He hesitated, visualizing what was waiting for him back at the shack. A three-legged dog and a letter he didn’t want to open. He closed his eyes and turned towards the sun, feeling the warmth on his face.
Then he pushed open the door and went inside.
28
The house was silent.
Joe made his way along the oak-panelled corridor. Passing a row of family portraits, he paused outside Adam’s study, straining to pick up the slightest sound. He considered going back to the terrace to fetch the lemonade jug (returning it to the kitchen would give a pretext for snooping) but dismissed the idea: better no alibi than one that sounded flimsy. Besides, Isobel was almost certainly asleep upstairs, recuperating from her panic attack.
The rest of the house felt like the Marie Celeste.
The book-lined study was redolent of Adam. The scent of hundreds of antiquarian volumes permeated the man’s inner sanctum like musty perfume. The swivel chair creaked as Joe sat behind the leather-topped desk, his eyes roving the room. A cut-glass tumbler sat next to the bottle of Balvenie single malt, smudged with Adam’s fingerprints. Joe switched on the desk lamp then began to search the drawers. He’d spent much of his career combing the detritus of people’s lives, often with no idea of what he was looking for. Today was no exception.
The search yielded no more than a collection of expensive pens, stationery and bills, along with correspondence relating to maintenance of the house and the administration of the trust set up by Adam’s father to safeguard the future of the wildlife park. There were a few letters from friends of the family but nothing to shed light on the myriad questions surrounding the deaths of Adam and his daughter.
Joe walked across the Persian rug, taking a seat in the armchair he’d occupied during his first encounter with Adam’s brother-in-law, Felix. He thought back to his initial impressions of the lawyer. Orderly. Organized. Oleaginous.
Gazing around the room, his eyes came to rest on the block of Perspex that encased one of Adam’s pieces of murderabilia, the femur of fifteenth-century child-killer Gilles de Rais. The gruesome artefact sat on top of the collection’s pièce de résistance, the coffin that had once contained the remains of John F. Kennedy’s assassin.
Joe stood up and lifted the plastic-covered bone, laying it aside. He lifted the bevelled glass that covered the coffin and propped it against the desk. He examined the casket, running his fingers over the polished wood before lifting the lid.
At first sight, the coffin appeared empty. But then Joe saw something wedged at the far end. A box file. Inside was a handful of photographs and letters. Squatting on the floor, he studied the photos: three family snaps that showed Adam and Isobel with a girl of around four (presumably Saffron) and a newborn baby. Judging by the clothes, the photos had been taken on the same day, at some time in the 1980s. In each, the proud grin on Adam’s face was in marked contrast to Isobel’s pained expression. The woman was gaunt, with dark half-moons under her eyes that spoke of sleepless nights filled with despair. The infant in Adam’s arms looked days old and was swathed in a blue blanket.
Was this Gabriel?
Could Isobel not bring herself to hold her son for the time it took to pose for a snap? Joe checked the back of the photo and recognized Adam’s handwriting. Blue ink. Now faded.
With Saffron and Gabriel. First day home. September 4th 1988.
Joe turned his attention to the letters. The first was from an official at South-East Adoption Services, dated 30 September 2006.
Dear Mr Pennefeather,
In response to your letter of 4th September 2006, enclosing your application for a Contact Order with the person formerly known as Gabriel James Pennefeather, I regret to inform you that the person in question, having now attained the age of 18, has declined your request for contact.
I have been asked to further advise you that he will, however, accept your cheque for £10,000. He has asked South-East Adoption Services to inform you he intends to use the money to start a new life.
I understand how disappointing this must be but it is my responsibility to inform you that, in accordance with the Adoption & Children Act of 2005, no further action can be taken at the present time. The welfare and wishes of the adopted person must take precedence over all other considerations.
