Kate nodded.
‘Perhaps in my office tomorrow? If you’re free . . . my PA could confirm a time with you.’
He smiled, and Kate felt a tidal wave of relief so strong tears were pricking her eyes. She smiled at Gregory, at the room in general, not caring if anyone was looking. She clutched the back of the chair in front of her as her legs were distinctly wobbly and she was light-headed with a new, extraordinary fact. She’d done it.
She was conscious that she hadn’t done all of it, as she followed Gregory’s PA, Maddie, along a wooden-panelled corridor to his office in Belgravia the next morning. He hadn’t promised anything at the AGM and she was braced for a fob-off, a business-speak reason why they couldn’t change their lorries’ design, which would be dressed up as something incomprehensibly technical but was actually down to money.
Kate didn’t have another office-suitable outfit so, rather than repeat the suit, she was wearing her least-scruffy jeans and a shirt. Gregory met her at his office door as she approached and, when Maddie went off to make teas, he led her in. She sat in a club chair, he opposite. His trousers rode up and she saw his sock-clad ankles – a fine, dark-grey material with sheen, perhaps silk. A light-pink tie lay confidently over his belly; no middle-aged spread, he had the look of a younger man. He thanked her for coming and she noticed a quiet air of capability, of inner strength, of solidity. Despite herself, she found she was warming to him and she momentarily forgot the pre-rehearsed gags in his speech as here, now, there was something self-effacing in his very manner, the way he’d shaken her hand without being overbearing, his respectfulness around her; there was nothing grand or pompous about him at all.
He sat forward in his seat, held his hands together on his knee. ‘Before we get down to brass tacks, I just wanted to say how much I was impressed, moved, by what you did yesterday.’
‘Thanks.’
‘It was inspiring.’
‘Thanks,’ said Kate again. She smiled but gave nothing away. He sounded genuine enough, but she wasn’t here for praise.
He seemed wrong-footed by her lack of response, ran his hands back along his thighs, sat up straight. ‘Right. Well, I’ve already spoken to our Head of Transport and, as you may well be aware, we source our vehicles from an outside truck-haulage manufacturer . . .’
. . . so there’s nothing we can do, finished Kate inwardly. She braced herself. How dare he? How dare he publicly invite me in here on some pandering PR exercise to make his company look responsible and caring, and yet do nothing? She knew it, she bloody knew it. She’d come so far; it had cost her so much. And all those months working . . . just to have the door slammed in her face. She kept her voice level. ‘You know there’s something about you, your type, that just winds me up.’
His eyes widened. ‘Pardon?’
‘Sitting there in your fine-leather chair, in your fancy suit, pretending you’re so caring, that your company is not just about how much money you can make, giving me the fake pat on the shoulder and then doing some spin about complicated contracts and how it’s just not your fault but you will look into it, you will not rest, except the minute I walk out of here you’ll be ordering a coffee from your PA and moving on to the next item in your very busy money-making agenda, and you’ll never even spend another nanosecond of your oh-so-precious time thinking about it, about the thing that killed my daughter—’
‘We’re investigating additional cameras and sensors for the trucks—’
‘And even though you have the opportunity, you, Mr Hollander, you who has the power— What?’
‘We already meet current legislation – of course – but we’re doing a risk assessment on some additional features. Revising the front-passenger windows, too. We’re hoping to have the entire fleet modified by the end of this summer. Maybe earlier. It’s a question of how long the tests take . . . and, I’m afraid, the outside fitters. But I’m pushing for very little delay.’
Kate stared at him, dumbfounded.
‘That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’ He seemed, again, wrong-footed by her silence.
She smiled, the first genuine one of the meeting. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, it is.’
‘We feel responsible. I feel responsible,’ he said, ‘and I know nothing can bring your daughter back but what happened . . . it’s never going to happen again. Not while I’m here.’ He looked her straight in the eye. ‘The driver, he’s been dismissed.’
