The Other Child

by Charlotte Link

Perhaps … but what that perhaps might have looked like, she would never know.

  Neither of them had noticed that the fire had died down, but it had become unpleasantly cool in the room, rousing them from the private thoughts each had pursued.

  ‘It’ll be half past five soon,’ said Dave. ‘It won’t be light much longer. And I’ve got quite a long walk back to the bus stop …’

  ‘You can stay here for the night if you’d like.’

  ‘I think I’d better be getting back to Scarborough,’ he replied, standing up. ‘I don’t even know when the last bus goes. If there is still one.’

  ‘And if there isn’t, are you going to walk?’

  ‘No idea,’ he said. She knew: he just wanted to get away. He does not care what comes next. If he has to hitch a lift, so be it. As long as he gets away from me.

  She got up and thought: it can’t end like this! With him just getting up and going. And never coming back.

  ‘I … please, don’t go yet. I can’t bear to be alone yet.’

  His reluctance was easy to see, as were his feelings of guilt. ‘You’re not alone. Jennifer and Colin are here. Your father—’

  ‘My father!’ She made a dismissive gesture. Lord, he knew her father! ‘And I don’t want to talk about all of this with Jennifer right now. Later. But not now.’

  ‘All right,’ said Dave. ‘OK.’

  He looked out the window. He remembered his Spanish course, but it was too late in any case. And he doubted that he had the energy for it today.

  ‘I’ll drive you in later,’ said Gwen. ‘But please stay for a little while.’

  It was terrible to think that he would give in to her plea out of pity, but at the moment she did not have the energy to be proud and do without his sympathy.

  The alternative was a deeply painful loneliness. However much she had to humiliate herself, it still seemed like the lesser of the two evils.

  12

  ‘Yes,’ said Semira. ‘And of course it caused an almighty scandal which the press pounced on. I had found a man who was almost forty, was mentally disabled and kept in a shed, a man who had almost died from the abuse dished out to him, and had just scraped through alive – and no one knew who he was. The police had assumed at first that he was McBright’s son, and that his existence had been kept a secret because of his disability. Gordon McBright would not say anything at all, and Mrs McBright needed weeks of psychological support before she could be questioned. She explained that she had never had children. One day shortly after the war her husband had come home with a boy of about fourteen and said he had arranged a farmhand. They had called the boy Nobody. That was the name her husband had introduced him by.’

  Leslie remembered how this name had appeared over and over in her grandmother’s letters. She and Chad had baptised the boy Nobody in their childhood cruelty. But it was hard to imagine that Chad Beckett had also handed Brian over to his torturer with that name. Here’s our Nobody. You can have him.

  And yet that is how it must have been.

  ‘Gradually the whole situation became dearer,’ continued Semira. ‘Nobody’s trail could be followed back to the Beckett farm. I still don’t know today how Chad Beckett managed it, but in the eyes of the public the responsibility for the whole tragedy remained largely with his dead father. I don’t think Beckett would have talked much to the police or the media, he’s not exactly Mr Eloquent, but from the little he did say the story could be filled in. Arvid and Emma Beckett had decided to take the boy in without telling any of the authorities. And they didn’t try to find any special needs help -admittedly, there wasn’t much help available back in the forties. The final report stated that Beckett had returned traumatised from the war, and had not been able to deal with Brian, who was now older and more difficult. He apparently had thought nothing of the fact that his father was sending the boy to a farm where no other children lived. None of that is of importance now, but then, in 1970, someone like Chad Beckett who had taken part in the Normandy landings was highly respected. Much time had passed, but people still credited their courage against Hitler. By some completely twisted logic, the fact that he had voluntarily enlisted to go and fight while still practically a child in some way absolved him of possible later mistakes. The press did not really dare to attack him, so everyone ranted about the father for a while, and then nothing more was heard about it.’

  ‘And my grandmother?’ asked Leslie. ‘She pretty much got away scot-free too, didn’t she?’

