Her Sister's Child
Page 21
Tom moved on from Cavendish Partners seven years ago. Marian knows this, because she googled his name and found a whole page on him at a firm called AQA Architecture.
Tom Glynn came to AQA from Cavendish Partners in 2012. A native of North London, Tom leads the Commercial Environments team…
North London. As she suspected, he hadn’t moved far. She reads the rest of the profile. Tom is married with three children.
Three? That seems almost greedy. No matter. She will find him. And she will find Saffron.
The bag of clothes at the back of the wardrobe hasn’t been touched in years. Marian deposited it there when she moved into the flat; things she knew she would no longer wear but couldn’t quite bring herself to throw away or give to charity. It contains the satin brocade coat dress she bought for a wedding about twenty years ago. She still thinks the duck-egg blue embroidered with gold and silver is beautiful. There’s also a black wool crêpe party dress she bought from Jil Sander: a splurge buy that she quickly grew too heavy to fit into, and a pretty Jaeger chiffon blouse, also far too small now. And the wig.
When Tom first started work at Cavendish they used to throw extravagant parties, and to celebrate the new millennium, the theme was Hollywood Royalty. Marian decided she would go as Marilyn Monroe, and ordered a shoulder-length blonde wig from an online party shop, only to find when it arrived that the colour was different to that depicted on the website. Instead of platinum blonde, it was a darker, strawberry-blonde colour.
‘Actually, Marilyn’s real hair colour was something like this,’ Marian told Tom. ‘And if I wear it with the iconic white halterneck dress…’
But he had been dismissive, shaking his head. ‘Nope. No one will know who you’re supposed to be. No offence, but you don’t look anything like Marilyn. Except for the hips.’ He slapped her playfully on the backside.
In the end Marian admitted defeat and went to the party as Charlie Chaplin, in a baggy man’s suit, bowler and fake moustache. But she kept the wig. It was made of real hair and had been expensive, and she was reluctant to throw it away. You never knew, she had reasoned then, it might prove useful one day.
The wig smells a little musty, but is otherwise in perfect condition. Marian brushes it carefully and lays it out on the bed, while she packs a bag with toiletries, underwear and a few changes of clothes. Then she sits at her dressing table and for the first time in ages, puts on a full face of make-up, including bright red lipstick. When her frizzy grey hair is pinned to her head and the wig settled into position, the effect is dramatic. True, her plus-size body remains unchanged, but otherwise she is transformed. The strawberry blonde hair falls to her shoulders in attractive waves and flatters her skin tone. It detracts from the frown lines and drooping eyelids. She looks at least a decade younger.
She squeezes herself into what is euphemistically called ‘shapewear’ (her mother would have referred to it as a girdle) and dresses in a plain white blouse and her favourite navy trouser suit. It’s the only decent outfit she possesses that still fits her. For her work at the university library she usually wears a skirt with an elasticated waist under an equally shapeless top. For a brief moment she considers adding a jaunty beret to the outfit, but decides it will attract too much attention. She wants to blend in, not stand out.
Taking the car is out of the question. It doesn’t matter how you alter your appearance, if you are in your own vehicle it’s easy for your movements to be traced. Nevertheless, she wants the obvious assumption to be that she has taken a trip in it, so after putting on her best winter coat she drives her car from her allotted parking space and leaves it, unlocked, at the end of a cul-de-sac a few hundred yards away. Then she walks the mile to the station, wheeling her case. The only stop she makes is to use the cash machine in the local convenience store, withdrawing a large amount of cash and making just one purchase.
Abshir, who mans the till from dawn to dusk seven days a week, does a double-take. ‘It’s you, innit?’ He points to the wig. ‘Hair’s different, though.’
Marian often calls in there for bread, milk or teabags, usually picking up a bar of milk chocolate at the same time. The fact that he’s recognised her leaves her slightly flustered.
‘You sure that’s all you want, love?’ he asks. ‘No chocolate this time, not like usual?’ He adds with a grin.
