Astrid took Caroline from her mother. ‘Give her here,’ she said. ‘Take a rest.’
Heather looked at her with a vicious stare. ‘Don’t you dare give her a bottle. I want to breastfeed her. And when Charles comes you must let me know.’
Astrid nodded.
‘Promise?’
Again, Astrid nodded and took the baby away. So now Claire and Heather were alone. Heather turned her head very slowly towards Claire. ‘I want to know,’ she said in a voice icy with hatred, ‘why you’re stopping Charles from coming, from seeing his daughter. And why …’ Her finger pointed towards the door and the corridor beyond, ‘… why you let Geoff, that … oaf in.’
‘That oaf,’ Claire said, ‘is your husband. And …’
Heather anticipated her words. ‘Oh, no,’ she said sweetly. ‘That’s where you’re wrong. Soooo wrong. He is not the father of this child. And he was not the father of either Eliza or Freddie.’
Claire didn’t respond.
Heather continued to rant. ‘Geoff Krimble has no right to see Caroline.’
Claire was silently assessing the situation. At least the child was safe for now. And her patient? Sedation?
But Heather had finally given way to exhaustion. She settled down against the pillows and closed her eyes.
Geoff was waiting outside. She led him into one of the interview rooms and offered him a coffee. He, too, looked exhausted.
‘Mr Krimble,’ she began, ‘I think so far you’ve told me some half-truths, haven’t you?’
He paused as though on the edge of a precipice. Then nodded.
Her turn. ‘Tell me,’ she said, her tone deceptively casual, ‘how well did you know Heather’s brother?’
‘I knew him through the church. But not well.’
‘And you’re not a member of that church any more?’
He shook his head.
‘Why not?’
‘Let’s just say I lost my faith.’
‘In the religion or the people who belonged to it?’
‘People.’
‘You and Heather were married …?’
He got twitchy at that. ‘January.’ His knee started bouncing up and down. He didn’t want her probing further.
‘2010?’
He nodded.
‘Eliza was born in April,’ she said gently. ‘Who was her father?’
There was something endearing about Geoff’s inability to tell a lie. He simply looked at her with those sad eyes, a horrible truth dulling them.
She tried another tactic. ‘When did Robin disappear?’
‘Some time …’ He tried again. ‘I don’t really know.’
She let him think for a moment before asking softly, ‘What happened to him?’
He looked mystified. On firmer ground now. ‘No one knows,’ he said. ‘He just vanished.’
‘When?’
‘Sometime late in 2009. Just before Christmas.’
And something gave an audible click in Claire’s brain.
‘Eliza was born …?’
Geoff flushed and, in that rush of blood to his face, Claire heard a second click.
And now? Facts spun past her brain. Spinning out of control. She felt cold. Wait for the DNA sample. Partly out of pity and partly because even if he knew the answers she didn’t believe Geoff would ever tell her the truth. Not out of loyalty to his wife but shame at having been involved. She left the room.
Someone was walking towards her, her face in shadow against the light. Ruth Acton drew level. ‘You should have believed us, you know,’ she said quietly. ‘My sister doesn’t lie. She tells the truth as she sees it.’ She put a photograph in her hand. For a while, Claire did not recognize the sexy, beautiful woman who laughed into the camera.
And then she did.
And then she knew.
Some people have luck heaped on them and other people don’t. There is no logic, method or reason behind them. Who knows why life’s problems pile up against one person and spare another? Who knew why Heather Krimble had gone through life with these burdens? Who knew why two of her children had died the sleep of the innocent? Who knew why Grant’s little sister had been born with an illness that made her so desperate to keep her brother close that he had been faced with an awful choice? Who knew why he had left her without a word to be at Maisie’s side? Who knew any of it?
Claire stood still in the middle of the corridor, rooted to the spot, because her mind, in turmoil, was asking questions which had no answers.
Except now she was beginning to have a fragile framework of understanding.
