Person or Persons Unknown

by Anthea Fraser

  ‘And – dinner in the dining room?’

  ‘Same thing applies – I’ve let things slip. We have the room, we shouldn’t keep it just for company.’ She paused, still watching him anxiously. ‘You – approve, then?’

  ‘You look – lovely,’ he said. And wanted to weep.

  Tony Crane looked up from his newspaper for the third time in as many minutes to glance at his wife. She’d been standing at the window for some time, arms crossed over her chest and each hand cupping the opposite shoulder. It was as if she were either hugging or protecting herself, and she shouldn’t feel the need to do either.

  Finally he laid his paper aside and went over to her, slipping his arms round her from behind and letting his hands rest lightly on her swelling stomach. It was dark outside; their reflections were mirrored in the cold glass, and beneath them the street lamps glowed hazily through the evening mist. ‘What is it, sweetheart?’ he asked softly.

  She gave a little shrug, and her hands came down to cover his. ‘Nothing, really. I’m just being silly.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Cold feet, I suppose.’

  ‘About the parent search?’

  ‘Yes.’ She turned in the circle of his arms, and he saw that her eyes were wide and frightened. ‘Oh, Tony, why did I do it? Why did I ask her? I wish things could just go on as they are.’

  ‘Darling, they will. Nothing’ll change, whatever she finds out. We’re still us, looking forward to having our baby. Nothing can alter that.’

  ‘I wish we’d never gone to the Ridgeways’ party!’ she exclaimed passionately. ‘That I’d never even heard of Rona Parish!’

  ‘If you feel like that, phone her and cancel it.’

  ‘I can’t; she made that clear. She gave me one last chance to withdraw, and I didn’t take it. After that, she said she’d continue with it like any other job, whatever she found out.’

  ‘That seems a bit high-handed.’

  ‘No, just businesslike. I don’t blame her; she can’t spend hours on a project, only to have someone change their mind and make her scrap it.’

  ‘What exactly is worrying you?’ Tony asked after a minute.

  ‘Oh, all kinds of things. Getting my hopes up, and nothing happening. Or, even worse, Rona tracking down my father and him not wanting to know. It would be a second rejection.’

  Tony laid a finger on her lips. ‘Now that’s enough, Zara. You know perfectly well you’ve never been rejected in your life. Your father didn’t know about you, so there was nothing he could do, and your mother hardly got herself murdered on purpose. She’d kept you, remember, though it wasn’t nearly as easy for single mothers in those days.’

  Zara’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I know, I’m being thoroughly unreasonable.’ She gave him a watery smile. ‘Put it down to my condition!’

  He laughed. ‘I’ve a feeling I’ll be hearing a lot more of that excuse over the next few months. Seriously, though, even if Rona does track him down, you’ve no need to take it any further. It’ll be entirely up to you whether or not you want to arrange a meeting.’

  ‘That’s true.’ She looked a little happier. ‘It might be enough, just to know who and where he is, without actually meeting him.’

  ‘So there’s nothing to worry about, is there?’ He patted her stomach. ‘Little One already has four perfectly good grandparents waiting to welcome him or her. Anything else is an optional extra.’

  She gave a gurgle of laughter. ‘That’s a novel way to describe my father!’

  ‘Best to keep him in his place! Now, come and sit down, like a good girl. There’s quite a chill coming off that glass. Would you like me to get you a hot drink?’

  She allowed him to lead her back to the gas fire and help her into a chair. ‘That’d be lovely,’ she said.

  Tom lay wide awake, his eyes staring into the darkness. Beside him, Avril had started to emit the rhythmic little puffs that preceded her soft snores and, knowing she slept, he allowed himself to relax slightly.

  The evening had been like none other he could remember. He had duly lit the candles on the table, and poured out the wine she had ready at room temperature. The casserole, prepared, he suspected, before all thoughts of her metamorphosis, was not as sophisticated as she might have liked, but she’d creamed the potatoes – an unusual refinement – and added slivers of almonds to the carrots. In all, it was a very good meal, and he was careful to tell her so.

