Person or Persons Unknown

by Anthea Fraser

  ‘Yes. Naturally, we’d heard about the case at the time, that poor girl found dead in the bath and the baby crying in the next room.’ Her eyes filled again. ‘It made us want her all the more, so we could make up for what had happened. We changed her name too, partly to give her a fresh start, and partly because it made her more ours.’

  ‘Did you ever meet her grandparents?’

  It was Dennis Fairchild who answered. ‘No; initially, we were afraid they might want the child, but we learned from the newspapers that Gemma’s father had died when she was sixteen, and her mother later moved to South Africa.’ This would be in the photocopies, Rona reflected; she’d only had time to flick through them.

  ‘She flew back for the funeral,’ Fairchild added, ‘but that was it.’ He met Rona’s eyes. ‘Forgive me, but I don’t see what you can possibly hope to achieve. Even if Zara’s father didn’t know of the pregnancy, it could never have been serious. Not if he was prepared to up stakes and emigrate, leaving his girlfriend behind. Furthermore,’ he went on before Rona could speak, ‘you haven’t even got a name for him, have you? How can you even start looking, without that?’

  ‘It’s a challenge, I grant you, but I can’t believe absolutely no one knew his identity. So my first step is to advertise – on the Web and in local papers – for anyone who knew Gemma. She worked in radio, apparently, so plenty of people must have done.’

  ‘But she wouldn’t have been anyone important!’ Dennis protested. ‘Not at twenty years old! She was probably the gofer or tea girl, and put “radio reporter” on the birth certificate because she thought it would look better.’

  ‘Well,’ Rona said stubbornly, ‘it’s my best lead, so that’s what I’ll start with. I particularly want to trace her flatmate, which will mean a trawl through the electoral registers. She must have known more than she admitted.’

  There was a brief silence. Then Margot said in a low voice, ‘Zara’s also got a bee in her bonnet about her mother’s murder. Did she tell you?’

  ‘Yes, but that’s hardly my remit. If the police couldn’t solve it at the time, how can I, twenty-five years later? He’s probably dead himself by now.’

  I sincerely hope so, Dinah had said. Again the unsettling frisson.

  Dennis Fairchild pursed his lips. ‘I can’t help feeling it would be better to let sleeping dogs lie,’ he said. ‘Still, once Zara’s set her mind on something, it would take more than us to dissuade her. That’s something we learned very early on.’

  ‘There’s nothing else you can remember that might help in the search?’

  They both shook their heads.

  ‘And you never heard any more of the grandmother?’

  ‘No reason why we should. We certainly didn’t try to contact her; we were just relieved she wasn’t making a claim.’

  Rona reflected on the conversation as she ate a solitary pub lunch on the outskirts of Cricklehurst. Gemma’s birth certificate had named her parents as Joyce and Harold Grant. She’d now learned that Harold had died some thirty years ago – had his widow remarried? It would be worth checking for a marriage certificate in the name of Joyce Grant, though if she was still in South Africa, it might not be recorded here.

  Back home at the computer, she discovered to her frustration that Stokely Town Hall held only the current electoral registers. Out-of-date ones could be viewed at the Family History and Archive Centre in Buckford, and a phone number was given to enable would-be searchers to book a reading machine.

  Damn! Rona thought. She’d hoped to follow her search at Stokely with visits to both the local paper and radio station. Now, a return journey to Buckford would also be necessary. Still, the registers were her first priority, so there was nothing for it but to phone through and book a machine for eleven a.m. on Monday.

  ‘How’s the project going?’ Max asked later that evening, as they were sitting over dinner.

  ‘Early days,’ Rona replied. ‘As I expected, the adoptive parents weren’t much help. What I need now is publicity, so I’m going to contact Tess Chadwick at the Stokely Gazette and arrange to see her on Tuesday. I’m sure she’ll give me a plug. With luck, she might even be able to put me on to someone at County Radio.’

  ‘With what end in view?’

  ‘Tracking down people who knew Gemma, of course. Stokely is where she lived and worked – and died, for that matter.’

  ‘But surely it’s the father you’re after?’

