‘What? Sorry, wha—’
‘I knew you’d be surprised. I didn’t mention it before because I know a lot of shares have fallen and I wasn’t sure how much would be left after everything’s sorted out, but as I say, Mr Windgrove rang and—’
‘Sorry, Mum, I’m not quite clear. Did you say—’
‘Forty thousand! Or just over. Anyway, enough for you to—’
‘Hang on. Surely, I mean, doesn’t it all just go to you?’
‘Oh, yes, the house, the pensions, bonds and so on. But this money was specifically meant for you; he arranged it last year, just after he became ill. And Jonathan,’ her voice softens, ‘I think this will please you: he stipulates that you should spend the money exactly as you like.’
Again he has the strange sensation of being acutely aware of his body; he can feel his clothes – an old t-shirt and boxers – against his skin, and he can feel the air circulating around the bits that aren’t covered. He’s still trying to process what he’s learned about his birth mother, and now Gerald . . . He shivers, even though the house is warm. More revisions.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow, darling,’ his mother says, and after a moment, there is a gentle click as she hangs up.
As he climbs the stairs again, he feels as though he can see himself from the outside, as though he’s watching the movement of every joint, the flexing and contracting of every muscle and tendon. After months of feeling ‘not himself’, he is now conscious of being intensely, thoroughly, and absolutely himself; more himself than he has ever been in his entire life.
*
It is well past eight when a finger of early spring sunshine slides through the curtains and wakes him. His first thought is of Gerald. Fiona was deeply asleep when he came back upstairs last night, so she doesn’t know yet; he can hardly take it in himself. He turns over to look at her. She’s awake and sitting up already, her shirt open to reveal her beautifully rounded belly.
‘Look,’ she says. ‘You can see it moving.’
For half a minute or so, he stares in vain at the taut flesh. Then he sees it, a tiny hand or foot, travelling from one side to the other like a little shooting star.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Hastings, June 2009
Maggie picks up the wad of stuff that’s just plopped through the letterbox and takes it into the kitchen. There’s the usual collection of pizza leaflets and junk mail, a couple of bills and a postcard. ‘Look.’ She hands the postcard to Sam. ‘From Don Hutchinson, thanking me for seeing him. What a nice thought. I’m not sure I was any help, though.’
‘Och, come on. Why doubt what the fella says? What you told him tied in with what the other women said. It confirmed where that bastard was and when, so it backed up the information they already had.’
‘I suppose so. But it’s too late to really do any good, isn’t it?’ She’s not sure she’ll ever forgive herself for not telling the police at the time. If she had, maybe Jack wouldn’t have raped those other women.
Sam puts his arms around her. ‘Mr Hutchinson said it’s never too late. And it means those women will know that the man who raped them is no’ around any more. You did well, hen; I’m proud of you. It’s thanks to you that they’re sure it was the same man.’
She sighs. ‘I suppose so.’
Mr Hutchinson said they’d made the original link through Jack’s brother after he was arrested with some other pensioners on a council-tax protest. His DNA showed a close match with what they had on record from the other women – the ones who’d been brave enough to report it. It turns out Jack killed himself in 1987 – stepped in front of a train after his dog was run over, apparently. He’d had a long history of depression, the brother said. Maggie is glad Jack is dead, but a little sorry that it was suicide, even after what he did to her. She has often said she wouldn’t wish depression on her worst enemy, and it seems this is true, given that Jack surely must be her worst enemy. The brother was a perfectly respectable old gentleman, according to Don Hutchinson. Did he know about Jack, Maggie wondered? About what he was, what he did to women? But then she pushed those thoughts back with the memories she’d rather lose among the cobwebs.
She is about to throw the junk mail into the recycling box when a small silvery envelope slips out. It’s addressed to Maggie and Sam Kielty. When she opens it, she feels as though a dozen fish are flipping and floundering in her stomach. She hardly dares breathe as she takes out the satiny white card. There is a single, miniature blue footprint on the front. She opens the card and reads the silver lettering inside:
Jonathan and Fiona Robson
are delighted to announce the arrival of
George Edward
Born 4 May at 4.23 am
6lb 3oz
And written by hand underneath:
George arrived three weeks early, which was a bit frightening, but he and Fiona are absolutely fine now. They are home from hospital and ready to receive visitors. I’d like very much for you to meet them, and also George’s other grandma. Please bring Sam, too. They say George looks like me (poor little thing!) but what do you think? He is six hours old here.Jonathan Maggie’s eyes fill with tears so fast that she has to blink several times before her vision clears. She looks inside the envelope again, and pulls out the photograph of a perfect newborn child, with navy blue eyes and a thatch of golden hair.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My profound gratitude to my editor Clare Hey for her expertise and insightful feedback, especially the ‘lightbulb moment’, and to my agent Kate Shaw for her advice and guidance, and for her inspired suggestion regarding the structure of Maggie’s story. I’d also like to thank Susan Opie, whose eye for detail helped polish the manuscript to a sheen, and everyone at Simon and Schuster for their cheerful enthusiasm and belief in this book.
I owe a great deal to the friends and fellow writers who read sections or whole drafts of the manuscript and offered constructive criticism, encouragement and moral support, not to mention coffee, cake and wine. In particular: Sue Cooper, Rachel Genn, Iona Gunning, Sue Hughes, Neil Reed, Ruby Speechley and Russell Thomas. And a very special thank you to Jane Rogers, whose generous feedback, advice and encouragement kept me going when the going got tough.
In an attempt to get my facts straight, I picked the brains of many generous and knowledgeable people on matters of DNA and police ‘cold case’ procedure. My thanks go to Dave Drabble, Dr Christopher Ford, K.A.C. Sara Longford, John Milne and many others. For medical advice on ‘the bloody scene’, my thanks to Dr Rebecca Davenport. Any remaining errors in these matters are entirely my own.
My research around Maggie’s time in the mental hospital led me to a great deal of fascinating reading, but the book I returned to again was the invaluable The Female Malady: women, madness and English culture 1830–1980, by Elaine Showalter.
I am of course deeply grateful to my family for their continued belief in me, and especially to my daughter Emma and my son James, who I think are almost as proud of me as I am of them. But the greatest debt of all is to my husband Francis, for the laughter, the conversation, the ideas and the stories; for having more confidence in me than I had myself, and for his unwavering love and support.
Table of Contents
Author biography
Title page
Copyright page
Dedication page
Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWE
NTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The Things We Never Said Page 28