‘He has?’
‘Yes. Some time ago.’
Kate nodded tightly. ‘Thank you.’
‘There’s one other thing. I was wondering . . . would you like it if I stayed in touch personally? To keep you updated with progress? The first set of results should be in in a few days.’
She smiled again. ‘I would like that very much.’
TWELVE
Wednesday, 18 January 2017 – thirty-seven days before the accident
Becky sat at her desk pretending to type, to be really engrossed in what was on the screen in front of her. It was positioned in such a way that her peripheral vision could still capture what was going on five metres ahead of her in her boss’s glass-walled office, without having to look directly at it.
Terence Cooper was on the phone, as he had been for the last sixty-seven minutes. She was counting her lucky stars she could see in. He often enjoyed letting the metal venetian blind race down the window, then peering through, as if he were in some Hollywood investigation movie, and Becky had a sneaky suspicion he did this because it appealed to his ego, because Terence (never Terry) had a big ego. You kinda had to, to get as high up as he had in journalism. Granted, it was restrained, camouflaged by the passion he displayed for his craft and for rooting out a story about the scandal of the politicians’ expenses, or covering the shock election win for Trump (something she’d been proud to have helped him on), but still, it was an ego. He knew he was good. And Becky was in awe of him. His thirst for ferreting out the truth inspired her, and that was the explanation she had all lined up should she get busted.
She risked a glance up – he was still on the bloody phone. Another glance at the clock: she had to leave in four minutes or she’d miss her train. Why didn’t he finish the call, which should have been over twenty minutes ago, and go to his appointment that she knew he had in the diary at somewhere across the other side of town? Then she could get out of here. Becky was very aware some very difficult questions would be asked of her if Terence knew she’d spent several hours over the last few weeks not in the office, not doing her designated work, but doing her own rooting around.
She suddenly realized she was being watched. Piers, the other graduate, the one who was wealthy, who’d had no need of a scholarship, who’d been to Oxford. The one who was also going for the job of reporter, currently the only job opening at the newspaper. He always came to work in an impeccably crisp white shirt, which seemed to make his black skin glow with determination and superiority. He was looking at her quizzically and she forced a nonchalant, chin-on-hand perusal of her screen.
Hurry up! Hurry up! The clock ticked over another minute, the hand literally shuddering as it landed on the next black line. And then, miraculously, Terence put down the phone. Part of her worried he was so late he’d changed his plans, but he grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair and came haring out with a brief ‘Got that research yet?’
‘On it,’ answered Becky immediately. ‘Be ready by end of today.’
And then he was gone. She gave him two minutes – it was all she could allow – then casually picked up her rucksack from under her desk, with her things already packed away inside.
‘Going somewhere?’
She looked up to see Piers hulking over her desk. She couldn’t afford to wait, to pretend to be going to the toilet, she just didn’t have the time.
‘Only you seem to be leaving the office early.’
‘None of your business,’ she said as she stood. ‘And I suggest you keep it zipped if you know what’s good for
you.’
‘Feisty! I like that in a lady.’
‘Not got time for this, Piers.’
‘Hey, liking the dress,’ he said as Darcy, the young PA, approached in a fitted red number.
She blushed and held out a Post-it. ‘Phone number you were after.’
‘Thanks.’ Piers beamed at her and she blushed again, looking over her shoulder at him as she made her way back to her desk.
Becky ignored them both and made her escape.
Careful, careful, don’t run any lights, she thought, pulling up quickly at a junction where the traffic lights had just turned red. Cycling in London was precarious enough without taking any stupid risks. She could still make it, if the light changed this side of Friday, and then it did, and she was the first away. Cars quickly flew past her and in another five minutes she turned into Victoria station. Three minutes to buzz her travel card and jump on the train – which she just managed as the platform dispatch guy blew his whistle. She was on!
