‘No!’ Lindsey said violently.
‘Rona?’ There was pleading in his voice.
‘I have met her, Pops, as you know. I – liked her very much at first.’
‘And now?’
‘Give me time. I – don’t want to add to Mum’s hurt.’
‘Of course not.’ Suddenly, he could take no more. This meeting had used up all his reserves, and he desperately needed to see Catherine.
‘I have to go now,’ he said quickly, ‘but there’s no need for you to; I’ll order more drinks on the way out. Thank you for listening so patiently. I’ll keep you up to date with developments.’
He bent and kissed each of them on the cheek. They watched in silence as he paused at the bar, indicated their table to the barman, and handed over some cash. Then, with a lifted hand, he was gone.
‘I’ll ring Mum,’ Lindsey said, and took out her mobile. ‘It’s pretty obvious he’s not going home. We could call round and give her a bit of support.’
But Avril, sounding calm and philosophical, didn’t want company. ‘It’s sweet of you, darling,’ she said – a rare endearment – ‘but I’m not ready to talk about it yet. I’ll phone you when I am.’
Having been furnished with fresh drinks, Rona and Lindsey found little to say. They, too, needed space to come to terms with what they’d heard, and they left only minutes later, separating on the pavement with a quick hug and promising to contact each other the next day.
Rona went straight to Farthings, just round the corner from the hotel. But when she let herself in to the little house, it was to find it silent and empty, and she stood in the hallway feeling suddenly desolate. It was six forty-five, and Max’s class started at seven thirty. Where was he, when she really needed him – to discuss not only the sorry story of her parents’ marriage, but the threatening email that still lurked at the back of her mind? A dose of her husband’s common sense would have been a welcome antidote to the worries that tormented her.
Since there was no help for it, she scrawled a note and propped it on the kitchen counter before setting off through the misty darkness for home.
As it happened, though, both those topics, still exercising her when she took delivery of the take-away she’d ordered, had been superseded by the time she finished it.
Again, the news came via her mobile. She answered it with bad grace, regretting not having switched it off for the night, and a woman’s voice said without preamble, ‘Was it you asking about families from the Stokely area, who went to Australia?’
Instantly, lethargy vanished. ‘Yes, yes it was.’
‘I might be able to help you, then.’ A light laugh reached her. ‘It was pure chance I saw it – we don’t take the Gazette, but it was wrapped round some vegetables I bought at the market, and when I took them out for supper, it caught my eye.’
Rona wasn’t interested in vegetables. ‘Thank you so much for phoning, Mrs …?’
‘Powell,’ the woman supplied. ‘Yes, well, as I was saying, Dr Morris and his family emigrated in the spring of ’78, and they lived in Stokely.’
‘Morris?’ Rona interrupted sharply. ‘Not Morrison?’
Her caller sounded surprised. ‘No, it was Morris, all right. He was my friend’s GP.’
‘How old was he at the time?’
‘Goodness me – let me think, now. Late forties, I suppose. He had two grown lads, at any rate.’
Rona’s heart was racing. ‘And the whole family went? Do you know whereabouts in Australia?’
‘Can’t help you on that one, dear. Anyway, though the doctor and his wife stayed on – she has family out there – the boys came home about ten years ago. They’re both medics too, one’s a doctor and the other a dentist. Clever family.’
‘This is wonderful, Mrs Powell,’ Rona said sincerely. ‘Just what I was hoping for! I suppose you don’t know where they are now?’
‘As it happens, I do,’ the woman replied with satisfaction. ‘I thought you’d ask that, so I rang my friend – the one who was their father’s patient – to check. She says they’re both practising in Exeter. You’d find them in the telephone directory.’ She paused. ‘You think one of them might be that girl’s father?’
‘It’s possible,’ Rona answered guardedly. ‘At least you’ve given me a new line to follow, and I’m very grateful.’
When she rang off, Rona sat for some minutes staring into space. Then she rummaged in her bag, extracted her diary, and looked up Selina’s number.