  ‘Remember you mentioned going on a world trip when you retire?’ she had startled him by asking, over the baked custard.

  God, yes, so he had, in a previous existence. BC, he thought with mild blasphemy. Before Catherine.

  ‘Well, I’ve been thinking it over, and you’re right – it’s an excellent idea. We’d be able to take our time over it, wouldn’t we, staying as long as we wanted in places we particularly liked?’

  He murmured something noncommittal, aware of a rising tide of panic. Next thing, she’d be sending off for travel brochures, and then what would he do? He couldn’t stall her indefinitely. One way and another, this evening, with his disconcertingly pretty wife at the elegant dining table, had been the most stressful of his life, and he’d give anything if she’d only revert to her previous incarnation.

  When bedtime came, another terror materialized. Would she expect him to make love to her? To his untold relief, however, she had merely bent over and kissed his cheek – another innovation – before turning on her side and settling to sleep. Perhaps, he thought thankfully, she had decided to take one step at a time.

  Down in the hall he heard the clock strike midnight. And quite suddenly, he needed to hear Catherine’s voice – needed, somehow, to speak to her, to reassure himself that she actually existed, and he’d not been whisked back a decade to when he and Avril had lived a more harmonious life.

  Carefully, so as not to disturb her, he slid out of bed and silently padded downstairs, lifted the phone off its charger and carried it into the kitchen, shutting the door quietly behind him. She had visitors, he told himself; perhaps they wouldn’t yet have gone to bed. Though in his urgent selfishness, he knew it made no difference. Had it been three o’clock rather than twelve, he would still have had to phone.

  ‘Hello?’ Her anxious voice in his ear, doubtless alarmed by the lateness of the call.

  ‘Catherine, it’s me,’ he said quickly. ‘Can you talk?’

  ‘Tom! Yes – yes, they’ve just gone to their room, and I’m laying the breakfast table. Whatever is it? Has something happened?’

  He hesitated, longing to pour out his fears about Avril’s sudden change and the difficulties it might entail, but restrained by an illogical loyalty to his wife. Loyalty! he mocked himself, as the thought registered. How did he rate phoning another woman at midnight?

  ‘Tom? Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m all right. I just suddenly needed to know if – if you loved me?’

  Her low laugh, which set his pulses racing. ‘You phoned to ask me that?’

  ‘Please, Catherine – I need to hear you say it.’

  ‘I love you, Tom Parish. Now and forever. Is that good enough for you?’

  He let his breath out in a long sigh. ‘We need to talk soon,’ he said, ‘but bless you for that. Goodnight, my darling.’

  And before she could make any other comment, he rang off, replaced the phone, and made his way silently back to bed.

  Seven

  Lindsey phoned on the Sunday morning. ‘I thought you’d like to hear how I got on with Mum.’

  ‘Oh, of course – it was yesterday, wasn’t it? How did it go?’

  ‘A bit like swimming in treacle, but progress was made. I coerced her into buying a couple of outfits.’

  ‘Well done!’

  ‘And some make-up. God knows if she’ll use it, but I did labour the point about Pops still being virile—’

  ‘Linz!’

  ‘Relax – “attractive” is the way I put it – and I think it wen
t home. So now we cross our fingers.’

  ‘And hope she changes her attitude as well as her looks. Did you witness the transformation?’

  ‘Not fully fledged, but she looked surprisingly good when she tried things on. The assistant produced what she called the “petite” range, and the clothes really suited her – it was quite an eye-opener. She protested every step of the way, but at least she bought them, and I made her promise to wear the dress last night. I’d give anything to have seen Pops’s face … Ro – are you still there?’

  ‘Sorry, yes. I was just wondering if it isn’t all too late; shutting the stable door, etc.’

  ‘Well, I’ve done all I can. Now it’s up to her.’

  After they’d rung off, Rona remained thoughtful. Lindsey wished she could have seen their father’s reaction, but she was concerned with what he wouldn’t have revealed. If he were indeed attracted to Catherine Bishop, this could be the catalyst. He was a kind man; faced with his wife’s olive branch, would he give up his private dreams and stay with her? And if so, was that really what Rona wanted for him?

