I open the file and look at the picture of baby Casey. Maybe this child could be my sister. She has a similar nose to me, and a high hairline just like I do that I try to hide with a fringe. I flick through the pages. The records are sparse, incomplete, but as I read, I see something that is just like me. A diagnosis. Dysplasia of the left hip.
‘Matt,’ I say as he negotiates the turns of Johnston Terrace, Edinburgh Castle rising high above us on our left. I reach out, grab his arm as if I am trying to warn him of danger. ‘Casey Harringford has the same diagnosis that I do. Dysplasia of the left hip. According to this, that’s why she was at the hospital. Hydrotherapy. It looks like she was treated there for the first six months of her life as an outpatient. Then all treatment stopped.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I say, but we are interrupted when the phone rings. It is DC McGuire.
‘Irini, thanks. We have the photos. But we will need the originals, and I would ask you, if at all possible, not to handle them. If we can get a good print from Elle on them, it’s highly unlikely she was harmed while she was handcuffed.’
For a second I’m confused, because in my mind the whole thing is already solved. ‘I told you, I just saw her at the house, and that Matt confirmed her intention was to disappear. He will make a statement today if he needs to.’ Why are they still looking for evidence?
‘Well, there is nobody that can prove either of those claims to be true. A fingerprint from Eleanor on those photographs would really help us with the timeline.’
I can feel the disappointment swelling as we are sucked into a melee of gothic architecture. We bobble over the cobbles and weave our way through open-topped tourist buses and congested commuter traffic. ‘You’re not going to let Antonio go, are you?’
Matt looks at me, pulls a face, his hands raised in the air in disbelief. He honks his horn for people to get out of his way as we travel downhill along the Royal Mile.
‘I’m afraid it’s not that easy.’ For a moment I am sure I am on speaker phone, as if DC McGuire is waiting for somebody to give him the nod before he continues. That’s when DC Forrester speaks.
‘Irini, good afternoon. First things first, I did ask you to make sure you stuck around. You had no business running off to Scotland.’ She lets that hang there for a while, but I offer no reply. ‘But as you already have, and now that Antonio has pretty much cleared you of any wrongdoing, let me tell you where we’re at down here. Mr Molinaro has confessed that Elle first made contact with him months ago. She found him on Facebook. He has also confessed to taking the pictures you sent us, and to a consensual sexual relationship with your sister.’ She pauses before she says, ‘I’m sorry, Irini, but his story is that Elle paid him for information and your phone number. In return she promised to keep his name out of the mud. Seems they had a few secret liaisons in London before your mother died. Elle seems to believe that she was to inherit her mother’s jewellery upon her death, and she promised it to Antonio as a further payment if his information proved useful.’
She pauses again, and I glance down at my empty ring finger, and then at Matt. Twenty-four hours, and so much has changed. Forrester picks back up.
‘I guess it did prove useful. You might also like to know that his bank loan was never approved, and we have tracked three bank transfers from Elle’s account into his since their first meeting. Rest assured, Irini. Everybody will get what they deserve.’ I know she includes me in that, but I also feel that she has softened towards me. She has stopped addressing me as Dr Harringford, for one. ‘I’m going to need you to check in at the station up there, provide a statement. Matt too.’
‘OK, we’ll do that.’
‘And listen, Irini. If everything that we think we know is true, you’d be best off staying away from the house. We have no idea what Elle is capable of.’
After we hang up, I reach for a tissue in the side of the car door. I wrap the photos inside it and place them in the glove box.
‘So they’re not letting him go yet?’ Matt asks as he pulls on to the pavement outside the Bank of Scotland on Lawnmarket. He sounds his horn again to move the pedestrians out of his way; people complain and curse as he mounts the kerb. It’s a side of him I haven’t seen before: forceful, making things happen, as if nothing can get in his way. His eyes appear heavy, perhaps as if he has been crying, but it could just be from the dust. Yet his face is still kind, and soft. This is what safety feels like, I realise. Having a team member on your side. Not that suffocating feeling of losing myself like I always had with Antonio.