There was a glimmer of real possibility about this story she was investigating, but it was early days. It wasn’t anywhere near good enough to win her the job – not yet. She only had a few covert interviews, but Becky was determined to dig for that little thread, something that she’d pull on so it would unravel into something that would capture the public’s imagination, that would cause a domino effect in the sphere she was investigating. This both scared and excited her. She hadn’t told anyone yet. Terence would likely go ballistic, but she wanted to do her homework and find something concrete.
If she was honest, she wanted to go into Terence’s office, tell him what she’d discovered and have him jump up from his desk. He’d admonish her (severely but briefly) and she’d take it on the chin because, after that, he’d be looking at her with a new kind of respect, praising her ability to find a story of such magnitude. She’d be summoned in to see the editor and Terence would describe her achievements in his usual pithy way, which just made them sound even more remarkable. And then she’d be offered the job of reporter, beating Piers fair and square. Becky allowed herself to linger on this fantasy for a moment and then smiled; it seemed as though Terence wasn’t the only one with an ego.
She got off the train at Ramsbourne and, pulling her scarf up over her mouth to protect against the cold, cycled the short distance to Hawthorne Lane and rang the bell at number twelve. This was the last of her interviews in the village.
The door was opened with a flourish. ‘Hi!’ A lady with cropped blonde hair beamed back at her.
‘Hello, Mrs Stamp?’ said Becky, holding up her ID. ‘I’m Becky Ellis. From the Herald.’
‘Grace, please. And excuse my appearance,’ she said, indicating her apron and her white-dusted hands, ‘but I promised the boys scones for tea. It’s all about the cream,’ she added by way of explanation, ‘they’re mad for it. Can we talk while I just finish cutting them out? Then I’m all yours.’
‘Course,’ said Becky, following her into the warm kitchen with its large range cooker. She looked about for ‘the boys’ but couldn’t see any. ‘Sorry to catch you at a bad time.’
‘No, it’s fine. Just busy, you know, now the kids are home from school.’
Becky smiled.
‘So, living in the country, is it? Your article?’ said Grace as she rolled out the sultana-studded dough.
‘That’s right,’ lied Becky, leaning against the door frame.
‘You can sit down, you know,’ said Grace and then, just as Becky was about to, added, ‘Actually, before you do, can you stick the kettle on?’
Becky followed her nod and, seeing a red kettle on the side, went to fill it.
‘People from the city? Moving to the green?’
‘You got it,’ said Becky. ‘For one of the Saturday supplements. So what happened to you? You fancied a change of scene?’
‘We wanted a garden. Both Nick – that’s my husband – and me. I was pregnant with the boys. We lived in Clapham at the time – nice common but it’s not the same as having all this in your back yard.’ Grace nodded out of the kitchen window.
Outside, it was already beginning to turn dark, the winter sun giving up its weak efforts, having barely got above the height of the dark, barren trees, whose branches were now silhouetted against the purpling sky. Becky could see the attraction – even in deepest winter there was a beauty in all that space. Beyond the garden was a large field patterned with fallow rows that still held the remnants of a recent snow flurry, the soft whiteness now turned to an icy filigree.
‘Wow, fields right outside your window,’ said Becky.
‘Yes, we’re very lucky.’
‘Crops?’
‘Uh-huh . . .’
‘Which?’
‘All sorts. Wheat, oilseed rape, winter beans. They all look beautiful, the colours on such a large scale, the bright-yellow rape, or my favourite is the wheat when it’s got a bit of height and the wind makes patterns in it.’
‘Is it ever left for pasture?’
‘Not since we’ve been here,’ said Grace, putting the scones in the oven.
‘Do you manage to spend much time outside? Ever see it get planted – or the crops reaped?’
‘Oh yes, all the time. I’m a right country bumpkin now – the boys too. We know all the stages in the crop cycle.’
Becky smiled. ‘Oh yeah? Such as?’