‘This is it, thank you,’ Marian replies, forcing a smile.
It’s Tuesday morning, and she blends easily into the crowds of commuters catching the train from Hove to London. She buys a coffee from the concession on the platform and, once on the train, sips it while she opens up her laptop on the small table. Nobody speaks to her, or appears to notice her, leaving her to use the journey time to find temporary accommodation. After a few false starts, she finds a small bed and breakfast hotel in Russell Square whose website claims it will take cash.
She takes the tube there from Victoria, after first phoning to check that the place has rooms available. Reserving a room via their website had to be avoided because it would have meant inputting too much personal data.
‘Name?’ asks a bored receptionist, without looking up at her.
‘Webber,’ says Marian giving her maiden name. ‘Anne Webber.’
She is handed a form to fill in, and writes down a fictitious address.
‘ID?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t have my driving licence or passport with me,’ she says, adding quickly, ‘but I’m happy to pay with cash up front.’ To prove the point, she pulls out her purse and extracts a fold of pristine £20 notes.
‘We’re supposed to get the manager’s approval if there’s no ID.’ The receptionist looks up at her for the first time. What she sees is a respectable-looking middle-aged woman in smart clothes, and she clearly can’t be bothered to hunt down the manager. ‘Do you have enough for the four nights’ room rate?’
‘I do,’ says Marian with a smile. ‘And I’m happy to add a damage deposit for peace of mind.’
A key is handed over and she’s left to drag her case up to the room on the first floor. It’s stuffy and claustrophobic, with crimson walls and fussy furnishings, but Marian doesn’t care. She hangs her clothes in the tiny wardrobe, arranges her wash things in the bathroom and then sits down on the bed with her laptop. All she needs now is to input the wi-fi password.
And then she can set about finding her daughter.
42
Charlie
Bonnie whimpers in her sleep, her arms twitching and her little fingers fanning out like starfish.
Charlie watches her for a while, then gets back to the business of trying to pack up and clean the flat. She bundles anything belonging to Jake into black plastic bin bags, and starts emptying the bathroom cupboards of toiletries and make-up. She’s just starting to make headway when the doorbell rings.
The woman who’s standing there is middle-aged and heavyset. She’s wearing a coat in a strikingly ugly yellow colour.
‘Are you Charlotte?’
Charlie frowns. ‘Yes.’
‘My name’s Angela Dixon. I’m from Haringey Council.’
‘Oh. I think there might be a misunderstanding. This isn’t council property any more. It’s rented privately.’
‘Actually, it’s not about the flat. Well, not directly.’
Charlie tilts her head in the direction of the stack of cardboard boxes. ‘Can’t this wait? I’m a bit busy.’
‘The thing is, we routinely follow up on all children under eighteen living apart from their parents. To assess—’
‘No offence, but I’m about to move back in with my parents anyway, so…’ Charlie shrugs.
‘May I ask when?’
‘This weekend. Sunday probably.’
Charlie just wants the woman to leave but, not wanting to appear rude, she opens the door wider and waves her hand in the direction of empty cardboard boxes.
‘I’m supposed to be packing, only my sister called round to see the baby and distracted me.’
Behind her, Bonnie gives a restless little squawk, an early indication that she’s about to need feeding. The woman jumps slightly and stares in the direction of the bassinet, taking a step forwards as if to get a better look. Charlie experiences a flash of annoyance. Clearly, she feels Charlie is too young to have a baby. Probably thinks she can’t look after her properly.
‘If you don’t mind, I really need to get on before she wakes for a feed.’
‘Of course… I’ll call back another time.’
Charlie stops herself from rolling her eyes. Don’t social services have anything better to do than interfere in the lives of two people who don’t need their help?
‘No offence, but there’s really no need. I won’t be here from the day after tomorrow.’
Her mouth opens as though she is about to say something, but then she closes it again, gives a curt nod, and leaves.
Charlie lifts Bonnie from the crib and sits down on the sofa to feed her. ‘It’s okay,’ she soothes, ‘the funny lady’s gone now.’
