Chapter Thirty-Three
The next morning, it was just Sherlock and William who took the yellow taxi to the Children's Centre, Molly having decided to have a quiet day at the hotel with Freddie. She was feeling quite exhausted, after the events of the previous day. It was the first time she had attended at a birth as the only health care professional. When she did her obstetrics rotation during her medical training, she had enjoyed the support of trained midwives. For Maria's confinement, she had called more upon her own child birth experiences than her training and she was eternally grateful that no complications had arisen. She shuddered to think what might have happened had she been obliged to perform a caesarean, for example. But all these 'what if's' were moot. It had all gone unbelievably by the book and both Maria and Baby Molly were fit and well.
After kissing Sherlock and William goodbye, she took Freddie down to the pool for a swim, laying claim to their usual sun lounger and settling in for the morning. As Freddie paddled his way around the trainer pool, Molly reflected on the conversation she had shared with Sherlock the night before after making love slowly, sweetly and sensuously, taking full advantage of her 'fertile phase'.
'I read somewhere that if you lie with your feet elevated, post-coitus, it facilitates conception,' he observed.
'Conception has never been much of a problem for us – quite the opposite, don't you think? Did it give any hints about how to guarantee a female foetus?'
'Not exactly, but it did say something interesting on that subject.'
'Which was?'
'It said that Y-chromosome sperm are very direct; they are the sprinters and take the shortest, fastest route toward the ovum. But they lack stamina so they often run out of energy before they get there. The X-chromosome sperm are slower but have more stamina so, when the Y sperm fall by the wayside, the X sperm keep going and, eventually, get to the ovum. If it hasn't already been fertilised by a sprinter, X does the job.'
'Have you been reading my women's magazines, again?' she asked.
'What if I have? It's all research. Men's magazines don't usually have articles of that nature. It's all tits and arses – or car maintenance. I'm not particularly interested in any of those topics.'
'No, I can't see you leafing through any of those 'lads' mags', somehow. But I never pictured you perusing 'Women's Weekly' either.'
'They have very good short stories in 'Woman's Weekly,' I'll have you know, not to mention the recipes.'
Molly looked at him, in surprise, then saw the twinkle in his eye and poked him in the ribs. His poker face cracked and he chuckled.
'Alright, smart arse, where did you read it?' she demanded.
'In a research paper on birth rate statistics in the New Scientist but I had you for a minute, didn't I?' he teased, hugging her to him. She curled in to his side and draped a leg over his hips.
'Can I ask you a serious question?' he enquired. She gave a little nod.
'Pregnancy and labour are not entirely pleasant experiences. In fact, I would go so far as to say they are downright unpleasant, not to say extremely painful and potentially life threatening.'
'I suppose, if you want to put it that way,' Molly agreed.
'So why do women do it?'
'Well, it would be bad news for the human race if we didn't, wouldn't it?'
'Yes, of course, but I'm sure you're not thinking about the future of humanity when you decide to have a child.'
'No, of course not.'
'So, why do women choose to go through this ordeal, again and again, in the full knowledge of what it entails? You see, I've been trying to think of a male equivalent and I can't come up with anything remotely similar.'
'What about you? You put yourself in danger, time after time, through your work. You've faced up to a criminal psychopath, a homicidal OAP and a female sexual predator and didn't come off too well in any of those encounters but it doesn't seem to put you off.'
'I don't think about the risk – not while I'm on the case. I think it's the adrenalin rush that does it.' He thought it best not to mention that the danger was actually part of the attraction – the thrill of the chase, the blood pumping though his veins.
'Well, it's kind of the same with pregnancy. For some women, the maternal drive is so strong, it over-rides every other consideration. And it's a fact that as soon as the pain stops, you forget about it, anyway. I believe it has something to do with endorphins. And it's not as if it's all for nothing. God willing, you have a beautiful baby to show for it.' Molly felt the need to add the proviso. She didn't want to tempt fate. 'Women in the developed world have a choice whether or not to have children. In the past, and in developing countries now, women can't control their own fertility and that must be a terrifying prospect. I can't imagine what it must be like to have ten or more pregnancies. That would seriously take the shine off the idea.'