However, it is not unknown for circumstances to change. Therefore, you may wish to consider registering your desire for contact on the Adoption Contact Register, operated by the Registrar General. If you have registered a desire for contact, and if the person formerly known as Gabriel James Pennefeather also registers a wish for contact in the future, your contact details will be forwarded to him and you will be informed.
For now, however, and in accordance with the wishes of the person formerly known as Gabriel James Pennefeather, I am returning your letter to him, along with the photographs of your family.
Yours sincerely,
Jessica Green, South-East Adoption Services.
The letter was businesslike but not brusque. Nevertheless, Joe tried to imagine the impact of such a response to an overture over which Adam must have agonized. The envelope contained Adam’s original letter to Gabriel, marked ‘return to sender’. It was handwritten on Adam’s headed notepaper.
Mr Gabriel Pennefeather (as was)
c/o South-East Adoption Services
Dear Gabriel,
I hope this doesn’t come as too much of a shock. I know from the adoption agency that you are aware of some of the circumstances surrounding your adoption. Now that you have passed your 18th birthday I imagine you will have considered the possibility that your birth parents might get in touch.
(I realize, of course, that ‘Gabriel’ is no longer your name, nor is ‘Pennefeather’, but I don’t know your new name so can think of no other way to address you.)
I should make it clear that your birth mother, Isobel, does not know I am writing to you. Her mental health is fragile. Care must be taken not to make a bad situation worse.
It was Isobel’s illness that made it impossible for us to keep you. There is so much to explain, but doing so in a letter would leave things open to misinterpretation. Perhaps there will be an opportunity to discuss everything face to face.
That, of course, is up to you.
Hard though it may be to accept, we acted in the belief that adoption was in your best interests. For what it’s worth, not a day passes that I don’t wish things could have been otherwise.
You have two sisters, Saffron and Bella. We live in Kent and are fortunate enough to share our lives with a collection of beautiful animals. I enclose photos and hope they will be of interest. I also enclose a cheque for £10,000. I have no idea of your circumstances but perhaps you can put the money to good use. If you don’t wish to accept it for yourself, please consider donating it to a charity of your choice.
I know this letter is inadequate but it is, I hope, a start. I am profoundly sorry we couldn’t raise you as part of our family. Your mother is not to blame. Her illness is of the mind, not the body. But it is every bit as cruel and has deprived her of so much in the way of contentment.
I shall understand if you would rather have no further contact. However, I hope you will consider getting in touch – if and when you feel the time is right.
The door is always open for you to contact me via the adoption agency, or at the above address.
With all good wishes.
Adam Pennefeather
Finishing the letter, Joe felt a pang of sadness for the man whose approach to his son had been spurned. Nevertheless, he understood why ‘Gabriel’ had rejected contact with the family that had cast him out, no matter how ‘reasonable’ their rationale.
A quotation came to mind. ‘Every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.’ Joe couldn’t remember who’d said it – Shakespeare? Tolstoy? – but it had the ring of truth, now more than ever.
His mind flashed back to an image of his son onstage in the school play. And a more recent encounter with Luke – their ex
change outside the pub on the beach.
I played Danny Zuko … The John Travolta part. In Grease. That was me.
I know. I was there.
Until the interval. You had to leave.
Luke, I got a call—
About a case. I know. It was important … It was always important.
Overwhelmed by guilt, Joe closed his eyes for a moment then took a deep breath and forced his attention back to the matter at hand. The photos Adam had sent to ‘Gabriel’. In one, Saffron and Bella were standing in front of the ele house, smiling at the camera. They looked about eighteen and thirteen respectively. The other picture was a formal portrait of the girls and their parents. It had been taken in front of a sumptuously decorated Christmas tree, festooned with decorations. A huge pile of gifts lay underneath the tree.
Joe tried to imagine the impact such ‘happy family’ snaps would have had on ‘Gabriel’. What kind of life had the boy had after being ‘cast out from Eden’, as Felix put it? How would an eighteen-year-old react to the sight of ‘his’ family exuding such wealth and privilege?
