Cuckoo In The Cradle

By Roger Gordon

It's 1983 and Karen Standish thinks she has got it made, with the looks, the lifestyle, and the baby she has plotted and planned for, but dark vengeful forces are hovering around her. Will Detective Inspector Hallet and his subordinates be able to find the answer to the horrors that await her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roger Gordon
• Release date: Apr 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301940929

Roger Gordon

Roger Gordon was born in 1943 inSheffield, England, where he spent the first 26 years of his life. After obtaining his B.Sc. and Ph.D in Zoology from Sheffield University, he immigrated to Canada in 1969. He pursued a successful career as a scientist and faculty member at three Canadian universities and served as Dean of Science at the University of Prince Edward Island from 1997–2006. Author of approximately 60 scientific publications,Roger has also received awards in three annual competitionssponsored by the Prince Edward Island Writers’Guild for his literary compositions. He is now retired from academia and lives with his wife, Alison, and his family onPrince Edward Island. He has just published his first book within the creative writing genre: "Starting to Frame–a memoir."

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Cuckoo In The Cradle

By Roger Gordon

Copyright 2013 Roger Gordon

Smashwords Edition

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Chapter 1

As Karen Standish awoke in the winter dawn the milk was seeping through the front of her silk pyjama jacket, and yawning she rolled over to consult the clock on the bedside table, cupping the taut mounds of her breasts as she did so.

Her eyes widened. Half Past Seven! Sophie has slept through the night at last. The Little Miss would be ravenous when she awoke, and as she looked down on the two damp patches spreading across her chest Karen knew there would be no lack of supply.

A slow smile of gratification spread across the smooth lines of her face as she lay back against fine cotton sheets. That would show them at the clinic she thought, those mothers who love to boast smugly how their offspring had always slept through the night, how they put them down at six o'clock and there wasn’t a murmur until the next morning.

Until tonight she’d not been a member of the ‘smug club’. Hungry Sophie bellowed for a snack in the middle of the night, and she’d wondered where she was going wrong.

There was amusement inside her. You're a crazy woman, she told herself, letting the suburban dowdies make you feel inadequate. You're way ahead of them in everything. You have your own business. You’ve jetted halfway around the world. Always driven in the fast lane… often with exciting companions, and now you have a child. What more could anyone ask?

It was true, and yet inadequate was how she’d felt ever since a red-faced howling bundle had been placed in her arms, and another Karen Standish achievement had been logged, for instead of the deep satisfaction she’d anticipated at the birth of her child there had been a dismal feeling of anti-climax.

For one thing the birth had been long and agonising, not to mention humiliating. Every time her body had arched with pain she had been frightened, and out of her depth for the first time in her adult life, and she hadn't liked it. Karen Standish was used to being in control.

When at last her daughter had pushed herself into the world, she had lain white faced against the pillows, and when they’d given her the child to hold she had looked down on her dispassionately and thought… she's ugly! I went through all that for this!

Her father had arrived shortly afterwards, and when he'd tiptoed in, awkwardly holding a bunch of flowers, he had looked down on his grandchild and said gruffly,

She's beautiful Karen! The child's beautiful!

Her lip had curled. Don't say what isn't true Dad, she said coldly.

He'd stared at her blankly. What do you mean girl? He'd growled.

Sophie is beautiful. She's perfect.

In the days following her discharge from the discreetly expensive maternity home Karen had decided bleakly that little ‘Miss Perfection’ looked like being the big disappointment of her life. Sophie had looked nothing like the angelic cherubs on the congratulation cards, and she had felt no instant glow of motherly love.

To the surprise of the nursing staff who had sensed her revulsion towards the child, Karen had opted to feed the baby herself... for two reasons. Firstly, because she never did anything by halves, and secondly because it took the edge off her guilt.

If they’d expected it to create a rapport between mother and child they were disappointed. Karen, endlessly thrusting herself into the ever open small mouth had felt like a huge cow.

You’re expecting too much of the wee mite, Mary McTavish, the dour Scottish housekeeper she had inherited from her father had remonstrated. Once she fills out she'll be a little gem. Sophie has your green eyes Miss Karen, and the straight Standish nose. Her voice had sharpened as she'd gone on to point out, I wouldna’ be knowin’ if she's inherited any of her father's looks seein’ as how none of us know who he is.

Karen hadn't risen to the bait. Her mind had been on her disturbing lack of motherly love. What's wrong with me she kept asking herself? I've wanted a child of my own for years, and have planned and schemed to that end, and now that I've got her I'm not sure that I want her.

Ralph Standish her father, also concerned, had discussed his daughter’s lack of interest in the baby with both her doctor and the housekeeper, and they have been quick to reassure him that it was just a touch of post-natal depression that would soon disappear once the mother had adjusted to the birth of the child.

And it had seemed they were right, as the next time the bluff textile manufacturer visited his daughter in her smart ground floor flat in a quiet square on the outskirts of a Cheshire market town, he had found her a picture of tranquil motherhood as she fed the baby at her breast.

