by Lisa Stone
Ian finally closed his laptop, sat back in the chair and stretched. It had been a productive evening. He would have liked to share what he’d found out with Emma, but she’d had an early night. He was sorry he’d upset her; he seemed to be doing that a lot recently, and then he struggled to find the words to put it right. They’d both been through a lot and he hoped that once he had the answers to his questions, it would make amends and put their lives back on track.
TWENTY-TWO
The silence in the car was unsettling and Jan was relieved when they turned into Wood Lane. Nearly home, she thought. Moody bugger. One minute Chris had been all over her and the next he was sullen and uncommunicative. And all because Tinder had rearranged some of Camile’s belongings!
Sitting upright in her seat, Jan kept her gaze straight ahead as they continued along the potholed road surface of Wood Lane. The car’s headlamps were the only light, on full beam and illuminating the road ahead. The brightness of the lights seemed to emphasize the darkness of the woods either side, making them even more unnerving, Jan thought. Although she was inside a car, she didn’t feel especially safe surrounded by the dark woods and with Chris beside her not saying a word. She realized she barely knew him.
The last bend in the lane appeared and Jan took out her front-door key, ready. She wouldn’t ask Chris in for coffee, but she supposed she should thank him. She’d just say a quick formal thank you as she got out of the car, and that would be it. She doubted she’d see him again.
They turned the bend and the car’s headlights picked up the outline of the cottage. But as they did, something shot out of the front garden, across the lane, and disappeared into the woods.
‘There!’ Jan cried. ‘Did you see it?’ She thought he had as his gaze had momentarily tracked its movement.
‘No, what?’ Chris asked, looking ahead again.
‘That … that shadow, that person. You must have seen it.’
‘No.’
He continued to drive steadily towards the cottage.
Jan’s heart was racing and her mouth had gone dry. She looked all around, but there was nothing to be seen in the lane or woods now. She was sure Chris had seen it. It was the same figure she’d seen earlier when she’d returned from the village. It had been in the front garden then, just as it had now. Whatever it was seemed to be getting braver. Jan shuddered.
Chris stopped the car outside the cottage but left the engine running. There was nothing in the front garden and as far as Jan could see nothing in the surrounding woods either. She gingerly opened her car door, ready to get out. As she did, Chris turned in his seat and for a moment she thought he was going to apologize, but his voice was flat and his face was set and serious when he spoke.
‘Jan, if you’re so nervous about living in the cottage, why don’t you move out? I can speak to Camile if you like. She won’t keep you in the tenancy if you want to go.’
‘No, thank you,’ Jan said tersely. ‘I’m fine.’ And got out.
She closed the car door with more force than was necessary and went up to the cottage. The car remained stationary for a moment and then Chris began a three-point turn. As she let herself in, he completed the manoeuvre and began along the lane towards the village.
I’ll speak to Camile if you like. She kicked off her shoes. No, thank you, Jan thought, annoyed. I’m not nervous. Although you’ll probably tell Camile anyway. And you did see something run from the cottage and disappear into the woods. I’m sure of it. But for some reason you’re denying it. I don’t know what’s going on here, but I’m not giving up that easily. I’m staying for now, thank you!
‘Sshh, Tinder!’ she shouted, going down the hall.
He was barking furiously from the living room where she’d shut him in. She opened the door and he shot out past her, straight to the front door. Still barking, he began frantically scratching to be let out. He knew there’d been something out there.
How she would have liked to let him out and then follow with a torch. But she wasn’t brave enough for that. Nowhere near. Whoever – whatever – was out there had started coming to the front door. But why? What did they want from her? Food? Or were they coming for her?
TWENTY-THREE
The following morning at 8.30 a.m. Ian parked his car in the firm’s car park, took out his mobile and called the Moller Clinic. Their website said they opened at 8.30 and, true to their word, Edie Moller answered in a kind, motherly tone. ‘Good morning. The Moller Clinic, Edie speaking. How can we help you?’