  The Monday-morning drive to Buckford stirred memories, since it had been the pattern of her week when she was researching the articles. And the time warp persisted as, having parked the car, she made her way through the narrow streets to Market Square. It seemed the Family History and Archive Centre was housed in a building directly opposite the library, so she must have passed it many times.

  She was directed into a large room filled with screens and keyboards, at which people sat intently scrolling through microfiches. A member of staff located the machine reserved for her, explaining it would first be necessary to check the borough ward in which the address she wanted was located. That done, Rona selected the fiches for 1979 and returned to her machine with rising excitement.

  There were two columns to each page, and she scrolled rapidly until she came to Elton Road, the address given on Zara’s birth certificate, then down again to number thirty-seven. The names given for that property were Bradley, John; Bradley, Margaret – presumably the couple in the ground-floor flat – Grant, Gemma and O’Toole, Selina.

  Rona sat back, frowning at the screen. Selina O’Toole … The name seemed familiar; she was sure she’d heard it recently, but couldn’t place it. Perhaps it would come back to her. Scrolling further down the page, she made a note of the neighbours on either side, and also of those in two of the houses opposite, though it was doubtful if any of them still lived there.

  On the principle of leaving no stone unturned, she also looked up the address given on Gemma’s birth certificate, to see if her mother was still listed at the time of the murder. She was not. Either she’d sold the house when she moved to South Africa, or the names given were tenants.

  And that was all she could do; a five-hour round trip, for half an hour in front of the screen. Still, she’d found the information she wanted; too bad it hadn’t been available at Stokely.

  Rona collected her things, signed off at the desk, and emerged on the leaf-strewn pavement. Over to her left was the little café she’d frequented in the summer, and she decided to have an early lunch before setting off for home. But she had taken only a couple of steps when she heard her name called and saw Lois Breen, the vicar’s wife, hurrying towards her.

  ‘Rona – I thought it was you! What are you doing here?’

  ‘Hello, Lois. I needed to check some registers for my new project.’

  ‘Ah – we’re old hat now, are we?’

  Rona smiled. ‘No, the articles are ongoing.’

  ‘Oh, I know; I’m assiduously collecting them. Have you time for a coffee?’

  Rona looked at her watch. It was almost midday. ‘Actually, I was going for an early lunch. Will you join me?’

  ‘At the Coffee Shop? Why not? Gordon’s at an all-day meeting, so my time’s my own.’

  She linked her arm through Rona’s and they walked together round two sides of the square to the little bow-fronted café, where they seated themselves at a window table. Rona liked Lois; a talented sculptor, she cared little about her appearance. As usual, she was dressed in working clothes, and – also as usual – her short blonde hair looked as though she’d just run her hand through it. However, her grey eyes were sharp and missed nothing, and her tongue could be astringent.

  ‘Nuala said she’d seen you,’ she commented, picking up the menu.

  ‘Yes, that was the tale-end of the Buckford job. I dashed up with a photographer, just for the day.’

  Lois smiled. ‘You don’t have to apologize for not contacting me, if that’s what you were doing.’

  Rona laughed. ‘It probably was. I’m glad we’ve met now, though. How are things?’

  ‘Oh, we’ve just about recovered from the hornets’ nest you stirred up.’

  Rona glanced at her quickly, unsure how to take the comment. ‘I did rather, didn’t I?’

  ‘Gordon had his work cut out for a while, but things have settled down again.’ Seeing her uncertain face, Lois added, ‘You righted a wrong, my dear. If other people were hurt in the process, that was the price to pay. So –’ she sat back in her chair – ‘what’s your latest project?’

  ‘Looking for the birth father of a girl adopted as a baby.’

  A waitress approached and they gave their order. As she moved away, Lois commented, ‘I’m computer-illiterate, as you know, but I thought there were websites dealing with that sort of thing.’