Bonnie fails to settle, launching into an uncharacteristic crying jag and refusing to be comforted unless she’s being held.
Charlie phones her mother. ‘Mum, I can’t get Bonnie to go off… if I bring her over would you or Lu mind having her for a bit? Just so I can get this packing done. I’m never going to get finished by Sunday, otherwise.’
As she pushes the buggy over to Laurel Road, she mulls over the visit from the woman in the yellow coat. Why, she wonders, would social services be making such a check on her now, months after she left home? She has been seen by midwives and a health visitor, all of whom have been employed to check on her welfare, and that of her baby. There has never been any official concern expressed about her living arrangements, and why would there be? She has a perfectly nice flat, and the support of her family.
As she approaches the front door, there is someone leaving the house: a man with ginger hair that she doesn’t recognise.
‘Who’s that?’ she asks her mother, who is standing in the hall watching the man go.
‘Just someone who wanted to talk to Dad, but obviously he’s in the office at the moment.’ Vanessa puts an arm around her briefly before reaching down to lift her granddaughter out of the buggy. ‘How’s my chubby little munchkin?’
Charlie is about to tell her that she has also had a stranger call round that morning, but since she will no longer be living in the flat on her own, the whole issue seems redundant. And she doesn’t want to worry her parents any more than she already has. Best not to mention it.
43
Marian
Yellow, Marian decides, as she sits on her hotel bed sipping her tea.
She doesn’t care for the colour, not on herself, anyway. She never wears it because it washes her out and makes her look sallow. But Tom knows she hates yellow and would never expect her to be wearing it, however deep that idea is buried in his subconscious. Therefore, she will wear yellow.
Breakfast is included in the room rate, so Marian sits alone in the dark, depressing dining room on the ground floor, ordering coffee and boiled eggs with toast. When it eventually arrives, the coffee is acrid and the eggs have been boiled so long that the yolks are rimmed with grey. She eats them anyway, disguising their texture by slathering the toast thickly in butter, and sips slowly on her coffee. She can afford to take her time today. She takes the copy of the Metro offered by the waitress and flicks through it. And then the blood in her veins turns to ice, and she drops the coffee cup into the saucer so abruptly that it slops everywhere.
North London police find body in garden
The remains of a newborn baby boy have been found in a garden in Ranmoor Road, Muswell Hill. The child is believed to have been buried there between fifteen and twenty years ago. Detective Inspector Kevin Stratton, leading the enquiry, said: ‘We are urging people who lived in the area at the time to come forward if they have any information.’
Noah. Her mouth forms the word silently. She never said it out loud to anyone, she realises, apart from Noah himself. Nobody knows his name but her. This thought calms her and her breathing returns to normal. Her name isn’t mentioned in the piece, so it could even be a different house in the road. She’s done nothing wrong anyway, she reasons. Noah was given a lovely burial when he died, and he died because he was ill. The fact that he was sickly was the fault of Lizzie Armitage. She was the one downing alcohol while pregnant.
The timing of the news item is unsettling, but she’s not going to let it put her off. After all, nobody knows where she is. She folds the paper over again, collects her coat and bag from her room and heads on foot to the Brunswick shopping centre. Blending in with the other shoppers is easy. Christmas decorations have just been put up, people are busy and purposeful, despite the bitter cold. Nobody gives her a second glance.
Marian goes into Next and buys an overcoat in mustard yellow wool, and a dark grey bobble hat. She puts on the hat as she leaves the store, pulling it on awkwardly over the blonde wig. The wig is starting to itch now, but she is resigned to wearing it, especially after seeing that article in the paper. As long as she’s in the wig, there’s little chance of being recognised. She heads back to the hotel to prepare for the next stage of her plan.
At four o’clock, Marian puts on the hat, a scarf and her new mustard-coloured coat and takes the Northern Line to Camden Town.