Already she was wondering if it would ever be safe to allow Heather Krimble home with her little daughter. Would her nirvana ever happen? But even she could not have foreseen the reasons why it might not.
THIRTY-THREE
She made it back to Waterloo Road at five to six but Simon’s small Nissan was already in the drive, his car packed, full of possessions. As he climbed out she felt the warmth of his grin and his gratitude. ‘You’ve just made my stay in the UK quite a bit more pleasant.’
She wanted to respond with an equal expression of gratitude, maybe even a hug, but instead brushed it away with an almost churlish, ‘That’s OK.’
He handed her an envelope. ‘First month’s rent,’ he said with a burst of laughter. She took it. It felt good. Not the money, the friendship. The beginning of a new era. They both glanced at the small car which looked as though it could not possibly hold one more thing.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘I’ll give you a hand.’
‘Believe it or not,’ he was saying as they dragged stuff into the house, ‘I was thinking I don’t have a lot. Most of it’s still in Oz. How wrong can you be?’
‘Stuff just accumulates,’ she said.
The next hour was spent climbing stairs with arms full of random possessions, from a tennis racquet to arms full of clothes. But as he distributed them around the rooms she felt the top floor was transforming into a small home.
‘Look,’ he said when they had finally lugged his possessions right up to the top floor, ‘I don’t want to creep into your space. Intrude.’
It was time to set the ground rules.
‘The two rooms are yours,’ she said. ‘Exclusively. I shan’t be coming up. A cleaner comes on a Tuesday, a Polish girl called Matylda. If you want, she can do your room too.’
He sniggered. ‘Room with a cleaner? It gets better.’
‘But maybe tonight,’ she suggested tentatively, ‘we could order a takeaway and have a chat.’
‘Yeah,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘Great, if you’ll let me treat you.’
‘I thought you could provide the wine,’ she said with a glint in her eye.
‘It’s a deal. I’ve brought a bottle. Australian,’ he added.
‘Barossa Valley,’ they said in unison.
‘Just give me forty minutes to sort my things out.’
‘And I’ll order the takeaway,’ she said. ‘You’ll be doing me a favour. I hate eating alone.’
He half bowed in an old-fashioned gesture. She wasn’t sure whether it was mockery, charm or the way he thought the English said a polite and formal thank you. Anyway – whatever – she liked it.
When he came down he’d showered and put on a clean shirt, and very politely knocked and hesitated at the kitchen door. So far so good.
They served out the food and sat round her kitchen table. Claire liked traditional design but not in the kitchen. She did have a solid walnut Swiss table at one end bought from a local dealer but the other end of the kitchen was space age. Gadgets, cream units, a black marble surface, stainless-steel coffee maker, kettle and a wonderful food mixer. Simon looked around with appreciation. ‘Great,’ he said. ‘This is really nice.’ Then, looking at her, ‘And I’m allowed to use it?’
‘As long as you leave it like this,’ she said. ‘There’s a kettle and a microwave upstairs that you can have so you’re not constantly …’ And then she was embarrassed.
It sounded like she was banning him from here.
He poured them both a glass of wine and handed her one. ‘I’m not a great cook,’ he said as they clinked glasses. Claire laughed too. ‘Neither am I,’ she said. ‘This is all for show.’
A knock at the front door announced the arrival of the food. She set the table, spooned some of the chicken and rice on to the plates and eyed him.
‘You look troubled,’ he said. ‘So …?’
She took two mouthfuls of the chow mein before she answered. She wanted to get this story straight. And who better to bounce it off than her lodger? But it wasn’t even straight inside her head. There was the missing brother. The loyal sister. The family dynamics. Two dead babies. A deeply troubled patient. A dangerous allegation. A vulnerable newborn. And on the periphery, peering in? Riley Finch, now free, and Arthur about to be incarcerated.