‘Well, you know, ploughing, then sowing, then spraying. Then you just keep your fingers crossed for the weather. If it’s a dry spring the plants are never as big.’ Grace gazed out the window. ‘Yes, we’re always outside. That’s what we came here for.’
‘So, the boys enjoy it?’
‘You can ask them yourself.’
Becky looked up with keen interest as two five-year-olds came running in, clutching contraptions made of Lego.
‘Boys, this is Becky and she’s going to write about us in her newspaper,’ said Grace.
‘Why?’ one of them immediately demanded.
‘Because you have what seems like a huge amount of fun in the country,’ said Becky, ‘and I’d like to know about it.’ She bent down to the boy’s level and studied his face, his short hair – shorter than his brother’s. Other than that, and the fact he was the tiniest bit smaller, they were identical.
‘I have pets,’ said the boy.
‘No, we don’t. Not real ones,’ said his brother.
‘Yes, I do,’ retaliated the smaller boy.
‘Whoa, easy, boys,’ said Grace. ‘Arnie, here, likes to keep worms.’
‘We were going to get a dog but then Arnie got ill,’ explained the other boy, John.
Becky knew this, as she’d already heard it from a neighbour in the village, but she pretended to be surprised.
‘He’s had leukaemia,’ said Grace, ‘but is in remission now.’
‘Does that mean we can get a dog now, Mummy?’ asked Arnie.
Grace knelt down to him and took his hands. ‘We’re just waiting to make sure you’re one hundred per cent strong again first.’
‘I’m strong. Look at my muscles!’ Arnie flexed both arms, his eyes shut tight he was squeezing so hard.
‘So you are! Now, why don’t you two go and play because it’s still a few minutes until scone time.’
‘Is there cream?’ shot John.
‘Yes! Now go!’
As they ran out, Becky smiled. ‘They’re adorable. I’m sorry to hear about Arnie.’
‘Thanks. I’m just glad they’re getting time together again. It was pretty hard when Arnie was in hospital, and even when he was at home, he was often too weak to really do anything. They missed each other so much.’
‘What type of leukaemia did Arnie have?’
‘Acute lymphoblastic.’
‘How long ago?’
‘That he got ill? We had the diagnosis 3 July last year.’ She shuddered, remembering. ‘But let’s not talk about that. You want to hear about leaving London for life in the countryside.’ A buzzer went off and
Grace pulled the scones out of the oven and put them on the side to cool. As she picked them off the baking tray, she wrinkled her nose. ‘They’re hard. Again! I can never seem to get this right. Ah well, we’ll just smother them with cream.’ She turned to Becky. ‘So . . . the way the air smells different, how I can just walk outside my back door and go for miles across footpaths without ever seeing a car, the hideous commute back to London . . .?’
Becky smiled and pulled out her notepad. ‘All of the above.’
She typed up her notes on the train journey home. They had nothing to do with living in the country. At some point she’d have to come clean, but she still had work to do. The evidence was there in abundance, she thought, but it wasn’t anything new. Not yet. She still needed to uncover something no one had found yet – something watertight. It would make the article like dynamite. Becky shivered a little as she contemplated the potential repercussions. But wasn’t that what the best investigative journalism was all about? Holding unsavoury people to account? If she could find what she wanted, Terence wouldn’t be able to pick holes in her story, in fact he’d be dazzled by what she’d achieved. Then she’d be able to tell Grace and the others what she was writing about. And she’d be offered the job.
For a moment, Becky imagined telling her mum. She’d take her out for dinner, maybe somewhere quite posh – posh for them anyway – and she’d buy some proper champagne. She’d watch her mum’s face as she told her the news; that she was going to be the new reporter at the Herald. Mum, this is all because of you, she’d say. Because of everything you’ve done for me over the years.
Becky pulled herself out of her reverie and read back over what she’d written. It all seemed complete, accurate, except for one thing. She’d deliberately changed the names.
The Daughter Page 6