by Val McDermid
Occupation of Father:
Steel worker
Name:
Dorothy Margaret
Surname:
Carter
Age:
21
Condition:
Spinster
Rank or Professon:
Dairymaid
Residence:
Shire Cottage, Scardale, Derbyshire
Father’s Name and Surname:
Albert Carter
Occupation of Father:
Farm Labourer
In the presence of:
Roy Carter, Joshua Wainwright
Solemnized by:
Paul Westfield
He was 22, she was 21. He was a steel worker, she was a dairymaid. At the time of their marriage, he was living at 27 Upington Terrace, Consett. She was living at Shire Cottage, Scardale, Derbyshire.
Her father was Albert Carter, farm labourer. The witnesses were Roy Carter and Joshua Wainwright. Catherine could hardly trust her eyes. She read the details again. Janis Wainwright’s mother was Dorothy Carter of Shire Cottage, Scardale. One of the witnesses at Dorothy’s wedding was Roy Carter. Also of Shire Cottage, Scardale, she wouldn’t have minded betting. The same Roy CartAge er who was Ruth Crowther’s husband and Alison Carter’s father. So it woulName dn’t be surprising to find there was a strong resemblance between Janis and Alison. Genetic inheritance could be a strange thing. But that still didn’t explain the scar. If Janis wasn’t Alison, how did she happen to have the identical distinguishing mark? The one explanation she could come up with was that the scar had been some bizarre form of self-mutilation that the teenage Janis had inflicted after Alison’s disappearance and presumed death.
She could imagine them growing up, the family commenting that they could be identical twins, two peas in a pod. And then Alison died and Janis decided to keep her alive by branding herself in the same way, reinstating Alison’s uniqueness. It was a grotesque notion, but Catherine knew that teenage girls were capable of the most fantastic behaviour, self-harming included. The flashing cursor caught her eye. LSA had sent more than the three certificates. She hit the page down key again and this time, she sat staring at the screen, slack-jawed and bewildered. She’d submitted her request only out of a routine habit of covering all the bases. But LSA had found the thing she hadn’t really believed she should be looking for. Janis Hester Wainwright had died on May 11th 1959. Catherine sat staring at the screen for a long time. Only one thing made any kind of sense.
She lit a cigarette and tried to imagine any other scenario that would fit the facts, but she came up empty-headed. Nothing fitted unless she started with the assumption that Alison Carter did not die in December 1963. Who was more likely to take on a girl in hiding than a physically distant branch of her family? So she’d assumed the identity of her dead cousin Janis and had grown into womanhood in Sheffield. A thought struck her, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.
All those years ago, Don Smart had persuaded the Daily News to consult a clairvoyant who had said Alison was alive and well and safe, living in a house in a street in a big city. Everyone had scoffed at the time.
It had been such an unlikely outcome of the picture they were presented with. But it looked now as if that clairvoyant might, against all the odds, have been right.
DEATH CERTIFICATE
St County Durham
Consett
Janis Hester Wainwright Female
Eleventh May 1959
Tuberculosis
Dr James Inchbald and Dr Andrew Witherwick
27 Upington Terrace, Consett, County Durham
Dorothy Wainwright formerly Carter
Catherine was startled out of her reverie by a knock at the door. Tommy had come to tell her he was going to drive down to Cromford to see if anyone was home. If he drew a blank, he intended to continue on to Derby.
‘Before you go,’ she said, ‘take a look at these.’ She gestured for him to sit in front of the laptop and showed him how to scroll down. He sat in silence, reading the four certificates with painstaking care. Then he turned to face her, his eyes troubled. ‘Tell me you’ve come up with another explanation,’ he said, his voice a quiet plea. Catherine shook her head. ‘There isn’t one that I can think of.’ He massaged his jaw with fingers still strong and thick. ‘I need to go and pay my respects to the family,’ he said at last. He sighed. ‘We need to talk about what happens next. Will you be up when I get back?’
‘I’ll be up. I’m going into Buxton for something to eat, because these four walls will drive me crazy otherwise,’ she said, gesturing at the pictures of Scardale surrounding her. ‘I’ll be back by nine.’
He nodded. ‘So will I, then. Don’t worry, Catherine, we’ll figure it out between us.’