Somehow or other she managed to cobble it together like a very messy, irregular patchwork quilt while Simon listened, almost without breathing, his concentration so intense. And somehow, something recognizable emerged. A sequence of events. Finally, he spoke. ‘You know what I think, Claire?’
She already knew what he would suggest. Knew where all the facts would be unearthed.
‘I suspect your detective is already doing some digging of his own.’
‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised.’
‘And then there’s the sister,’ he said. ‘She might have all the answers.’
‘If I can persuade her to talk.’
He nodded.
‘So, how do I get her on my side, break her loyalty?’
‘That’s a difficult one,’ he agreed.
‘She seems almost brainwashed. Indoctrinated. Agreeing or at least not contradicting any of her sister’s statements even though they’re patently bizarre.’
‘Have you done the DNA test on the little baby?’
She nodded. ‘Took some cord blood. We’re just waiting for the result. It’ll take a week or so.’
‘Which you think will be?’
‘It won’t be Charles’s baby, Simon. That whole story is a bucketful of nonsense.’
‘You think?’ His eyes looked too perceptive. Too all-seeing.
‘Surely …?’ Her voice faded away weakly.
‘Let me put a scenario to you.’ He broke off to pour them both a second glass of wine. ‘We have a brother they apparently adored who’s missing. Yet neither Ruth nor Heather is showing any concern about that. Instead, they’re focusing on a cock and bull story about “other men”. When Heather is actually married and, according to her husband, having sex with him. Why is she doing this? What element is she too damaged to face? Think about it, Claire. There is another thing. Heather and her sister are focusing more on these so-called liaisons than the death of two little babies. Why?’
‘Go on.’
‘She was pregnant when she was married.’
She felt the smooth satisfaction of a piece of a puzzle completing the first recognizable picture since Charles had made that first phone call.
‘The child she’s carrying dies. No DNA test is performed. In fact, at that point no one realizes that this is anything but an allegation, an episode of puerperal psychosis, a woman misguided, deluded. She insists. Continues spinning stories.’ He grinned. ‘In other words, de Clerambault’s syndrome.’
Claire was rapt at the way Simon, looking in from the outside, was putting the facts into something like a progression of events. A natural consequence rather than a rag bag of odd occurrences. She listened, elbows on table, cupped palm supporting her chin, food forgotten but taking the odd sip of some very good Australian Shiraz.
‘Heather becomes pregnant for the second time. This time she blames another man, the window cleaner, who almost certainly never touched her and has his own partner and life plan. And that, almost certainly, does not include Heather Krimble.’
But Claire was remembering the photograph Ruth had pushed into her hand of her sister dressed and made up ready for a party.
‘It’s possible that the poor chap never even looked at her as anything but the lady who gives him ten quid for cleaning the windows. The child is proved to be her husband’s. Unfortunately this second child dies too, aged just two months. In both cases a post-mortem was performed but no cause of death found.’
Simon topped up both their glasses. ‘And then we come to your guy.’ She bristled at the phrase but wisely said nothing. ‘While I’m not wholly convinced Charles Tissot, with his murky, seedy little history, had sex with our lady in the back of his car, I do think it’s perfectly possible. But then it’s just as possible that the whole thing never happened and yet again was a figment of a mind damaged by real events.’
Simon Bracknell moved in a little closer. ‘The real question, Claire, is what real events? What damaged her mind? What was she blocking out by insisting that her employer was the father of her child? And the last question: why did she ask to be referred to the very man she’s accusing?’
She blinked. It was a lot to take in.
‘And Freddie?’
‘Maybe …’ He was frowning. ‘You know one of the generally held explanations for a cot death? Maternal involvement?’
She shook her head slowly. ‘That won’t do, Simon. While Eliza’s was performed by a general pathologist, when Freddie died the PM was performed by a specialist paediatric pathologist. He won’t have made a mistake or missed anything he should have picked up on.’
‘Well, in this case it probably was a cot death.’
