After a while, he gave up any hope of concentrating on words and went to play Hearts on his computer. Hearts could keep him occupied for hours: a small vice he kept a secret. There was no redeeming feature in sitting in front of a screen playing card games: he should have been educating himself, learning something, being productive. Instead he spent far too long trying to Shoot the Moon or offload the queen of spades, smoking his pipe as he played.
Isabella would never have let him get away with it. If Isabella were alive, they would have been sitting out on the porch chatting. What would she have thought of Jack and Holly?
Henry led the two of clubs, sat back and pondered.
“Find out, Henry. When you go out fishing tomorrow morning, find out exactly what it was he did and didn’t do. We can’t pretend it doesn’t make a difference, no matter how much Holly wants us to. You need to find out.”
All right, Isabella. That’s what I’ll do.
Sleep was eluding her. She’d be just about to nod off and her eyes would snap awake, seemingly of their own free will. She was facing the wall: Jack’s arm was around her waist, holding her to his body. He was asleep; she could tell from the regularity of his breathing pattern. He’d been remarkably cheerful all day: smiling, making jokes, full of enthusiasm for their move. She’d had to go to the bank in the afternoon to withdraw the cash in her checking account, while he stayed home with Katy and decided where it was they were moving to.
“What about Indiana?” he’d asked when she returned and found him at the kitchen table. “I like the sound of it. It sounds anonymous. What do you think?”
“Why not?” She’d forced a smile. Katy was watching TV in the living room. She couldn’t tell her about the trip until the last minute. It wasn’t fair to make Katy keep a big secret like that. “I thought you loved the sea, though, the horizon.”
“Good point!” he’d exclaimed—as if she had said something supremely intelligent. “Indiana it isn’t!” He pulled the atlas lying on the kitchen table back in front of him and opened it. “Oregon. Oregon sounds good, doesn’t it? And it’s on the Pacific. There’s even more of a horizon on the Pacific.”
“Are you all right, Jack?”
“I’m fine. I’m sorted.”
“Sorted?”
“Never mind.” He shook his head, grabbed her hand, stood up and pulled her up with him. “Come here.” He hugged her. “We’ll have a brand new life. We can be anybody, do anything.”
She tried to catch his good mood and run with it, but all she could think of was leaving Henry behind.
“Katy will miss Henry. So will I,” she said.
“So will I. But it’s like I said before. You have to keep looking forward. Maybe I could be a fisherman in Oregon. And you could be a schoolteacher. In a small coastal town. We should live in a cabin. Katy would love living in a cabin.” He began to dance, and she fell into it with him, following him as he led her around the kitchen table. “We’ll have a radio in the cabin kitchen. And dance in the moonlight.” He stopped, looked at her. “It will be amazing, Holly Barrett Dane. A simple, amazing life. No television. A radio but no television. You can picture it, can’t you?”
“Yes,” she lied.
And she’d lied when they had sex that night, too. Pretending, for the first time, to have an orgasm. She didn’t want to disappoint him or admit to him how frightened she was. He needed her to be strong and she needed to be strong for him. Saying goodbye to Henry the next day without telling him they were leaving Shoreham would be the most difficult lie she’d ever have to tell.
The smell of his warm sleeping breath in her ear made her remember that first time in the bus, how he’d whispered to her, how she’d felt so close to him, so intimate. What if someone had told her then that she’d be married to him and leaving Shoreham with him forever within six weeks? What would she have thought?
I would have thought I’d trade in anything to be with him—anything except Katy.
I’m sorry, Henry. But I don’t have a choice. Love like this doesn’t give you a choice.
Henry woke up sweating, drenched from his dream. He’d been walking down the dike in the blazing heat and John had suddenly appeared, standing beside the lighthouse. Not John at the age he’d died, but John when he was in his early twenties. Young and strong and handsome and his son.
“Hello, Dad,” he’d said and Henry had rushed up to him to hug him, saying, “You’re alive. John. My God, you’re alive.”