‘Oh, I think we’ve figured out the crucial fact already. Tommy. It’s what we do with it that’s a bit harder to work out.’ Tommy smiled at the intensive care nurse. ‘I’m family,’ he said, with the air of quiet assurance that had seldom failed him. ‘George is my brother-in-law.’ The metaphorical truth of his words gave him a certain satisfaction.
The nurse nodded. ‘His son and daughter-in-law have gone to get something to eat, so there’s only his wife with him just now. You can go straight through.’ She opened the door for him. ‘Third bed down,’ she added.
Tommy walked slowly down the ward. He paused a few feet away from the array of life-support machines that sustained his old friend. Anne was sitting with her back to him, her head bent, one hand clasping George’s, the other stroking his arm, automatically careful of the drip feeding into a vein. George’s skin was pale, with a faint clammy sheen. His lips had a slightly bluish tinge and there were dark shadows under his closed eyes. Beneath the thin sheet, his body looked strangely frail, in spite of the wide shoulders and well-defined muscles. Seeing him like that, the vitality stripped from him, Tommy felt his own mortality like a breath of cold air on his skin.
He stepped forward and laid a hand on Anne’s shoulder. She looked up, her eyes weary and resigned. For a moment she looked confused, then the shock of recognition hit her. ‘Tommy?’ she gasped, incredulous.
‘Catherine told me what happened,’ he said. ‘I wanted to come.’ Anne nodded, as if what he said made perfect sense. ‘Of course you did.’
Tommy pulled up a chair and sat down next to her. The hand that had been stroking George’s arm reached out and grasped his. ‘How is he?’ Tommy asked.
‘They say he’s holding his own, whatever that means,’ she said wearily. ‘I don’t understand why he’s still unconscious, though. I thought heart attacks were over and done and you either survived or else…But he’s been like this nigh on two days now, and they won’t say when they think he’ll come round.’
‘I suppose it’s the body’s way of healing itself,’ Tommy said. ‘If I know George, if he was conscious you’d have to tie him to the bed to get him to rest and convalesce properly.’
A faint smile ghosted across Anne’s lips. ‘You’re probably right, Tommy.’
They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching George’s chest rise and fall.
Eventually, Anne said, ‘I’m glad you came.’
‘I’m just sorry it took this to get me to make the journey.’ Tommy patted Anne’s hand. ‘What about you, Anne? How are you doing?’
‘I’m frightened, Tommy. I can’t begin to think of what life would be like without him.’ She gazed at her husband, despair in the slump of her shoulders.
‘When did you sleep last? Or eat?’
Anne shook her head. ‘I can’t sleep. I went for a lie-down last night. They’ve got a room for relatives here. But I couldn’t get off. I don’t like leaving him. I want to be here when he wakes up.
He’ll be frightened, he won’t know where he is. I need to be here. Paul’s offered to spell me, but I don’t feel right about that. He’s already too upset. He blames himself, and I’m afraid of what he’ll say to George if he’s on his
own with him when he comes round. I don’t want George set off again.’
‘But I’m here now, Anne. I could sit with George while you at least get yourself a cup of tea and something to eat. You look like you’re ready to drop.’
She turned and looked curiously at him. ‘And what’s he going to think if he sees you sitting there like the ghost of Christmas past?’ she said, with a trace of her normal good humour.
‘Well, at least it’ll take his mind off what’s wrong with him,’ Tommy replied with a smile. ‘You need a break, Anne. Get a cup of tea. Some fresh air.’
Anne bowed her head. ‘Maybe you’re right. I’m not going outside, though. I’ll have ten minutes in the relatives’ room. You’ve got to talk to him, though. They say that’s supposed to help. And if he so much as stirs, call the nurse. Send somebody to get me.’
‘On you go,’ Tommy said. ‘I’ll keep an eye on him.’ Reluctantly, Anne stood up and moved slowly away. She walked down the ward, casting a backward look every couple of steps. Tommy moved across to her empty chair and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He began to talk to George in a soft voice about his recent bird-watching experiences. After about ten minutes, a nurse appeared, checking George’s vital signs. ‘I don’t know how you managed it,’ she said, ‘but Mrs Bennett’s sleeping for the first time since they brought 374 her husband in. Even if she only has a nap, it’ll do her the world of good.’
