by M. A. Hunter
Mum wanders in, carrying a steaming mug, and perches on the end of the bed. ‘Morning, darling,’ she says. ‘I made tea.’ She must spot the vacant space beside me. ‘Charlie already left for Oxford?’
I nod. ‘He said his meeting is at nine and he wanted to get on the road early to avoid the traffic.’
‘I was thinking,’ Mum continues, slurping the tea, ‘we should go to the shops today. Are you up for it? I’d like to buy something for Grace as a treat before she starts school.’
I swallow hard. I can’t believe the day is almost here. I’d had such plans for the summer months; things Grace and I would do together – just the two of us – so she wouldn’t forget our time after she’d started at school. I don’t really know where those months have gone. In fact, I don’t really know where the past week has gone. Grace deserves a mum who is active and imaginative and can offer her more emotional support than I can. All I serve as is a warning not to count your chickens before they’re hatched.
‘Does she need anything else for school? Shoes? PE kit?’
My eyes widen in panic. I’d meant to order the required shirt, shorts, and socks online on Thursday, but never got round to it. The school sent a list to all parents of what would be required for day one, including PE kit, distinguishable water bottle, and wellies for wet days.
I push the duvet back, and shuffle until I’m sitting upright. ‘I can’t believe I forgot to order the blasted PE kit.’
My mum is the epitome of calm. ‘Then it’s settled. We’ll head into the town and scour every shop until we find what we’re looking for.’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t think anywhere in Northwood will have what we’re looking for. We might have to catch the bus to Harrow.’
She stands, handing me the mug. ‘Perfect! You drink that and I’ll go and let my granddaughter know.’
Two hours later, and I can’t remember having this much fun with Mum in ages. I can’t get over this renewed energy she seems to have found, despite her advancing years. After Dad passed last year, I worried that she would soon follow. Those first few days she didn’t even get dressed or leave the house. I had to organise the funeral – not that I wasn’t happy to pitch in. Back then I had full use of my body and was able to juggle work and childcare with making sure Mum was eating, and that all the necessary arrangements were in place. I suppose it just shows what a difference eighteen months can make. There was me thinking she was giving up, and now she’s turned over a fresh page into a new chapter of her life. I can only hope that the next twelve months bring me fresh hope.
Mum has been telling Grace stories about when I started school, and whilst I don’t remember all of them, they do stir fond memories, and I can’t help but chuckle when I hear Grace’s high-pitched, infectious giggle. It is a relief that we have managed to cobble together a PE kit from three different shops. I’m not sure I would have had the will to do this alone, and I don’t mind handing the wheel to Mum to steer us to victory.
‘I’m parched,’ she suddenly says, as we reach the café in Debenhams. ‘What’s required now is tea and cake. My treat.’
Grace punches the air in delight, and is already heading in through the entrance in search of the cake cabinet to choose her treat. I reach for Mum’s hand. ‘Thank you for doing this, and for coming down to see us. It means a lot.’ I can’t keep the emotion from my voice.
She pats my hand. ‘What are mums for? Go and find us a table and I’ll get the refreshments. You want tea or coffee?’
‘Tea, please,’ I say, heading to the table area. A woman and her son are just leaving a small, round table as I approach, and I make a beeline for it. A staff member comes over a moment later to clear their tray of leftovers and to wipe the table. I shouldn’t be surprised that the café is so busy, as it’s nearly lunchtime.
Grace comes charging over a couple of minutes later, followed by Mum with a tray, which wobbles as she shuffles between chairs, before lowering it to our table. There is a huge slab of chocolate sponge cake on one of the plates, a huge slab of Victoria sponge on another, and then a sliver of apple strudel on a third. Grace licks her lips expectantly.
‘We couldn’t decide what we wanted,’ Mum says, handing me and Grace a fork each. ‘So we got all three, and thought we’d share them between us. You start on the strudel, and then we’ll swap plates.’
Grace digs her fork into the chocolate sponge, and manages to smear brown icing around her lips as she munches contentedly.
‘You know,’ Mum says, tucking into the Victoria sponge, ‘if I didn’t know better I could have sworn I’d just seen your Charlie. The guy was the spitting image of him. I must be losing my marbles.’
I shudder as a cold shiver ripples down my spine. I remember Kerry’s call last night. ‘It can’t have been Charlie; he’s in Oxford.’
She rests her fork on the plate and wipes her lips with a paper napkin. ‘I know, right? I would have put money on it being him, but I only saw him from behind, and he was gone before I could get a better look.’
‘Ava!’ Grace suddenly shouts out, waving fervently at her best friend several tables away. ‘Can I go over and see her? Please, Mummy?’
Nadine looks up and nods at me. In front of her is a bowl of fresh salad and a bottle of mineral water. Her hair is set in a French plait, and her makeup looks like it was applied by a professional artist.
‘Only if her mum says it’s okay,’ I say to Grace, wondering how much effort Nadine puts in to maintain her slim figure and perfect veneer.
Grace is straight out of her chair, a chocolate ring forming a perimeter around her lips, and darts between the tables until she reaches Nadine and Ava.
