‘We really need to go,’ Jacqueline said, picking up a handbag – a navy Chanel clutch as opposed to her prada tote from the memorial.
Dad pecked me on the cheek. ‘Try not to worry.’
I nodded again and followed them out of their room. I waited at the top of the stairs as Dad’s heavy thud and Jacqueline’s stiletto-light tap sounded across the parquet in the hall. Dad made a beeline for the kitchen and a second later I heard Ruby’s excited squeal and delighted giggle.
I smiled to myself. Never mind how strict and distant Dad had often been when I was a child. He was all gentle playfulness with his grandkids, nothing like the busy, driven man of his younger days. He couldn’t possibly be linked to any kind of anti-abortion-inspired killing, let alone involved with my own husband’s murder. I was embarrassed to think I’d considered it possible even for a fraction of a second.
Dad and Jacqueline left and I settled down in their kitchen with Ruby and my sister, who had just come back from mass and was baking a batch of brownies with her niece – with a promise Ruby could take some home with her later. I murmured that what with the biscuits earlier, Ruby had already had quite enough sweet things for one day, but Lucy just winked and said she’d put them in something airtight so they’d last through the week. The two of them had always been close. When Rufus was born, Lucy was upset that Caspian and I didn’t want him to be baptised. But by the time Ruby came along she’d accepted our rejection of the Catholic faith and, though she did sometimes tell Ruby bible stories, she was careful never to criticise our decision.
We left for home as soon as the brownies were done. I didn’t want to leave Rufus on his own any longer. He was in the living room when we got back but disappeared up to his room, merely grunting a ‘yes, fine’ when I asked if he’d been okay alone in the house.
‘Any final bits of work for school, Ruby?’ I asked with a sigh.
‘No, Mum, I told you earlier,’ Ruby shouted, morphing abruptly from sweet-natured child into proto-pubescent monster. ‘Stop going on!’
She stormed up the stairs and slammed the door of her bedroom.
I was about to follow her up and demand an apology for her rudeness when the doorbell rang. The man’s dark head was bowed as I peered through the spy hole. Was that Harry, seeking me out? The thought of seeing him again knotted my stomach with anxiety – and excitement. I would have to talk to him, to tell him he must have misunderstood what Caspian had said to him. In spite of the potential awkwardness, the prospect of speaking to him again was appealing. Which meant what?
I was just acknowledging the unfamiliar feeling that I fancied him . . . that I was attracted to a man after over a year of sexual shutdown, when the head was raised and I realised that instead of Harry it was watery-eyed Simon Pinner standing on the doorstep.
My heart sank as I let him in. Caspian’s old colleague was the last person I wanted to talk to right now.
‘Hello, there.’ I forced a smile onto my face.
‘Long time, no see. Ha, ha.’ Simon beamed as he held out his hand to shake. His limp palm in mine was damp. In fact everything about him seemed a little wet, from those watery eyes to the thin smile on his tightly stretched lips. ‘I got your address from Caspian’s parents,’ he said. ‘I was just passing . . .’
That was a lie. He even blushed as he told it. No way had he been passing. He’d come here deliberately to see me. Cursing my parents-in-law I ushered Simon into the kitchen where the remains of our breakfast dishes were still on the table.
‘You’re having dinner . . .?’ Christ, was he after an invitation?
‘Not just yet, but, er, it’s a school night for the kids,’ I said, hoping he’d take the hint.
Simon nodded. ‘I like to eat early too.’
‘Er, right.’ I wanted to ask what he wanted, but couldn’t work out how to express that without sounding rude. Had I always been this useless at dealing with men I wasn’t interested in? I hadn’t been on a date since meeting Caspian. I’d been a bit of a party girl up to that point, with a propensity for one-night stands. I’d never gone out with anyone for more than a few months.