  Rona made a little grimace. ‘Problem is, we don’t know his name.’

  Lois gave a bark of laughter. ‘You don’t go for the easy option, do you? How do you propose to set about it?’

  ‘Well, as I said, I’ve been looking at electoral registers. They didn’t live in Buckford, but with its being the county town, all registers except the current ones are kept here.’

  ‘Did you get anywhere?’

  Rona answered indirectly. ‘Does the name Selina O’Toole mean anything to you?’

  Lois pursed her lips thoughtfully. ‘I’ve heard it, certainly. Who is she?’

  ‘I was hoping you could tell me. I agree it sounds familiar, but at the moment all I know is that she was the flatmate of my subject’s mother.’

  ‘Who, presumably, you’re also trying to trace?’

  ‘Well, no.’ Reluctantly, under Lois’s piercing gaze, she related the circumstances of the case.

  ‘Haven’t you had enough to do with murder?’ Lois demanded when she finished, startling the waitress who was setting down their meal. ‘It’s like Russian roulette, you know; there are only a limited number of times you’ll escape unscathed.’

  Rona shivered. ‘I’m not looking into that side of it, honestly. All I’m trying to do is trace the father, and I reckon the flatmate must have known who he was, even though she swore not at the time.’

  ‘But surely he’d have been the prime suspect?’

  ‘As it happens, no; he emigrated before Gemma knew she was pregnant.’

  Lois sighed. ‘Well, for pity’s sake don’t go in over your head. We don’t want any more histrionics.’

  Rona picked up her fork. ‘Advice noted. Now, tell me what you’ve been up to. What are you working on at the moment?’

  The rest of the meal passed in more mundane conversation, and when it was over, they parted amicably on the pavement outside, Lois to go to the library, Rona to return to her car. But as she left the town behind her, Lois’s warning echoed in her head: Murder’s like Russian roulette.

  It was not an analogy she cared for.

  The following day, Rona again made an early start, and this time, since it wasn’t convenient to leave him with Max, she had Gus with her. She had phoned Tess Chadwick the previous evening and arranged to call in at the paper after her session at the town hall. She also hoped to have a look at the houses where both Gemma and her parents had lived, and if possible, approach any neighbours who might be home.

  The drive to Stokely took only fifty minutes, and she arrived soon after t
en o’clock. Having taken Gus for a quick walk and apologetically returned him to the car, she sought out the town hall, where she discovered that because of the Data Protection Act, a member of staff had to accompany her while she examined the register. As she’d expected, the Bradleys no longer lived at 37 Elton Road, nor did the names of the neighbours on either side correspond with those in the earlier registers. To her delighted surprise, though, two names did reappear – those of a couple living opposite. Stanley and Doris Jones were still listed as residing at number forty-two.

  Armed with this information and a street map she’d purchased at the information bureau, Rona collected Gus and set off on foot to view the scene of the crime. Elton Road was a good twenty-minute walk from the town centre, a row of between-the-wars semis that had seen better days. Most of the front gardens were concreted over, and an assortment of cars and motorbikes filled the spaces once occupied by lawns and flowerbeds. Paint was peeling on the front doors, and dirty net curtains hung crookedly at several windows.

  Having located number thirty-seven, Rona stood on the opposite pavement, staring across at it, but the bland frontage gave no hint of the traumas that had taken place within its walls. With accelerated heartbeat, she crossed the road and walked up the short path. Two bells beside the front door showed the house was still divided into flats. Rona pressed one, then the other, but neither was answered. Presumably the residents were out at work. She met a similar lack of response at the houses on either side, and it was without much hope that she returned across the road to ring the bell at number forty-two. But once again, the Joneses proved to be her sole success.

  The door opened to reveal an elderly woman in a home-knitted cardigan, who peered at her uncertainly over the top of her glasses.

  ‘Yes?’ she said querulously.

  ‘Mrs Jones?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘My name is Rona Parish, and I’m trying to trace someone who used to live across the road.’

  The old eyes surveyed her suspiciously. ‘Who would that be?’