  ‘They did establish, of course, that Brian Somerville had left London by her hand, as it were. But she was eleven at the time! Not even sixteen when the war ended – and by then she’d been back in London for ages. Who would seriously have criticised her?’

  ‘How is it then that you obviously saw things differently, right from the start?’ asked Leslie. ‘You certainly hold Chad Beckett and Fiona Barnes responsible!’

  Semira’s hand flitted around the table. She was a very nervous woman, Leslie realised. It just took a while to notice. She had been tortured for decades by a body which caused her pain and continual problems. She had obviously learnt self-control, but when she was too exhausted it started to crumble. It was clear that Semira Newton was exhausted now. From sitting on the wooden chair for so long, from reconstructing her trauma in such detail. Her fingers trembled.

  ‘Look, my life’s been marked by this thing,’ she said to Leslie. ‘It changed me. When Gordon McBright almost killed me in his copse, on top of everything else I suffered shock. At least, that’s what the psychologists have told me. Years later I spent a good bit of time in a clinic. Because of my continuing depression. That’s where I learnt pottery, by the way. Creativity as therapy. I don’t think it did anything for my psyche. But I can earn a little bit extra to add to my pension. That’s not to be scoffed at. Afterwards I was never able to work again, and I divorced in 1977. As the victim of a crime I’ve been given some compensation. Not a lot, but I don’t need a lot. But now and then the few extra pounds from these crooked bowls and cups comes in handy.’

  ‘Did your divorce—’

  ‘—have anything to do with the Somerville affair? Yes, it did. John had married a cheerful, energetic, self-confident woman. Someone in the thick of things. Now the woman beside him was a broken being, a woman who could not stop talking about her experience on 19th December 1970, who was always brooding about where evil came from and what to do about it. A woman who wanted to take care of Brian Somerville and could not get over the fact that nothing had been done to the culprits, that they could go on living as if nothing had happened. A woman who needed a number of operations, was in constant pain and often a little confused in the head because of all the medicines she was taking. I was not the same Semira he had fallen in love with. Today I don’t hold it against him that another woman took my place in his heart and life. He fled from me. We’ve not been in contact since.’

  That was understandable, Leslie thought. And yet horrific.

  ‘In any case, as I said, my life’s been marked by this drama. Unlike the doctors and psychologists I’ve seen, I don’t think the trauma was set off by the attack on me – but by the view of Brian chained up in the shed. I could never forget the story of the helpless boy (and later man). I couldn’t deal with it. I couldn’t close the chapter. So I went looking for the people who were connected to it: Fiona Barnes and Chad Beckett. Again and again. I wanted answers. I wanted to understand it – and be free of it. And for that I had to understand how it could have happened. And in talking to them I came to be completely convinced that the two of them were not at all innocent. Rather, they knew what they had done. They were responsible for what had happened to Brian Somerville. And indirectly for my destroyed life.’

  ‘Chad Beckett spoke to you personally?’

  ‘Rarely. And not much. A fish would talk more than him. But sometimes Fiona agreed to meet me. She told me quite a bit. I think she too was looking for a way to deal with it all. But then she found me a nuis
ance and at some point did not want to have anything more to do with me. Since 1979 she has hung up without a word whenever I have called her. We never saw each other again. But I already knew enough. And unlike the media and the police, I did judge Barnes and Beckett – from the depths of my heart. What they did cannot be forgiven.’

  Ideas rattled round Leslie’s head.

  Semira had a motive. Of all the people Valerie Almond had as suspects, including Dave Tanner, Semira had the motive that was clearest and easiest to grasp: revenge. For two lives destroyed, Brian Somerviile’s and her own.

  Leslie looked at the small dark-skinned woman with her smooth black hair flecked with grey, and with her big brown eyes, which revealed a little of how pretty she must have once been. She did not look like someone who would let herself be eaten up inside by hate and a need for satisfaction. But was that something you could always recognise in someone? Was it not often surprising how harmless and even inconspicuous dangerous criminals and unpredictable psychopaths could appear in photos?

