Julia couldn’t help herself blushing, not only because Jessie was so accurate but also never before had Jessie expressed anything to her of such an intimate nature. Was this what happened when one grew older? Inhibitions melting away to reveal the real person underneath all the restraints that protocol demanded of the young.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘But how can it really be love unless you love everything about that person?’
‘No two people think alike about everything. There are bound to be differences. And you know what? Those differences might bring a bit of spice into your life when other pursuits become less important.’
Julia smiled. Jessie hadn’t even been able to tell her about the birds and the bees, let alone allude to anything concerning love and sex. But she wondered if that was what was wrong with David and Jessie. They were too much alike, so possibly there’d be little to stimulate conversation, now that he was too old for golf and she had stopped playing in the orchestra.
‘And don’t forget respect,’ Jessie went on. ‘You may not agree with everything he does, Julia, but if you respect him and he respects you, the marriage ─ or the living together ─ will work.’
‘Jessie, I didn’t know you were such a philosopher.’ Or so broadminded, she thought.
Jessie laughed. ‘Well, you know what they say: older and wiser.’
‘But wait a minute. Nobody’s said anything about marriage. Or living together. He’s been married before. He might not want to repeat the experience. And it’s not part of my future plans. Although . . . Nicky does need a father . . .’
What would my real parents have said if I’d come to them today, Julia wondered. ‘Jessie?’
‘There is something else. I thought there was.’
‘No. Not really. But . . . what was my real name? Before you and David adopted me.’
Jessie blinked her eyes. ‘You’ve never ever asked me that before.’
‘No. I didn’t think you’d want me to.’
Jessie shook her head. ‘I often wanted to tell you . . . everything.’
‘Everything?’
‘Well, you know, who your mother was and ─ ’ She looked towards the window, then back at Julia. ‘And about your twin brother.’
Julia felt the blood drain from her head. ‘What about my brother?’
Jessie closed her eyes and shook her head again. Julia flung herself down at her knees. ‘What happened to my brother? Why did he die?’
‘Do you really want to know this,’ Jessie asked slowly, ‘after all these years?’
Julia saw Jessie’s daisy-papered walls float towards her, wobble, then recede. ‘Oh yes, I do,’ she said, struggling to steady her gaze. ‘More than anything in the world.’
Jessie sat forward and rubbed her eyes. She looked as though she was going to change her mind, hesitated, then took a deep breath. ‘David always said that when your memory had fully recovered we should tell you. But it didn’t recover. And we never found the right moment. We didn’t want to upset you any more than you’d already been upset. And anyway, we had no idea where your brother had been taken.’
‘Taken? So he didn’t die.’ Julia leapt up and walked to the window. She clenched and unclenched her fists. So it is true. No longer is he a faceless wraith disappearing over the top of a dream mountain. He is somewhere on this earth. I did not imagine it. I knew it. All along.
‘Did you see him?’ She stared out of the window, every muscle in her body tensed up like a violin string waiting to be plucked.
‘No,’ Jessie said. ‘Thank goodness I didn’t. That would have made it worse.’
‘Did you know his name?’
‘Nicholas,’ she said.
She swung round to face Jessie. ‘Yes. Nicholas! But why couldn’t I remember it? I tried. God, how I tried. I couldn’t remember anything about him. It was all a blank, until ─ ’
‘Shock does that to people’s memories,’ Jessie said. ‘The psychologist told us that when something awful happens that’s too much for you to bear, nature helps by blanking it out. But subconsciously you did remember.’
‘How?’
‘You called your daughter after him.’
Julia felt as though she’d been winded. ‘Yes,’ she said, flopping back into the chair. ‘Of course. And I remember Simon’s surprise when I was so certain it should be Nicola, when I rejected all the names he’d suggested.’
‘And I got goose pimples when you told me her name. I knew it wasn’t just coincidence.’
There it was again, thought Julia. No coincidence. Just a chain of links going back through a sea of mists . . .
‘I was so glad,’ Jessie said, ‘when you started calling her Nicky.’ She bit her lip. ‘But even then it didn’t seem right to tell you about Nicholas.’