Caspian was older and possibly the calmest, steadiest person I’d ever met. There was no way he was only up for a fling, no way our relationship together could ever be framed in casual, purely sexual terms. And I was ready to give up my protracted adolescence and settle down. We’d been together less than a year and had just got engaged when I fell pregnant. Life soon revolved around babies and work. There’d certainly been very little time for romance once Rufus was born: Caspian worked all hours and, anyway, he had never been the romantic type. Sex had been infrequent for years before he died, which didn’t bother me much. I was busy with the kids and my job as a fundraiser. I never strayed, though there were plenty of opportunities. And it was always impossible to imagine Caspian himself wanting an affair – or ever needing the excitement an illicit liaison might bring.
I focused on Simon, still smiling hopefully across the kitchen table. ‘How are you?’ I asked.
‘I’m fine,’ Simon said. ‘Particularly fine since seeing you at the memorial.’
I looked away, embarrassed. Surely I’d made it clear I wasn’t interested in having dinner with him then.
‘I realise I was rather presumptuous,’ Simon went on. ‘Wrong time. Wrong place. That sort of thing.’ He chuckled.
I turned back. He seemed older than he had at the memorial. The bright kitchen light highlighted the lines on his weather-beaten face.
‘It was nice to see you,’ I said, trying to sound polite but neutral.
‘It certainly was.’
‘I don’t . . . that is, I hope—’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘You’ve got the kids and it’s only been just over a year. I’m not looking for a relationship either.’
‘Oh,’ I said, slightly taken aback.
Simon took two long strides, closing the distance between us. He put his hand on my arm. ‘It’s just I sensed something . . . I was certain you’d felt it too, in spite of what you said.’
Was he serious? My mouth gaped again. Simon clearly took my shocked silence as a sign of overwhelmed bashfulness.
‘You’re very attractive, Francesca.’ He pointed to the mirror propped on the kitchen counter which I’d used to apply my make-up that morning. ‘Look at yourself.’
I turned and caught my reflection: a tousled tumble of dark hair framing a pale face. As usual, my eyes looked too huge, my chin too pointed. I’d lost weight since Caspian died, rarely eating other than when I forced the kids to sit down for a meal.
‘It’s very kind of you but—’
‘I’m not being kind.’ Simon traced his finger down my sleeve, leaving it for just a second too long before taking his hand away. I had the strong sense that it was a move he had rehearsed. It felt put on, inauthentic, like something from the opening scene of a porn movie.
‘Shall we sit down?’ Simon took a seat at the kitchen table.
Irritated at being invited to sit in my own house, I perched on the chair opposite. An awkward silence fell.
‘So tell me . . . how did you know Caspian?’ I asked, hoping this mention would remind Simon I was in mourning.
Simon studied me for a second. ‘We met a few times through mutual friends,’ he said. ‘On and off for years. And a couple of times at obs and gynae conferences.’
My chest tightened. ‘Were you at the Paris conference?’
Simon shook his head. ‘But I did see Caspian briefly just before he went. Last time I saw him, in fact.’
‘Right.’ Caspian’s words, as reported by Harry, circled my head again: I think Jayson Carr got Paul to do it . . . The splinter under my skin shifted, its point hard and uncomfortable. ‘I don’t suppose Caspian said anything about . . .’ I gulped, unable to stop myself from asking. ‘Did Caspian ever mention anyone called Paul?’
‘In what context?’
‘Not anything good.’ I hesitated, uncertain how much
to give away. It struck me that even though Harry had clearly misunderstood the reference to my father, Caspian might still have received threats from someone called Paul, unrelated to Dad. ‘It’s just I heard . . . I mean it might not be true but . . . someone told me Caspian was being threatened by . . . by a man called Paul.’
‘God, really?’ Simon asked. He reached for my hand but I shifted away. ‘How awful.’
‘You don’t sound particularly surprised,’ I said, struck by his even tone.
‘No, well . . .’ Simon shrugged. ‘It’s just that Caspian and I, well, as doctors who perform abortions, there are enemies. But I’m sure if the police thought PAAUL had anything to do with his death . . .’
‘What are you talking about?’ My heart lurched into my mouth. ‘You’re saying you know who Paul is? Someone who targets abortion doctors?’
‘No, that is . . . not a “someone”,’ Simon explained. ‘PAAUL is an organisation from the States. It stands for Pledge to Avenge the Assassination of Unborn Lives.’
