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since? Look, I have to be frank with you here. The only people who can help you find your son are the authorities who arranged the adoption or for the boy to be taken into care, whichever the case. Barnardo’s would be your best bet, although there are special agencies that deal with this sort of thing. Even then, it would be up to the boy if he wanted to see you. Eighteen years is a long time to be disowned by your own…’ I didn’t have the heart to finish; the poor woman was distressed enough.
    She was clutching the cigarette in both hands and shaking her head, slowly, deliberately, as if she didn’t want to hear. Her eyes were liquid as she said: You don’t understand. They told me he was dead. There was something wrong with the baby at birth. He didn’t survive.’
    ‘I’m afraid you’re right - I don’t understand. If the baby died, why would you -?’
    ‘Because they lied. My baby didn’t die. They said he was born with too many abnormalities to live long. They told me he was dead within minutes of the birth.’
    You must have seen it… him… for yourself.’
    ‘No. It was a difficult birth, I’d been in labour for more than twenty-four hours. I was exhausted, only half-conscious when he finally arrived. They took him from me immediately, but I heard him, I heard his cries. They were… different, somehow, but I definitely heard them. They were very strong.’
    I tried to be gentle. That may be so,’ I said softly, ‘but that doesn’t mean the child didn’t die soon afterwards. Did you see him again?’
    ‘I told you, I didn’t see him at all.’ The tears were beginning to spill over and ruin her mascara line.
    I hoped she took my small groan for a sigh as I sat back in my chair - not a very comfortable position for me, incidentally. ‘I’m sorry, I still don’t get it. Why would they tell you the baby was dead if that wasn’t so? It doesn’t make sense. What kind of hospital was it anyway?’
    ‘An ordinary National Health hospital in Dartford. The Dartford General.’
    Well, there you are, there wouldn’t be anything sinister going on in an NHS place, nor any other type of hospital for that matter. I wonder… uh, there’s no easy way of saying this. I wonder if the death of your husband hasn’t left you overwrought? You’ve lost a loved one unexpectedly and tragically and I assume you’re alone, so maybe now you’re reaching for another possibility, one that tells you that the son you had all those years ago and thought was dead might still be alive. You’re full of grief, remorse, and dare I say, guilt? Guilt that you never told Mr Ripstone, you kept it a secret for eighteen years, and guilt that you might have abandoned your only child.’
    She stabbed the cigarette into the ashtray, her fingers trembling. ‘I’m not a neurotic widow, Mr Dismas, despite what you might think. You don’t know the full story yet.’
    She took a small handkerchief with lace edges from her purse and dabbed at her eyes, now smudging the running mascara. The tears ceased though, and her voice became steady again as she looked me directly in the eye (I think she was getting used to me now that the initial shock had passed). ‘Do you believe in clairvoyancy, Mr Dismas?’ she said.
    I groaned again, inwardly this time, already guessing where this was headed. I had enough problems dealing with reality without bringing hokum into my life. I didn’t want to upset her any more, though, so I replied: ‘I’ve heard a few interesting stories about such things over the years. Let’s face it, Brighton has more than its fair share of fortune tellers and psychics, not to mention New Age and alternative medicine practitioners.’ (And not to mention private enquiry agencies, which was why I wasn’t keen to lose a prospective client, no matter how off-the-wall they might be; competition was too fierce for that.)
    Then you do believe certain people have psychic powers?’ she pressed on.
    Telepathy, a sixth