by J. S. Monroe
“How old is she?” Her tone is serious now.
“She doesn’t know. She’s lost all her ID. Late twenties?”
Freya puts her hands together, as if in prayer, pressing them to her lips, head bowed.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” she says, still looking down.
“I think I know,” Luke says eventually. “If it makes things any easier. It’s taken me thirty years, but I’ve finally worked it out. And it’s okay. Of course it is. Whatever you decided.”
They both remain silent. He knows he’s right.
“My father wanted an abortion, but my mother talked him out of it, supported by my auntie,” she says, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “They reached a deal: I could have the baby, in India, but it would be put up for adoption. And given that the baby’s father was European, my father contacted an agency in Europe. They took her away at birth.”
“It was a girl?”
Luke is starting to cry now, his guilt tinged with a strange kind of joy, knowing he has a daughter, a half sister for Milo.
“A beautiful girl,” she continues. “I know I should have told you, but it was different in those days. So, so difficult. There were a few in our extended family who wanted me dead—for the shame I had brought on everyone. But they were shouted down. We are a modern country now, you know.”
Luke closes his eyes, recalling the article he’d read online about honor killings.
“It’s okay. I’m just sorry for having asked you, made you revisit all this.”
“I feel much better now that we have spoken.”
“To be honest, I know very little about the woman who turned up in our village. She might not have anything to do with you.”
It’s only his selfish desire to establish Jemma’s identity that has made him get in touch with Freya, put her through this. It could all be for nothing.
“But a family likeness is there, you say? Do you have a photo?”
“It’s the more the way she talks,” Luke says, thinking back to when he first heard Jemma chatting to Laura in the surgery, his confusion, how he had momentarily mistaken her for a young Freya. “Her manner.”
“Where is she living?” she asks.
“We don’t know. She arrived in the UK on a flight from Berlin.”
“Berlin?”
“We think so. I don’t have a photo.”
Freya dabs at her eyes again and then looks behind her. “I must go. My colleagues are starting to arrive.” She glances around again before speaking. “We were told nothing about the wealthy couple who took her away, nothing except their faith—she was a Baha’i—and their nationality.”
“And?” Luke asks, but he already knows what she’s going to say.
“They were a mixed-race couple living in Germany.”
CHAPTER 35
DAY THREE
I wake early and listen to the birdsong outside the window, wondering why the day has already dawned so light, where I am in the world. My lower back is sore and I remain still, staring up at the stained ceiling. After a few seconds, I prop myself on one elbow, wincing at the pain, and look around the small room.
I can’t remember my own name.
I see the sheets of paper on my bedside table and sink back onto the bed, the fear that had retreated in my sleep returning with a vengeance. I wish I wasn’t in this village, lying on my own in a dingy back room of a pub, but I am here and I must deal with whatever lies ahead. I can only look forward.
I dress, grateful that there are several changes of clothes in my suitcase, and walk down the corridor. As I pass the door where Abdul and his brother are sleeping, I smile to myself, cheered by the sound of mighty, stentorious snoring. Abdul has been very kind to me.
I don’t know how early it is when I head out on the street. I want to take a walk around the village and see what’s happening, but that could be problematic. As I wrote in my notes, my presence has upset Laura, and there could be other people who might not be pleased to see me—pre-breakfast dog walkers, joggers.
I am about to set off up the hill, away from the train station, when I notice a light come on in Tony’s café. The next moment he is on the street, putting out a wooden easel sign. He kneels down to write something on the sign, stands back to pull out his phone and takes a picture of it. After checking the image, he looks up and down the road, sees me and raises a hand in greeting. I reciprocate, cross the road and walk up to the café. It’s important that we speak.
“You’re an early riser,” he says, busy behind the food counter with the oven.
“You too,” I say.
“Did you see the sign outside? I’m trying something new. Targeting the early crowd. I’m figuring if I get myself down onto the platform in time for the 5:45 a.m. with a tray of TLTs—smoky tempeh, lettuce, tomato and avocado, served on sourdough wheat bread—a whole new unexploited market will be mine.”
“They’ll just want a coffee, won’t they?” I’m surprised by how early it must be.
“I’m taking a thermos too—what I need is a small bodega down there, an outstation of the gallery café with its own coffee machine. It will happen.”
“I’m sure it will.”
“You want a coffee, something to eat?” he says, glancing down at the display cabinet. “I’ve only got the smoky tempeh on at the moment.”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“How was it?” he asks. “When you first woke up?”
He turns to the oven, peering through the glass window.
“I read my notes,” I say.
“No change, then.”
His manner is breezy, businesslike. “It doesn’t appear so.” I pause. “Thanks for supper.”
“You included that?” he asks, turning to look at me. “I thought you weren’t going—”
“Can we talk about what happened?”
“You wrote about that too?” he asks, turning back to the oven.
I stay silent and watch him at work, regretting that I came into the café.