'Mamama, Feddiedink?' Freddie broke into her thoughts.
'Do you want a drink, sweetie?'
'Dooce, peed'
'You want some juice?'
'Es, peed.'
She scooped him out of the water and took him to the sun lounger for some juice.
ooOoo
At the Children's Centre, William was hoping to see his friend, Rodrigo, and he was in luck because the children were just coming out of their first lessons for their morning break as he and Sherlock arrived.
'Olá, William! É bom te ver,' exclaimed Rodigo.
'É um prazer vê-lo, também, Rodrigo. Eu perdi você!' William replied.
So, having said how glad they were to see one another, they ran off together to play.
Sherlock watched as William teamed up with Rodrigo then walked down the corridor to the back office, where Raoul was poring over the books. He looked up and smiled when he saw who had arrived.
'Mr Holmes! Welcome!'
'Sherlock, please. Mr Holmes is my brother,' he grinned.
'Sherlock,' repeated Raoul. 'Caro is on her way. She has information about the missing babies.'
Sherlock raised his eyebrows, wondering what that might be.
'I'll wait in the Interview Room. I need to make a phone call,' he advised the centre manager.
'I'll bring some coffee when Caro arrives,' said Raoul and returned to his book balancing.
Sherlock went into the Interview Room, fished Gustavo Oliviera's card from his top pocket and tapped the number into his phone. As he waited for the other party to answer, he flicked the calling card, absent-mindedly, with his little finger.
'Oliviera,' a voice announced.
'Sherlock Holmes. You asked for me to call.'
'Ah, Mr Holmes, how good of you to ring. I trust you're well?'
Sherlock abhorred this kind of social small talk.
'Was it something important?' he asked.
'Excuse me?' the politician replied.
'Henrique said you wished to speak to me about something. Was it something important?' he repeated.
'Ah, I see, you are a man who likes to get down to business; cut to the chase, as it were.'
Sherlock said nothing, just waited for the Minister of Cities to 'get down to business and cut to the chase'. Eventually, Oliviera got the message.
'Could we meet, Mr Holmes?'
'Where and when?' Sherlock asked. There was something about this man that got under his skin.
'Tomorrow, perhaps? We could meet for lunch.'
'I rarely eat lunch, Sr. Oliviera, but if you wish to meet at lunch time, feel free to eat while we talk.'
'Very well, Mr Holmes. I will send a car for you. Where should I send it?'
'Tell me where we're meeting and the time, senhor, and I'll be there.'
Oliviera gave him a time and a place.
'I'll see you tomorrow,' he said and cut the call.
He sat tapping the phone against his chin and still flicking the card with his finger. Something had triggered his sixth sense but he couldn't put his finger on what it was. Then the door opened and Caro entered, followed by Raoul with a tray of coffee. Sherlock stood, out of respect for the lady, Raoul handed out the coffee and they all sat down then Caro got straight down to business.
'So far, over a hundred women have come forward to say that they gave birth at the clinic and were told their babies had been still born. We have taken DNA samples from all those mothers and from the fathers, too, where possible.'
Sherlock nodded.
'The federal police have begun to contact the people who are known to have adopted babies, according to the clinic records. Most of these people don't live in Brazil. Many of them, apparently, applied in their own countries to adopt a baby but weren't successful, for one reason or another.'
'What sort of reasons?' Sherlock asked.
'Mostly, due to the lack of new born babies available for adoption.'
'And these people didn't want older children?'
'It would appear not. Some couples were considered too old to adopt and some were considered unsuitable, for other reasons.'
'Such as?'
'Some countries won't allow same-sex couples to adopt,' Caro explained, 'and some countries insist that children of a particular ethnicity are adopted by parents of the same ethnicity.'
'So black parents can't adopt a white child?'
'Or Asian parents adopt an Oriental child and so on.'
'Which leaves a lot of babies without parents and vice versa?' Sherlock was astonished. 'That's insane! Surely a loving home is all any child wants and needs?'
