Home for Truths: The stand-out domestic suspense thriller for 2020

by Alan Agnew

  ‘Terrible what happened to Polly, burgled twice, the most recent in broad daylight when she was in the back garden with her daughter, you just can’t be too careful nowadays.’

  That is terrible, no wonder she was so cold towards me. I wish I treated her with more resect now.

  I text Vicky. I need to tell somebody. I sit down to think through what I can do to identify the twins, opening my laptop in the hope of some inspiration. My mobile rings, my screen displaying the caller name ‘Vicky Facebook.’

  ‘Twins!’ she yells, mirroring my reaction only minutes earlier.

  ‘Yea crazy. I also found out from Roger that it was my mum that forbid dad from contacting me as a punishment, and he always respected that until, well until it was too late. All these years, I have carried this ill-feeling against him because I thought he had abandoned me, but in his warped mind, he thought he was doing the right thing. When we did start talking again, the damage had already been done, our relationship beyond repair. The irony being history repeated itself with the twins. He was forbidden, formally this time, from contacting them. I need to track them down and explain. I know exactly how they must have felt for all these years.’

  A pause on the end of the phone, and I imagine Vicky articulating something in her head, never wanting to say the wrong thing.

  ‘You need to prepare yourself for something Phil. You had your dad for fourteen years of your life before the silence. You have no idea how much or how little he was there for the twins and what they can remember if anything. They may have been raised by someone else believing them to be their father or told their father passed away or was a murderer. Just be patient with them.’

  ‘Of course, the way you describe those scenario’s, it is like a soap opera.’

  ‘I wonder if they are identical, I wonder if they look like you.’

  The pictures, of course.

  I run upstairs and pull out the photographs that were stashed in the garage and stare hard at the children I did not recognise with my dad. They do not look dissimilar, but I can tell them apart. Both have mopped blond hair and hazel eyes, but one has freckles and a fatter, rounder face with rose-tinted cheeks, the other higher cheekbones with a pointier nose.

  ‘I have pictures of them Vicky, they are young, maybe four or five, but at least I have something to go on.’

  ‘Cool. It’s a start, and with technology these days you can get an image of what they may look like when they are older, the police use it to find missing persons, although an early teenage picture would be more reliable.’

  A teenage picture.

  A rush of adrenaline floods my body, and I run back downstairs to the dining room. ‘Vicky.’ I pause, catching my breath. ‘I have that too, and I am looking at the picture now. Robert, Rachel and my dad on a walking trip.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven – 15 days after

  I had assumed it was two boys pictured with my dad, but as I look closely I recognise the high cheekbones and pointed nose, and although the blonde hair is cut short, it’s a girl.

  They are aged maybe early teens, it must be Rachel. Robert, therefore, is standing on the other side of my dad, his head coming up to my dad’s shoulder in height. His face has thinned out since the pictures of him as a toddler, but his rosy cheeks remain, his freckles fading and goofy smile now consumed by metal braces.

  Moving from the back of my mind to the front is a tinge of jealousy. The picture I am holding in my hand, the image of his other family was the only one on show in the house, taking pride of place in the living room. It was his other children that he looked at every night having dinner, every time passing through to the kitchen. He was reminded of them every day with Jimmy and I resigned to a cardboard box. Out of sight, and stored in the garage for enough years for a carpet of dust to gather. Roger mentioned the twins were a couple of years younger than me so I would have been around 16 at the time of this picture. The age when I dropped out of school, feeling so lost and alone, the time when I needed him the most.

  Our time together regardless of how infrequent and short had been superseded by walking holidays with his other children. I inspect his face wanting a psychological insight. He looks proud, but no-one seems comfortable. His arms are outstretched behind the twins, trying to put an arm around their shoulders, but there is too much distance between them to look natural. Something doesn’t look right. Dad had made an effort, dressed in the same walking clothes I borrowed to meet Vicky; the twins are dressed as if going to meet friends at the shopping centre on a Saturday afternoon. The picture does not look natural, maybe staged, and could be forced.

