Bye Bye Baby

by McIntosh, Fiona

  ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘No, not really.’ A soft sob escaped.

  Peter clearly had no idea what to say. An awkward silence hung between them as she sniffed, gathered herself. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘This is rather difficult to explain. Is your mother there?’ She nearly choked on the word.

  ‘No, she’s probably with Dad.’

  Anne felt a thrill pass through her. She couldn’t let this opportunity pass by. She gathered her wits, swallowed back all the emotion of hearing his voice for the first time in her life and pinched herself to steady her voice.

  ‘I see. This is going to sound very forward of me, but can I ask whether your parents have told you anything about when you were born?’

  It was as though someone had slapped him hard. Peter rocked back from the phone, staring at it dully. He couldn’t believe this stranger had called out of the blue and zeroed in on the very topic that had dominated his thoughts these past two days.

  ‘What do you know about my birth?’ he demanded.

  ‘I know all about it. It’s why I’m phoning.’

  ‘I don’t understand. What do you mean, you know all about it? How can you?’

  ‘I can, darling Peter, because, you see, I’m your mother.’

  Hawksworth scribbled the street name Sarah dictated onto a small pad. ‘You’re sure about this?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Garvan Flynn has been registered as being at that address for the past twenty-nine years. His phone and other utilities are all current. In fact, I’ve just checked with BT. The phone’s in use as we speak.’

  ‘I owe you.’

  ‘The debt’s mounting up,’ she quipped. ‘What can I do to help, sir?’

  ‘Nothing for now. Just stand by. Kate and I are on our way.’

  ‘Shall I send a squad car?’

  ‘Not yet. Let me take stock of the situation first. I don’t want to alert him to the police. I have a feeling our quarry will run.’

  ‘Okay. Keep us posted. Good luck, sir.’

  Jack looked at Kate. ‘We might have him.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ she said, making for the cafe’s exit, glad they’d paid when they’d ordered. ‘Shall I drive?’ She sounded exhilarated.

  ‘No, I hate being driven,’ he said with a grin, the excitement of being so close to their prey infectious.

  Anne had steadied her clamouring emotions. Tears still streamed down her face but her voice was steady and her resolve had become granite. She stared across at the modest house in Rottingdean, knowing now that her son was inside, holding the phone to his ear and not believing what he was hearing. She imagined he felt as dizzy as she did.

  ‘What did you say?’ he croaked.

  ‘I’m your mother, Peter,’ Anne repeated firmly, sniffing. ‘You were stolen from me in 1975.’

  She didn’t need to see him to know that this revelation would send his mind spinning out of control.

  ‘What?’ He gave a series of unintelligible groans but each spoke of grief. ‘Have you been searching for me ever since?’

  ‘No. I was told you were dead. But certain recent events revealed that you were very much alive and I’ve done nothing since but try and find you.’

  ‘What events?’ he breathed.

  ‘I’ll tell you all about them if you’ll agree to meet with me.’

  Anne could barely believe the gift that had just been given to her. An angel must be guarding and guiding her through this time; she had no other explanation for the stroke of luck. She had Peter within her grasp, and this changed everything.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Opposite your house. Just look outside the front door for the light blue car. That’s me.’

  She heard him pause, heard the rustle of his movements as he obviously moved to the front door. She spotted his outline behind the glass on one side of the door.

  ‘I can see you, Peter.’ She lifted her hand in hesitant greeting but he moved away.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I should think that’s obvious.’ Anne spoke softly, not wanting to frighten him. ‘Forgive me the shock I’ve caused you, but I want to look at my son now that I’ve heard his beautiful voice. I want to listen to his story, learn about his life — the things I’ve been denied these last thirty years.’

  ‘This is too much,’ he moaned. ‘I only found out a day or so ago that I wasn’t formally adopted.’

  ‘I can imagine the state of shock you’re in — believe me, I’m only just coming to terms with you being alive myself — and I’m sure that having me turn up on your doorstep is unnerving. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Just don’t be scared of me. I have grieved for you for twenty-nine years, Peter, and now I’ve been given the gift of your life. Will you at least let me meet you?’