‘I’m glad.’ Tommy waited till the nurse had gone, then he resumed his one-sided conversation.
‘You’ll be wondering what I’m doing here,’ he said. ‘It’s a bit of a long story, I suppose, and one I shouldn’t really be telling you. So never mind what brought me here, just be grateful that my ugly mug was enough to inspire your Anne to go and have a lie-down.’
As he spoke, he noticed George’s eyelids fluttering. Then suddenly his eyes opened. Tommy leaned forward, taking George’s hand. ‘Welcome back, George,’ he said softly. He waved his free arm, trying to attract a nurse’s attention. ‘Don’t panic, old pal. You’re going to be all right.’ George frowned, puzzlement in his eyes. ‘Anne’ll be right here,’ Tommy said. ‘There’s nothing to worry about.’ As he spoke, a nurse arrived at the bedside. Tommy looked up. ‘He’s awake.’
As the nurse moved in, Tommy stepped back. ‘I’ll get Anne,’ he promised. He hurried down the ward, following signs to the relatives’ room. Anne was sprawled over a sofa, fast asleep. He hated to wake her, but she’d never forgive him if he didn’t. Tommy placed a hand on her shoulder and shook it gently. Anne’s eyes snapped open, immediately alert, panic in her face.
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘He’s waking up, Anne.’ She struggled to her feet. ‘Oh, Tommy!’ she exclaimed, throwing her arms round him and hugging his neck. He stood awkward in the embrace, unsure what to do with his hands.
‘I’ll come back tomorrow,’ he said as she released him and turned to go.
In the doorway, she glanced back. ‘Thanks, Tommy. You’re a miracle.’ He stood for a moment looking after her. ‘There’s more than one kind of miracle,’ he said sadly, making his way out of the intensive care unit.
52
August 1998
Catherine managed to make an indifferent dinner last the best part of an hour and a half. Even so, it was barely half past eight when she got back to Longnor. But Tommy was already waiting, sitting in the warm evening air on the limestone dyke outside her cottage. He looked grey and pale and Catherine felt a pang of concern. She kept forgetting he was an old man, so fit and sprightly did he seem. But he’d driven more than half the day, and he probably hadn’t had an evening meal.
He greeted her with, ‘Thank God you’re back. We need to sit down and talk.’
‘How’s George?’ she asked as she let them both in. ‘Drink?’
‘Have you any whisky?’
‘Only Irish.’ She pointed to the sideboard. ‘Let me get a glass of wine.’ She went through to the kitchen and opened a bottle. When she came back. Tommy had two inches ofBushmills in the bottom of a petrol-station tumbler.
‘So how is George?’ she repeated, expecting the worst.
‘He’s recovered consciousness. I was with him when his eyes opened.’
‘You were with him? How did you manage to get in?’ Tommy sighed. ‘How do you think? I lied.
Obviously, he wasn’t up to talking. But he seemed to recognize me. I told Anne I’d be back tomorrow morning. Maybe I’ll be able to speak to him then.’
‘I don’t think this is the time to talk about Scardale and Alison with him,’ Catherine said.
Tommy gave her a hard stare. He hadn’t lost his touch over the years; Catherine felt like a butterfly on a pin. ‘You mean you don’t want him remembering that he told you to cancel the whole thing.’
‘No,’ she protested. ‘I just think that if whatever happened in Scardale really precipitated the heart attack, he shouldn’t be talking about it.’ Tommy shrugged. ‘I’d say that was up to George. I’m not going to push it, but if he wants to talk about it, I’m not going to stop him. Better he gets it out of his system with me than he bottles it up and maybe sets off another attack,’ he said stubbornly.
‘And while we’re on the subject, I met Paul as I was leaving. He introduced me to his fiancée. And we have to talk about that,’ he said heavily, taking a swig from his glass that disposed of half the whiskey. ‘Let’s have another look at those certificates.’
Catherine booted up the computer while Tommy paced to and fro in the tiny living room. As soon as she had the first certificate up on the screen, he was at her side. ‘Show me Helen’s birth certificate again,’ he said. She nicked a finger over the page down key and her details appeared before them.
