Cheshire, crisscrossing middle England as she tried canal-side shops and marinas, pubs and popular mooring spots, talking to anyone who might have had contact with the Wains or might have news of Charlie.

She soon discovered not only that had she set herself a well-nigh impossible task, but that there were places boaters congregated that couldn’t be reached by car. She had almost despaired when a boater told her he knew Charlie; had, in fact, recently seen him on the Staff and Worcs Canal, below Stoke.

The next day Annie had hired a boat with her own funds. She knew her department would never deem it a reasonable expense. But she also realized that somewhere over the past few weeks, she’d slipped over the line between reason and obsession.

She’d had little idea how to handle the boat. Even remembering the mess she’d made of her first few locks made her shudder. Terrified and clumsy, she was kept from swamping the boat or falling from a lock gate only by blind luck and help from fellow boaters. But she had persevered, her enchantment with the Cut growing over the next few days as she worked her way south along the Shropshire Union towards Birmingham. She learned to recognize the Joshers, the restored boats that had once belonged to the Fellows, Morton,
and Clayton carrying company, and when one evening she saw the distinctive silhouette of a Josher moored near the bottom of the Wolverhampton 21, her heart had raced. As she drew nearer, she made out the faded letters on the boat’s side:
Caroline
. That was the name both the Wains and her boater informant had given her. Charlie did exist, and she had found him. Jubilation fizzed through her.

He was just as the Wains had described him, although not now so young, a thin, freckle-faced man with his sandy hair drawn back in a ponytail. When he understood what Annie wanted, he’d invited her into his tiny cabin for a beer, and he’d given her an account of the incident almost identical to Rowan Wain’s. Trying to contain her excitement, Annie wrote out his statement and had him sign it.

“Poor little bugger,” he’d said when they’d finished. “It was obviously some sort of seizure. Did they ever get him sorted out? The mother said he’d been unwell as an infant. Gastric reflux. I remember thinking it odd that she knew the term.”

Back aboard her hire boat, settled in her cabin with a celebratory glass of wine, Annie tried to work out what to do next. If Joseph’s seizures were real, why had the doctor been so ready to discount his parents’ accounts? And was there some connection between the problems he’d had as an infant and his later seizures?

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,
why
had he missed it? She knew the system could fail, knew both doctors and nurses were overworked and overtired, but surely such a serious accusation had merited a thorough review of the little boy’s case?

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.

No hospitals
. An idea took root in Annie’s mind. It might work—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. It’s a challenge getting a boat round the bend at Barbridge Junction, I can tell you.”

“Can we see?” Kit asked, with a simple enthusiasm that Kincaid had not expected.

“I don’t see why not.” Having intended to go that way all along, Kincaid was pleased at having found something to interest his son. He led the way through the field gate and down onto the towpath. Here the snow had been compacted by the passage of feet, both human and canine. Bare trees stood crisply skeletal against the snow, and in the distance a trio of black birds circled. Crows, Kincaid thought, searching for carrion, and if he guessed right, not far from the site of last night’s grisly discovery.