The offices of AQA are in a modern, glass-fronted block on Parkway. It’s dark by the time she gets there; car headlights are bouncing off the damp street, and the sky is streaked grey and gold. Marian positions herself in the entranceway of the building, close enough to see who’s emerging from the brightly lit foyer. Employees come out in twos or threes, often chatting to one another, hugging their arms around themselves for warmth. Quite a few light up immediately and take a few meditative puffs of their cigarette before strolling on, laptop bags slung over their shoulders.
At 6.15, Tom emerges. She knows it’s him immediately. At fifty-five, he has lost some of his hair, and what’s left is greying, but he still has a buoyant, vital energy. Still walks with the same purposeful stride. So much so, that Marian struggles to keep up with him at her safe distance of a few metres. She has the hat pulled down low, a scarf pulled up over her mouth, and with the yellow coat and waves of strawberry blonde hair escaping onto her shoulders, she’s confident that even if he turns round, he’ll have no idea who she is.
At Prince Albert Road, he boards the 88 bus. Marian waits for him to start up the stairs before boarding herself and staying on the lower deck, hanging on to one of the metal poles near the exit door. Just as the bus is reaching its destination at Parliament Hill Fields – by now almost empty – Tom thunders down the stairs and grabs the same pole she is gripping. Shaking at the unexpected physical proximity of her ex-husband, Marian swivels around abruptly so that her back is turned to him.
He leaps off the bus and she gets off after him, keeping him in her sightline while staying as far back as she can. These streets are nearly empty, and if he looks behind him, it will be obvious she is following him. He heads into Dartmouth Park, turning into Laurel Road. Of course. Marian remembers him telling her that he loved this particular tree-lined street, especially the pretty Victorian villas towards its eastern end. It’s outside one of these that he slows down and pulls out a bunch of keys, before walking up to the pale blue front door and letting himself in. The blinds in the house are lowered, and lights behind them glow invitingly. There are raised voices, and the garlicky smell of something cooking hangs in the air. It’s a family home, Marian thinks bitterly. Just what she – what they – always wanted.
Marian makes a mental note of the door number: thirty-five. But there is little point her waiting around on this occasion. They’ll be making supper and settling in for the evening, discussing Tom’s work, or maybe her work. She was an architect too, wasn’t she, Vanessa? Instead, Marian walks back to Highgate Road and flags a cab back to the
hotel.
At six the next morning an alarm wakes her. Dressing exactly as she did the day before, she catches the tube to Tufnell Park and walks back to Laurel Road. The sun is just rising as she arrives, commuters emerging from their homes into the chilly air. Number twenty-nine has a huge privet bush growing over its wall, providing something of a screen, and Marian places herself behind it and waits, sipping from the takeaway coffee cup she bought on the way from the tube. A cup of coffee makes her seem more normal, she calculates. Wrongdoers don’t go round drinking coffee.
At seven forty, Tom emerges and walks briskly in the other direction, towards Highgate Road. Fifteen minutes later a woman appears, with a boy of about twelve dressed in school uniform. Marian recognises Vanessa, who has gained a little mid-life weight but kept her mane of blonde hair. She and the boy climb into a car, with her saying something about rugby training, and drive off.
Saffron is school age too, Marian thinks. So she will be emerging some time in the next hour or so and heading off to the local comprehensive or academy. On her own. But nine o’clock comes and goes, and there is no sign of her. A few people glance in Marian’s direction, but she sips on the empty coffee cup and pretends to be looking at the screen of her phone, as though she’s waiting for someone. Which, in a way, she is.
By nine thirty she’s starting to need the loo quite badly. Just as she’s weighing up whether to return later in the day, the door of number thirty-five opens and a young woman emerges, tall and slim with long blonde hair. Marian’s heart pounds. Is this her? Is this her own Saffron?
In her agitation, Marian starts following too close. So close that she can hear when the girl pulls out her phone and starts having a conversation.
‘Hi… it’s Lucy.’
She feels a jolt of disappointment. Lucy, she now remembers, is Vanessa’s daughter from her first marriage. She must be about twenty.