  There was one burning question Leslie had to ask. She leant forward. ‘Semira, excuse me for asking, but I need to know something … Did you ever call my grandmother? Although she refused to have any contact with you? Did you call and just … not say anything?’

  ‘You mean, have I ever harassed her with anonymous calls?’ asked Semira. ‘Yes, I have. But only in the last week or two. The last time I did was on Tuesday, before I read in the paper that she was dead. Sometimes I felt I was going to explode. The calls allowed me to let off steam. Sometimes when I’d seen Brian Somerville and his wretched life again, or my body was torturing me, or depression had me in its grip again, then I’d think, why should she have it good? Why should she be able to carry on cheerfully without a thought for what she’s done? And yes, frankly, it did help to hear her voice asking again and again who was on the other end of the phone. With each question she sounded a little more frantic and shrill. Afterwards I felt a little better, and I’d think: Now I’ve got you worried, wondering whether the old affair you’d so like to forget has come back to haunt you. After that my day would brighten up.’

  ‘I see,’ said Leslie, and she really did understand. Semira Newton’s life was full of troubles and hardship. A poor, lonely life. Robin Hood’s Bay was an enchanting place, but it was very quiet in the autumn and winter, and she knew that in November and December the fog could sit like lead on the coastline for days, swallowing up all voices and sounds into its dull colourlessness. Then Semira was alone in this crooked old house, making pottery which no one was going to buy until the spring … Or she would be on the bus to Whitby, off to visit a man who was extremely mentally disabled, and who was still waiting for the person who had promised to come over sixty years ago yet would never come. What was her mood like when she returned from these trips to her dark little room?

  Leslie shivered to think of it.

  She got up. Her limbs were stiff after sitting on the uncomfortable stool for so long.

  ‘I have to go,’ she said and held out her hand. ‘Thank you for having given me so much time, Semira. And for having been so open.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not like I have a whirl of a social life,’ replied Semira, smiling. The hand that shook Leslie’s was as cold as ice. ‘Nice to have someone come by. And to be able to talk.’

  ‘I can’t undo what my grandmother did,’ said Leslie. ‘But … I am sorry. I’m deeply sorry about everything that happened.’

  ‘Can’t be helped now.’ Semira got up with difficulty. ‘Nothing you can do about it! I just wonder why all the fuss now. Why suddenly there’s so much interest in the old story.’

  Leslie, who was about to turn to go, paused.

  ‘What do you mean, so much interest?’

  ‘Well, it’s strange. No one wanted to know anything for decades and now two people appear in two days, wanting to know everything.’

  Leslie held her breath in surprise. ‘Who else?’

  ‘A man … what was his name? He came here late yesterday afternoon. Mr Tanner, I think, something like that.’

  ‘Dave Tanner!’

  ‘That’s it. Dave Tanner. A journalist. He already knew a lot. He’d looked through all the old archives, he said. But he hoped to hear some new facts from me. I talked to him for a long time. Of course, it’s good for me if the media latch onto the story.’

  ‘What paper was he working for?’

  Semira thought about it. ‘I’m not quite sure,’ she admitted. I mean, he did tell me, but I was not really listening. Is it important?’

  ‘And I suppose you didn’t ask to see his press ID?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Dave Tanner isn’t a journalist. You mustn’t be so trusting, Semira. People aren’t always who they say they are. Don’t let everyone in. And don’t tell people everything you know.’

  Semira looked at her in consternation. ‘But then who is Dave Tanner?’

  Leslie dismissed the question. ‘Doesn’t matter. What’s important is knowing why he came here. But I’ll find that out.’

  ‘But you … you told me the truth, didn’t you? You are Fiona Barnes’s granddaughter, aren’t you?’

  ‘Unfortunately I am,’ said Leslie, and stepped out into the dark steep street.

  She could hear the sea roaring very near to her.

  The tide had reached its height.