As he'd towered over them, his heavy features Ruddy with the cold, springing grey hair unruly as always, and a thick winter topcoat over his bulk, release had washed over him… and pleasure at the Cameo they made. It had increased as Karen had said softly, She smiled at me today dad. What do you think of that?

He’d given his great bellowing laugh. I think that's just great. Sounds more like my girl talking, and as their eyes had met they both knew that the time for concern was past.

By that time Sophie was beginning to fill out. She was no longer red and crinkly, delicate little features were taking shape, and Karen's confidence in herself had returned.

You are beautiful, Sophie, she whispered when her father had gone. Your grandfather was right, and the sleeping child in the beautiful pink and white cradle had slept on, unaware that there’d been as any doubt about it.

The central heating had been on constantly ever since she’d brought the baby home and the flat was a warm luxurious cocoon protecting them from January's cold grasp.

This morning it was unusually quiet. Mary McTavish had left for Canada the previous day to take a long-awaited holiday with her sister, and Zandra the homeless girl who had attached herself to Karen in the maternity home, and whom she offered temporary accommodation when they’d been discharged, had left without so much as a word three days ago.

So it meant that she and Sophie were alone for the first time, and on that thought she swung her legs over the side of the bed with sudden urgency. Any moment a tiny bundle of humanity would be yelling lustily for the milk that was overflowing from her breasts, and another day in this new chapter of her life would begin.

As she drew back the curtains she saw that the leaden dawn had gone and grey daylight revealed the quiet tree-lined square. A milk float was pulling away from the flats opposite and she could hear the faint clank of bottles.

In the nursery the small night lamp will still on, and as Karen padded barefooted across to the wooden cradle that held her daughter she felt a sudden longing to hear the familiar cry that heralded Sophie's breakfast time. But quietness still reigned, and as she bent over the cradle she knew why.

Her eyes bulged and her hand flew to the quilted eiderdown, flinging it back, expecting to find Sophie had wriggled beneath the covers, but the bottom of the cradle was flat and empty.

The milk in her breasts seemed to solidify as she looked down blankly. Alarm was spiralling inside her but no sound came from her lips as she asked herself frantically, where is she, how can she be gone? I did put her there last night… didn't I? Or have I stupidly laid her somewhere else?

As if challenging the evidence of her eyes, her hands rummaged frantically in the cradle again. She flung out the cuddly toys that sat at the foot, and wrenched the covers off, then she lifted the mattress, willing Sophie to be there somewhere, even though reason told her there was nowhere for her to be.

A harsh voice that sounded nothing like her own was crying, She can't have fallen out! She isn't even able to sit up yet! and still she found herself scrambling around on the floor on her hands and knees just in case, but the baby wasn't there.

Hell! This is crazy! the strange voice shrieked. She’s got to be somewhere!

Karen flung herself back into her own bedroom and threw back the duvet, wondering if she brought Sophie into her bed during the night and half asleep had forgotten doing so, but it was empty. There was no tiny flattened body to explain her disappearance.

She ran across the elegant carpeted hallway into the kitchen and began frantically opening the cupboards as if expecting the baby to fall into her arms, but there was no sign of Sophie there, nor in the lounge, or in Mrs McTavish’s room, or the small guest room that Zandra Dean had occupied for a short time.

Back in the hall she saw the outline of the pram through the glass of the front door, and she hurried towards it, knowing as she did so that there was no possible reason why the baby should be out there in the porch.

As she reached the door Karen saw to her amazement that it was open a couple of inches. She was rooted to the spot as the implication of it hit her. It had been locked when she went to bed, she was positive of that. With the sick dread inside her increasing she flung it back. The pram was empty as she'd known it would be, and the open door was a sinister message telling her to look no further.

Then she was running into the nursery and opening the small white wardrobe. All Sophie's clothes had gone, and the boxes of disposable nappies and toiletries had disappeared off the unit nearby.

Somebody's taken my baby! she cried to the silent room. She's gone!

As she gasped out the awful facts the dispassionate voice at the other end of the phone asked, Your name please?

Standish! Karen Standish!

And your address?

Oh… my god! Flat six, Sheraton Square, Alderley.

And you can’t find your baby? the young policewoman asked in measured tones.

Yes! Yes! she cried desperately.

You're quite certain that a friend hasn't taken her out and not told you, or a relative arranged to care for her and you've forgotten?

Karen was shaking with shock and fury. Of course not you stupid woman! I've just been in the nursery to feed my baby and she's gone. She's not there! Her voice was rising. For god's sake do something! Whoever has her is gaining time while you're questioning me.

Yes, of course. The voice was more brisk and purposeful now, as if convinced that it wasn't a hoax or the start of a wild goose chase. We’ll have a squad car round to you in the next few minutes

As the receiver was replaced at the other end Karen remained hunched by the phone, and as she crouched there her eyes went to the open front door. The garden… she hadn't searched the garden, and throwing a robe over her pyjamas she thrust her feet into a pair of mules and let herself out by the back door.