‘She’s a credit to you,’ Mum says, bringing my attention back to our table. ‘When I think about the trouble we had trying to adopt you, it really is a blessing to see how bright and clever my granddaughter is.’
Something stirs in the back of my mind. ‘What kind of trouble did you have?’
She fixes me with a knowing stare. ‘I know I said it is none of my business, but all your questions about the adoption process… You and Charlie are considering it, aren’t you?’
I don’t want to tell her the real reason I’m so interested, and simply shrug my shoulders, allowing her to draw her own conclusion.
She takes a sip of her tea, followed by a deep breath. ‘We contacted the local council initially and met with a social worker assigned to our case. She wanted to know the reasons we were looking to adopt, and gave us a real breakdown of what would be involved, both physically and emotionally. At times it felt like she was trying to put us off the process. I suppose that’s just the way they weed out the time-wasters. But your dad and I were adamant. The thing you have to remember is there are no guarantees you will find the child you think you’re looking for.’
‘Did you always know you wanted a daughter?’
She narrows her eyes. ‘Honestly, no. We didn’t mind what gender our child would be, but we did insist on having a new-born. I really wanted to experience those late-night feeding sessions, sterilising bottles in the early hours. Sounds silly, doesn’t it? But I didn’t think I would feel like a real mum without going through the extra stress a new-born brings.
‘The agency at the council made us attend various preparatory classes, and then there were a number of assessments carried out both at their offices and at our house. Then at one point a check of our criminal history was carried out with the police, and then we had to provide a list of referees who would provide character references for us. Finally, we went before this panel who I think made the final decision, and then it was a matter of waiting for you. All in all, it took nearly ten months from that first meeting until we were taking you home.’ She squeezes my hand. ‘Worth every second and penny we spent.’
I’d never realised quite how much effort they’d gone to and have probably never appreciated either of them as much as I do right now. I squeeze her hand back in thanks for all the sacrifices th
ey must have made for me to be here today with my own perfect daughter.
‘Do you think I look like her? My birth mother, I mean.’
Mum’s eyes don’t leave mine, but I can see the pain as the muscles around her eyelids contract. ‘It was so long ago that I really can’t remember. She was younger than you are now, barely a scrap of a girl. Had she been older and had her boyfriend been more willing to take on responsibility, then maybe they would have clung onto you. I guess we’ll never know.’
‘Did they ever make contact and ask to see me?’
She breaks off a piece of the Victoria sponge between her fingers and considers my question as she chews. I don’t understand why it takes her so long to answer. ‘We received a birthday card for you once that wasn’t signed. I always assumed it was either from her or your birth dad, but no other attempts were made as far as I’m aware. What’s bringing all of this up now? You haven’t asked about either of them since we told you on your birthday that year. Do you wish you’d made contact before she died?’
I frown. How does Mum know my birth mother is dead? And if she knows, why don’t I? I’m about to ask when Grace comes haring over with Ava at her side.
‘Ava’s mum is taking her to the toyshop. Can we go too? Please? I want to choose what you can get me for my birthday.’
Mum stands before I can answer. ‘I’ll take you while your mummy finishes her cake.’
They’re gone without another word, and I watch as Mum introduces herself to Nadine and then I am all alone at the table with three plates of half-eaten cake.
The lift doors ping and the young couple with the pram step aside to allow me to roll out before they enter. Their child can’t be much older than six months, and is fast asleep, dummy in mouth, the picture of innocence. His dark hair is in stark contrast to that of his parents, who look exhausted.
It makes me think of how exhausted we would have been had our boy not been taken from us. Coping with a new-born and enforced paralysis would have made the last six months even more tiring, but they would have been filled with so much more joy. Deep down, I hope there is an alternative universe where there weren’t complications with his delivery and where the needle in my back didn’t slip. I bet that version of me is counting her blessings.
When I leave Debenhams, the humidity hits me instantly, warming my cheeks, and I’m half-tempted to roll back into the air-conditioned department store and wait for Mum and Grace to return, but I decide to plough onwards. I assume they were headed to the large toyshop we passed when we came out of the train station. Mum and I had promised Grace we would call in on the way home. I’ll just have to hope that Mum hasn’t gone spending-mad and bought half the shop for her persuasive granddaughter.
The road inclines, and the wheels meet greater resistance as I head up towards the main high street. This heat is making me feel parched already. Spotting a small boutique gift shop advertising cool drinks on a sandwich board by its entrance, I head in. A blast of cool air overhead hits me instantly, and I temporarily pause and welcome the refreshment. Until, that is, I feel the eyes of the uniformed security guard staring at me, and hastily move forwards.
He must be roasting in the beige woollen jumper over the collared shirt and significant paunch. His dark brown trousers and fitted cap can’t be providing much ventilation either. A sign on the wall over his shoulder promises thieves will be prosecuted. He is still watching me with suspicious eyes, until I disappear behind the first shelving unit. It’s funny, I don’t think I’ve ever noticed this shop before, but it’s filled with an eclectic collection of trinkets. In the air I can smell incense burning, and it reminds me of my days at university. A large cabinet to my left is filled with glass ornaments, some so intricately built that I am not surprised to see the high prices on the attached tickets.