‘Oh God,’ he groaned. He turned away and crossed to the fireplace.
He leaned his arm across the mantel and laid his head down. Catherine swung round in her chair.
‘Tommy, are you going to tell me what’s going on?’
His big shoulders heaved and he turned back to face her. If he didn’t tell her, she was perfectly capable of working it out for herself. At least this way, he could have some control over what she knew and what she did with it. ‘You’ve seen Helen, haven’t you?’ he said wearily. Catherine nodded. ‘We first met last year, in Brussels.’
‘Did she not remind you of anybody?’
‘Funnily enough, I did think I’d seen her before. But now we know she’s connected to the Scardale clans, I think what I’m seeing is a sort of generic Carter resemblance.’
Tommy sighed. ‘Aye, there is a bit of that. A look of her mother. But it’s her father she takes after.’
She frowned. ‘Tommy, you’re not making any sense. When did you ever come across Samuel and Dorothy Wainwright?’ Tommy sat down heavily in the armchair. ‘I’ve never seen either of them in my life. I’m not talking about the Wainwrights. I’m talking about Philip Hawkin.’
‘Hawkin?’ Catherine echoed, completely lost.
‘She’s the spit of Philip Hawkin across the eyes. And she’s got his colouring. I don’t think you’d pick up the resemblance from the photos, but it’s clear as day in the flesh.’
‘You can’t be right,’ she protested. ‘George would have seen the likeness, surely?’
‘He wouldn’t necessarily have made the connection until the Scardale link was right in front of his nose. Besides, you said Paul said he’d been uneasy, even before they got to Scardale.’
‘It could still be coincidence,’ Catherine said stubbornly. If she was going to nail this story, she needed to fight every fact so her defences were already established before she had to persuade an editor. She might as well take advantage of Tommy’s experience to help construct her arguments.
‘Look at the birth certificate,’ he said. ‘She’s called Helen Ruth. I know Ruth’s not exactly an uncommon name, but back then it was usual practice round these parts to give a child a family name for a middle name, usually a grandparent. When you add in
all the rest of the details we’ve got here, Helen’s middle name being Ruth is stretching coincidence too far.’ Catherine lit a cigarette to put off the inevitable question. ‘So if Philip Hawkin was Helen’s father…who was her mother?’
‘Well, it wasn’t his wife, that’s for sure. Ruth Carter wasn’t having a baby in June 1964—she was attending her husband’s trial. We saw her at least once a week in the run-up to the trial, and she wasn’t pregnant.’
‘Some women don’t show it,’ she pointed out. ‘They just look like they’ve put on a bit of weight.’
He shook his head. ‘Catherine, when we first met Ruth, she was a sturdy farmer’s wife. By the time we got to the trial, she looked like a strong wind would lift her from Scardale into Denderdale without noticing. She could not have borne a daughter in June 1964.’
‘So who was it?’ Catherine persisted. ‘I presume we’re ruling out a mad, passionate affair with Dorothy Wainwright?’
‘It’s always possible, I suppose,’ Tommy said. ‘Dorothy would only have been in her mid-thirties.
But if Hawkin had been sleeping with her, I’d have expected him to bring it out at the trial as evidence that he was a normal, red-blooded male, not some pervert into little girls. We always figured that was the only reason he married Ruth—so that if there was ever any question mark over him molesting Alison, he’d be able to point to his marriage to prove he was just like every other bloke. Anyway, there’s no evidence to indicate he ever met the Wainwrights. But if we go with our theory about the real identity of the woman calling herself Janis Wainwright, then we do have a female of child-bearing age in the Wainwrights’ house who had a demonstrable connection to Hawkin. A female that we know from photographic evidence was raped by Hawkin.’
His words fell heavy as stones.
‘Alison Carter is the mother of Helen Markiewicz, nee Wainwright,’ Catherine said, putting Tommy’s circumlocutions into hard unequivocal terms. ‘And Philip Hawkin is her father.’
She looked at Tommy and he stared back at her. Nothing else made sense of the solid facts and the physical congruence they had found. But it was a solution that begged so many questions Catherine didn’t even know where to begin.