“I’m going swimming, Dad. Come with me,” John had said—and then he’d broken out of Henry’s hug and dived off the rocks at the end of the dike, swimming toward the canal.
“The current. Don’t, John. The current’s too strong. You’ll drown,” Henry had shouted from the rocks. “Stop,” he kept shouting. “Don’t go to the canal. Stop!” But John had kept swimming.
When he reached the buoy marking the canal, he turned.
“You’ll love it, Dad. I promise. Come with me. Come swim with me. Dive in now.”
He couldn’t move. He tried to pick up his feet, to launch himself into the water, but he couldn’t move.
“I can’t. Not yet. I can’t come with you yet,” he yelled.
“OK.” With the illogic of dreams, John didn’t have to shout to be heard. Henry could see his face clearly, bobbing above the waves. John smiled that amused, funny smile of his, then dived down into the water.
Henry kept searching the canal, waiting to see him reappear, but he was gone.
He woke, drenched not only with sweat, but with a terrible sense of loss and incomprehension. Was that dream supposed to mean something? He didn’t believe in all the dream malarkey, Freudian interpretations or whatever they called them now. But he’d been so happy when he’d first seen John standing there; so panicked and miserable when John disappeared under the water. It all felt so real and so crushing. Why hadn’t he followed John into the canal? The only moments he was allowed to be with his son again were ones in dreams. Why hadn’t he gone to him?
He got out of bed, stripped off his pajamas, sat back down, and allowed the tears to fall. When they’d finished, he turned on the bedside lamp; then went to the chest of drawers in the corner of the room to find a new pair of PJs. As he was opening the middle drawer, it hit him.
“I had a sister, Miranda. She died when she was young.”
That’s what Jack had said that night he was playing catch with Katy.
He remembered thinking, Prospero’s daughter, Miranda. A lovely name.
“I had a sister who died when she was very young . . . Amanda.”
That’s what Jack had said in the house.
He hadn’t misheard, either time. He was almost certain of it.
Jack couldn’t have had two sisters.
Would parents name a daughter Miranda Amanda Dane—or whatever their last name actually was? Perhaps. But would you refer to your sister by both her Christian and her middle name? Unlikely.
Whatever the truth of Jack’s sister’s name, Henry knew he couldn’t go back to sleep. If there had been a big Mafia trial, it would have been reported in the English press. He could search for it on the Web. At least that would keep him occupied; he’d feel he was doing something. Not standing paralyzed on the rocks, a helpless onlooker.
Closing the middle drawer, Henry then opened the top one. He was going to get dressed properly, fix himself a cup of coffee and go sit at his computer and do some Web surfing. No one would have to know. He wasn’t in league with Billy this time. He was simply doing some research on his own.
As he waited for the kettle to boil, he thought of the day they’d buried John and Julia. Late that night, he’d gone down to the long grass where their ashes lay. There was no moon, there were no stars. He’d taken a flashlight and Bones and found the spot where they lay and sat down beside it.
“I promise you I’ll take care of them. I’ll love Holly and Katy with all my heart and soul and I’ll take care of them. I’ll try to do what you’d do
if you were here. I’ll do my very best for as long as I live. That’s a promise.”
A foghorn sounded. Henry turned at the noise, looking for ghosts.
Chapter 24
There were pages and pages of responses on Google.co.uk to the “Gangland cases London 2003–2005” Henry typed in. He combed through them, learning as he did that there were two major types of “gangs” in London: the “Yardies”—a nickname given to gangs of a West Indian origin—and the Mafia. Honing in on the Mafia-related entries was proving fruitless. He didn’t know Jack’s real name; he had no way of working out what case might be connected to him. There were armed robberies and murders, money-laundering and kidnappings. Henry spent hours raking through them looking for potential clues and finding nothing.