  But dad was the same with us, forcing us to have family pictures regardless of the mood or what had just gone on. We could have had a big fight but then had to don our happy mask for a photo.

  I think back to Roger, telling me how the custody battle was long and had killed my dad’s spirit. That’s what Marie must have been referring to when she talked about life experience. And all that while I thought it was for me. Did he fight so hard for me? I look at his eyes in the picture, feeling abandoned all over again.

  I search through the papers again looking for any reference of my dad’s legal dispute with the twin’s mother. I do not understand how he can keep a receipt for a washing machine but not legal documentation, but I have learnt to look for what is not there with my dad. He was always a little dramatic, and I imagine him burning them in the garden to rid himself of his pain. Similarly, no papers are referencing his divorce from mum which I know exist as my mum had them strangely enclosed in her will for my perusal.

  The will.

  My dad would have referenced the twins in his will. I scramble to the kitchen where I scribbled down my dad’s solicitor telephone number on an envelope and dial the number with my heart racing.

  I tell Mr Pritcher a carefully edited version of my story and ask him if he has any contact details for the twins. On the other end of the phone, I hear papers shuffling for what seems an age before he replies. ‘Mr Jenkins, what I can do is share with you a copy of the will, that is your legal right, as you are a named beneficiary and included are the other named beneficiaries. From memory, there are two other names complete with their contact details so we can send the necessary correspondence to them. I cannot put my hand on it at the moment and have a client coming in to see me in five minutes, so why don’t you come down to the office and pick it up, faster than the post.’

  I sit back down at the dining table and pick up the picture again. From nowhere, these two people have crashed into my life. They had my dad’s full attention, and they had his fight. And now I will continue sharing my dad with them though his inheritance. I had not considered the consequences of splitting the inheritance with two other people. It would be a modest amount which I was prepared for, but I had not contemplated dividing this modest amount by three.

  I cannot claim to have been the doting son who shared happy memories with his father or even cared for him in his later years. That was not me. But it was not the twins either. In Truth, none of us have a moral claim. My apologetic intention is born from my guilt of never really missing or needing my dad when I was a teenager. I had male influences growing up in Chichester, including friends, teachers and importantly Kenny.

  I think back to Kenny with a fondness of our bond, I have never felt with my dad. My friends and I would often hang out at the sports pavilion which operated as an unofficial youth club. There were no formal open and closing hours, so I often stayed behind after my friends went home. Kenny was the building manager for the pavilion and other public buildings in the block. He was kind to me, often teaching me how to fix things. When he had a job to do, he would allow me to watch and take time to explain what he was doing. It got to the stage I would visit there to see if I could do some basic jobs regardless of my mates being there or not. Using Kenny’s tools, I learned how to fix a leaking tap and change light fittings and door handles.

  Kenny was a good man, always had time
for me and could talk about anything. Sometimes football, sometimes politics, sometimes history. He was the only person that I felt comfortable with to talk about Jimmy. He once spoke about his own son being at University and having no interest in getting his hands dirty, he just wanted to make his millions on the stock market. Kenny knew his son looked down on him, a mere building manager. I could feel the distance between them whenever he spoke.

  I did appreciate Kenny, and maybe it was because he was not my father and I was not his son, we could always be that little bit more honest with each other without being concerned about judgment. I ended up spending my 16th birthday with Kenny fixing a washing machine, when he found out it was my birthday, Kenny disappeared to his van and came back with a couple of Fosters. We clunked cans and sipped the beers while watching the first full cycle on our repaired washing machine.

  I needed Kenny at that stage of my life, filling the gaping hole left by my dad. As I get into my car, I glance up to Donald’s house and think back to Jimmy, needing what Kenny and I had—filling the void left by dad, those trips to Bournemouth.

