Free Fatlands by Sarah Dunant Page B

way. Don thinks your girl’s a cutie.’
    Well, wasn’t I the lucky one? In all kinds of ways. A present from the police. How nice. Nice of Ben Maringo to have such a distinctive name, too. Even nicer to find that his name was in the phone book. Granted, it didn’t make the rest of Sunday night any easier, but at least for once Monday offered something to look forward to.

CHAPTER SEVEN God Gave Names to All the Animals
    I would have got there earlier if my car hadn’t given up the ghost and I hadn’t had to sit around waiting for the AA. It was mid-afternoon when I finally arrived at the small Victorian terrace on the outskirts of the Hackney Marshes, its faç ade badly in need of a coat of paint. Any worry that I might not have found the right Maringo was dispelled by the poster in the front window. SAY NO TO ANIMAL TESTING . And the picture of a dog cowering in terror as a hand with a scalpel approached it. For the boys to have him on file he probably had a record. And for them to think him worth a visit, it must have been for something pretty meaty, if you’ll forgive the word. Clearly, whatever the consequences, it hadn’t done much to change his views.
    The doorbell didn’t work, but then that’s not something to hold against anyone. I rapped the knocker loudly. The door was opened hurriedly by a youngish woman, fair, wispy hair cut short but in no particular style. From under her feet a cat whipped out and into the road. She frowned at me and put a hand up. ‘The baby’s asleep.’
    â€˜Oh, sorry.’ I smiled. ‘Is Ben in?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Great. Can I see him?’
    She opened the door without really giving it much thought. Ben clearly had a lot of visitors. Either that or she didn’t know him that well. Two rooms led off the narrow hallway on the right. Friends of Ben would have known which one to find him in. But then that’s the nice thing about Victorian terraces—there’s not exactly a rich choice of functions. I opened the door to what once would have been called the front parlour. The room was sparsely decorated with a sofa and a couple of chairs, a big dark rug on unpolished floorboards.
    And a rabbit. Once you’d seen it, it was hard to take your eyes off it. It was large and white and sitting in a corner. At first glance it was so still you might even think it was stuffed, but look a little longer and the nervous twitching of the nose gave it away. It was sort of implicit in the twitch that this was a bunny who’d been to hell and back. I dragged my eyes away in search of its saviour.
    But Ben Maringo had another love as well as animals. In a dark blue carry-cot next to him lay a small, sleeping baby. I don’t know what made me think it, but it seemed clear this was his first child. It made him a late father. From his fair, thinning hair and lined face he was at least in his mid forties. He looked up. He was tired. But then the baby was very young.
    â€˜Hello, Ben.’
    â€˜Who are you?’
    There were a number of answers I could have given him, but after a visit from the ATS I thought he’d appreciate it if I told him the truth. He didn’t say anything for a while, just looked at the baby, tucking the covers in around the sleeping form. ‘So, how did you find me?’
    That was a little more tricky. ‘I … I can’t say,’ I said apologetically.
    â€˜So much for anonymity under the law,’ he said, but with more resignation than bitterness. The door openedand the young woman stuck her head round. She nodded rather nervously at me. ‘Ben, if you’re all right, I’ll slip out and get the stuff from the chemist. I think he’ll sleep till I get back.’ Now I noticed a small, dark spot on her T-shirt front. A nursing mother is always on the run. So says Sister Kate and she should know.
    â€˜Yeah, OK. Oh, and Martha. You better get some more baby