‘Well, hello there!’ said the well-remembered voice, when she’d identified herself. ‘Did you collect the goodies?’
Rona’s eyes went to the shoe box, still on the far side of the table. ‘Yes, I did, thanks, but I’ve not had time to go through them properly. Selina – is there the slightest chance that Gemma’s lover’s name was Morris, not Morrison?’
‘Not the faintest,’ Selina replied promptly. ‘God, she spoke of him often enough.’ Pause, then: ‘Why?’
‘A woman’s just phoned with news that a family named Morris emigrated at precisely the crucial time.’
‘Well, sorry to put a damper on it, but you’re barking up the wrong tree.’
‘Suppose they added the “son” to disguise his real name?’
‘Too close for comfort, surely?’
Rona thought for a minute. ‘I presume you told the police about Morrison, at the time?’
‘Naturally; they were convinced I knew more, but that was all I could give them.’
And, Rona concluded reluctantly, it seemed it was all she could give her, too.
She made two more phone calls before abandoning the search for the night – to the Fairchilds, who had never heard of the Morris family, and to Joyce Cowley, who had.
‘Of course I remember Dr Morris,’ she said. ‘He was our GP.’
‘Did you know his sons?’
‘Only by sight. Nice boys.’
Rona hesitated. ‘Might Gemma have known them?’
‘Miss Parish, I thought I’d explained how little I knew of my daughter’s friends.’ She paused, and her voice changed. ‘Or are you wondering if one of them could be Zara’s father?’
‘It had crossed my mind,’ Rona said drily.
‘Well, at least it ties in with Australia. Please let me know of any developments.’
Like hell I will! Rona thought, replacing the phone on its charger. It promptly rang again. Max, making his regular evening call. Rona glanced at the clock, saw it was after ten.
‘Sorry I wasn’t here when you called,’ he said at once, and some hesitancy in his voice drew her brows together.
‘Where were you?’
‘As it happens, I’d called round to see Adele. Why didn’t you tell me she’d been hurt? You must have known – Lindsey did.’
Rona ignored the question. ‘Why did you want to see her?’
‘She’d phoned to say she can’t come tomorrow, and was there anything she could be preparing for next week. So I took round the notes I’ll be handing out. Why didn’t you tell me, as if I didn’t know?’
‘It only happened last night, for pity’s sake, and there’s been so much going on I never got round to it.’ She forced herself to ask, ‘How is she?’
‘Putting a brave face on it. She seems accident-prone, wouldn’t you say? I wish to God there was something we could do about it. Anyway, enough of that. You say a lot’s been happening your end. What, exactly?’
‘That’s staggering news about Tom,’ he said when she’d told him. ‘I’d no idea things had gone that far. What’s going to happen now?’
‘God knows,’ Rona said wearily.
‘Poor love, no wonder you were in need of a hug. Sorry I wasn’t able to oblige.’ His voice sharpened. ‘As to that email, is there no way of tracing the sender?’
‘Not that I can see.’
‘Could it be the man who keeps phoning?’
‘I almost hope it is; it would halve my problems.’
‘Well, you m
ightn’t know who he is, but by the same token he doesn’t know who you are, either.’
‘I’m not so sure, since he has my email address.’
‘But didn’t you post it on the Internet in your initial search?’
Rona drew in her breath sharply. ‘I did, didn’t I? On the contact site! Nothing came of it, and I’d forgotten all about it.’
‘So your correspondent could be anywhere in the world.’
‘But to have found my address in the first place, he must have logged on to the site – perhaps after seeing the bit in the paper, which makes him local again.’
‘Whatever,’ Max said dispiritedly. ‘Oh my love, why do you get involved with these shady characters? It does nothing for my peace of mind.’
‘Sorry,’ she said.
When he’d rung off, Rona put her solitary plate and glass in the dishwasher, gave Gus his biscuits, and wearily went up to bed. It had been another long day.
And it wasn’t yet over. An hour or so later, she came up slowly from the depths of sleep to hear Gus barking hysterically in the hall. Half falling out of bed, she caught up her dressing gown and ran out on to the landing. He was jumping up at the front door, still barking, his claws clicking against the heavy wood.
