Blood Ties

by Oliver Davies

  “Did anyone give her a name?” I asked, my heart going out to this poor baby. She wasn’t a baby anymore, of course, but all the same.

  “A nurse,” Susanne told us. “After it was clear she wasn’t getting adopted, and before she went into the foster home, the nurse who delivered her gave a name.”

  “That was nice of her,” Mills said.

  “Midwives are good women,” she added. “My gran was one.”

  “The name, please,” I interrupted them.

  “Nadia,” she told me, “and she kept it too. Nadia White. Little change of the surname, it’s not that uncommon.”

  “Nadia?” I repeated, the wheels in my head churning. Mills and I shared a glance. We knew a Nadia. A Nadia in her late twenties, a Nadia who’d been around the estate. A Nadia who’d been there the day the threatening note was left. “Do you have a recent picture of her?”

  “Not recent,” Susanne said. “This was taken when she was eighteen.” She handed us a picture of a girl with brown eyes and blonde hair. The hair was wrong, but the face? If you imagined the hair darker, you’d have a face not unlike the painting of Rosemary Hocking. If you imaged the hair black, you’d have our waitress.

  Nadia. Bloody hell.

  Twenty-Six

  Thatcher

  “D’you think she knows, sir?” Mills asked as we headed down the stairs and into the sudden torrent that came from the sky as we’d been inside. Susanne had promised to look closer into Nadia, see what she could find out about her upbringing, but best guess, it hadn’t been good.

  “Too much of a coincidence otherwise,” I muttered, wrenching the car door open and shaking the rain from my hair. “She was there, at the party the night the painting was stolen. She was there when the message was left.”

  “She has alibis for both of those events,” Mills reminded me.

  “Does she? Being seen in the right place at the right time? At least Sebastian got his mother, God knows what sort of childhood that girl had, and I wouldn’t doubt she blamed the Hocking family for it either! If Selene had the right support, maybe she’d have kept them both.”

  Mills blew out a long breath, watching the windscreen wipers shift water to the side. We’d not actually moved anywhere yet, deciding to have this conversation away from the prying ears of the building behind us.

  “She hasn’t done it alone,” Mills pointed out. “She’s had help. Sebastian? If the two of them met, they might team up for this.”

  “Or Richard,” I added, “even more incentive for him to go against his brother.”

  “Or Dennis.” Mills scratched his nose. “For all you’ve crossed him off your list sir, you can’t deny he’s got a protective streak in him. He talks about Selene like he’s her uncle, same with Rose and Rupert. Maybe he can’t help but look after these young ones, Nadia included, once he found out who she was.”

  “Nobody at that house took much notice of her,” I mumbled against my hand, propped in a fist against my chin. “Nor did we, but it’s obvious now. Change the hair, and she’s the spitting image of Rosemary Hocking.”

  “If anyone looked close enough, they’d have been able to see that.”

  “But nobody did. Not even us.”

  “To be fair,” Mills pointed out, “we weren’t looking for another relative.”

  I gave a quiet grunt in response and Mills looked out the windows again.

  “Do you want to find Nadia? Or stick to Sandow?”

  “Sandow’s account of things is still bothering me,” I admitted, scratching my neck, “but it might be worth getting in touch with Nadia. Ask her to come into the station.”

  “I’ll let Smith know.” He pulled out his phone. “She can arrange that so by the time we’re down with Sandow, Nadia should be at the station.”

  I turned my head to give him an approving nod. He seemed a lot better after his little stint in the cellars yesterday, all the colour was back in his cheeks, and according to Crowe, he was in fine fettle. It’d be up in his own head where the problems may lie, but he seemed well enough, firing on all cylinders as usual.

  “Done.” He put his phone away and started the car. “To Richard Sandow’s then?”

  “Quick as you like,” I answered, pulling up the address.

  The rain only kept coming, hard, round drops that splattered off the windows and echoed the roof of the car like we were driving in a tin can. It turned everything grey, washing out the colour of the city, keeping the streets quiet though, as the tourists ducked into shops and cafes to keep themselves dry. Always helpful to have quiet streets.