  ‘I’ve already put a message on a contact site. The trouble is, as I told Zara, if he doesn’t know she exists, he won’t be looking for her. What I need is a name, which is why I’m concentrating on her friends here. I can’t believe a pregnant twenty-year-old, with no parents to hand, wouldn’t confide in someone. And the most likely someone is her flatmate, which is why I have to trail up to Buckford yet again, to check the electoral register.’

  Max topped up their glasses. ‘You’ve not forgotten there’s a murderer lurking in the background?’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘Suppose all this attracts his attention?’

  ‘I doubt if it’d worry him; he must think he’s safe after all this time.’

  ‘But God, Rona, the girl probably knew him! He might be one of these friends you’re happily looking for! There’s no evidence she was killed by a burglar, is there? Nothing was stolen?’

  ‘No, but if he’d just strangled her in the bath, he’d hardly waste time opening drawers on the off-chance of something to hock, especially if the baby was screaming blue murder. Anyway,’ she added a little sulkily, ‘all known friends and acquaintances were interviewed at the time.’

  Max looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Obviously, you won’t be mentioning Zara?’

  ‘Obviously not by name. She assures me only her family and the adoption agency know her history, so it would be impossible for anyone to identify her.’

  ‘But not so hard to identify you, if someone put his mind to it. So no names, OK? Leave a contact number, nothing else. Your mobile, or even your email address, since it doesn’t include your name.’

  Rona gave an exasperated sigh. Then, seeing the concern in his eyes, her expression softened and she reached for his hand. ‘Don’t worry, Guardian Angel; I’ll be careful, I promise.’

  He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. ‘Just mind that you are,’ he said.

  As Lindsey turned into Maple Drive, her father’s car was just approaching the corner. They both wound down their windows.

  ‘An unscheduled visit, love? I wasn’t expecting you.’

  ‘Mum should be; I’m taking her shopping.’

  Tom looked surprised. ‘Oh? She didn’t mention it.’

  ‘Lunch included,’ Lindsey added. ‘Hope that’s OK?’

  ‘Of course – no problem. I’m off to the garden centre to look for a new shed. Enjoy yourselves.’

  As she drove the few yards to the house, Lindsey wondered if she’d unwittingly given him carte blanche to visit Catherine Bishop, but there was little she could do about it. She tried the front door, found it unlocked, and let herself in.

  ‘Mum?’ she called. ‘Ready for our shopping spree?’

  Avril appeared in the kitchen doorway, drying her hands on her apron. ‘I think I’ll give it a miss, dear,’ she said listlessly. ‘You don’t need my opinion on what you’re buying.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Lindsey told her firmly, ‘you’re not getting out of it now! I’ve booked a table for lunch at Netherby’s, so we can revive ourselves halfway through.’

  ‘Lunch?’ Avril echoed. ‘I didn’t realize—’

  ‘You’ll need your coat – there’s quite a sharp wind this morning.’ Lindsey eyed her mother’s drab skirt and blouse. ‘Or would you like to change first?’

  ‘Why should I change?’ Avril asked in surprise. ‘Not meeting the Queen, are we?’

  ‘I – just thought you’d like to wear something smarter, for going into town,’ Lindsey said lamely.

  Avril’s eyes traversed h
er daughter, taking in the knee-length skirt, the boxy jacket, the bright scarf at her throat. ‘Well, I’m sorry if what I’ve got on doesn’t suit you, but it’s that or nothing.’

  Lindsey suppressed a sigh. ‘Some lipstick, then?’

  Avril snorted. ‘At my age? What’s the point?’

  Lindsey’s temper snapped. ‘If you were a hundred, you could still make the best of yourself!’ She seized her mother’s shoulders and spun her to face the hall mirror. ‘Look at you!’ she commanded. ‘Really look! When did you last have your hair done? Or buy any new clothes? When did you stop caring, Mum?’

  Avril’s startled eyes met hers in the mirror and she gave an uncertain laugh. ‘All this, because I’m not wearing lipstick?’

  ‘I just don’t understand – you used to be so smart. Ro and I were always so proud of the pair of you.’ She paused, then added deliberately, ‘And Pops still looks great.’