  She waited through the difficult silence as her son made up his mind.

  ‘Okay, I’ll be out in a minute,’ he said finally.

  42

  Kate flicked through the Brighton directory, looking for the Rottingdean address. Jack guided the car through the ‘Sunday driver’ traffic, cursing as he went, heading for the historic coastal village that was more conservative than its big cousin, Brighton.

  ‘Want to put the siren on?’ she asked.

  His mouth twisted as he thought. ‘No, we’ll only alarm him more. Best to arrive quietly.’

  ‘What if she’s already got to him?’

  He shrugged. ‘She’ll have left a trail, I hope. This sort of villagey community would likely have nosey neighbours everywhere. Someone will have seen something, but I don’t even want to think about the fact that she may beat us to him.’

  Kate held her peace. The way Anne McEvoy had outsmarted them thus far left no doubt in her mind that she would almost certainly get to Flynn before they did.

  Finally they pulled up not far away from number thirty-two.

  ‘Go round the back if you can, Kate. I’ll do my utmost not to spook him, but you never know.’

  She nodded, stepped over the low fence and looked for a lane or gate that might lead her around to the rear of the house. Jack took the stone stairs two at a time and rang the doorbell as he searched for his warrant card. Nothing happened, so he rang again. A woman’s voice called back that she was coming.

  The door opened and a small woman in her late fifties, he guessed, with a round, kindly face, answered the door. She was wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mrs Flynn?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Jack Hawksworth. Is your husband home?’

  ‘No, he’s not,’ she said, frowning. Disappointment knifed through Jack at her words. ‘What’s this about?’ she added, reaching for a pair of glasses that hung at her neck so she could read his card.

  ‘I need to speak with Garvan Flynn urgently. Do you know where he is?’

  Kate appeared, shrugging, unable to get around to the back of the house. Jack shook his head slightly to tell her they were unlucky.

  ‘This is Detective Inspector Kate Carter, Mrs Flynn.’

  The woman nodded at Kate. ‘My husband’s with our family in Hove. I’ve just come from there, although I think he was going out.’

  ‘Do you know where?’

  ‘Yes, to our son’s house. Look, I’m not answering any more questions about my family until you tell me what this is about.’

  Jack sighed. ‘May we come in, Mrs Flynn?’

  * * *

  Peter sat stiffly alongside Anne in her rented hatchback. Even small talk seemed too difficult for either of them.

  Despite the enormous surge of helpless emotion that engulfed her when her son approached the car, Anne was determined not to spook him by bombarding him with questions, or worse, hysterical tears. She swallowed them back ruthlessly. Touching him, as she wanted to, felt impossible even though he sat so close in the crampe
d space.

  He was tall and a bit raffish, like his namesake, her father. She had to assume his symmetrical features were more like his own father’s, the man she had never seen clearly. The blue eyes were hers, though. She hadn’t seen Peter smile yet, just that self-conscious twitch of the mouth when he opened the car door. Nonetheless that small, shy gesture had reminded her so much of herself from childhood.

  ‘What do you want?’ he finally said when the apprehension of what was ahead and the pressure of silence became overwhelming.

  ‘Just to talk with you,’ she answered carefully. She was in love with his voice, with him, already. ‘How about a walk on the seafront,’ she offered. ‘We can talk privately there, and there’s also something I want to show you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ll see. It will speak more clearly to you than anything I can explain.’

  Anne was readjusting her plan as she spoke, her mind racing ahead as to how to make the most of this unexpected gift of Peter alone with her. She didn’t want to hurt him, but he was also her key to finding Flynn. It was a struggle to balance the love for him and the hate for his father.

  ‘Okay,’ he replied, uncertain. ‘But first, tell me my birthday.’

  She nodded, glad that, despite all the trauma and emotional upheaval, he was sharp enough to make her earn this. ‘That’s easy, Peter. You were born on a stormy night in August 1975, in Brighton.’ She gave him the exact date.

  His mobile phone rang. He looked at it. ‘It’s home.’

  ‘Leave it for a few minutes, will you? Hear me out and then you can tell them whatever you want.’