‘An anti-abortion organisation?’
Simon nodded. ‘One that sanctions violence against people who have and perform terminations.’
‘Oh, God.’ Was it PAAUL Caspian had been referring to when he talked to Harry? I had no idea how this organisation might be connected to Dad, but it was easy to understand why a bunch of anti-abortion extremists might target a gynaecology surgeon.
‘Hey.’ Simon’s chair scraped across the tiles as he stood up and walked around the table to stand next to me. ‘Don’t get upset, please. PAAUL operate in the States, and their MO is firebombs and shootings, not individual stabbings that look like aggravated muggings, like happened with Caspian. I’m sure they didn’t have anything to do with his death. The police never suspected anything like that, did they?’
I shook my head, barely listening.
‘Oh, Francesca.’ Simon put his arm around my shoulders and tried to pull me towards him. I stiffened, drawing away.
‘Please don’t.’ I stood up.
‘So . . . like I said . . . I don’t think you really mean it about not, er, hooking up.’ He grinned. ‘My GCSE in body language told me as much at the memorial.’
Jesus, was he for real? A coil of irritation unfurled inside me, replacing my embarrassment.
‘I’m afraid I do mean it,’ I insisted. ‘I told you, I’m not ready.’
‘I can wait.’ Simon raised his eyebrows slowly in a way that suggested he thought he was being very sexy.
‘Please, Simon.’
‘Mmm.’ He moved closer. ‘I like the way you say that.’
Anger bubbled up inside me. This was too much, especially coming on top of what he’d just told me about PAAUL. I jumped up. ‘I think you should go.’ The words blurted out of me, hard and fierce.
A tense silence filled the room.
‘Right.’ There was a new tightness to Simon’s voice. ‘You’re a bit of a tease, aren’t you, Francesca?’
‘Please just go,’ I repeated.
‘Of course.’ Simon’s voice dripped with bitterness. ‘Whatever you say, Francesca. And I apologise unreservedly if you feel . . .’ He paused, his mouth curved into a sneer. ‘If you feel put upon in any way.’
I pressed my lips together, irritation building.
‘Just go.’
‘There’s no need to be rude.’ Simon took a step away, his eyes hardening. ‘By the way, if you’re really interested in PAAUL you should ask your father about it.’
I stared at him, blinking. What did that mean? ‘My dad?’
. . . it was Jayson’s Paul.
A nasty smile replaced the sneer on Simon’s face. ‘Sure. Your dad knows all about PAAUL. Everything there is to know.’ He strode to the door.
‘What?’ I gasped. ‘Why would you say that?’
Simon reached the doorway and turned. Eyes hard and narrow, he gave a dismissive sniff. ‘Because according to all the rumours, your father, Jayson Carr, is the secret head of PAAUL in the UK.’
4
I sat motionless on the couch as the sound of the front door shutting behind Simon Pinner echoed through the house.
Your father, Jayson Carr, is the secret head of PAAUL in the UK.
Now what was I supposed to think? Surely there was no way my upstanding father would ever condone violent extremism, let alone order people to commit acts of terror? He’d been a prominent force in Shield, the pro-life charity, of course, but he’d had nothing to do with that for years.
No, the entire thing was inconceivable. Simon Pinner must have been making up Dad’s association with PAAUL in order to punish me for not wanting to date him.
‘What an arse,’ I muttered under my breath.
‘Ooh, Mum, you said arse.’ Ruby, having come back downstairs without me hearing, scampered into the room. Back to little-girl mode, she did a cartwheel across the rug.
‘Not indoors,’ I said absently.
‘Whatever.’ Ruby hurled herself onto the sofa opposite me, mimicking a goal-saving keeper with a roar. A nearby vase wobbled on its shelf.
‘Careful, Rubes.’ I pressed my lips together. No way was I going to give Simon’s stupid lies about Dad any credence. I would try not to even think about them and I definitely wouldn’t tell Dad. Or Lucy. She adored Dad as much as when she was a child. I sat back. If only Mum were still alive. I could have talked to her. She would have been horrified and sympathetic. Above all, she would have reassured me that there was no way Dad could have wanted anyone dead, let alone my husband.
