Mme Rosa reappeared with a tray. There was another photo album on it and a plate of what looked like home-made chocolate cookies.
“Would you like a biscuit?”
Paul took one and nibbled it. It was stale.
“I found it!”
She held up the second photo album and waved it in his face. She was overjoyed, as if she’d just found a winning lottery ticket she thought she’d put in the wash.
She sat down and opened it.
“That’s my Michel.”
Michel was a bulky bloke with a quiff and a big chest and thick arms. In the first picture he was washing a car, an old Citroen, Paul thought. He had a hose in his hand and by the smile on his face it wasn’t hard to imagine he was thinking of turning it on the person who was taking the picture.
“And here he is again…”
The next photo showed Michel building a wall on the villa’s grounds. The house was in the background, and Paul thought he could make out a figure, standing next to the front door. It was a man, in shadow, but something about his posture suggested authority, as if he were defending something behind him … Greville perhaps…
“This is a nice one.”
Now Michel was standing proudly in front of a different car, a gleaming Mercedes four-door. He was wearing a suit, and his hair was gelled into a neat wave with a deep parting above his right ear. He was smiling, pleased with himself.
The series went on and Paul was getting antsy.
“Where did you say your sister lived?”
“I didn’t, did I?” She looked a little worried.
“You didn’t need to. She lives in Amsterdam, doesn’t she? And the building in the picture looked like the Westerkerk… Are they still there?”
She stared at him and her mouth fell open.
“You know, don’t you.”
It wasn’t a question.
Paul said nothing.
“It was such a long time ago.”
He stared at her.
“It solved everyone’s problems.”
Paul wondered exactly who she was talking about.
“There was no harm done.”
You don’t know the half of it, he thought.
“She couldn’t have coped, she said. Not that it was her decision, by rights. But that was the deal. Don’t ask me what threats had been made. And Greville didn’t have to know. He’d never been here, all that time. Just waiting at home for his baby. But it was hard in the end. She cried so much when they took her away. They both did, actually. Everyone did. It was Rebecca herself who chose. She might just as well have tossed a coin.”
Paul tried to muddle through the pronouns but it didn’t really matter.
“Where is she?”
“I think you’d better go.”
She stood up and grabbed the albums and hugged them to her chest.
“I gave my word », she said.
“How’s your heart?”
Paul patted his own heart, mocking her.
“Not so good now”, she said. “You shouldn’t have come.”
“Should doesn’t come into it. I had to come.”
“I want you to go, now.”
“I hope the Mercedes was worth it.”
He stood up and went to the door and opened it and walked out. He heard the door slam behind him as he walked down the path and smelt a faint trace of vanilla.
Chapter 39
Monday April 29th 2013
The Mairie was part of a single public building that housed an elementary school, the post office and a small public library. It was just off the village square, where children were playing around a fountain. The village café was busy. The locals were inside at the bar and tourists and visitors were sitting at plastic tables outside, eating salades nicoises and what looked like sea bream and asparagus. Paul realised he hadn’t eaten for hours, apart from the cellophane-packaged breakfast on the plane, and his stomach rumbled.
He walked along the street that lead off the square and climbed three steps in front of the handsome stone-built municipal centre, pushed through a swing-door to his right and stepped into a small office barely big enough for a desk and a chair and saw an attractive woman of Algerian or Moroccan origin sitting at a computer with a phone in her hand. She looked up at him and held up a finger.
He waited as she talked into the phone and he looked around at the calendars and notices and pictures tacked onto the wall. There were photos of the local fire-crew, school outings and Armistice Day memorials. There were warnings about fire hazards and reminders that villagers should keep their dogs on leashes at all times, pictures of sporting events and 14th of July parties. He wondered at the capacity of photographs to capture treasured moments and freeze them in time and serve as reminders and physical, palpable souvenirs of shared experiences. No doubt these same photographs were in the houses of each of the participants of the events portrayed, perhaps on show on a mantelpiece or a wall or a fridge door. Perhaps lost and forgotten in a drawer, an attic or a crumpled cardboard-box in a garage. They could serve too, he thought, as proof that something had happened at a particular moment, and place people in circumstances they may prefer not to see recorded and fixed for posterity. He thought of a dark-haired teenager and the Westerkerk in Amsterdam. Of a man in front of a brand new car. He felt a sense of urgency again and then he noticed a photo of a group of men celebrating a victory at a boules tournament. Greville Hartley was standing to one side, with a glass of wine in his hand. Around his shoulders was the arm of Michel Vidal, in a shiny light-blue Olympic Marseille track suit. There was a date, written by hand on the photo: June 2nd 1982. His stomach churned again.
“Hello”, the woman said as she put down the phone. She looked at his bandage but said nothing.
“Hello.”
“I was wondering if I could consult your records.”
She stood up and brushed her hair aside and straightened her skirt.
“What kind of records?”
“The births registry.”
“Well, erm, yes, possibly… what period are you interested in?”
“1982.”
“Right. Do you have an authorisation from the state procurer?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Are you an accredited state official? A civil servant?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Then I’m afraid you’ll have to wait…”
She seemed amused.