He replaced the letters in the envelope along with the photos then turned to the third letter in the file. The printed envelope was addressed to Adam. Inside was a letter, also printed, and dated 7 January 2007.
The first line made Joe’s heartbeat quicken.
Dear Mr Pennefeather.
He stared at the words, holding the letter up to the light.
But there could be no doubt.
Dear Mr Pennefeather.
Followed by a full stop.
Not a comma.
A full stop.
Joe’s hand shook as he read the letter.
Dear Mr Pennefeather.
I am the girlfriend of your son, known to you as Gabriel, although that was not his name. This is to inform you that he died in a motorcycle accident a fortnight ago. His funeral was last week. He told me you had written to him. Your address was in his diary. I thought you’d want to know. He had a terrible life, full of misery. Although he didn’t know your name until recently he hated his birth family for what you did to him. I hope you and your family feel guilty. You should. You ruined your son’s life.
PS: his ashes are in the box.
No signature, just the initial ‘Z’ scribbled in black biro. Joe reread the letter, committing the contents to memory.
The fact that Z had sent the ashes to Adam was intriguing – why not keep them, or send them to Gabriel’s adoptive parents? – but it was the absence of the comma that commanded Joe’s attention.
The third rogue full stop.
The first had been in the final entry on Bella’s iPhone diary.
Another at the beginning of Adam’s so-called suicide note.
Now this letter, from January 2007, sent by the girlfriend of the late Gabriel Pennefeather (or whatever he had been called).
How many girls’ names began with a Z? Zara? Zoe? Zelda?
Joe pocketed the letters and the photos. He put the file back in the coffin then replaced the lid, the bevelled glass and the femur encased in Perspex.
The room was just as he’d found it.
Turning to leave, he saw a figure in the doorway.
Isobel.
She wore a dressing gown and was dishevelled, her hair still matted. In her arms was one of Adam’s shotguns. Her voice was slurred.
‘I thought you were a burglar.’
‘I’m sorry if I disturbed you,’ said Joe. ‘I was going through a few of Adam’s—’
The woman interrupted. ‘What are you looking for?’
Joe tried answering a question with a question.
‘Are you feeling better? I thought you were having a lie-down.’
The woman frowned. ‘He said I could trust you. But you’re the same as the rest.’
She raised the shotgun. There was a catch in her voice.
‘I won’t go back to that place. I won’t let him put me in there again.’
Joe kept his voice steady. ‘Why don’t you put the gun down, before there’s an accident?’
She showed no sign of having heard. He made another bid to distract her.
‘Where’s Saffron? Isn’t she looking after you?’
‘Saffron’s gone.’
‘Where to?’
‘Hospital. Liam took her. Her waters broke.’
Joe heard footsteps in the hall. Felix entered, took stock of the situation and fixed his sister with a glare.
‘For God’s sake, Izzy, give me the gun.’
The woman turned in his direction, shotgun still raised.
‘Why are you here?’ she said.
‘Liam phoned,’ said Felix. ‘He said they’d had to leave you on your own. I came back to see if—’
‘Mr Cassidy caught the Salamander.’ Isobel turned back to face Joe. ‘Isn’t that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Quite an achievement,’ she said.
Felix nodded. ‘Better late than never.’
Joe saw Isobel narrow her eyes. Her voice was a hiss.
‘What have you ever done? Apart from ruin my life and have sex with men?’ She didn’t allow him to respond. ‘Promise you won’t do it again.’
‘Do what again?’ said Felix.
Her voice was plaintive. ‘You know very well.’
Her brother softened his tone. ‘No one is going to have you committed. But this sort of melodramatic behaviour hardly helps.’ He turned towards Joe. ‘Especially in front of outsiders.’ He paused for effect. ‘Witnesses.’
The word seemed to penetrate the fog in Isobel’s head. She lowered her arms. Felix reached out and took the shotgun.
