open-mouthed, his expression one of challenging idiocy.
‘Then …’ he said, ‘a moment later she was gone. Just … just gone in seconds.’
He shook his head in apparent disbelief, and clasped his forehead with both hands.
The roomful of reporters was silent for a moment, the camera stilled on Gary’s face.
‘Why are no photographs of Stacy being published?’ a woman at the back enquired. ‘Surely that would make it easier to identify the child?’
Gary opened his mouth to respond. Inspector Dempster placed a hand on Gary’s arm and intervened.
‘Unfortunately,’ he said soothingly, ‘the family had no camera beyond Stacy’s babyhood, so they were unable to provide current photographs.’
‘We did have a camera, like, but it broke …’ said Gary. A murmur rose from the gathered press.
‘Is it true you’ve previously had two other children taken into care?’ someone called.
The parents looked dazed and exchanged shifty glances. They both turned and looked at Detective Inspector Dempster, as if for guidance. He stood and raised his hands towards the room, as though preparing to conduct an orchestra.
‘No more questions today, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said firmly. ‘I can assure you that every line of inquiry is being pursued. We will spare no effort to find little Stacy. If any members of the public have any information about Stacy and her disappearance, anything at all, however small, please contact us on the number now on the screen – or via your local police station.’
He narrowed his eyes and swivelled his gaze to take in all the members of the press in the room, like a stern teacher eyeing an unruly class.
‘You will be informed of any further developments, but please understand: this investigation is at a very early stage. Thank you.’
The weeping parents were ushered out.
For some days the newspapers and television news programmes were full of accounts of Stacy and her family, of the search for the child, with long lines of police reinforced by volunteers tramping shoulder to shoulder over grassy slopes, searching any nearby parks and open ground. Ominously, ponds and rivers were dragged repeatedly.
At first the press was largely sympathetic to the parents, but as time went on there were murmurings about whether they themselves might have been involved in her disappearance. The back yard was dug up. Both parents were taken in for questioning by the police on several occasions, although, of course, this was always expressed as “helping the police with their inquiries”.
Next-door neighbours were interviewed and appeared eager to share their impressions of the Watts. They talked of frequent loud arguments, furniture and household objects being thrown about. Domestic violence was hinted at, as was heavy drinking, and possible drug-taking. The older children ran wild; their behaviour was out of control and their school attendance erratic. A picture of a highly dysfunctional family was emerging. What a blessing I had removed Lucy from such an environment.
There were one or two reported sightings of a child of Stacy’s age in the nearby area, and a few from further afield, but they were vague and lacked details. None led to any significant findings. The police tried to put a positive slant on the investigation. They were seriously concerned for the child’s welfare, they said, but were confident that she was still alive. They were pursuing several lines of inquiry.
It was reported that an elderly woman who lived in the next street had seen a dark-haired woman in a navy coat, pushing a buggy with a child of Stacy’s description towards Safeways and British Home Stores in the town centre. A sales assistant in British Home Stores said she thought she might have seen someone a bit like that too, but then again, she thought it might have been a little boy in the pushchair, not a girl, and she wasn’t sure if the coat was blue – maybe it was. After that, I read with interest, “the trail went cold”.
I felt compelled to watch the news programmes about Lucy’s disappearance. Of course, if it hadn’t been absolutely necessary, I would never have obtained a child in that way. The papers and television reports frequently referred to her being “taken”, but I couldn’t accept the term in the sense of stolen or kidnapped. No, her removal from that family was more an act of liberation, of charity, one that relieved her of a life of potential misery, neglect, poverty and ultimate under-achievement.
The more I saw of Lucy’s family and learned of their lifestyle, the more convinced I became that taking her away from her parents could be regarded as salvation.
The time came when I had to admit to myself that the initial period with Lucy was not easy, not easy at all. Should I have expected such difficulties? Yes, I realised, perhaps I should, but my direct experience of small children and their responses had been extremely limited.
It took my little daughter much longer to settle in her new home than I had anticipated. All my careful preparations – with Lucy’s happiness in mind – seemed to mean nothing to her. The pretty bedroom with its colourful matching curtains, cushions and bedding depicting amusing cartoon-like jungle scenes; the carefully chosen toys and books; the cheerful pictures and friezes decorating the walls: none of these things elicited the slightest interest or pleasure in Lucy.
The first week was the hardest. During the daytime, Lucy mostly lay on the floor, crying and moaning. She would kick and scream when I tried to comfort or even approach her. She woke frequently during the night, and her screams were pitiful. So often did she wake with soaking sheets that in the end I had to put nappies on her during the night.
For some days after her arrival, she would eat and drink nothing but a little water, and I began to fear seriously for her health. At last, in desperation, I added a little sugar to a saucepan of milk, warmed it and filled a baby’s bottle. I lifted her onto my knee. At first she arched her back and howled like a wild creature, but I persisted, holding her firm, and after a while she submitted to being rocked gently on my lap. She sucked rhythmically on the teat, and took the whole bottle, her eyes rolling up into their lids. Her body went limp with exhaustion. At last she fell into a deep sleep.
This was a turning point. I realised that perhaps Lucy had missed out on some crucial early stages of babyhood. Of course she had, with neglectful parents like hers. Why had I not thought of it before? I endeavoured to restore these vital experiences to Lucy, even though she was now about two or two and a half years old – hardly a tiny baby. Yet, what did it matter if, in private, I rocked Lucy to sleep like an infant, hummed and sang to her when she was distressed, allowed her a dummy and fed her with a baby bottle?
Lucy talked little at first, but every now and then she repeated a tedious little litany in a plaintive questioning voice.
‘Mam? Dad? Wy-yan? Polly …? Tacy … Mam?’
By this time I had learned more of Lucy’s former family from television and newspaper reports. I knew that “Tacy” referred to her previous name. What a fortunate chance that Stacy and Lucy sounded not totally dissimilar. Surely she would soon adjust? “Wy-yan” of course was Ryan, the brother nearest to Lucy in age – whom I had witnessed paying her little enough attention, indeed, abandoning her on the pavement outside her former house. He was, in my opinion, quite undeserving of her affection. It took me a