‘Gus! Gus, quiet! What is it?’ Slowly, wrapping her dressing gown about her, Rona went barefoot down the stairs, heart clattering. Something – or someone – had woken this sleeping dog, she thought. Then she saw it, the little shower of broken glass on the carpet, glinting in the light coming through the fanlight – the broken fanlight; its lower pane, she now saw, had been shattered and the bar twisted out of shape. But – why? she thought in confusion.
Careful of her bare feet, Rona approached the dog, took hold of his collar, and led him to the bottom stair, where she sat down and examined each paw in turn, talking to him softly. Finding no trace of glass, she gave him a dismissive pat, but he promptly sat down at her feet, looking at her expectantly.
Her eyes went back to the fanlight. Perhaps whoever it was had tried to break in elsewhere and, finding all ways barred, had smashed it in a fit of frustration. Fort Knox, Lindsey called the house. In the morning, she’d examine the outside for attempts to pick the lock. On the other hand, perhaps the vandal had never intended to break in, merely to issue another warning – that he knew who and where she was.
Rona shuddered. Come on! she told herself. She’d read only the other day that there’d been a burglary in the road. Why was she taking this personally? It happened all the time. She stood up, resolving to make herself some hot chocolate and take it back to bed, but had reached only the top of the basement stairs when she halted. She hadn’t pulled down the kitchen blinds – she never did – so once she put the light on, she’d be visible to anyone standing on the pavement.
‘Bed, Gus,’ she said, and waited until, disappointed, he had lolloped obediently down the stairs, before going up herself.
In the morning, Rona, sweeping up the broken glass, considered phoning Max, but decided against it. He would in any case be home that evening. The glass would need replacing, but it wasn’t a safety issue; not even a cat could gain access through the gap, even supposing it could reach it, and she’d been unable to detect any scratches round the lock. The breakage was probably, after all, an act of vandalism by mindless drunks on their way home.
It was with held breath that she checked her emails that morning, but there was nothing untoward. Was her unknown correspondent awaiting a reply? And who could it be? The man who had killed Gemma, panicking about those sleeping dogs? Or her lover? If he’d returned to this country – one of the Morris boys? – he might now be aware that she’d had his child. How was he likely to react? By coming forward to meet his daughter? Or, with a family of his own, by determining to stay firmly in the background? The latter option seemed much more likely, in which case he wouldn’t draw attention to himself by making contact. Nevertheless, reluctant or not, if this elusive father was indeed one of the Morrises, she had every intention of tracking him down.
Five minutes later, via the National Health Local Service Search, she had located both Dr David and Dr Peter Morris, ascertained the addresses of their respective surgeries, and printed out the maps of how to find them. Admittedly, once in Exeter, she could look up their private addresses, but it seemed wiser to tackle them at their surgeries; they’d be unlikely to speak freely at home.
Another five minutes, and she’d booked herself into an Exeter hotel for the following night. At last, it seemed as though she was getting somewhere.
How quiet it was, Avril thought; she’d never noticed before. Once the children had gone to school and people to work, the street seemed to sink into torpor. She’d been sitting here for ten minutes, and not a car or a solitary person had gone past. Normally she’d have been vacuuming the stairs by now, but she couldn’t summon up the energy. Why bother? Who would notice? For that matter, who had ever noticed?
She knew she would soon start crying again; she didn’t seem to have any control over it, which was one reason why she didn’t want to go out. What would people think, if she broke down in the supermarket?
The whole stupid, useless, incomprehensible point, she reflected bitterly, was that, deep down, she still loved Tom – though much good that would do her now. Impossible to remember when or why the nagging had started, but his lack of response had fuelled a growing resentment, spurring her on until she no longer took any interest in herself and evolved into the unprepossessing figure Lindsey had forced her to face. Little wonder Tom had had enough. But – another woman? Never in her wildest imaginings had she considered that possibility. Why had no warning bells sounded, that spring Sunday when Rona first mentioned Catherine Bishop?