‘I’d like to discuss donor identification, please, for my wife Emma Jennings. I’m her husband, Ian Jennings.’
‘Yes, of course. Just give me a moment. I haven’t been in the office long so bear with me while I power up my computer. Then I’ll need to find your file.’
‘Of course,’ Ian said, and waited.
‘When we first started our clinic it was all paper files,’ Edie said, making conversation as her computer booted. ‘Now we have to store everything digitally. How things have changed!’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Ian agreed, while thinking that modern technology had probably been quite challenging for Mr and Mrs Moller, a couple in their sixties.
‘Jennings, Jennings,’ Edie said, as she searched the files. ‘Ah yes, here we are. Thank you for your patience. Were you enquiring about yourself or your wife?’
‘My wife,’ Ian said, then stopped. ‘Sorry, I don’t understand. My wife’s mother had the treatment so surely it would be listed under Emma’s maiden name. Jennings is her married name – my name – and we haven’t been to your clinic.’ Ian paused as his thoughts raced. ‘I really can’t imagine why you would have my details.’
There was silence before Edie said, ‘I’m sorry, my mistake. What was your wife’s maiden name?’
‘But you found something for Jennings, didn’t you?’
‘It’s a common name. I made a mistake. As it’s your wife who is interested in tracing a donor, she will need to contact the clinic. Confidentiality, I’m sure you understand.’
Ian paused. ‘But just now you were willing to talk to me.’
‘That was before – when I thought the enquiry was about you.’
‘So you have got something on me?’ he persisted.
‘As I said, it’s a common name and I made a mistake. Please advise your wife to contact the clinic if she wishes to make an enquiry about her donor. Thank you for calling.’ Saying a quick goodbye, Edie Moller ended the call.
Ian stared through the windscreen, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Edie Moller’s manner had abruptly changed and become very formal and guarded, quite brusque. Very different to when she’d answered the phone. Had she made a genuine mistake? Jennings was a fairly common surname, Ian supposed. As the clinic had been running for thirty years there could easily be another Mr and Mrs Jennings on file. Except. He’d given their forenames too – ‘Emma Jennings. I’m her husband, Ian Jennings,’ he’d said. It would be too much of a coincidence for another couple with exactly the same forenames to be registered at the clinic.
Ian remained sitting in his car, deep in thought, frantically searching for an explanation. Then he pressed redial on his phone. His call went straight to the Mollers’ answerphone, inviting him to leave a message. He didn’t. He pressed redial again, with the same result. Edie Moller was there but not answering his calls.
Annoyed, Ian tucked his phone into his jacket pocket, took his briefcase from the passenger seat and, with a feeling of disquiet, got out of the car. He had to go into work now. Preoccupied, he crossed the car park and went in the back entrance of Wetherby Security Ltd, then up the two flights of stairs to his office. Saying a perfunctory good morning to his colleagues, he sat at his desk, took out his mobile phone and called the clinic again. As he thought might happen it went through to answerphone. Edie Moller would see his number on the caller display. He picked up his desk phone and called the clinic from that.
‘Good morning. The Moller Cl
inic, Edie speaking. How can I help you?’
‘It’s Ian Jennings,’ he said. ‘You’re not answering my calls.’
A pause, then, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Jennings, I really can’t help you further. It’s for your wife to contact us.’ He heard the tension in her voice and knew she was very worried about something.
‘I appreciate that, but I want to talk about me, not her. Do you have an Ian Jennings listed on your books with the address 57 Booth Lane?’
The silence seemed to confirm they did, and Mrs Moller was scared.
‘If you wish to make an enquiry about yourself then you’ll need to make an appointment,’ she said. ‘But I’m afraid we’re fully booked until next year.’
‘I’m not waiting until next year for answers,’ Ian said. ‘I want to come in today.’
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ he said, and ended the call.