'You would think so, wouldn't you?' Caro agreed. 'There are some couples, aware of the prevalence in Brazil of Street Children, who specifically wanted to adopt a Brazilian child from the favela, to give them a better life. They had no idea, obviously, that the babies were not actually given up for adoption but had been stolen from the mothers.'
Sherlock pursed his lips and frowned. There were going to be a lot of very heart-broken people in the world as a result of this baby trafficking scam. He tried to remind himself of the dangers of caring but, unfortunately, caring was no longer optional. His heart had been opened and, like Pandora's Box, there was no closing it now.
'How long has the rogue clinic been operating?' he asked, endeavouring to be analytical.
'Just six months, according to their records. The first babies were born there in January.'
'Well, it's fortunate we cracked the case when we did. Babies under six months of age will retain very little memory of their early life. It'll make it easier for them to bond with their birth parents when they're reunited,' Sherlock declared, being practical. 'Is the babies' DNA being gathered?'
'Some of the adoptive parents are co-operating. Others are turning to the judicial system, in their respective countries.'
'That's going to be expensive, if we have to challenge them in the courts.'
'Clearly, none of our parents will have the resources to do that but we do have some pro bono lawyers who might represent them. We could, obviously, bring a joint action but if the babies are spread across several countries that will be more complicated. We'll have a better idea what we're dealing with when we've matched up the babies for whom we have DNA with their birth parents.'
'How long is that likely to take?'
'Not long. A week, perhaps, or maybe two.'
'And when will the babies be returned to their natural parents?'
'Ah, that remains to be seen. Social workers are overseeing that side. It's beyond our control. We're only involved in the DNA collection and matching.'
Sherlock nodded.
Witnessing the birth of Maria's baby, the day before, it struck him that, had that poor woman, Teresa, not stumbled into the Children's Centre and given birth and then her husband come looking for her and her baby, they would all have been none the wiser about St Winifred's. Maria might well have gone there to have her child and would now be mourning that child's supposed death. This was far too close to home for him to be impartial. He must learn how to deal with caring.
ooOoo
William was showing Rodrigo and a few of the other boys how to pick up the largest number of jacks in the shortest possible time, in between bouncing and catching the small rubber ball. He scattered the jacks, took a moment to scan their positions, bounced the ball with a specific force and scooped up the jacks, before catching the ball again. He did this several times and, each time, managed to retrieve all the jacks and catch the ball before it bounced again. The other boys were very impressed.
'How did you learn that?' Rodrigo asked, in amazement.
'The ants showed me, 'William replied.
Rodrigo and the others gave him the side eye and some of the boys snorted with laughter.
'You can talk to ants?' Rodrigo asked, giving William the benefit of the doubt.
'No!' William chuckled. 'The ants showed me by watching them.'
Rodrigo gave a bemused shake of the head.
'When ants are foraging for food,' William explained, 'they always find the shortest distance between the food source and the nest so that they can gather the most amount of food for the least amount of effort. Humans have used this ant ability to do similar things. For example, when delivery vans have several parcels to deliver to different parts of a country, scientists created an algorithm that worked out the most direct route between all the delivery addresses so the delivery van did the job in the shortest time and used the least amount of fuel.'
Rodrigo still looked puzzled.
William said, 'Watch. I'll show you.'
He scattered the jacks, randomly, on the ground.
'I look at the positions of all the jacks and work out in what order I should pick them up and, roughly, how much time it will take to do that.'
He pointed to the jacks in the order of priority, to permit him to pick them up in the quickest time.
'Then I know how hard I need to bounce the ball so it stays in the air long enough for me to pick up the jacks.'
Then he bounced the ball, picked up the jacks and caught the ball as it fell.
'And you worked that all out in your head?' one of the other boys asked, incredulously.
'Yes,' William replied, wrinkling his brow and shrugging, wondering what was so strange in that.
'Holy Mary, Mother of God!' the other boy declared. 'Show me again!'
William was about to oblige when the teacher came to the door and called the children back to their lessons.
'Are you coming to class?' Rodrigo asked his little friend.
'What subject is it?' William enquired.
'Literacy,' Rodrigo advised.
'Oh, yes!' said William. 'I need to learn to read Portuguese as well as speak it,' and he followed his friend into class.
ooOoo