Jack’s case could have been any of the ones he’d pulled up, Henry knew. What was the point of continuing? They were all gruesome and nasty. Jack had landed himself in a terrible fix, certainly, but as he continued to move from page to page, Henry began to question whether finding out how terrible that fix actually was would help. Still, he searched on, feeling as if he had the mental equivalent of something stuck in his throat. He needed to clear his mind, to breathe freely again. He couldn’t stop himself from repeatedly clicking the mouse button to read the next entry.
At some point he must have fallen asleep, his head on the desk. Waking up with a start, he wiped his mouth, checked his watch and saw it was six a.m., then stood, stretched, and went to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee.
There was no point in going upstairs to bed now; Jack would be over in a little while to go fishing. The coffee would give him a second wind and the trip out in the boat would be another energy boost; if he had to, he’d take a nap in the afternoon.
Carrying the cup of freshly brewed coffee with him, he walked outside and sat down on the porch steps. The night had turned into a gray day—uninspiring and gloomy. When he looked out over the canal, it was flat and glassy; there was no wind, no movement of any kind. A good day to speed along in the Sea Ox, maybe even a good morning to fish. But despite the caffeine beginning to kick in, Henry was suddenly overwhelmed by a longing to sleep again; he wanted to curl up, to be like Bones and pad around in a circle and then curl up and go to sleep. And then . . . then to wake up and find the sun shining and Isabella and Jack and Julia and Holly and Katy all there, standing over him, telling him to get ready, it was time to go to the beach.
Turn back the clock. Keep turning it back until you recapture that moment of happiness you didn’t appreciate fully at the time. Live it over again.
Let me have them back again. Just once, just for a minute.
Standing up, he felt suddenly faint and leaned his hand against the wooden pillar for support.
Self-pity is not excusable. However tired you may be. Go upstairs and wash your face and pull yourself together.
He turned, went back into the house, headed to his desk to switch off the computer. It was time to give up on the quest to find out what Jack may have done. He’d ask him on their boat trip. He should have learned by now that direct confrontation was always the best way to approach a problem.
As he leaned down to push the power button off, Henry caught sight of the piece of paper with a number written on it, the number Billy had read out to him: Eliza McCormack’s number.
Eliza McCormack. The woman who had given Jack his new identity. A parole officer? Someone in the prison system?
He put the cup of coffee down on the desk, rebooted the Apple and typed in Google.co.uk. After the Google page came up, he typed “Eliza McCormack” in the box and sat back. The first entry was:
Eliza McCormack Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia
Eliza McCormack, QC, has made her name fighting cases no one else will touch . . .
Henry leaned forward, stared at it, thinking, She’s a lawyer, is this the right Eliza McCormack? and clicked on the Wikipedia link.
The picture caught his eye first. A black-and-white head shot of a silver-gray-haired woman in early middle age. Mid-forties to early fifties, he guessed. Perfectly coiffed, strong features with a predominant nose, no-nonsense mouth and challenging eyes. Lines on her forehead which signaled a healthy distaste for Botox. If he’d seen her across the room at a party, he’d want to go talk to her.
Eliza McCormack QC (born April 30 1962) is a well-known English barrister. She has made her name in criminal defense work, often in cases which gained public notoriety, including the Choirboy Killer, Len Houston, the Paddington 4, and the Green Warriors.
A mountain climber, skier and renowned feminist, she has been nicknamed “Extreme Eliza,” and has a reputation as a fiery and witty public speaker.
Contents:
Personal Life
Famous Cases
Notes
See Also
Further Reading
External links
Henry paused. Was Eliza McCormack someone who would be involved in giving someone a new identity—was this kind of thing in the remit of barristers in England? And would she defend someone in the Mafia? He clicked on Famous Cases.
As well as representing 11-year-old Thomas Grainger, the Choirboy Killer, who murdered twin 3-year-old girls, Amanda and Miranda Dunne, McCormack has represented Len Houston, the television talk show host accused of—
He stopped, his eyes returning to the names Amanda and Miranda.