‘I’m not sure you’re supposed to park here,’ I say.
‘Never mind. Tell me,’ he says as he pulls on the handbrake and turns off the engine. ‘Are they letting him go or not?’
‘Not yet.’ Money. Payments. Antonio sold my trust. Bastard. ‘He sold me out to Elle in exchange for money. And sex. Maybe it’ll do him good to stew in a cell for a while.’ Right now I’m thinking he deserves whatever they can throw at him. But I try to remember that he was sucked in by Elle, which makes you do things you normally wouldn’t. I only have to remember Margot Wolfe to be reminded of that.
‘No doubt.’ He nods to the glove box. ‘And handcuffs, eh? His idea, you think?’
‘It would be a first.’ I can’t look at him when I say it. I feel so stupid. So suckered in by the pair of them. ‘But at least now that Antonio has confessed his side of the story, they can see that Elle is really the one to blame, and that she was playing him to get what she wanted.’ After a brief pause I add, ‘Perhaps they’ll see that she was playing me too.’
‘What do you think she was trying to get out of it?’ he asks as he unclips his seat belt.
‘She wanted to get me here, prove that my father loved her more than me. Our parents might have sent me away, but Elle never believed it was what they really wanted. She always doubted their love. It was as if she needed to prove to herself that they didn’t regret keeping her. But she also wanted me to need her in just the same way as I always wanted her to need me. The easiest way of doing that was by making sure that all I had left was her.’
‘You think that’s why she slept with Antonio, to ruin your relationship with him?’
‘No. I was never supposed to find out what she had done with Antonio. That would have made it her fault. I would have been angry with her. My relationship had to fall apart because of me.’ I shake my head, brush my hands over the dusty file. ‘Why do you think she drugged me? Me sleeping with you was just another part of her plan. She would have told Antonio when it suited her. Once she was ready to be my hero. But my father’s will changed everything. And now this file,’ I say as I hold it up for him to see, ‘changes everything again.’
We exit the car into a chilly Scottish breeze and I glance up at the grand building. The brass plaque outside reads City Chambers. Inside it is palatial, and my boots resonate in lofty echoes on the monochromatic marble floor. We pass through to the records office, stuffy, the smell of old paperwork trapped in the dry air of central heating. There is a mood of library quiet, the studious atmosphere that reminds me of university and loneliness. I take Matt’s hand, and he slips his fingers through mine. I squeeze them tight.
‘Can I help you?’ A frail old lady is standing at the desk. She is wearing a high-buttoned blouse with frills running down the front. A small locket, no doubt containing those she loves, sits around her neck. She is not unfriendly, but she is aware of the clock, and looks at it twice before we have even spoken. We are the visitors at the end of the day that she doesn’t need.
‘Yes, I hope so. Anna? We spoke on the phone.’ I move towards her, holding Casey’s file tight to my chest.
‘Oh, you must be Dr Harringford.’ She perks up and shuffles out from behind the desk. She must have been on a step, because by the time she is alongside me she seems even shorter. ‘I have found the records I think you need.’
She guides us over to a large oak table, the kind tha
t would be more at home in a servants’ kitchen. The old building creaks and groans as we walk towards it, the parquet floor moving up and down, especially as Matt follows behind.
‘We are looking for a birth record from the year 1984,’ I say as we approach the table. ‘A girl called Casey.’
‘Well, based on the information you gave me over the telephone, I pulled some old records, but I also did a computer search. Most of our documents dated after 1971 have been filed electronically now,’ she says with a degree of pride. ‘I ran a check and found a birth registered for the year 1984. The nineteenth of February.’ I look down at the file and see the number: 0020-95-03-19-02-84. I angle it towards Matt, but he is already nodding. ‘Here, I pulled the original document so that you could see it for yourself.’
I look down at the old register. Casey Harringford, born 19 February 1984. Mother Cassandra Harringford, father Maurice Harringford.