Next year! He needed answers now. Edie Moller was hiding something and he intended to find out what.
Picking up his briefcase, Ian left the office, telling his boss on the way out he was working from home. ‘Family matter,’ he added, aware they wouldn’t press him as the company knew his wife had suffered a late miscarriage.
Ian took the stairs two at a time and then crossed the car park to his car. Edie Moller hadn’t answered the phone when she’d seen it was his number, and when she had answered and found out it was him she’d been wary and guarded. If his details weren’t on their file then surely she would have just said that the Ian Jennings she had registered lived at a different address.
But she hadn’t.
So why did the Moller Clinic have his details when he’d never been near the clinic? He intended to find out.
Ian entered the postcode of the Moller Clinic in the car’s satnav and, leaving the car park, joined the rush-hour traffic through Coleshaw. His thoughts were working overtime in the stop-start line of vehicles and he agitatedly drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.
What was going on? Had Emma been to the clinic without him? Surely not. They’d had no need for donated sperm. She got pregnant easily enough. It was what happened after that caused the problem. Ian shuddered at the thought. Two pregnancies that had ended the same way. He couldn’t bear the thought of another, neither could Emma, unless they found out what was going wrong and were able to put it right. But what had the Moller Clinic got to do with that? Nothing, as far as he knew.
Once out of the congested town, Ian drove as fast as the country lanes would allow, and fifteen minutes later he was parking outside the Moller Clinic. The house was set apart from the rest of the village by being situated at the top of the hill on the other side. It looked exactly like the photograph on their website, except for the CCTV cameras. They had either been added after the photograph had been taken or, not wanting to discourage clients, purposely left off the photo.
Ian got out of the car and went up the front garden path that ran alongside the drive. A shiny new BMW sat on the forecourt, suggesting the Mollers were doing quite well. The brass plaque on the door to the clinic announced The Moller Clinic in bold black lettering. He pressed the doorbell and heard it chime inside. A few moments later the door opened and Ian recognized Edie Moller from her photograph on their website, although clearly she had no idea who he was.
‘Good morning,’ she said, with a bright, welcoming smile. ‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘No. I’m Ian Jennings.’ He watched her face change.
‘You’d better come in,’ she said, obviously unnerved by his arrival. ‘I’ll get my husband to speak to you.’
‘Thank you.’
Ian followed Edie Moller down the hall and into the waiting room, which was exactly like the picture on their website. Cream curtains, white leather sofa and a glass-topped table with magazines and a vase of fresh flowers.
‘I’ll tell him you’re here,’ Edie said, and hurried out, closing the door behind her.
Ian sat on the leather sofa and glanced around. Had Edie Moller already told her husband of her error or was she telling him now? He was half expecting her to return and say her husband couldn’t see him and he’d have to make an appointment. In which case he’d stay put and insist he saw him now. There was no one else waiting, Carstan Moller was here and this was too important to leave. He needed answers to his questions now.
Ian checked his phone – there were no new messages – and set it to silent. A few moments later footsteps sounded in the hall. The door opened and Edie Moller appeared.
‘Mr Moller will see you now,’ she announced formally.
‘Thank you,’ Ian said, and stood.
She led the way along the hall towards the rear of the house where she stopped outside a door marked Office. Giving a brief knock, she opened it. ‘Mr Ian Jennings to see you.’
Ian went in.
‘Good morning, Mr Jennings,’ Carstan Moller said, coming out from behind a large oak desk to shake hands.
Shorter and older than he’d appeared in his picture on their website, he was wearing a white lab coat over a grey open-neck shirt and dark-grey trousers. ‘Take a seat,’ he said, gesticulating to the leather armchair positioned in front of his desk.
As Ian sat down, Edie Moller went out and closed the door behind her. Mr Moller returned to his chair. A row of filing cabinets filled one wall and shelves crammed with books another. There was also a second, smaller desk with a computer and a printer where Ian assumed Edie Moller worked.
