neck and intimidating black eyebrows that reminded her of beetles. She found herself staring at them while he spoke, her eyes following their twitching movements in the vain hope that she could read beyond his professional calm. ‘You must allow the Garda Press—’
‘My wife and I have already made our decision,’ Robert had interrupted his superior. ‘In this instance, it is my rights as a father that take precedence over any other authority.’
Now, he sat silently between her and Leo, a nondescript figure, his hair slicked sideways, rimless glasses high on his nose. Nothing about his face demanded attention. He was, as the press statement had claimed, an administrative Garda whose job was dealing with driving misdemeanours.
Leo read out a brief statement and reminded the journalists that his clients were undergoing an intensely personal trauma. Their questions should be brief and to the point.
Robert’s hands shook as he poured bottled water into a glass and began to speak. He was used to operating in shadows and seemed dazzled by the flashbulbs, appalled by the crouching, crawling movements of the photographers and the blaze of the television cameras. The clicking of cameras became more audible as his voice faltered. He bowed his head, unable to continue. Microphones were shoved forward to capture his harsh weeping. Carla held his hand and spoke for him.
‘Isobel is our child,’ she said. ‘She is only five days old. Please have pity and return her to us. Please…please, if you have taken her for some misguided reason, talk to someone you can trust – a friend, a priest, the police. They will treat you with understanding and we are waiting to forgive you. But please…please return our darling baby to us.’
Her eyes felt like stones, hard and bright. She longed for tears but they refused to fall and give the photographers the shot they needed. Leo asked if there were any questions from the floor.
‘Carla, how did you feel when you woke up and discovered your daughter was missing?’ A journalist sitting in the front row raised her pen.
‘Devastated.’ Carla sucked in her breath and wondered why the answer was not blindingly obvious to anyone with feelings.
The journalist, young and eager, waited for a more dramatic response.
‘I felt as if a knife had gone through my heart.’ Carla winced. Her emotions, veering from manic hope to utter desolation, could not be described in a mawkish soundbite but the journalist seemed satisfied.
‘Mr Gardner, as a member of the Garda Síochána, have you been personally involved in the search for your daughter?’ another journalist shouted from the centre of the room.
‘I’ll take that question.’ Detective Superintendent Murphy held up his hand. ‘In any case directly involving a member of the Garda Síochána they are automatically disqualified from participating in the investigation.’
‘Are you satisfied with the progress of the investigation so far?’ Again the question was thrust at Robert, who nodded.
‘I have the utmost faith in my colleagues and appeal to the woman who has our child to trust the Gardaí—’
‘How do you know it’s a woman?’ shouted a journalist. ‘Have you inside information that—’
‘We don’t know who took our child,’ Carla swiftly intervened. ‘And it doesn’t matter. We don’t want revenge. We simply want our daughter back in our arms.’
‘Carla, has a ransom been demanded?’ Josh Baker from The Week on the Street, a prime-time television programme, moved forward in tandem with his cameraman.
‘We’ve heard nothing—’
‘No ransom demand has been made,’ snapped the superintendent. Carla could sense his desire to bring the conference to a conclusion but Josh had now reached the table and the camera was zooming in for a close-up of her expression.
‘Carla, had you any suspicions that you were being stalked during your pregnancy?’
Carla shivered. She had not believed it would be possible to feel even more terrified. The camera was drawing her terror to the surface, beaming it outwards as she struggled for composure.
‘I’ve no reason to believe I was being stalked.’ She forced conviction into her voice and tightened her grip on Robert’s hand. He trembled, knowing as she did that she would not necessarily have noticed a stalker. She was used to the gaze of men, indifferent to their eyes studying her as she walked past. No, she would not have noticed a stalker, just as she had not noticed a thief entering the ward where she was supposed to be keeping her daughter safe from harm.
‘I agree with Mrs Gardner.’ Detective Superintendent Murphy leaned towards the microphone. ‘We have absolutely no evidence to back that theory.’
‘Is there a link between Isobel’s disappearance and the excessive promotion surrounding your pregnancy?’ Alyssa Faye asked.
‘Excessive…?’ For an instant Carla’s mind went blank. She shuffled the papers in front of her and stared at her statement. ‘What do you mean?’
Leo calmly answered the question. ‘Carla worked in a professional capacity throughout her pregnancy. There was nothing excessive about her public appearances—’
‘The Anticipation advertising campaign exposed you to a wide audience,’ said Alyssa. She glanced quickly to either side, aware that she had the media’s attention. ‘As a celebrity, you were constantly in the public eye. Is it possible that a woman who has recently lost a child could have been influenced by the disproportionate attention you received throughout your pregnancy?’
Once again the superintendent took the microphone. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I agree with Mr Kelly. That theory is groundless. Thank you for your time.’ He raised his voice above the protesting babble. ‘As you can understand, this is an extremely distressing experience for Mr and Mrs Gardner. This conference is over. No more questions…I repeat, no more questions.’
Leo placed his hand under Carla’s elbow, raised her to her feet. ‘Keep walking,’ he whispered. ‘Look straight ahead and don’t respond to any further questions.’
She followed his instructions, vaguely aware that the journalists were on their feet and shouting her name. It was a familiar scenario. This way, Carla! That way! The other way! They stepped backwards, clicking, clicking. She recognised Colin Moore, the photographer from Pizzazz. He had phoned her yesterday to offer his support and sympathy. He lowered his camera and smiled encouragingly, jerked his thumb into the air. Instinctively, she found courage in his confident gesture. Her lips moved in response, a grimace, thanking him. Then she was ushered into the anteroom off the conference centre where she collapsed into Robert’s arms.
Next morning, her photograph appeared on the front pages of the newspapers. Why was she smiling? She had not smiled from the moment she awoke to find her daughter missing yet there she was, her grimace morphed into her catwalk smile. Years of experience radiating from the pages. Placed beside her smiling image was the photograph of Isobel, her scrunched-up, newborn features partly hidden by a blanket. A photograph of Robert, his face white and haggard, had been placed on the other side; a lost trinity that should have been a family.
Susanne
One month later
This morning we christened you Joy Ainé Dowling. In Maoltrán’s small Catholic church, where David and I were married six years ago, we renounced Satan, with all his works and pomps. We lit candles to let the light of love shine on you. Fr Davis anointed you with chrism. You did not cry when he poured water over your head. ‘Such a sweet placid baby,’ he said. ‘Such a miracle, born to be loved.’
Phyllis has remained the heroine of the hour. Towards the end of the service Fr Davis mentioned her in his homily: two