“It was out of order,” he says, opening the oven to remove a tray of baked tempeh. “A mistake. You know, I was hoping you’d not made a note of it.”
I take a deep breath as he places the tray on the counter. “So you could do it all over again tonight?” I ask.
He look up at me and laughs unconvincingly. I can tell he’s not sure which way I’m heading with this, whether I’m onside or not.
“I just didn’t want you to misunderstand anything,” I continue. “My reaction.”
“As I say, it was a mistake and I apologize,” he says, starting to slice the tempeh with a large knife. Would I be able to kill someone with it? Would I choose a knife?
“I had a friend,” I say, mesmerized by his cutting, the flash of the blade in the early-morning light.
“You mentioned her—when you first arrived. The one who died?”
“I think we were lovers.”
He stops cutting and looks up at me. “You think?”
“I can’t remember. She was my best friend.”
“That’s cool by me.”
“But I was wondering, it might explain...” I pause, struggling to find the right words as he makes up a tray of rolls, carefully laying out the sliced tempeh into each one. “It might explain if I was a little ‘neutral’ last night.”
“Hey, if you’re worried that my heterosexual pride was hurt because you didn’t fling your arms around me, I appreciate your concern, but I would never be so presumptuous to think that you would.”
“You’re also married.”
“As I say, I made a stupid mistake.” He looks up at me and then returns to the rolls. “I spoke to Laura last night.”
“Did you tell her?” I ask. “That I’d been over for s
upper?”
“As a matter of fact I didn’t.”
“How is she?”
“Still mad at me, but we’ll work through it. I’ve gotta go. Take these down to the station. Want to come?”
He carries the tray of rolls to the door in one hand. In the other he’s holding a large thermos, a stack of plastic cups tucked under one arm.
“I better stay up here,” I say, opening the café door for him. We both step outside onto the street.
“You’re probably right. Just pull it closed. I’ll be back in fifteen.”
“Can I see you later?” I ask, as we set off in the direction of the station.
“I’ll be in the café all day.”
“I have another appointment at the surgery at 9:00 a.m., with Dr. Patterson. I’ll know then if a bed has come free.”
A jogger runs up the other side of the street, lifting a hand in greeting. Tony nods and smiles, gesturing at his full hands. “We’ll miss you if you get one,” he says.
“Not everyone will.”
We are now outside the pub. “I’m going back to my room,” I say. “Thank you for your support yesterday. It seems from my notes that you did a lot for me.”
“We all need allies in this world,” he calls over his shoulder, walking on toward the station. “Sorry—gotta go.”
“And Tony?” I call out after him. He stops and turns. “Forgive and forget. Or in my case, forget and forgive.”
“Forget and forgive,” he repeats, smiling.
As he disappears out of sight, a police patrol car crests the brow of the railway bridge and drives up the high street. The driver slows and his female passenger glances across at me. I don’t get a clear view, but I think I might have seen her before.
CHAPTER 36
When Luke arrives at his office, there is a patchwork of yellow Post-it notes on his screen asking him to call Laura.
“She’s rung quite a few times,” his secretary says, dumping the day’s newspapers on his desk. “Said your mobile’s going straight to voicemail.”
“She’s my yoga teacher,” Luke answers, by way of a feeble explanation.
“Blocked chakras?” she asks, walking back to her desk.
He pulls out his phone. He’d left it in his jacket pocket all night and failed to put it on charge. FaceTiming Freya had drained it. Drained him too. He’d slept like a log afterward, the best sleep he’s had in years. He has a daughter.
“Chloe’s not coming in again today,” she says. “Still ill.”
Luke glances across the office at her desk, allowing his gaze to settle on her empty chair, the scarf draped over the back of it, a vintage Cinni fan in the corner.
The main office line rings. “Your yoga friend again.”
He shakes his head and takes the call.
“Laura, hi, sorry, my mobile died.”
“I’ve been trying to reach you all morning. And last night.” She doesn’t sound herself.
“Tell me.”
“Tony’s been acting really strangely—ever since Jemma arrived.”
“In what way?” he asks, but he’s not sure he wants to know the details. Other people’s marital problems are a reminder that his own marriage was cut cruelly short. He’d give anything to be having difficulties if it meant his wife was still alive.
“I don’t know. He just won’t listen to me, to anyone. I’m scared she really might be Jemma Huish, but Tony thinks I’m overreacting. Susie Patterson’s changed her tune too—and she was the one who called the police in the first place. Warned me about her.”
“The police?”
“They turned up yesterday to interview her, but she refused to give them a DNA sample. Why would she do that? It’s really beginning to freak me out, Luke.”
“Where are you now?” he asks. He feels out of touch and needs to get back to the village. A lot has happened in his absence. Sean was right about spotting a detective outside the surgery.
“Staying at my mum’s for a few days.”
“In London?”
“I couldn’t stay in the village another night with Jemma around.”