  ‘Well, he has to. The bank—’

  ‘Mum, he’s an attractive man, and he meets attractive women every day in the course of his work. And then—’

  ‘And then he comes home to me,’ Avril finished for her. ‘You don’t need to worry on that score; it’s a long time since your father afforded me a second glance.’

  ‘Do you blame him?’

  Avril turned quickly. ‘Now look, if you’ve come here to insult me—’

  ‘Mum, I’m here because I love you, and I don’t like what you’ve turned yourself into. Nothing seems to please you any more. Today was supposed to be a treat, just the two of us together, but I’m having to beg you to come out with me, and you’re not prepared to make the slightest effort to—’

  To her annoyance, her eyes filled with tears of frustration. ‘Sorry,’ she said in a low voice, feeling for a handkerchief. Her mother was regarding her with a frown.

  ‘If it means so much to you, of course I’ll come. But don’t imagine that a shopping trip will turn an ugly old duck into a swan.’

  ‘You could be a swan again any time you wanted,’ Lindsey retorted, dabbing at her eyes, but Avril, reaching for an old duffle coat, simply shook her head, and, having run out of arguments, Lindsey silently opened the front door.

  The feeling of constraint lasted throughout the drive to town and the parking of the car, but as they emerged on to the main thoroughfare, both of them began to relax. The sun was shining and a brisk wind blew the first autumn leaves down the pavement ahead of them. Guild Street was thronged with shoppers, the windows were full of tempting displays, and Lindsey’s heart rose again. Come hell or high water, she’d see her mother bought at least one outfit today.

  Tom did indeed try to phone Catherine from the garden centre, but there was no reply and he didn’t care to leave a message. Only as he rang off did he remember that she was expecting visitors this weekend; no doubt they’d gone out for the day. With a metaphorical shrug of his shoulders, he went to look at the sheds.

  It was almost four o’clock when Lindsey drew up at the gate, but she declined the offer of a cup of tea. Avril gave her a quick hug before getting out of the car.

  ‘Thanks, love,’ she said gruffly.

  ‘We must do it again.’

  Avril nodded, hurried up the path with her parcels, and, after turning at the door to wave, disappeared inside. Lindsey started the car and slowly moved off. The hug had taken her by surprise – her mother wasn’t demonstrative – but she was gratified by it. Perhaps it and the day they’d spent together heralded the beginning of a thaw that would bring her parents closer. She could only hope so.

  Still clutching her parcels, Avril went into the kitchen. Through the window, she could see Tom at the bottom of the garden with Bob from next door, both of them bent over wooden panels laid out on the grass. The new shed, no doubt. She watched them for a minute or two, while a host of thoughts blundered around in her head. Then she went upstairs, took her purchases one by one out of their carrier bags, and laid them on the bed: a dress in soft rose-pink wool, an oatmeal jacket, a heather tweed skirt, and – a wild extravagance – a cashmere sweater in pale mauve. She stared down at them with something approaching panic. She must have been mad to allow Lindsey to talk her into this! She’d spent more money on clothes in one day than she had over the last five years. The final two bags, smaller than the rest, disgorged mascara, an eyebrow pencil, and a lipstick the same shade as the dress.

  Lindsey had been all for whisking her into the beauty salon to have her hair styled, but at that Avril had drawn the line. Nevertheless, she conceded, it could do with a wash. Still hardly believing what she’d done that day, she went to the bathroom and turned on the shower.

  She was still upstairs when, an hour later, Tom called, ‘Bob and I are off to the pub. I’ll be back by seven.’

  ‘All right,’ she called back from a dry throat. She was seated on the dressing-stool, staring at her image in the mirror. Her wispy hair was twisted into large blue rollers, and her face was an unaccustomed shade of beige. It was a wonder the liquid hadn’t dried up in the bottle, she reflected; she’d not used it since the Harris wedding more than two years ago. Several times over the last hour she’d been on the point of running to the bathroom to wash it all off. And yet – a flicker of long-dead vanity stirred inside her. It did make a difference, having a little colour in her face. Almost fearfully, she reached for the blusher.

  ‘Something’s happened, hasn’t it?’

  Catherine shot a quick look at her cousin, who, seated at the kitchen table, was neatly slicing beans into a colander.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘You seem – different, somehow. As though you’re hugging a secret to yourself.’