Ironic, wasn’t it, Julia thought. Each not wanting to hurt the other.
‘And my mother and father?’ she asked, holding her breath, fearing that to move even slightly might break Jessie’s train of thought.
Jessie looked away. ‘I wish I could tell you something good.’
‘Go on, Jessie.’ She moved to the edge of the chair.
‘Your mother took you and Nicholas to the church.’
‘Which church?’
‘St Mary’s. In the centre of Manchester. The Hidden Gem?’
‘Yes,’ Julia said, hardly breathing. ‘I pass it often.’
‘She gave her babies to the nuns. The nuns took them to the Touchstone orphanage. They didn’t even know what day the babies had been born, but by the look of them they took a guess they were two days old, so gave the date as the 15th December.’
Julia’s heart beat faster. ‘Where is my mother?’
‘No one knows.’
‘And my father?’
‘The nuns told the orphanage they thought he was someone important. Someone whose name had to be protected. An MP, or a judge. But they were only guessing. The nuns thought she was from a good family. She said her name was Victoria King. She was about sixteen, they said. And very beautiful. Now you know as much as they did.’
Julia’s head was spinning. She had an irresistible longing to visit the church. She would go tomorrow. She pictured the frightened young girl, weak and exhausted from the birth of her twins, going furtively up the steps of St Mary’s and handing over the two tiny babies. ‘She must have been desperate,’ she said. ‘Oh, Jessie. My brother. Nicholas King. Alive after all.’
‘What do you mean, after all?’
‘Even though they told me he was dead I always felt he was still alive.’
Julia looked up at Jessie’s face, so torn with remorse. ‘Don’t feel bad, Jessie. It’s my fault. I could have asked you any time.’ Julia stood up and moved over to Jessie, and without thinking she put her arms around her. But Jessie gently pushed her away and turned her head towards the wall.
‘You don’t understand,’ Jessie said, her shoulders shaking. ‘I’ll never forgive myself. And I don’t know why you haven’t already asked me.’
‘Asked you what?’
‘Why we didn’t adopt Nicholas as well.’
A silence fell. Julia sank back onto her knees in front of Jessie. ‘Okay. Tell me now. Why?’
‘There are so many excuses. I couldn’t have lived with myself if I hadn’t made those excuses over and over again to justify our unforgivable omission.’ At last she looked at Julia. ‘I said we had no idea where he’d been sent, but I’m sure we could have found out if we’d tried. All we knew was what we were told. That to begin with he was taken to a special unit for boys who had . . . who were naughty.’ She turned away again. ‘Not just naughty, but unmanageable and wicked. They told us he’d done something terrible.’
‘What?’ Julia shouted. ‘What terrible thing did he do?’
‘I don’t know. They didn’t say, but they did tell us there were marks of horrendous physical abuse on his body, old scars and severe new wounds too ─ and ghastly wounds on you as well ─ so they would bear that i
n mind and he would be treated accordingly, especially because of his young age. But because of the violence of his behaviour, he was not offered for adoption.’ She wiped the tears from her eyes, stood up and lurched over to the window. ‘We should have insisted. We should have taken him. We could have helped him, loved him. We know that now. We would have been a happy little family, the four of us together. Oh, the poor little boy . . .’
Julia was hardly listening. She flopped back onto the carpet. She gripped her trembling knees. Pieces were slotting into gaps like the reversed film of an explosion.
A line of images. Some blurred, others clearer than they’ve ever been. The lamp. Mr Spencer’s head. There! I’ve even remembered his name. The blood. Everywhere. The pain. Shouting, running. Flashing lights. Sirens. Hurry, Julia, come with me . . . running, hiding, crying, sleeping, waking, cold, running, the stars, the rain . . . running . . . and then . . . Nicholas disappearing . . .