  13

  She sat in the car trying to sort the thoughts racing wildly through her head. What game was Dave Tanner playing? She had asked him this morning if the name Semira Newton meant anything to him. With an ingenuous look he had completely denied that it had.

  No. Who’s she?

  It was now just twelve hours since he had sat with her in Robin Hood’s Bay, asking her all kinds of questions. And he had apparently already known a good many details, which probably meant that he had also read Fiona’s letters to Chad. Had he got hold of them secretly? Had Gwen given them to him?

  Gwen! Leslie smacked the steering wheel with her palm. Typical Gwen. To poke around in her father’s emails, find an explosive story which was obviously not meant to be shared in public, and then to show it to practically everyone she knew.

  She was so immature. Not at all grown up.

  Don’t be unfair, Leslie, she told herself. Gwen couldn’t cope with what she read. She had to speak to someone about it.

  With Dave?

  He was after all the man she was going to marry. At least, that was what she had assumed at that time. Could you hold it against her that she had shared something with him which had thrown her into turmoil, played on her mind? The image she had of her father must have been damaged immeasurably.

  She had also shown the printouts to Jennifer. Then Colin had been given them. And Colin had shown them to her, Leslie. It had not taken long for the distribution network to kick in.

  She was driving without another car in sight on the main road between Scarborough and Whitby. It was dark and the road was lined with silent woods. The beams of her headlights took in the sides of the road. At one point the eyes of an animal shone in them. She thought it was a fox. She realised how fast she was going and decelerated. No one should die, just because she was so nervous.

  When she saw a wide dirt track heading into the woods to the left, she quickly decided to turn onto it and stop. She needed a moment’s calm, to think.

  She leant back in her seat and breathed deeply. Dave had read the notes, or Gwen had told him what was in them, and then he had wanted to take a closer look for himself and had visited Semira Newton. Just like her. He had lied about who he was. That too was understandable, as he had no way of knowing whether Semira would talk to him if he did not seem to be someone important. It was not a bad idea to present himself as a journalist to a woman who – he could imagine – found it hard to bear the lack of attention people had paid to Brian Somerville’s tragedy.

  And why did he lie to me?

  Because I’m Fiona’s granddaughter. Because he could not gues
s what I do and don’t know. Because he didn’t want to be the person to tell me things about my grandmother’s character which would shock me.

  She closed her eyes. She saw Semira Newton’s face behind her eyelids. It was slightly bloated, revealing that she had taken far too many medicines for far too long. Her body must have been a wreck when she was found. No doubt some days she feels pain in every bone and muscle of her body. And every movement is torture. She thought of Gordon McBright, the man who had left his half-dead victim in the wood like any old rubbish, the man who had died in preventive detention.

  Fiona and Chad had handed Brian Somerville over to a man who not even the most well-meaning of psychiatrists had later allowed to live in freedom again. She opened her eyes. The images were too horrific to bear.

  Two people had a clear motive to kill Fiona Barnes and throw her body into a wooded gorge: Brian Somerville and Semira Newton. One of them must be between seventy and eighty years old, mentally disabled and living in a care home in Whitby. The other one was in her mid-sixties, and could only move with difficulty and the aid of a Zimmer frame.

  ‘Neither one could have done it,’ said Leslie out loud in the darkness. But they could have paid someone to do it – at least Semira Newton could have.

  Dave Tanner?

  But Dave Tanner had only visited Semira the day before. Many days after Fiona had been murdered.

  Apart from that: would Dave Tanner kill for money?

  Not the Dave she knew, if she was honest. She liked him. But she did not know him. For a moment she realised in astonishment that it did not follow that he did not know her.

  One thing was clear. It was no longer all right to keep what she knew about what had happened to herself. She had to let Detective Inspector Almond know, as quickly as possible.

  Otherwise I’ll be guilty, she thought. Again she had the thought that had come to her once before: Chad Beckett could be in great danger.

  She turned on the inside light and rummaged around in her handbag. She found DI Almond’s card in a side pocket.