  He nodded, pressed the button that told the caller his phone was busy.

  Jack listened to Clare Flynn talking to her relatives. He could tell from her side of the conversation that her husband had already left.

  ‘I know you said he’d gone. I just hoped he might have come back for some reason . . . Yes, I’ve tried Peter’s mobile. It’s busy and then it went to that recorded message thing. I’ll have to keep trying, I suppose.’ A pause. ‘I’m telling you, I don’t know. They could have missed each other because Peter was here. I can see he’s made a pot of tea, although it’s untouched . . . Look, I’ll call you when I hear something. Let me get off the phone now, I don’t want to keep these people waiting any longer. Bye.’ She turned to the detectives. ‘Shall I try his mobile again?’

  ‘Yes,’ Kate said. ‘In fact, can you give us your husband’s and son’s mobile numbers, please?’

  ‘My husband doesn’t carry a mobile, says he doesn’t want to be that contactable,’ Clare said, before reciting Peter’s number.

  Anne had just parked when Peter’s phone sounded again. ‘Home again, I presume?’ she said.

  He nodded, having glanced at the screen. ‘My mother can be relentless. I’ll send the busy signal again, but you’d better start talking. I’ll give you one hour.’

  ‘Fine,’ Anne replied. She would need far less if her rudimentary plan worked. ‘Walk with me.’

  ‘What’s in the urn?’ he asked, nodding at the vessel in her hand.

  ‘Trust me. This is for appearances only. You’ll see.’

  Peter shrugged. This whole experience was weird; what was one more strange element? ‘Why West Pier?’ he asked.

  Although she found it hard to, Anne smiled. ‘I know you think you’ve never set foot on it in your life, but believe me, this place is as intrinsic to your history as it is to mine.’

  He frowned. ‘We can’t go on there. It’s completely closed off. It’s been declared unsafe.’

  ‘It’s only closed to those without a key,’ she said and held one up in her fingers. Earlier that day, Anne had spun a poignant tale to the woman who owned The Rock Shop at the start of the pier on the promenade. Anne’s story about the husband who had died far too early and her need to cast his ashes from the pier where they had first met as childhood sweethearts had touched the shopkeeper’s romantic nerve and she’d agreed to give Anne her key, on the proviso Anne would deny it if ever asked.

  Anne slid the key into the gate’s padlock and turned it. ‘Come on,’ she said, pushing the gate open and waving her son inside.

  Jack’s sixth sense was sending him all manner of alarming messages. ‘Has he turned his mobile off, Mrs Flynn?’

  ‘No, it rings and then just goes to his voicemail,’ she said. ‘I don’t understand all this new-fangled technology.’

  ‘He’s pressing the busy signal, sir,’ Kate warned.

  Jack knew she was right. Peter was deliberately not answering his mother’s calls. ‘And you think he’s with his father?’ he said to the worried woman.

  ‘He has to be. Where else could they both be? Perhaps they went for a pint together. I told you, there’s been some bad feeling in the house but my son hasn’t done anything wrong.’

  ‘Mrs Flynn, we haven’t told you everything. We want to assure you that we’re not here for Peter.’

  ‘Then tell me. Why are the police in my house?’

  Jack began the story of what they knew. His listener sat silent, tears streaming down her face, as he spoke. Kate moved to sit alongside her and took Clare’s hand when Jack got to the most difficult part of his story about a heavily pregnant woman being abducted and attacked, the baby all but stomped from her body as it laboured to be born.

  ‘I’m so sorry you had to learn this from us,’ Jack finished.

  Clare Flynn wept. ‘This is not my Garvan you speak of.’

  ‘Mrs Flynn, again I’m so sorry,’ Jack said earnestly, ‘but we suspect your husband to be the ringleader of this gang who abducted and raped Anne McEvoy when she was fourteen in 1974, then abducted her again when she was heavily pregnant and forced her to deliver the child.’

  The woman wept harder.

  ‘Clare, the baby was a son and we believe he was stolen by Garvan Flynn. Your son is called Peter, isn’t he?’ She didn’t answer, didn’t need to. ‘He’s not your son, is he? He’s adopted. And he’s twenty-nine? The timeline fits.’