Oddly, though, over the last twelve hours it had been the past that had occupied her mind. She thought back, for the first time in years, to her initial meeting with Tom, at the tennis-club hop. She and Kitty Little had been watching him ever since he’d arrived with a crowd of other boys, giggling over how handsome he was. She couldn’t believe it when he’d actually come over and asked her to dance. The memory, buried for so long, emerged sharp and clear, undulled by the patina of time. She remembered his shy smile, the blazer he wore with the gold buttons, even the tune they were dancing to – I don’t have a wooden heart. She’d been most impressed when he sang it in German, but he’d laughed and told her he had the Elvis record. She had been seventeen and he nineteen, and they’d married two years later. Babes in arms, she thought achingly, but they’d been so sure.
How bright the world had seemed then, how full of promise. She used to count the hours each day till they’d see each other, both of them hurrying home from work to be together. Numbly, she realized she couldn’t even remember when they had last made love.
The tears were coming, she realized, feeling quickly for a handkerchief. Thank God next week she’d at least have the library to occupy her.
The train journey to Exeter passed pleasantly and, not knowing the city, Rona took a taxi to her hotel. It was mid-afternoon, and as soon as she reached her room, she phoned the number given on the website for David Morris. As she’d expected, she was greeted with a recorded message. ‘The surgery is now closed. Surgery hours are weekdays from eight thirty to twelve thirty, and from five to seven in the evening. In the case of emergencies, please ring …’
The dental practice, however, was open, and by posing as a prospective patient, Rona elicited the information that it operated between nine and five, with late evenings on Wednesdays and Fridays. Today being Thursday, that last item was of little interest.
In which case, Rona thought, staring down into the busy street, it seemed sensible to approach Peter the dentist first, then hurry to the surgery in time to catch David – who would by then have been apprised of her coming. Also, while she’d ascertained there were only two dentists at the practice, there were likely to be several doctors at the health centre. Better to start where she had less margin for error, s
ince she’d no idea what either of the Morrises looked like.
It was already four o’clock; not knowing how long it would take her, Rona decided to set off at once, taking in some of the sights as she went. She’d promised herself a quick visit to the cathedral, and she would also stop for a cup of tea en route. Taking a pair of flat shoes from her bag and winding a long scarf round her neck against the chilly wind, she set off on her latest quest.
She reached the dental surgery with fifteen minutes to spare. Although it was in a largely residential area, several of the front doors had brass plates alongside. The practice itself occupied a corner site, and, with time in hand, Rona went to inspect the adjacent side street. As she’d hoped, there was a small car park behind the building, with a notice reading, ‘Dental staff only’ to fend off trespassers. Five cars were parked there; presumably the dental nurses and the receptionist also used the facility. The back door of the building gave on to the car park, so it would be from there that her quarry would emerge.
She regained the front entrance in time to see a woman coming down the path.
‘Is Dr Morris still there?’ she asked quickly.
The woman smiled at her. ‘Yes, he’s running a bit late; his last patient’s just gone in.’
‘Thank you; I was afraid I’d missed him.’
The woman laughed. ‘That would take a bit of doing!’ she said, and set off along the pavement.
Rona looked after her, puzzled. Then, feeling conspicuous, she began slowly walking up and down the pavement, hands in pockets against the cold and hoping fervently that the last patient had only a fifteen-minute appointment.
Her wish was granted; at five-fifteen precisely the front door opened and a man came hurrying down the path and anxiously peered at the nearest parking meter. Whatever it showed, there was no notice stuck on his windscreen, and he thankfully let himself into the car and drove away. Rona rounded the corner again and positioned herself by the gateway to the car park. Almost at once, two women came out together, talking and laughing. They got into separate cars and Rona strolled on to the next gateway as they emerged on to the road. She’d just regained her position when she saw him come hurrying out – and at once knew what his patient had meant. Peter Morris was, at a guess, six foot six in height, and would indeed be hard to miss.
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