She nodded her agreement. ‘It’s a notoriously difficult and sensitive subject. But unless there’s clear and incontrovertible evidence, the pathologist will always err on the side of caution.’
She thought about this one and Simon Bracknell pressed on. ‘I suggest,’ he said, very gently, ‘that you don’t leave her alone with the baby.’
She shook her head, appalled at the vulnerability of a child. This helpless baby, danger homing in on it from all sides.
And her new lodger was patently following her thoughts. ‘Babies are fragile little things,’ he said. ‘All it takes, Claire, is just one short minute.’
She looked at him sharply. There was a subtle meaning tucked behind these words, something personal, something that had touched this seemingly pleasant, uncomplicated man. Why had he really come to the UK without his wife? Questions she wouldn’t be asking, answers he may well not want to give.
Give it time.
‘So …’ she pondered. ‘What next? I can’t keep her in for ever. Neither can I insist she have only supervised access to her child. I have no evidence. And from what you’re saying, maybe the baby isn’t at risk.’
Her mind was seeing Heather’s fingers squeezing her pregnant abdomen, the hand raised for a slap.
‘How was she when you saw her?’
‘Odd. Knackered.’
‘So …?’
‘In her two previous puerperium her mental condition’s improved after a few weeks. My plan was to wait for that and keep her in until we were certain she and the baby had bonded.’
He nodded.
They chatted until ten, when Claire decided it was time to run a bath and Simon disappeared up the stairs.
So far, so good.
THIRTY-FOUR
Tuesday, 4 August, 8 a.m.
She’d had a restless night and woke with a feeling of impending doom. She was anxious to reach the hospital before anything happened. She had no idea why, just knew she had to be there. As she’d left the house she’d heard Simon moving around and called up to him that she was leaving.
Down the stairs wafted, ‘Have a good day, then.’
But as she slammed the front door behind her she had the feeling that she would not. She would have a bad day. A very bad day indeed.
School holidays invariably meant a reduction in traffic this early in the morning so her journey was suitably speedy. When Claire had first arrived at the Potteries there had still been Potters�
� Fortnight when everything had shut down. Stoke-on-Trent had become a ghost town. But these days there were too few potters for the title to make any difference. Maybe it was the same in Yorkshire, where they had Wakes Week.
But old traditions die hard.
Her first act was to bury herself in her office with Heather Krimble’s notes and study the dates.
Some were missing, one of them an exact date for Robin’s disappearance.
She picked up the phone to speak to Ruth Acton and even over the line heard fear in her voice as she questioned her about her brother’s disappearance.
Too many questions answered with a don’t know or I can’t remember. Every now and again she remembered her manners and managed an I’m sorry I can’t help you more.
But even the lack of information told her something. As pieces moved together to lock into position, she started to see the whole picture.
And by chance, as though he was tracking along the same path, at ten o’clock Zed Willard rang. ‘We have a warrant to search the Actons’ property,’ he said.
And even though the information made her heart give a little skip, she still questioned it. ‘On what grounds?’
‘Robin Acton has disappeared,’ he said, his voice sounding stern. ‘Not been seen for eight years. We thought we’d do a bit of digging around as he hadn’t been reported missing by his loving parents.’ She caught the twist of Angostura bitters in his voice. ‘He had a job locally helping to run a betting shop. He turned up sometime early in December 2009 but was only employed on a casual basis. Apparently his father came in just before Christmas and said that they had argued, that Robin had left home and wouldn’t be returning. According to fellow members of their church, he was a rotten egg. He’d left after a row and Bailey Acton had said he would not be returning and his name was to be taken off the register. Put it like this, Claire: would your parents have covered up for your disappearance quite so well?’
Bad question, Zed. Having buggered off himself, my father wouldn’t even have known and my mother couldn’t have cared less – that is, if she’d even noticed my absence.
So she didn’t answer the question.
‘We’re taking sniffer dogs to the property,’ he said, and she knew.
The Deceiver Page 27