The evening wore on. I managed to chivvy both children into bed without too much trouble, then I sat down with a glass of wine. I tried to read but, despite my best intentions, I couldn’t keep what Simon had said out of my head. In the end the clamour of Simon’s claims joined with Harry’s until both echoed through my head and I sat on the edge of my bed at midnight, my laptop in front of me, feeling sick with fear and apprehension.
I put Pledge to Avenge the Assassination of Unborn Lives into the search engine, then studied the first page of hits. As Simon had indicated, there were several reports of bombing campaigns and at least two occasions in the past five years where lone gunmen had mown down staff in abortion clinics. But all these atrocities took place in the United States, the only UK-based incidents were a couple of protests and a bomb scare from last year that proved to be a hoax. PAAUL didn’t claim involvement in either of these, so there was no way of knowing if the organisation had anything to do with them.
With trembling fingers I typed my father’s name into the search engine alongside PAAUL’s. Just a couple of relevant hits, both occasions when Dad had spoken out against the use of extremist violence and named PAAUL as an agent of evil.
The speeches were given six years ago, when Dad was still head of his pro-life charity. So much had happened since – Mum dying, then him meeting Jacqueline and joining the prison rehabilitation charity – he’d probably just forgotten about PAAUL.
Which was encouraging. Wasn’t it?
My mobile rang. It was Harry. I glanced at the time. It was very late for him to be calling.
‘Hello?’ I said, feeling wary. ‘What’s up?’
‘I’m sorry, I know this is a stupid hour to be ringing you but . . .’ He sounded fraught. ‘But I just found out something and thought you should know straight away.’
‘Yeah?’ I sat up straighter. It felt, I realised, as if we’d known each other for far longer than a couple of days. ‘Go on,’ I said.
‘I had to tell you . . . It’s your father,’ Harry said. ‘On the net, there’s stuff about him . . . rumours that he’s the head of this organisation, PAAUL.’
I sat stock still, my heart beating fast. ‘I know,’ I said. ‘That is, someone told me there were rumours, but I’ve looked online and all I’ve seen is a couple of mentions in speeches from when he—’
‘You need to check out the forums.’ Harry told me how to access them and I entered the murky world of the illicit inter
net, where users with names like Wrath-baby and Gabrieltheavenger and FireAngel swore vengeance on those who had committed abortions. Within a few minutes I’d found plenty of references to PAAUL, mostly from mad-sounding people talking about the ‘abortion holocaust’ and ‘Satan’s perfect sacrifice’ and the mass murder of innocent pre-born life. Some spouted statistics about the ‘millions’ of souls lost since records began. Others quoted from Corinthians: If anyone destroys God’s temple, God will destroy that person; for God’s temple is sacred and you together are that temple. Others still referenced speakers and philosophers I’d never heard of who argued points of faith and linguistics.
All of them used their material to justify their belief that whatever it was permissible to do to protect a live child should be done to protect an unborn one.
In other words, to justify murder.
‘So where’s the stuff about Dad?’ I asked.
‘Scroll down.’ I did as Harry directed and soon came to a thread of innuendo and rumour that basically suggested Jayson Carr had stepped down as chairman of the legitimate Shield organisation in order to build up PAAUL’s network of underground operatives, ready to assassinate doctors who carried out abortions.
I blew out my breath, shaken to the core.
‘Just because people think it might have happened doesn’t mean it has,’ Harry said. ‘But putting everything together there are a lot of people out there who believe that PAAUL’s campaign has already begun, your husband’s murder is part of it and . . .’
‘And that my dad is right at the centre of the whole thing.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Why do you think PAAUL hasn’t publicly claimed responsibility for all those murders?’ I asked. ‘I mean, if that’s their plan then why kill abortion doctors and not boast about it?’
‘So they can keep operating under the radar for the time being?’ Harry suggested. ‘I don’t know, but it’s at least possible, don’t you think?’
I said nothing.
‘I’m so sorry, this must be awful.’
‘Did you find out anything else?’ I asked, trying to keep my voice even.
The Black Sheep Page 4