‘My sister.’ I turn to Matt, tears in my eyes. ‘I have another sister.’
Anna coughs a little and I realise that I have been premature. ‘I’m afraid that is not the only record I have. When I ran the computer check, two records came back. The first, a birth,’ she says, tapping the book. ‘The second…’ she pauses, her lips pursed, ‘a death.’
‘For the same person?’ asks Matt, moving in closer to me.
‘Yes.’ The old lady lifts a heavy green leather book from a shelf, dust flying up in clouds like smoke. She opens it at a page marked with a sticky note. ‘The same little girl, it would seem. Date of birth matches. Date of death, the fourth of June 1984. It seems that she lived little more than three months.’
‘Are you sure there isn’t a mistake?’ Matt asks, leaning in to inspect the name, as if something might change the closer he gets.
‘There is only one registration for which the details match. I’m very sorry to be the bearer of bad news,’ says Anna, backing away.
We thank her and retreat to the car. Outside, the afternoon shoppers are making the most of the dry weather. We are still sitting there in silence when Anna leaves ten minutes later. She waves, gets into an old Punto parked a little distance from the building, and drives cautiously away.
‘What do you think?’ Matt asks. ‘I mean, how do you feel?’
‘Confused. I should feel sad, because I have just learnt that I had a sister, and according to those records she died. But according to this,’ I say, holding up Casey’s medical records, ‘for the first six months of her life she was receiving outpatient treatment at Fair Fields for a dysplastic hip.’ I sigh. It couldn’t be called a breath, because it feels like I haven’t breathed for the last ten minutes. ‘What I feel like hearing is the truth.’
He starts the engine, pulls the car forward and we rumble back on to the cobblestoned road. We wind through the city, passing the Scott Monument and the Balmoral Hotel clock tower, and I can’t help but think of Elle, the times we sat in the park below it, the hours we wasted together in this city. Is all that over? Has she really disappeared this time? For good? After a moment Matt turns to me.
‘What do you want to do now?’
I try calling Joseph Witherrington, but he has already left his office for the evening. That will have to wait until tomorrow. I consider asking Matt to drive me to Aunt Jemima’s old house. I could probably still remember where it is, and just maybe she still lives there. But I’m not sure I could face a rebuttal, so I scrap that idea before it leaves my lips. We should go to the police like DC Forrester asked, but where will that get me? The police can wait.
‘Did you go to school in Horton?’ I ask. ‘You grew up nearby, right?’
‘Nearby, but not in Horton. I was living in Selkirk until my parents’ divorce. After Fair Fields I moved to Peebles with my mum. Why?’
‘Well, there’s this woman, a teacher from the village. She’s the only person who knew my family back then that I could contact. She must have known about Casey.’
‘Worth a try,’ Matt suggests.
I pull out my phone and dial Miss Endicott’s number. There is no reply.
‘Do you know where she lives?’ Matt asks. I think back to our conversations in the school, how she told me that she had lived in Horton all her life. What was it she said? The little cottage on the end of the row?
‘I think so.’
‘Then let’s go and talk to her.’
‘OK. Head to Horton.’
After a few minutes of driving, he speaks. There is no warning, nothing to pave the way. ‘I’m so sorry, Irini. For everything that has happened to you.’
I reach over, stroke his leg like Antonio used to do to me. I realise now that to comfort somebody who has suffered is difficult. There is no easy way to soften the past, or make things right. But for the first time I know I have to put my own memories aside and try. I have to do this for Matt. Because I must also learn how to do the same for Elle.
39
By the time we arrive, the sun is hanging low in the sky and the shadows are starting to creep across the fields, cast by the distant trees and the steeple of the church. We pull up alongside the stone wall of the graveyard. There are a couple of people heading into the Enchanted Swan, and another tending the grave of a loved one. Fresh, the soil still heaped on top, waiting for the land to settle. I let my eyes scan across until they find the mound that covers my mother. It will be weeks, maybe even months, before the ground is firm enough for it to be covered with grass.