  ‘You’re imagining it,’ Catherine said with a smile.

  ‘Talking of which,’ Elizabeth mused, as though she hadn’t spoken, ‘did you ever realize that when we were young I was always pretending to have secrets, in the hope of inveigling one out of you in return? It never worked; you were always infuriatingly self-contained.’

  Catherine glanced at her fondly. Both only children, they had early on formed a deep friendship that had stood them in good stead over the years, sustaining them through life’s ups and downs. Though, Catherine reflected ruefully, when real tragedy had struck and Neil so unexpectedly died, she had not allowed even Elizabeth to penetrate her wall of grief.

  ‘So, since I’ve rumbled you,’ her cousin was continuing, ‘you might as well come out with it. Is Jenny pregnant again? Or is it Daniel?’ Her voice sharpened. ‘He’s not being transferred to another office, is he? One that’ll involve them moving away? I do hope not, when you’re so nicely settled.’

  ‘Relax, Lizzie! Jenny is not pregnant and there’s no prospect of their moving, at least for the present. Daniel’s promotion hasn’t come through, but when it does, he’ll still be based in Stokely.’

  ‘Well, whatever you say, something’s happened; I’ve been aware of it all day – over lunch at the pub, during the walk afterwards … If Colin hadn’t been there, I’d have tackled you earlier.’

  ‘Talking of Colin, it’s too bad to leave him alone while we chat in here. You go through and let me finish those.’

  ‘Sorry, that’s not good enough. He’s watching the match, and wouldn’t thank me for joining him.’ Elizabeth peered at her over the top of her glasses, which, as usual, had slid down her nose.

  ‘Good Lord!’ she exclaimed suddenly. ‘You haven’t met someone, have you? Yes!’ Her voice rose in triumph. ‘You have! You’re blushing like a sixteen-year-old.’

  Catherine turned hastily back to the sink. ‘Can we drop this? It’s not getting us anywhere.’

  ‘Only because you won’t let it! Oh Catherine, come on! Surely you can tell me? You know I wouldn’t breathe a word, and it would be so wonderful if—’

  ‘Look,’ Catherine broke in, still busying herself at the sink, ‘if and when there is anything to impart, I promise you’ll be the first to know. Will that do?’

  Elizabeth stared at
her back for a moment, then, seeing it was hopeless, capitulated and, with a sigh, returned to the beans. ‘Seems I’ve no choice,’ she said.

  On his return just after seven, Tom was surprised to see through the dining room door that the table was laid. He frowned. Was someone expected to dinner? With a flicker of hope, he wondered if Lindsey had come back with Avril and been persuaded to stay. Certainly they’d long since stopped using the dining room for just the two of them; supper was usually eaten in front of the television, a convenient device, since it spared both of them from having to make conversation.

  He paused in the doorway to look more closely and saw, to his further surprise, that though only two places were laid, the best silver was set out and there were candles in the holders. What the hell was going on? It wasn’t his birthday, or their anniversary.

  ‘Avril?’ He glanced into the kitchen, but it was empty. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘In the sitting room.’

  He pushed open the door and stopped abruptly. She was standing by the fireplace, tension in every muscle and a look of nervous defiance on her face. His breath knotted in his throat and his heart set up a thick, uneven beat. For this was his wife as he hadn’t seen her in many a long day – hair softly curled, lips tinted, and a dress he didn’t recognize flattering a figure long hidden under shapeless jumpers and skirts.

  A dozen bewildered thoughts struggled for supremacy. This was Lindsey’s doing – because she knew of his perfidy. But he didn’t want Avril to change! Part of his rationalization for loving Catherine had been the contrasting frumpish image of his wife. Now, by transforming herself, she’d thrown the blame squarely back on him. And overriding all this reasoning came the numbing awareness that she’d made this effort for him, and that with every second he hesitated, the uncertain hope beneath her defiance was fading a little more. God help him, he couldn’t throw it back in her face. Though he longed to turn and rush from the house, he forced himself to say, ‘My goodness, Avril! Your fairy godmother’s been busy!’

  ‘Well, I haven’t made much effort lately,’ she acknowledged awkwardly. ‘Seeing all the glamour pusses in Guild Street brought it home to me.’