‘How can I help you?’ Carstan Moller asked evenly. Although Ian was pretty certain he already knew.
‘I telephoned earlier this morning to enquire about tracing my wife’s sperm donor, but I discovered you also have me listed on your books.’
Carstan Moller nodded. ‘That’s correct. I can discuss your request, but you’ll need to bring your wife with you to discuss her search.’
‘I know that now, Mrs Moller said. But the reason I’m here is to find out why you have my details. I’ve never been to your clinic before today.’
Moller held Ian’s gaze. ‘We usually offer counselling before a client begins a search for their donor,’ he replied.
‘That’s not my question. Why have you got my details?’
Moller drew his hands together and took a breath. ‘I would have thought that was obvious, Mr Jennings. You are on our books because you were conceived by donor sperm.’
‘No, I wasn’t!’
‘Your reaction is exactly why we recommend counselling first,’ Moller replied.
‘I don’t need counselling!’ Ian snapped. ‘Just the truth.’
‘I’m telling you the truth, Mr Jennings. You asked me why we have your details and I’ve given you an honest answer.’
Ian stared at him and felt his stomach loosen. ‘Edie Moller said it was a case of mistaken identity, but you’re now telling me that isn’t so?’
‘That’s right.’
Ian felt hot and clammy. ‘Are you saying my mother came here for treatment?’ he asked incredulously.
‘That’s correct. Although your mother and father came together, as do most couples.’
‘My mother received donor sperm?’ Ian asked, horrified.
‘That’s correct.’
‘And my parents came together, so my father knew?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s definitely not a mistake then?’ Ian said, struggling to believe what he was being told.
‘No. The mistake was when my wife accidentally told you over the phone that you were on our books, for which we are both sorry. It was early and she’d just come into the office. She knows she must be more careful in future. It’s obviously come as a huge shock to you.’
Ian stared at Moller. ‘It has. My parents never said anything to me. Ever. My father is dead, but my mother knows I’ve been researching my genetic history. Why hasn’t she told me?’
‘I can’t answer that, but many parents don’t tell their childr
en. You’d be surprised just how many people from Coleshaw and the surrounding villages have been conceived from donated sperm and are not aware of it. It’s more often that children aren’t told than they are.’
‘My wife grew up knowing,’ Ian said ruefully.
‘She is one of a small minority.’
Ian glanced distractedly around the room, then brought his gaze back to Moller. ‘Why did you have my wife’s married name and our current address?’
‘Emma’s mother, Mary Holmes, telephoned the clinic and asked if her daughter had been in touch. She said you were researching their genetic history and had put pressure on Emma to contact us. She asked for some advice. We updated our records at the time in case Emma contacted us. She hasn’t.’
‘She is finding it difficult,’ Ian admitted.
‘That’s understandable,’ Moller said in a conciliatory manner. ‘It’s quite a journey to search out a donor and not one to be taken lightly.’
‘So I’m not who I thought I was,’ Ian said, struggling. ‘And all my research has been a waste of time.’
‘Of course you are the same person you’ve always been. And as for your research, I can assure you that if there is any genetic fault it hasn’t come from this clinic. All sperm donors are thoroughly screened, so if there is a problem it’s not with your biological father.’
Ian let out a heartfelt sigh. ‘I understand,’ he said numbly.
‘I’m sorry you had to find out this way. I suggest you have a chat with your mother and Emma and then contact me again if you or your wife wish to trace your donors. My advice would be not to.’
‘Why?’ Ian asked.
‘Nothing will be achieved and it could make you both feel unsettled. Emma has the right idea – be guided by her. When we first started our clinic, no one traced their donors and everyone was happy. Then the law changed. Get on with your life and be grateful you are both healthy, intelligent and able to do well. You have me to thank for that for screening your donor. Now, if there’s nothing else, I really must be getting on. Thank you for coming to see me. I’ll let my wife know you are ready to leave.’