There had been a heavy frost, and out in the cold air her face blanched at the thought of Sophie being taken from her warm bed and out into the winter night. As she ran across the crisp silver of the law and frantically searched amongst the trees and shrubs in the large garden that she shared with the flat above, her mind was in turmoil.

Who had taken her baby? Who was it that meant them harm? That has crept into the flat while she slept and stole her child? Whoever you are, don't harm her, she begged silently.

She was shivering, trembling with fear and cold and the ominous message of her swollen breasts. She was thirty four years old, and not a hysterical young girl. Where was her customary drive and initiative, the zest and ruthless efficiency inherited from her father? She and Sophie had been alone in the flat for the first time and this had happened. It felt as if eyes were assessing her and finding her lacking in both judgement and resolve.

But this was different. Nothing that had gone before had prepared her for this. She glanced quickly over her shoulder. Had somebody known that she and the baby were alone last night? Had they been checking on the activities of the household? Yet why would anyone want to do that? As far as she knew she had no enemies…. disgruntled business associates maybe… or jealous rivals, but there wasn't much of that in her line, and in any case what would they want with her baby? As to Sophie's father, he didn't even know he had a child. That was how she’d planned it.

The immaculate garden yielded no small white bundle, and insanely she was glad. The baby would have frozen to death out there in the bitter night.

She ran round to the front of the flats next, but there was nowhere to search there, just neat grass verges and huge ancient trees flanking the entrance. Her eyes raked the deserted square. Where were the police? The maddening voice on the phone had promised speed.

As she stood shivering on the drive Karen looked up at the windows of the flat above which had been unoccupied since the Jacobys, Peter and Helen, had left for Israel in September. A friendly outgoing couple she often dined with them, and had missed them when they’d gone. If they had still been there they would have been the first ones she would have turned to.

The cold was striking through her thin robe, and she turned to go back inside. Fear and anxiety were gnawing at her with vicious teeth, and she couldn't stand it. Essentially a woman of action, Karen decided she was going to ring the police again. Precious seconds were ticking by with Sophie missing in a frightening void.

As she reached the porch a sudden wind whistled through the bare branches of the trees in the garden, and her eyes were drawn upwards. There was something bright and colourful caught up in the branches of a gaunt silver birch, and she went rigid with horror when she saw a tiny pink leg with a white knitted bootee on the end of it, hanging down limply.

It belonged to a small body that was lolling backwards over the branch, and as she ran to stand beneath it Karen saw a gaudily painted face with a mop of coarse blonde hair hanging over the other side.

She clutched at the trunk of the tree for support as her mind took it in. For a second… for a ghastly awful second she’d thought it was Sophie... but it wasn't of course. It was a doll! Someone had hurled a toy doll up into the branches of the tree, and as she stumbled back inside and slammed the door behind her, she was wondering if it was just a bizarre coincidence... or a cruel jest on someone's part.

The door had barely closed behind her when a car screeched to a halt outside in the square and heavy feet sounded in the porch. The police had arrived.

There were two of them, smart young constables with very alert eyes, and as Karen told them what had happened she knew her every word was being assessed.

She was calm now, panic has subsided with their arrival, and there was no tremor in her voice as she explained quickly how she'd found the cradle empty when she’d gone to feed Sophie. The need for action was keeping her in control. A garbled hysterical woman would only hinder progress if her daughter was to be found in the shortest possible time.

They eyed her thoughtfully when she had finished, and then the taller of the two policemen who had introduced himself as Constable Smithers, asked, Were you alone with the baby last night, Madam?

Yes I was. That's why it's so awful, she told him flatly. I’ve had two other people here with me ever since Sophie was born, but they're both away at the moment.

They exchanged glances. And would one of them be your husband? he asked.

Her direct gaze met his. No I'm not married. I divorced my husband three years ago.

In that case I'll rephrase the question, he said with a faintly apologetic smile. Was the baby's father one of those staying here?

Karen could feel her temper rising Sophie's father doesn't come into this officer. He is completely unaware of her existence… and we're wasting time. I want my daughter found. She said coldly.

Ignoring the censure in her voice he requested, Show us the child's bedroom, will you please?

Unable to bear looking at the flat blank space where Sophie had been lying she watched them examine the cradle from the doorway. The second Constable dropped to his knees and began to study the carpet around it, and suddenly he lent forward and scrutinised the wooden feet.

Looks like a smear of blood here, Smithers, he said, and pointing to the side, and there’s another here.

Her inside gave a sickening lurch, and as she hurried across to kneel beside them she saw what were almost certainly bloodstains on Sophie's cradle.

You hadn't noticed them? Smithers asked.

She was fighting for control. No. No, I didn't. I never even looked at the outside of the cradle. I was too concerned with the inside and the fact that my baby wasn't there.

Search the rest of the flat, Hartley, he instructed his colleague, While I go over this room.

As they went over every inch of her home