She screwed up her eyes. If Smith is Nicholas ─ God forbid ─ this proves he was just trying it on, to get the money out of me. Twisting it around, trying to make me believe that I had picked up that lamp and crashed it down on Mr Spencer’s head. But embellishing it grotesquely by saying I had killed him, because he knew my memory of my childhood was almost non-existent. When all the time it was he who had wounded Mr Spencer with the lamp, though he could easily have thought he had killed him. I can remember now, seeing the huge man lying on the floor, blood everywhere. But Mr Spencer couldn’t have been killed otherwise Jessie and David would surely have been told about such a serious crime.
And why do I have this feeling that one last piece is missing?
She held her breath. What if Mr Spencer was killed and the authorities had just wanted to spare David and Jessie the sordid details . . . And how would the police have known who it was that struck him with the lamp. Maybe it was her. Maybe the police just assumed it was Nicholas because he was a boy and she was a girl . . .
She had to know. She had to find out who it was.
‘They said he was . . . unreachable,’ Jessie said. ‘That’s what they called him. Unreachable. You’d both been covered in blood when you were eventually found. Full of gashes and bruises, they said. And suffering from loss of blood from the wounds you both had. You had lost your memory. The only thing you knew was that you had a brother. The people at the orphanage, where you were always cared for in between the times when you were fostered, told you Nicholas was dead because they were sure you wouldn’t come to us without him if you knew he was alive. You’d been inseparable they said. And, oh God, we let you go on thinking he was dead.’
Tears were streaming down Jessie’s cheeks now, yet she seemed determined to carry on. ‘But that wasn’t all. We were selfish. All the years we had tried for a baby it was always a girl we’d wanted. It was cruel to separate you. You were miserable without him. You had panic attacks, alarming changes of mood and you were clearly depressed and did some really strange things. Talking to your brother. Talking to yourself, you never stopped doing that. We even had a social worker check you out. She said there was nothing wrong with you that time wouldn’t cure. She told us to ignore it and you’d soon forget.’
Julia shuddered.
The social worker. The little boy next door. Throwing my arms around him, crying with happiness, sliding down to the ground clutching him and kissing his legs, thinking he was Nicholas . . . the accusations . . .
‘Most little boys are naughty,’ Jessie went on. ‘It’s normal. Even you were naughty, Julia. They say clever children are the worst. Nicholas would have grown out of it, I’m sure. He’d been grossly abused, provoked into doing whatever act of violence it was that he did. But we didn’t have much money. We wanted everything for you.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘Our little girl. At last.’
Julia joined Jessie at the window. She stood as close to her as she dared. ‘What happened to him in the end?’ she asked. Her hands were bunched into fists to stop them trembling.
Jessie gripped the sides of her head. Julia prised her hands away. ‘Tell me, Jessie.’
‘I have no idea,’ she whispered.
More tears streamed down her face. Julia put her arms around Jessie and held her tightly. And for once her adoptive mother did not push her away. ‘There’s no excuse for what we did. And I just wish we’d told you everything.’
‘It’s my fault. I could have asked you any time. And then I could have searched for him.’ She handed Jessie a tissue.
‘You were always searching for him. I used to cry when I saw you at the bottom of the garden, talking to an imaginary child. And in bed at night telling him a story, laughing for the both of you at the funny bits and crying if it was sad. We robbed you of your brother, no matter what he was. I never forgave myself for that.’
Julia stood beside Jessie, feeling a rush of warmth. She wished she could comfort her. They gave me so much, she thought. Where would I have been now if they hadn’t adopted me? ‘Oh, Jessie. Stop blaming yourself. I’ll find him.’
Jessie’s eyes lit up. ‘We could help.’
‘No, Jessie dear. I must do this on my own.’
MONDAY
- 84 -
Julia gulped down her coffee, and with the emergency make-up kit she kept in the bottom drawer of her desk, she attempted to make herself look human. After her electrifying weekend, followed by three gruelling hours last night at Bootle Street police station sorting out a businessman who’d been arrested on a drugs charge, and after four days of the suspense of still not hearing from Sam Smith, she knew she looked grim.