“Wait? For what? For how long?”
“Only for another 69 years.”
“69 years?”
“Yes, until 2082. The births registry isn’t available to the public until a hundred years afterwards.”
“Oh.”
“Sorry.”
Paul looked at the woman. She seemed genuinely disappointed for him.
“So there’s no chance…?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t suppose you’d be open to a bribe? Dinner and a show? A bunch of flowers?”
She laughed.
“No… and violence wouldn’t do it either. It’s been tried.”
“Really?”
“Yes. A couple of years ago a woman came in and demanded, not asked, demanded… to see the records for… 1982, come to think of it, the same as you… and she got very stroppy. Very aggressive. I had to call the local gendarme…”
She brushed her hair aside again.
“What happened?”
“Well, she scarpered… but we had a break-in a couple of days later…”
“A break-in?”
“Yes, a broken window, file cabinets forced open…”
“Was anything stolen?”
“No. But I’m sure it was the same woman. Not a pleasant person.”
Paul pulled out a photograph.
“Was this her?”
The woman looked at the photo and gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth.
“Good God, yes… how did you know?”
She looked worried for a mo
ment and took half a step back from the counter.
“You’re not a friend of hers, are you?”
“Not really, no. I’m not in cahoots with her, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
He showed her the photo again.
“And you’re sure this is the woman?”
“It’s a very good likeness. I’m positive.”
He put the photo back in his pocket.
“So, no dinner, then…”
She smiled as she sat down at her desk.
“I could ask my husband. You never know…”
“Well, thanks anyway.”
“See you in 69 years.”
“You’ve got a date.”
He left the Mairie and turned back to the square and sat on the edge of a wall that surrounded a tall, twisted lime tree. He felt even more confused than he had before. He thought he might have found something out but he wasn’t sure what. His head felt like a split coconut. He was sweating. He realised there were questions he should have asked. A long time ago, for sure. And more recently too. He jumped up and ran back to the Mairie.
The woman was still at her computer. She looked up and flicked at her hair.
“That was quick… I hardly saw the time go by…”
“What’s the situation with marriages?”
“The same. 100 years, unless you’re immediate family.”
“Damn.”
“What’s the rush? What is it you’re looking for?”
“It’s complicated, but maybe you can help me, it’s not a big deal and I can probably find out somewhere else…”
“Ask away.”
“Mrs Vidal, the midwife… do you happen to know her maiden name?”
She gazed at him for a moment and then shrugged.
“Rosa van Vliet. She still uses that name now and again, it’s no secret.”
“Ok, thanks. See you soon…”
Two minutes later he was on his way back to Nice. He took out his phone and punched in the numbers.
“Dave? It’s Paul.”
“How are you doing? Did you see her on TV?”
“I need a favour.”
“Really. What would that be?”
“I need you to check the births in a village called St Laurent du Loup, in the Alpes Maritimes department in France on May 15th 1982.”
“Come again?”
“It’s the place Sarah was born, and her birth date.”
“Why don’t you do it?”
“Because the records aren’t available to the public.”
“So why should I do it?”
“Because it’s important.”
“Important? Sarah’s been found, Paul. It’s over.”
“All right, I’ll have to play my trump card… I promise I won’t tell your Dad you let his tyres down that time.”
There was a long silence.
“You need professional help.”
“I know, that’s why I’m calling you.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I was aware of that.”
There was another long silence.
“I suppose you need this information immediately.”
“Close of play would be good.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
The line went dead.
Chapter 40
Monday April 29th 2013
The woman at the counter at Nice airport almost laughed when he asked about flights to Amsterdam.
“No way”, she said. “There are no seats available with any companies. There’s a massive event on there tomorrow. Coronation Day or something.”
“How about Brussels?”
“Brussels I can do.”
As he waited for his flight he sat in the departure lounge and charged up his phone and went on line.
A few of the news sites had pictures of Mr and Mrs Morgan standing outside the Questura in Venice, looking sheepish but relieved and happy. Sarah was wearing a green trouser suit with white trimming and a white blouse. She was wearing sunglasses. The reports talked of the concerted international police investigation and how one single, selfish high society woman had wasted huge amounts of public money and valuable law enforcement time by not coming forward to reveal the fact that she was safe and sound while hundreds of man-hours were squandered on a pointless search operation. A brief statement she had made to the police was released, where she admitted the error of her ways and apologised profusely and offered to make a substantial donation to compensate for any trouble she had caused.
Other features showed more photos, this time at the Cipriani. Morgan was wearing a navy-blue blazer and white slacks and his wife had on a short black dress, with a thick rope of pearls around her neck. She was still wearing sunglasses.
The happy couple were thrilled and delighted to be reunited and thanked everyone for their concern. They were looking forward to a fresh start, and a few weeks in Malaysia would be a first-rate means of relaxing and putting this unfortunate episode behind them.
Paul’s phone rang. It was Dave Middleton.
“There were two births recorded in St Laurent for May 15th 1982.”
“Ok.”
“Both registered by one Rosa Vidal…”
“She’s the local midwife. I’ve met her.”