  We pulled up to Richard Sandow’s house, exiting the car just as Mills’s phone rang. He answered, locking the car and dawdled on the path as I strode up to the house. His voice was quiet, muffled by the wind rain, but as he jogged up to join me, he looked concerned.

  “That was Smith,” he told me. “She’s not been able to reach Nadia. Tried the catering company and according to Ms Russo, there’s been no sign of her. She gave Will his car back and no-one's heard from her since.”

  “A usual way for her to act?”

  “Apparently not,” he answered.

  I cursed, debating getting back in the car and going in search of the girl, but without much idea where to even start. The choice was made for me though, as the front door swung open and Richard Sandow stood in the entryway, an unlit cigarette in his mouth.

  “Don’t tell my wife,” he said, taking it and putting it in his pocket, stepping back to allow us inside. “Inspector,” he greeted me.

  “Mr Sandow. This is Detective Sergeant Mills.” I nodded to Mills before looking back to Richard.

  “May we borrow a minute of your time?”

  “Is this about my brother’s bloody painting?”

  “Yes and no. It’s about Selene Whitlock and her children.”

  “Children?”

  He ushered us into the living room, taking a perch on the edge of his seat, waiting for me to explain with wide eyes. His knees jumped beneath his arms, impatiently.

  I wasn’t sure where best to begin, so I pulled out Selene’s letter from my pocket and handed it to him. He took it gently, like it was an injured bird and as he read, eyes scanning the page over and over, Mills took a little wander around the room, looking at the many faces that were eerily similar to the ones we knew, staring out from far less elaborate frames.

  Richard Sandow let out a pained sigh, sitting back in his chair with tears welling in his eyes, the letter dangling from his limp hand. I took it from him, folding it and placing it back inside my coat.

  “Where was it?” he asked.

  “In a copy of Twelfth Night,” I answered.

  He laughed humourlessly, the sound hollow. “Of course, it was. Clever girl.”

  He pulled the cigarette from his pocket and placed it between his lips, fumbling around for a lighter. Mills stepped forward, pulling one from his own pocket and lit Richards’ cigarette. He nodded in thanks, taking a long drag. I watched as the light went past my face and back into Mill’s pocket with a raised eyebrow.

  “A twin?” Richard asked eventually, scrubbing the tears from his face.

  “A girl,” I informed him. “Selene gave her up for adoption.”

  He blinked rapidly and nodded. “Does he know?” he asked quietly.

  “Your brother or Sebastian?”

  “Both.”

  “Your brother was present when the letter was found. We’ve yet to talk to Sebastian about it,” Mills told him calmly.

  “We understand, Mr Sandow,” I said, sitting on a little footrest in front of him, “that you were engaged before Selene died, but did not marry until after she had gone.”

  He nodded shakily. “Didn’t seem right to. Not that my brother had such reservations. Those poor children. Will you give them my number?” he asked, stumbling to his feet and rattling around a desk to pull out a sheet of paper, scribbling down his number. “Just if they want it. They can reach out, if they want to. I s
uppose I’m their Uncle after all.”

  “You’re the uncle to three more children,” I reminded him, taking the number, “and a great uncle, by the way. Henry has two children.”

  Twins as well, I realised with a bleak little spark of amusement. Richard’s face had crumbled slightly, taking puffs from his cigarette with a shaky hand. I reached out and touched his shoulder, giving him a grim sort of smile.

  “I’ll pass it over,” I assured him, making my way to the door.

  “Inspector,” he called after me. I nodded for Mills to head to the door and turned back. Richard stood in the hall, looking small in his cardigan and slippers, the cigarette smoking idly between his fingers.

  “Yes?” I asked.

  “How does– How did my brother seem?”

  I paused for a moment and then regarded Richard from head to toe.

  “Rather like yourself, Mr Sandow. Only with a bit more to answer for. He might need some support,” I mentioned, opening the door, “and I doubt he’ll get much from home.” I lifted my hand to my hat before stepping out into the rain and jogging to the car.