‘It’s not loaded,’ she said. Then she turned and left the room.
Joe heard her footsteps in the corridor outside. Then a door slammed.
Felix broke the barrel and checked the shotgun.
‘I apologize.’
He nodded towards the door. Joe waved the apology away.
‘I shouldn’t have been here,’ he said. ‘I was taking a look at Adam’s things.’
Felix raised an eyebrow. ‘Anything of interest?’
His smile was bright but there was no mistaking the challenge in his voice.
‘No,’ said Joe.
He gestured towards the coffin that had contained the remains of the most infamous assassin of the twentieth century.
‘What will Isobel do with all the murderabilia?’
Felix shrugged. ‘Someone will want it,’ he said. ‘There’s always some bloody weirdo.’
* * *
Bryan Messenger lumbered into the interview room and settled his girth into the chair opposite Joe. His face was flushed. He peeled the wrapper from a Mars Bar.
‘This has better be important, Joe. I’m up to my arse in paperwork.’
Joe managed half a smile. ‘Where’s your sidekick?’
‘Gingernuts?’ Messenger’s reply was muffled by a mouthful of chocolate. ‘He’s in the incident room.’
‘Do you mind getting him?’
The chewing slowed. Joe could sense growing impatience.
‘Look, mate,’ said Messenger, swallowing a mouthful of Mars, ‘the grandkids are coming for a barbecue. The missus will flay me alive if I don’t get home on time. Whatever this is about, can’t you just…?’
Joe shook his head. He needed to see their faces when he conjured his rabbit from the hat.
‘Tell Duffy it’s a visit from the punctuation police.’
Messenger rolled his eyes then hauled himself to his feet and left the room.
Joe reached into his briefcase and donned latex gloves. He took out a fresh piece of paper and placed it on the table. Next came the envelope addressed to Adam.
Using tweezers, he carefully extracted Z’s letter from the envelope and laid it on the sheet of paper.
The door opened. Messenger entered, Hugh Duffy following in his wake. Joe registered yet another garish tie. Sunset orange. Navy criss-cross pattern.
The red-haired man’s voice was end-of-week weary.
Joe didn’t smile. ‘I won’t keep you long. Thought you should see this. You’ll want to get it straight to the lab so you can test for prints – and DNA on the envelope seal and stamp.’ He gestured to the letter on the table. ‘If you fast-track it, you might get it back by Monday.’
Messenger and Duffy exchanged a look then sat down and scrutinized the letter from Z.
Dear Mr Pennefeather.
I am the girlfriend of your son, known to you as Gabriel, although that was not his name…
Messenger was still reading – missing the point, as usual – but Duffy was quick off the mark. He shot a look at Joe.
‘“Dear Mr Pennefeather”,’ he said. ‘No comma.’
Joe couldn’t resist a broad smile.
‘Well done, Hugh,’ he said. ‘You’re starting to get the hang of this.’
29
Pandora’s Box.
Dawn was breaking as Joe doodled the words in his notebook. He leaned back and stared at the envelope on the table. Running a hand over his stubble, and weary after another sleepless night, he raised his mug to his lips. Perhaps he’d managed a few minutes’ oblivion (the shrink had insisted that insomniacs routinely underestimate the amount they sleep) but it didn’t feel that way. His eyes were hot and itchy. His bones were weary. His head ached.
5:33 a.m.
For two hours he’d been afflicted by monkey-brain, his mind flitting from subject to subject, as usual when he was avoiding something important.
Pandora’s box.
What was the origin of the phrase?
According to Google, Pandora was a character from Greek mythology – the first woman on Earth. The ‘box’ was a jar, a wedding present given by Zeus, on one condition: that she must never open it. But curiosity got the better of her. By opening the jar, Pandora inadvertently released evil into the world. When she tried to close it again, it was too late. The only thing left inside was Hope.
Joe scanned the list of evils.
Animal Instinct Page 22