‘Which one?’ asks Matt as he closes his car door.
I slam my door shut and move towards the front, my fingers lingering on the hot bonnet. ‘I think that one,’ I say when I spot a cottage decked out with colourful primroses and beautiful topiary hedges.
We walk towards the house and find all the lights off, except for a small lamp that is glowing in the downstairs window. It’s a humble home, naturally beautiful in a quaint, imperfect way. The paint on the door is peeling like the walls of Fair Fields, and the garden from up close is a smidge overgrown. The edges of a once neatly trimmed lawn ragged, the almost dead buds of a dahlia clinging on to the last days of life. We walk up the pathway, closing the gate behind us. I knock on the door and wait.
‘Maybe she’s still at the school,’ I say when there is no reply. I knock again but get the same. Nothing.
Matt checks his watch. ‘It’s a bit late for school, isn’t it? Nearly five o’clock.’ He pulls the sleeve of his mac back down, wraps the coat around himself. He peers up the side alley, looking for an answer. Knowing that he is right, I knock again, louder this time.
‘Miss Endicott, hello. Are you home?’ I call through the letter box.
‘Irini, what did you call her?’ I turn. Matt has taken a step back, is staring at me.
‘Miss Endicott. I don’t know her first name. Listen,’ I say, turning back to the door. ‘I can hear the television.’
‘Maybe we should come back another time,’ Matt suggests, edging away from me, towards the gate. I ignore him, step over the flower bed, a carpet of red and purple petals. ‘Irini, I really think we should leave. I’m sure she doesn’t know anything.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ I balance on an old green bench set against a black wrought-iron frame. I cup my hands around my face and peer in through the window. I see an uncomfortable-looking settee, 1950s design, floral cushions balanced along the back in neat diamond rows. Behind, a bookshelf loaded with books, and a fireplace with a roaring fire. There is a tray on the table with a plate full of what looks like roast chicken and vegetables. And then I see it.
‘Break down the door,’ I shout to Matt as I leap off the bench, trampling across the flower bed. ‘She’s on the floor.’
Matt hesitates, but then pushes past me towards the door. He tests the handle, finds it locked from the inside. He pushes against the door with his shoulder, but it doesn’t budge. He grips one fist in the palm of his other hand and jabs the point of his elbow at one of the glass panes in the door, then fiddles his hand carefully th
rough the shattered glass and finds the latch. The door pops open.
Inside we are hit by a smell: burning, charcoal, food? I am not sure what. We dash through the dated living room, towards drifts of smoke coming from the kitchen. I am the first to see it. Only seconds pass before Matt sees it too, my tongue so tied I couldn’t warn him.
Miss Endicott is lying on the floor, her skin blackened, smouldering like an ember. She is bound to a chair with garden wire, red gashes circling her from where it has cut into her flesh. There is a fireplace poker sticking out of her chest. Smoke is rising from her body like an abandoned city after a night of rioting, when whole streets are left to burn.
Matt grabs the nearest towel, soaks it in water and throws it towards the charred body as if there is something left to save. Steam rises with a sizzling sound as the wet material makes contact. He looks up to me for an explanation for the inexplicable, but his eyes are drawn away and I follow his gaze, turning to see the words painted on the wall in blood: This is where you will be judged.
‘Like Fair Fields,’ he says, backing away from the body, finally realising there is no hope. Or that perhaps Miss Endicott didn’t deserve to be saved.
He rushes to the front of the house with his phone to his ear. That’s when I see the file sticking out from underneath the table to the side of the body. I grab the wet towel with one hand, the other clasped firmly over my mouth, then reach forward and pull at the file. It is just like the one I have in the car for Casey Harringford. The corners are blackened, but as I open the cover, the image is clear to see. Elle as a little girl. I stand up and take the file to the window, cracking it open to clear the smell. I can hear Matt in the background requesting an ambulance and the police. I turn the pages, but as I do, I see something from the corner of my eye: movement outside near the rear gate.
If You Knew My Sister Page 29