  ‘He told me he bought him,’ she whispered, her lips almost white, her complexion suddenly colourless. ‘I wanted a child so badly. I couldn’t get pregnant. It was Garvan, he had a low sperm count we were told. But it was lots of things, I’m sure. Pressure from my parents, them wanting a grandchild, a grandson! He told me a man got Peter for us from a woman who had plenty of kids she didn’t want. This was just one more she didn’t care about. We gave him a loving home . . . a good life . . .’ She was sobbing.

  ‘We understand your position, Clare,’ Kate assured. ‘You couldn’t have known the truth.’ She decided it was best not to mention that Clare and Garvan Flynn had deliberately and knowingly broken the law in taking a child that was not theirs.

  ‘But I believed him!’ Clare cried. ‘I had no reason to doubt him. He said a man in the pub told him he could get a baby. It was an unwanted pregnancy to a drug addict mother. She’d already had four kids to different fathers. According to this man, she didn’t even know who Peter’s father was.’

  ‘Well, a paternity test will probably prove that Garvan is Peter’s biological father,’ Jack said. ‘The likeness is there in these photos you have around the room.’

  ‘I always thought so, although I tried to tell myself that Peter was too tall, that his smile was nothing like Garvan’s, that his personality was much brighter and outward-going. I convinced myself he was someone else’s child, ignored the similarities in colouring and features.’ She began sobbing again, gasping as she spoke haltingly. ‘Garvan is a gentle man. He couldn’t have done these things you speak of.’

  ‘It was many years ago. He’s not the same person now, I’m sure. He was the same age then that Peter is now. Was he an angry younger man?’

  She nodded. ‘He got very frustrated that I couldn’t fall pregnant. He’d go out drinking. He was very angry for a while and we even separated for a short time in 1974.’

  Both Jack and Kate straightened. ‘When in
1974, Mrs Flynn, can you recall?’ Kate asked.

  ‘Oh yes, it’s the only time we were ever apart. It was winter — all of October and November. We got back together by early December . . . you know,’ she shrugged, ‘in time for Christmas.’

  ‘And now?’ Kate asked.

  ‘He doesn’t drink, he doesn’t smoke, he doesn’t do anything wrong. He’s a wonderful father — has been since day one. He loves his family. We love him.’

  ‘Did he smoke thirty years ago, Clare?’ Jack asked. ‘Did he roll his own cigarettes using tobacco from a tin?’

  ‘Yes,’ she stammered. ‘He did.’

  Jack glanced at Kate. ‘Clare, have you received any odd phone calls from a woman calling herself Anne McEvoy, Sophie Fenton, or any woman you didn’t know but seemed to know your husband?’

  Clare shook her head. ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘But you think Peter was here this afternoon, while you and your husband were with your relatives?’

  ‘I know he was. He has his own key. I can tell he was here because he always leaves the used teabags in the sink. His father and I break them open and use them on the garden. It’s our routine. Peter just tips the pot out and leaves them. Besides, I can smell his aftershave.’

  ‘I smelt that too. I think it’s Fahrenheit,’ Kate said, trying to keep Clare Flynn chatting.

  ‘That’s right, the deep orange bottle. His father used to use Brut 33 a long time ago. He said it was strong enough to cover the smell of the fish he handled — he was a great angler, my husband — but I hated the smell of it. He doesn’t wear aftershave now. Hasn’t worn it since then. Doesn’t go fishing much, either.’

  ‘“Then” being when he came home with Peter?’ Jack prompted.

  She nodded. ‘Garvan seemed to change overnight from the moment we had Peter. We left Hove, moved into this house. My parents helped us to buy it. All our old folks are dead now but they went to their graves knowing they had that precious grandson. And Peter knew them, loved them.’

  ‘They knew how he came to you?’

  She nodded. ‘My parents did. It’s not that they didn’t care how he came to us, but they knew how desperate we were and that this baby had a terrible home. If he’d stayed with his no-good mother — not that she wanted him — he’d have been lucky to get through school and not turn out a yob or a tramp.’ She looked at them, apology in her expression.