  I find the solicitors squeezed in-between a charity shop and coffee shop. A non-descript door opens to a flight of steep stairs with a threadbare blue carpet. I sit in the reception of the solicitor’s office, which is furnished more like a doctor surgery than the high-powered lawyer offices in Manhattan I see on television. There are no floor to ceiling windows framing skyscrapers outside, or high-heeled receptionists in pencil skirts sitting behind a glass desk. Instead I am greeted by Elsie, dressed in an old green cardigan covering a floral blouse. I sit, as instructed, in a sagging green armchair staring at the tatty old Top Gear and Good Housekeeping magazines placed on the coffee table before me. The walls are adorned with posters and leaflets promoting legal services for accident claims and wills. I focus in on a poster promoting mediation for divorcing couples, and my mind wanders back to my reality, and Caroline.

  The first time we spoke about our failing relationship, we talked about a trial separation, even making a joke out of the latest celebrity term ‘conscious uncoupling.’ I was still in denial and only now flirting with the anger stage, as I consciously plod through the change curve. The reality now being our trial is permanent, and we will be getting a divorce. In response to the poster on the wall, the financial implications I have not dared to consider. Our flat was not modest by any means, and it was in her name. The mortgage payments and utilities were coming from her account with my sole contribution being the weekly big shop and any essential purchases, the kind you do not keep receipts or a record of. My concern begins to flare just as the door to the office swings open and Stephen Pritcher walks to me with his hand reaching out.

  Pritcher is wearing an old tweed blazer with green and brown tones, gold-rimmed glasses sitting on the end of his nose and curly grey hair. Rather than inviting me into his office, he simply hands me a sealed envelope, A4 in size. ‘Here you go Phil, a copy of the late Mr Jenkins will and testimony, do let me know if you have any questions.’

  I rip the envelope open wanting to digest it immediately, to check my understanding if necessary, while Pritcher is in front of me. My eyes are drawn to the three names and addresses listed under the term Beneficiaries. My name is top with an address I barely recognise listed beneath, our first address in Glasgow, and an address I have not lived at for ten years. My eyes are directed beneath to the second entry; Camwell Lodge, Children Home, Teyford, and the third; Mr Roger Knight, 2 Hatch End, Baysworth.

  I turn the pages scanning for the names Rachel and Robert. ‘But they are not mentioned Mr Pritcher, Rachel and Robert, there is no mention of them in the will.’ His response is blank. ‘We talked on the phone about me finding out about the twins, my dad’s other family.’ Saying this out loud in front of him leaves an unpleasant taste in my mouth.

  Pritcher takes a step towards me and places his hand at the top of my arm. ‘A will is a very private and emotionally driven instruction, often driven by motives at the time of construct. I cannot speculate as to why they were not included, but I do know it is not uncommon, that is why the contesting of a will is an industry all on its own.’ It sounds like a speech he has delivered a hundred times before, to calm those left infuriated by the actions of the deceased with no questions ever answered.

  ‘You should be relieved that the majority of your father’s estate is attributed to you and you should re-read the letter to understand the claim of the Children’s home and Mr Knight in the division of assets.’

  I look down at the document but only to break eye contact from his formality. ‘Mr Pritcher, I was hoping this would give me an introduction to the twins, but now I am back to square one.’ I hear my voice, pleading with a hint of desperation.

  Pritcher pulls over a chair and sits down, inviting me to do the same as I sink below his eye level. ‘Phil, you should know that if there are indeed biological children of your late father still alive today, and they learn of your father’s passing, they will have a genuine claim to contest the will for a fair share, meaning a potential legal case.’

  I stand, frustrated by his rhetoric, so formal and robotic quoting legislation. I stuff the letter in my jacket pocket and stamp down the stairs, exiting back onto the street, slamming the door behind me.

  I walk back along the high street, calming myself with a couple of deep breaths, gradually appreciating Pritcher for only doing his job of informing me, in black and white terms. Right now, my priority is not financial, but finding the twins and putting right what my dad could not.