But that was only on the outside. Inside it was far worse: a bizarre mixture of elation and terror, and total bewilderment. Who hit Mr Spencer on the head with the lamp? Was it Nicholas or was it her?
Did Mr Spencer die?
But all these questions are academic, Julia thought. If Sam Smith is not Nicholas.
Elation? Because today she was in love with Paul Moxon. Today she had a big new juicy case. Today she had a brother called Nicholas King who did not die twenty-six years ago. And today, theoretically, she should no longer be afraid, since this was the fourth day in a row with no phone call from a man called Sam Smith.
Like a rat after a feast of poisonous bait, he might at this very moment be slowly rotting to death, she thought. In pain, lonely, sad, bitter at the futility of his miserable life so difficult to separate from her own. And when they found his body, or even before that, she would be driven by remorse and guilt to tell the police how on the spur of the moment she defended herself with a hatpin ─ yes, a hatpin ─ when her life was being threatened by ─ who? ─ this twisted man who was trying to settle a score.
‘Alive,’ she said aloud, just as Linda walked in.
‘Just a reminder,’ said the ever watchful Linda, dropping a pile of files on Julia’s desk and handing her another mug of steaming coffee, ‘that tomorrow you’re duty solicitor at Manchester Magistrates’.’
Julia raised her eyes to the ceiling, and took a grateful sip of coffee.
She’d have to work all hours to clear today’s workload. Her diary was grossly overbooked. Her wealthy new client was appearing in court at eleven-thirty and that would throw her schedule completely out of kilter. But if she wasn’t there with him he’d simply get another lawyer. It was a big case. And if she didn’t stick herself to it like glue at this stage, her ability to prepare it later on would be seriously prejudiced.
With her files under her arm Julia popped briefly into Ben’s office. She avoided his personal questions with nods or shakes of her head, and their schedules were re-arranged with Mark and Caroline doing their bit, and even the staff at the Longsight branch chipping in. Afterwards she made a few phone calls, sorted Saturday’s mail, and called Linda in again.
‘I’d like you to do something personal for me, please.’ She kept her eyes down as she spoke. ‘Look up the phone numbers of organisations that trace missing people. Salvation Army, DSS, but there are many others you could
try.’
‘If you give me the date of birth now,’ said Linda, ‘the DSS can find the National Insurance number straightaway.’
Still avoiding Linda’s gaze, she pretended to scratch in her top drawer. ‘I’m not sure of the date,’ she said. ‘Just get me the numbers, please Linda. I’ll work on it myself when I get back.’
When Linda had gone she shovelled everything into her briefcase and grabbed her raincoat and umbrella. As she slung her handbag over her shoulder, she felt the pistol slam against her hip. Just as well, as she’d never have got past Security with it in her bag. She unlocked the desk drawer, shuddering as her fingers touched the cold metal. With Smith either dead or dying, she thought, squeezing her eyes tightly shut, I have no more need of it. This weekend I will drive up into the hills and throw it into the depths of the Goyt Valley reservoirs.
She had just locked the drawer when the phone rang. She almost didn’t answer it, but decided it could be something regarding her new drugs case. Or Geoff Atherton about the Dennis Magg trial that was opening at the Crown Court in a few minutes time.
It might even be Paul . . .
She picked up the receiver. ‘Julia Grant speaking.’
‘You thought I’d forgotten about you, didn’t you, Julia?’
‘What?’ A mixture of relief and fear flooded through her. Had Martin Bedlow been completely wrong?
‘Don’t waste my fucking time, Julia.’
‘And don’t waste my time either. I’m due in court in ten minutes.’
‘Shut up, rich bitch and listen. First. No more fancy ideas about going to Chester House and blabbing your mouth off. We know you got the hots for that piece of shit but you better say nothing to him. I’ll know if you do, Julia. So far you’ve been very sensible, so don’t spoil it now. And in case you’ve forgotten, this is Monday, so where’s my fucking cash?’
Julia sank into her chair. Like a big wheel at a fair ground, two names chased around her brain. Sam Smith. Nicholas King. Sam Smith. Nicholas King . . .
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