  As I slid in, my phone rang, and Mills turned down the radio, staring at the house in the rear-view mirror as I answered, unfamiliar with the number.

  “DCI Thatcher.”

  “Inspector, it’s Susanne. Susanne Peters, from welfare.”

  “Hello, Miss Peters,” I greeted her, surprised to be hearing from her so soon. Mills’s head snapped around to look at me.

  “I checked some of Nadia’s old records from before she turned eighteen, from her old foster homes,” came her quick, muffled voice. “Seems she was a bit troublesome. Liked to run away a lot.”

  Seems to be a habit she kept up, judging by our own inability to track her down.

  “Were there any homes she was better in?” I asked. “Any foster parents she particularly liked?”

  “The only person she seemed to like was her social worker. A lady called Daureen Mitts. Retired now, though.”

  “Would there be any way of knowing if they’ve been in contact?”

  “Not through here, Inspector. Once she turned eighteen…” Her voice trailed away a little regretfully.

  “Thank you, Miss Peters. That’s very helpful.”

  “Be careful with her, Inspector. Be gentle,” she advised before I hung up. “I’ve met kids like Nadia before. They tend to have their hackles up. She’ll need support,” her voice turned very stern, “not a scolding.”

  “Noted. Thank you, Susanne.”

  She hung up then, and I stuck my phone into the cup holder, turning to Mills’s expectant face.

  “Nadia had a tendency to run away from her foster homes,” I informed him, “which might be why we’re struggling to find her.”

  “Doesn’t make her thief.”

  “No. But it does make her unsafe and alone. If she wound up growing close to the wrong people, that’s something we ought to find out.”

  “Where to then, sir?”

  “Station,” I answered. “We might have to track her down the old-fashioned way.”

  “Right you are, then,” he answered jauntily, pulling away from the rows of houses and back into the city. “What about Sebastian?”

  “We’ll see if he won’t mind coming in,” I decided. “Better than us skirting around every square inch of the city.”

  “Do you think he knows he has a sister?”

  “Either he doesn’t, or he lied.”

  “Same could go for any of them, though,” Mills pointed out, “Maud, Dennis. Any one of them might have known.”

  “I say we put them all back on our list,” I said with a groan, rubbing my hand over my face, “until we’ve got a better way of narrowing it down.”

  Smith was waiting for us at the station, grimacing as we stepped inside and shook the rain off our coats.

  “Any luck?” Mills asked her.

  “Not of yet. I tried her home again and left the number with her work. If she turns up or if they hear anything from her, they’ll let us know.” She began to walk with us up to our office, a trail of water behind us. “And I checked with all the hospitals, just in case.”

  “Good work, Smith. Was there anything else?”

  “From Dr Crowe.” She handed me the folder she’d been carrying. “She did a little work on the letter you brought in and the one left at the house.”

  “Oh?” I pushed our door open and peeled off my coat, dropping on the door hook and dropped into my chair, flipping the folder open.

  “I thought there was nothing from that,” Mills said, standing opposite my desk.

  “She found a hair,” I reminded him, “not that it meant anything at the time.”

  “But now?” Smith asked.

  “But now, it’s unlikely that Selene bothered to wear gloves whilst writing her letter.”

  “Skin cells,” Mills muttered.

  “She found a match,” I quickly translated all of Crowe’s rambling and subsequent science talk to the root of the point. “DNA, maternal.”

  “Whoever wrote the letter was Selene’s child.”

  “Whoever wrote the letter was Selene’s daughter,” I corrected him, spinning the page around for him to look. “Chromosomes. The hair belonged to a woman.”

  “She’s good, isn’t she?” Smith said admiringly, looking pleasantly blown away by Crowe. She must have worked last night, I realised, to have turned this around so quickly. I owed her. Big time.

  “Nadia,” Mills muttered, standing from where he’d leant over the page.

  A phone outside rang and Smith hurried away to answer it.