  I sit in my car, allowing my heartbeat to slow once again and pull out the document headlined ‘Last Will and Testimony of Mr John Jenkins, 6 Hatch End, Baysworth.’ I read that it was my dad’s wishes for a financial gift of £10,000 to be made to Camwell Lodge, to be financed whichever way I see fit. Mr Knight is awarded possession of the lawnmower (or to keep possession, assuming he still has not returned it), and any left-over wine from the cellar of Mr Jenkins. I give a wry smile, relieved that at least my dad had a sense of humour when writing such a morbid document.

  My image is disturbed by the beeps of my phone, and I open the text message from Caroline, ‘can we talk?’ With the phone in my hand, I scroll through my contacts and press the call sign next to Vicky’s name.

  ‘Hey, I know we only met up last night and have dinner plans tomorrow but are you free for lunch today? I am in town.’

  ‘Hi Phil, sure that would be nice, you sound like you need it, see you in half an hour.’

  I walk into the one authentic Italian restaurant in town and see Vicky already sitting at a table by the window with her big welcoming smile. Her hair is tucked behind her ears allowing her face to shine in the shimmering sunlight through the window. Her lilac dress fits naturally exposing her soft, ivory shoulders and lips carefully tinted red giving a smart appearance without any hardness.

  ‘Well this beats my Boots meal deal, what brings you to town?’ she asks.

  I throw my jacket over my chair and take a seat, picking up the menu almost as a comfort blanket for my hands. ‘I was going to suggest a lunch without boring you about my family drama.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ she replies, ‘It is the only reason I agreed to meet. No really, it is important, and far more so than the tax returns I have just been calculating, so what’s new?’

  I pour myself water and lean in to avoid the prying attention of the next table. ‘I went to the solicitor this morning to collect the will, but there was no mention of Robert and Rachel, meaning I still don’t know their full names or have any contact details and I’ve run out of ideas on how to find them.’

  Vicky sits back in her chair, with a sympathetic smile reflecting my disappointment. ‘Did he not have some ideas for you? Surely solicitors often have to track people down.’

  ‘I guess so, but then they usually have a little more to go on than a first name, in fact, he rightly dismissed all my ideas of contacting the births, deaths, and marriages department
s as I don’t have a birth date. He also advised against spending hours researching the archived court cases as it could have been conducted anywhere, at any time, and may not have even reached court. Needle in a haystack was his view, maybe he is right.’

  My self-indulgence is disturbed by the waiter asking for our orders, and I see Vicky instantly perking up, affording him the same smile that she greeted me with. ‘What is good here?’ she asks.

  The waiter takes his eyes off his notepad, and his face lights up, stepping onto his stage. With his rhythmic Italian accent, he preaches: ‘You must have the mushroom risotto, it is made from the juiciest, tastiest mushroom, I know because my brother tells me they are the best and he is a good source of information, he knows the farmers, he knows where they are picked from, he knows where they are stored, he knows everything about them.’

  ‘That’s it!’ I yell excitedly, much to the confusion of the waiter, ‘I need to go back to the source of my information about the twins, to go back to Donald.’

  The mushroom risotto is good and we make a point of appreciating their juiciness, offering our gratitude to the waiter. Vicky thanks me for the impromptu lunch with a kiss on my cheek. ‘Hey, good luck with Donald, let me know won’t you.’ I skip back to the car eager to reach my own source of information.

  As I pull into the driveway, I see Dorothy helping Donald out of the car. He does not stand as tall as he once did, so much time in a hospital bed at his age does this I suppose. I grab his small suitcase from the driveway and hover at his front door before Dorothy reappears looking flustered.

  ‘Hi again, how is he doing?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, he is OK, a little grumpy and the traffic was terrible. I’m going to be late picking up my daughter from school.’

  I place his case inside the door. ‘You go, and I will settle Donald in, no problem.’

  Dorothy and Donald say their goodbyes with a promise of a call tonight and a visit tomorrow.