There are Disney ornaments too. One of Cinderella’s carriage, one of her glass slipper, a pair of Mickeys and Minnies, and one of Olaf the snowman. Grace would love this shop and would want all of these ornaments. Continuing along the aisle, I next come across a cascade of handcrafted greetings cards. There are some beautiful designs of flowers, cats, dogs, birds, and recognisable landscapes. I know these are printed representations of the originals, but I wish I was more creative and capable of producing such works of art.
I glance back at the cabinet of glass ornaments. Grace would so love that Cinderella carriage. It would be a brilliant present for her birthday, something special that she could put in her room, and maybe inspire more of her stories. I roll back and pick up the carriage, turning it over between my fingers. At fifty pounds it would have to be her main present, but it is so delicately painted that I can’t resist. It’s the size of a ping-pong ball, but it instantly brings back memories of the film, watching the animation with Mum. Growing up, I used to dream of being swept off my feet by a handsome prince. When I think about Charlie, I suppose my dream did kind of come true.
I start as I hear an angry woman’s voice behind the stands to my right, and my pulse quickens when I realise I recognise the Highland tone of the woman growling. Resting the carriage in my lap, I roll hastily to the end of the aisle, almost knocking into the stanchion at the end as I wheel around it, turning in to the next aisle, and seeing Morag hunched over, practically shouting into the phone at her ear.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Before – Morag
I ran from the telephone box as fast as my legs would carry me, arms pumping, my face a mop of sweat, as if he might be out there ready to grab me. I can’t believe he would take our fight to my vulnerable sister. Suddenly, I understand why she was so out of breath when she came to the phone; he is capable of such evil.
I was careful to use the ‘141’ code before I dialled her number, but he always has ways and means of getting around the rules. Does that mean he already knows the location of the phone box I used? I never should have called her again; how I wish I could be stronger.
I haven’t been home just in case he’s put one of his goons on lookout at the phone box. As paranoid as that sounds, I’d put nothing past him. I ran in the opposite direction to home, before boarding a bus, a Tube, and then another bus. Good luck trying to follow me now!
I can’t go home. Not yet. Not until I know for certain I’m not being followed. Angus will be fretting about what’s happened to me, but I daren’t call him up until I’m away and out of earshot of everyone.
Somehow I’ve ended up in Harrow of all places, though my circuitous route took me via Eastcote, Ruislip, Uxbridge, Rayners Lane, and Wealdstone. A real tour of north-west London; roads unfamiliar to me, but my eyes have been glued to the passing traffic, searching for recurring vehicles. There was a navy blue Volvo Estate that I saw when I first boarded the bus in Northwood, and then I saw a similar vehicle when I boarded the Tube at Uxbridge, but I can’t be certain the registration number was the same. I haven’t seen it since, much to my relief.
Okay, it’s been three hours since I heard his voice, and I’m sure I’ve managed to shake any potential tails. Pulling out my phone, I send Angus a quick text message, just to advise that I am okay, and he shouldn’t worry. I keep the message short, and blasé: Gone to the shops. Will be home for lunch xxx
The phone feels heavy in my hand as I type in Gwen’s number, knowing that Angus will probably insist on disposing of the device once I’ve placed the call, but I have to check that my sister is all right; that he hasn’t done something to hurt her.
My hand trembles as I move the phone to my ear, and the breath won’t pass my throat.
‘I told you I would find you.’ His voice is mocking, like he’s just won a bet with himself that I would phone back.
‘I w – w – want to speak to Gwen,’ I stammer, failing to sound as assertive as I’d pictured in my mind.
‘Your sister’s busy.’
‘I want to know that you haven’t hurt her,’ I say, firmer this time.
‘She’s fine – for now – but you’re the one who’ll dete
rmine how long that lasts.’
‘W – w – what do you want?’
He snickers. ‘I want what you took from me, and if you don’t want me to make life difficult for Gwen and the rest of your clan you’ll bring her back to me.’
‘If you hurt my sister, or come anywhere near us, I will call the police.’
He laughs menacingly. ‘And tell them what? I didn’t break the law. You did.’
I know he’s right. The police can’t help us here. We’re on our own.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Now
A clean shirt, shower, and shave later, Mike Ferry was back in the Incident Room, barely five hours after crawling into his own bed and allowing fatigue to take him. And when the light had started creeping beneath the frame of the curtains, he’d risen, ready to learn the truth about the stabbing in Northwood.
Writing the name ‘Charlie’ beneath the victim’s photograph, he then drew a box with the word ‘motive’ at the top. If Jess’s mum’s statement to the officers was correct and things weren’t smooth in the Donoghues’ marriage, then there was every chance that she’d lashed out, but why at that house in Northwood? He’d seen the consequences of domestic abuse cases too many times, but the common theme in most of those had been that they occurred behind closed doors, and in the home of the couple in question. If Morag Kilbride hadn’t been home since collecting her daughter from school, what the hell was Jess – and possibly husband Charlie – doing there? Why there, why then? What had happened to drive her to plunge a large kitchen knife into her husband’s neck, severing the carotid artery?