  “Susanne mentioned that Nadia was close to her social worker. A woman called Daureen Mitts,” I told Mills.

  “Close enough to run to in times like this?”

  “Worth asking. If we can find some contact information for Mrs Mitts, we can find out if she’s seen Nadia recently. Or maybe get more of an insight into her personal life than her work colleagues could offer.”

  “And Sebastian?” Mills asked again. “If he found out about Nadia, he might be a part of this.”

  I hesitated. “Why now?”

  “Maybe he’s only just found her,” Mills suggested, walking around to his own desk. “You don’t suspect him at all, do you?” I looked up at him at the sound of his voice, the tone harsher than usual. He was looking straight at me, stern, but hesitant.

  “Say what you want to say, Mills.”

  “I think you’re a bit biased when it comes to Sebastian Whitlock, sir. You don’t want it to be him.”

  Anyone else, I realised as he spoke, and I’d likely yell their ears off, tell them to bugger off out of my business. But this was Mills. And, reluctant as I might be to admit it, he was probably right. I knew Sebastian. In a way, I was him. No father, no mother and a difficult relationship there too. But Mills was right, Sebastian was a likely suspect as any, particularly if he found out a sister was involved.

  “Let’s call him in,” I answered calmly after a long pause. Mills visibly relaxed in his seat, nodding happily, hair still damp from outside and picked up his phone, only to put it down again when Smith appeared in the door, flushed.

  “Sharp,” was all she said, pointing over her shoulder. We scrambled up, Mills knocking over his chair in the process and legged it across the floor of desks to Sharp’s office. The door was open, and she was on the phone, but she waved us in, quickly ending the conversation.

  “Just got a call from Hocking estate,” she informed us sharply. “Apparently, our thief has left another little note.”

  “Do they—?” I began, but she held up a hand, cutting me short.

  “They’ve also taken Rose Hocking with them.”

  “Rose Hocking? Why?” Mills asked, bewildered.

  “Hostage, leverage?” She waved a hand. “That’s for you to figure out. Take Crowe to the estate, find out what you can and for the love of God, Thatcher, find that girl before something happens to her. Tell me you ha
ve a lead,” she demanded, leaning against her desk.

  “Selene’s daughter. The one given up for adoption. Her name’s Nadia White.”

  Sharp nodded and lowered herself onto her chair, shoulders straight despite the burden that was just lobbed onto them. “Find her,” she ordered.

  “Ma’am.”

  We ducked from the office, and I waved Smith over.

  “Get in touch with Sebastian,” I ordered her as we strode to get our coats, “and find an old social worker, Daureen Mitts. She might know Nadia.”

  “Got it,” she nodded.

  “Uniform on the scene?”

  “Yes, sir. And Dr Crowe’s waiting downstairs.”

  “Thank you, Smith,” I patted her on the shoulder and charged down to the car, Mills on my heels.

  Twenty-Seven

  Thatcher

  The house was in chaos when we arrived, and by the house, of course, I meant Lady Hocking. She stood outside, wearing only a dressing gown, a large pair of mud-splattered wellingtons on her feet, and a woolly hat on her head. Her cheeks were flushed, and I got the impression she’d been out here wandering the grounds looking for Rose.

  I parked the car without much care on the drive, and the three of us climbed out, Crowe making her way to the new threatening note that was currently surrounded by SOCO and a few of our own uniformed officers. I gave Mills a nod, and he headed to where Dennis stood around the side of the house, hands wrung together. I spotted Maud behind him, and left Mills to that, making my own way towards Lady Hocking. She reached out as I approached her, seizing my hands in a vice. Her eyes were bloodshot, her nose red and tears had stained her cheeks.

  “Lady Hocking.” I kept my voice low and calm, as she stammered and hiccupped. “Breathe. In and out, deep breaths. There you go.”

  She sucked down a few long breaths, relaxing slightly as I let her hold on to me.

  “Tell me what happened,” I asked her gently, leading her to the steps and helping her sit. I took a seat beside her, and she wrestled with the tie on her dressing gown.