“The first was Sarah Elisabeth Hartley, with the parents’ names given as Greville Herbert Hartley and Rebecca Jane Hartley, née Beaumont.”
“Right.”
“And the second one was registered under ‘X’.”
Paul flashed onto an image of Rebecca…
“What does that mean?”
“It’s a thing the French do… like when the parents want to remain anonymous, or the father’s unknown, or when the baby’s being put up for adoption.”
“And there are no other names mentioned?”
“No.”
“Fuck.”
“Where are you? What are you doing?”
“I’m still in France, I’m going back to Amsterdam. I’m going to find Sarah.”
“Sarah’s on her way to Kuala Lumpur by now.”
“I don’t think so.”
“What are you on about?”
“The woman on the plane with Neil Morgan isn’t Sarah Hartley. Not the real Sarah Hartley. Not my Sarah.”
“So who is she?”
“Her twin sister.”
“Her twin sister… right… have you been dropping acid again?”
“She’s identical, or as near as dammit. She has Sarah’s passport and clothes, probably her credit cards and other personal stuff, but she’s not Sarah. I don’t know what a DNA test would prove, but she might even pass that. But she’s not Sarah. I know it. You’ll probably find she speaks perfect Dutch. And she’s handy with a baseball bat. And you’ll definitely find she doesn’t have green eyes. When she takes her sunglasses off.”
“And Sarah has green eyes.”
“Yes. And if the woman on the plane isn’t Sarah then it’s about 99% certain that Sarah’s dead. Long live the King. And I’m wasting time talking to you. I’m going to work that 1%. Thanks. Wish me luck.”
Chapter 41
Monday April 29th 2013
In the United States, between 1980 and 2009, the twin birth rate increased by 76%, from 18.9 to 33.3 per 1,000 births. The Yoruba have the highest rate of twinning in the world, with 45-50 sets of twins for every 1,000 live births. It is thought this may be due to the high consumption of a specific type of yam containing a natural phyoestrogen.
The flight to Brussels was announced and Paul clicked off from Wikipedia and walked towards the gate.
The plane was on time and two and a half hours later he was on a train taking him from the airport to Bruxelles-Midi station.
He’d eaten a surprisingly good meal on the plane and had even convinced a hostess to give him a second tray.
It was 7 o’clock by the time he reached central Brussels. He was told the next train to Amsterdam was at 19.52. There would b
e no direct trains the next day. There would be no transport at all to or within the city. The only problem was that the train was full, as were all the other trains to the Dutch capital that evening.
Paul hung around the end of the platform until the train was about to leave. He showed the ticket collector at the gate a ticket for the train at the adjacent platform. A buzzer sounded and he crossed the platform and climbed aboard the Thalys just before the doors shut. He would be controlled and he would have to pay a fine but he didn’t care. He was on his way to Amsterdam.
He found a seat in the bar and ordered a drink and went on-line again. He googled the name Marieke van Vliet and came up with a dozen LinkedIn connections and tens of Facebook pages. None of them led him anywhere. Mme Rosa’s sister had probably been married and changed her name but he didn’t know what her new name was. But he thought that her daughter, Kristel, bore a strong resemblance to Sarah. More than strong. Even beneath heavy, dark eye make-up and dark lipstick and with a metal arrow through her nose, he had seen Sarah’s face. At the age of 16. He pulled out a photo that he’d found in one of the letters Linda had given him. Sarah had sent it from Switzerland. She was sitting in what looked like a bus or a train, and was looking at the camera with a serious expression on her face. Her hair was tied back, perhaps in a pony tail. She would have been 16 or 17 at the time. He took a pen and drew dark hair on the photo, trying to recall exactly how Mme Rosa’s niece had looked. He added a few spikes and shaded in some eye-shadow and lipstick. He drew the arrow piercing he had seen. The result was quite convincing. Scarily convincing. To him at least. But he had no idea what he was going to do with the picture. He didn’t know where to start.
Or perhaps he knew where to start, but not what he would do when he got there.
The Westerkerk is on the banks of the Prinsengracht, next to the Jordaan district. The church spire is called the Westertoren, and is the highest church tower in Amsterdam, at 85 metres tall. Rembrandt was buried there, although no-one knows exactly where. Perhaps along the north wall. Paul remembered doing a guided tour from a canal boat with a fuzzy microphone, in English and French and poor German: “And on your left… et sur votre gauche…”. But the Westerkerk had not merited a great deal of attention, if only because it wasn’t far from the Achterhuis, now better known as the Anne Frank House, and there simply hadn’t been enough time to say very much, as everyone craned their necks over the side of the boat, looking up towards the rooftops above the modern museum building, where they imagined the attic had been, and then back down to the queues. Over a million visitors a year paid 9 euros (half price for children) for the privilege of seeing a reconstructed bookcase concealing a hiding-place beneath the rafters. Their attention had dwindled as the boat drifted past the Westerkerk, although they were generally pleased to learn that Anne Frank had often mentioned it in her diary, as the clock tower could be seen from the attic, and she described the chiming of the clock as a source of comfort. The church had been blessed by a click or two from a digital camera or a mobile phone.
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