No. This is coincidence. No. This can’t be anything but coincidence. They are names, that’s all. Names any child might have. I misheard before. He didn’t say Miranda the first time around. I misheard. My hearing isn’t what it used to be. I’m getting old.
He leaned forward, put his elbows on the desk, covered his face with his hands. Just as he had done in the doctor’s office when the oncologist had said there was no more she could do to help Isabella.
Don’t let this happen. Don’t let this be the truth. It can’t be the truth.
Type “Thomas Grainger” into Google and find out you’re wrong. Find out what a misguided, crazy old man you’ve become. Prove it. Because it can’t be true. It can’t be.
He didn’t type anything in. His hands stayed where they were, covering his face.
Katy. Playing on the beach with Jack. Katy. Going for a ride with Jack. Alone with him in the car. Late at night. Katy.
In an instant, he’d sat back up straight, pulled up the Google page and typed in “Thomas Grainger.”
Image Results for Thomas Grainger
There were three snapshot pictures. One of a dark-haired young boy standing in front of a board with measurements of feet and inches on it, holding a piece of paper with the name “Thomas Grainger” written on it and a date of birth.
Beside it was a photo of two little girls. Blonde-haired, identical little girls smiling into the camera, looking as if they might be posing for a family Christmas card.
The final picture on the right was of a teenage boy. An older version of the boy in the first picture.
A younger version of Jack.
No, oh my God, no.
Leaning forward, he studied the teenage boy more closely. Jack’s eyes. Jack’s nose. Jack’s mouth.
A feeling of dizziness came over him again; he couldn’t take in the text printed underneath the pictures. All he saw were parts of sentences: viciously battered over the head with a cricket bat . . . an 11-year-old choirboy at the prestigious choir school . . . horribly reminiscent of the Jamie Bulger case . . . Barrister Eliza McCormack . . . Grainger was released from prison at 18 . . . new identity to protect . . . Dunne, father of the murdered identical twins, suffered a fatal stroke in 2007 . . .
“Henry.”
Chapter 25
He turned so quickly, he knocked over his cup of coffee.
Jack was behind him, staring over his shoulder at the screen. “I didn’t hear you come in. How long have you—”
“Sorry about that. I saw you hunched over your desk as I was walking in. I didn’t want to disturb you, you were s
o engrossed. I’ll get something to wipe up that coffee, Henry. Hang on a second.”
“Jack, no. Wait. Leave it. We need to talk.”
“Because of that?” Jack pointed at the screen. “You don’t really think that’s me, do you?”
“Are you saying it isn’t?”
“Of course it isn’t.” He smiled. “You need glasses, Henry. Should we get going, then? Off to the dock? The fish are probably out there jumping, just waiting for us.”
Viciously battered over the head with a cricket bat . . .
“My vision is fine, Jack.” He stood up. “We’re not going anywhere right now.” He went over to the armchair beside the fireplace. “Sit down in that chair across from me. We’re going to talk.”
“Come on, Henry. Don’t be silly. Let’s get going.” Jack didn’t move.
“No.” Henry pointed to the chair. “Sit.”
“What? I’m Bones now?” Jack ambled over to the chair, sat down casually. “This is a waste of time.”
He couldn’t fit the image of a boy who had killed two little girls to the man who was sitting across from him now—to Jack, his grandson-in-law. What he desperately wanted to do was stand back up, say, “Forget it, let’s go,” and head over to the dock. How could he start this conversation? How could he have a conversation about all this? The horror of it kept flooding his heart; yet he knew he had to push it to the side, somehow. He had to find out the truth—now.
“You wanted me to know, didn’t you?”
“To know what? I’m not following you.” Jack crossed his right leg over his left.
“You’re following me, all right. There’s nothing wrong with my eyesight and there’s nothing wrong with your brain. You wouldn’t have said their names if you didn’t want to be found out. You would have made up some name like ‘Ruth’ for your sister—not Miranda and then Amanda. You said both their names, Jack. You wanted me to know.”
Tainted Page 23