“Of course not,” Luke says, humoring her. He glances at his watch. After last night’s conversation with Freya, the suggestion that Jemma is Jemma Huish seems less likely than ever. Distasteful too, given that there is a realistic chance she might now be his daughter. How soon could he be back in the village? He suddenly feels very protective of Jemma.
Luke makes his excuses to Laura, hangs up and walks over to the window. Below him is the smokers’ area, where the staff also park their cars. Several classic cars have also just been delivered for a photo shoot and, in the corner of the yard, the magazine’s own staff vehicle, “Hilton’s Healey,” named in honor of the fictitious editor in chief. A relatively rare 1967 Austin-Healey 3000 MK III.
“I’ve got to go out this morning. Bit of an emergency back home,” he says to Archie, his deputy. They all know he looks after his elderly parents, and for once he’s prepared to use them as an excuse to leave.
“I’ll take Hilton’s Healey,” he adds. Trains back to the village are useless after rush hour.
Archie unhooks a set of keys from the wall behind them and throws them across to Luke.
Two minutes later, the three-liter, six-cylinder engine is revving. He turns to check behind him. The entire editorial team is at the window above to send him off. Do they know that there is something more serious at stake? Maybe they think he’s off to see Chloe, to try to patch things up.
He waves, roars out of the yard and heads on down toward Wandsworth Common. It’s just gone 9:00 a.m. Traffic permitting, he should be back at the village within two hours. The police clearly have no prima facie link between Jemma Huish and Jemma—not yet—but she could become very vulnerable.
CHAPTER 37
I try to concentrate on Dr. Patterson’s questions, but the noise from the surgery reception is growing louder. At first, we both try to ignore it—Dr. Patterson jokes that someone must be having a bad morning—but it sounds like a full-blown argument.
“I’m sorry about this. I’ll tell them to keep it down,” Dr. Patterson says, getting up from her desk.
“Do you think it’s about me?” I ask. It’s hard to make out individual words, but I think I hear someone mention Jemma Huish.
“You? Don’t be silly.” She’s not a good liar.
Dr. Patterson was hoping to move me to the Cavell Centre today, but there are still no beds, which is a relief. Unfortunately, she has managed to get me an appointment with a psychiatrist tomorrow—at the hospital. I really don’t need the extra stress.
I watch her walk over to the door, but before she reaches it someone knocks on the other side. “Susie, could I have a quick word?” a voice says.
“Practice manager,” Dr. Patterson whispers to me, rolling her eyes. “I’m about to be told off. Come in.”
The manager opens the door enough for the noise in reception to swell, but he doesn’t enter the room. Instead, he glances at me and then back down the corridor, before turning to Dr. Patterson.
“A couple of minutes?”
“We were just finishing.”
“In private.”
“Your room?” she asks.
“Please.”
Dr. Patterson doesn’t look too happy about it.
“Are you okay to stay here?” she asks me. “While we have a quick chat?”
“Sure,” I say. “What’s all the noise outside?”
The manager pauses before answering. “Best you stay in here.”
I sit there on my own in her room, listening to the hum of conversation at the end of the corridor. They’re definitely talking about Jemma Huish. After two minutes, I can bear it no longer. I need to be away from here, back in my room at the pub. I decide to run the gauntl
et of whatever is going on in reception, and set off along the corridor.
“It’s her,” I hear a female voice say. The conversation fades as I enter the reception area, where a sea of silent faces stares at me. Not as many as it had sounded; maybe ten people.
I lower my head and keep walking. They part for me as if I’m a pariah, standing farther back than necessary, all eyes fixed on mine. I should have stayed in the room, listened to Dr. Patterson’s advice. I walk on, my limbs heavy with adrenaline now, and breathe a sigh of relief when I’m out of the surgery and in the bright daylight. I don’t look back, but I sense a crowd of people has come out to watch me walk away. I can feel their eyes on my back, narrowed in disapproval.
I cross the street, walk into the pub by the back door and head straight upstairs to my room, relieved to be away from the surgery. Closing the door, I sit down at the piano and play, trying to calm myself. The notes come easily until a knock on the door.
“It’s me, Abdul.”
“Come in,” I say.
Abdul enters, staring sheepishly at his feet. I notice he is wearing odd socks under his sandals.
“The village, they are saying things.”
“What do they say, Abdul?” I ask, but I already know the answer.
“Do you know Miss Huish?”
I shake my head, staring at him.
“Some people,” he continues, “they say that you and her are the very same.”
I manage a dry laugh. “Me?”
“I told them it was poppycock. They even showed me a photograph of this Huish woman. She doesn’t look like you.”
“I know,” I say, sighing as I close the piano lid. “But it was a long time ago and people have forgotten what she looks like.”
“The photo was also very blurred.”
“I’m not her, Abdul,” I say. I don’t sound convincing. “Don’t worry.”
“That’s what I told them. Balderdash.”
“Thank you,” I say, suddenly moved by his loyalty. I polish a smear on the wooden piano lid with the sleeve of my blouse.
“What music were you playing?” he asks.