by Sam Hayes
Robert loved Tula deeply. She was everything he didn’t want in a woman and they got along flawlessly.
‘Come here,’ he said, placing his wine glass on the marble worktop. ‘I’m being rude.’ He walked up to Tula and grabbed her round the shoulders, lifting her off the floor. He pressed his face into her stiff, dazzling blonde hair and kissed her head. ‘I’m a grumpy old sod at the moment so forgive me. It’s good of you to have me over and dinner smells . . .’ he took the wooden spoon from Tula and tasted the redcurrant and rosemary sauce, ‘it smells and tastes divine. Just what I need.’
‘Summer lamb.’ She grinned up at him. ‘You can’t beat it.’
Den guided Robert into his library. Their footsteps echoed as they walked through the Travertine-lined reception hall and into the oak-panelled room that was Den’s private retreat. ‘Welcome to my botox-free zone,’ Den had said when he’d first shown Robert around their newly acquired pseudo-Georgian house. ‘Tula and her cronies aren’t allowed in here. Strictly off limits.’
The room had everything he needed – a plasma screen television concealed behind an oil painting of a hunting scene, a well-stocked bar with built-in refrigerator, a mahogany desk which masked the latest computer technology, a half-sized snooker table, a dark green leather suite positioned around the fireplace, and a wall of well-stocked bookshelves. Robert could see no reason why his partner needed the rest of the house, except when he had to eat or bathe.
But Robert wasn’t envious of Den’s fortune. His father, the late William Edmond Frederick Mason, had set up Mason & Mason nearly fifty years ago with his own father. When Den’s grandfather passed away, Den naturally filled the gap, having newly graduated from law school.
Robert had qualified at the same time but instead of having an easy passage into a family firm in the City, he fought his way through provincial firms further north. The experience he gained was invaluable and when Den’s father died of a heart attack, Robert was the man Den called upon to become his new partner and Mason & Mason became Mason & Knight.
But the old firm, in the last years of William Mason’s life, had lost the prestige it once had. Too ill to keep the important corporate clients he had nurtured for decades, Mason senior entrusted the business mostly to his son, Dennis, who spent the next few years enjoying the good life. Mason & Mason suffered as a consequence. Most of the cases they dealt with now were matrimonial, with the occasional litigation client coming their way. But it was a living, and these days a good one; Mason & Knight had earned a reputation as a specialist international family law firm.
Den had finally succumbed to routine. Perhaps more a result of age and lack of time than anything else, although once or twice a year he treated himself to an extra-marital fling. But Den was a loyal friend and an invaluable ally so Robert kept quiet.
‘Is she getting it elsewhere?’ Den eased himself into a chair.
‘Not that simple.’ Robert didn’t think he was capable of divulging everything he’d discovered about Erin’s history and he certainly didn’t want Den to know that he’d been digging through Erin’s private letters. It smacked too much of last time. ‘Suffice it to say that she’s lied to me and even when I confront her with what I know, she still won’t admit it.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘At home, with Ruby. Keeping a close eye on her, I hope. Ruby’s got a new boyfriend. A bloody gypsy, would you believe.’ Robert leaned forward, the leather squeaking beneath him, and asked his partner earnestly, ‘How do I do it, Den? My wife’s not who I thought she was and my daughter’s in love with a dope-head hippy despite sending her to one of the most expensive private schools in London.’ He managed an incredulous laugh when he heard the words out loud instead of banging about in his head.
‘Not who you thought she was?’ Den latched on to the snippet of information.
‘She hasn’t been honest about her past and I’m not sure whether to believe her denials or the source of my information.’
‘Denials? So she’s declaring her . . .’ Den paused, searched for the right word, ‘. . . her innocence?’
Den had hammered the truth home. While Erin had flatly denied knowing Baxter King or ever living in Brighton, she hadn’t actually rebuffed his accusation. She’d had the chance, a tiny window of opportunity before she had run downstairs to greet Ruby, but instead she had avoided answering.
Robert sighed. ‘No. She’s not declared anything.’
‘I see,’ Den said thoughtfully. He was stabbing in the dark to figure out what Robert was implying. He wouldn’t press his partner too hard. ‘Have you thought of getting Critchley’s bloke involved? What’s-his-name, the chap who does all his digging?’
Robert wasn’t sure if he should say, but he did anyway. ‘I looked up Louisa when you told me she was back in England. We met at a country hotel and I saw her in London earlier today, got her a place to stay—’
‘Hang on, Rob mate.’ Den wasn’t sure he was keeping up. ‘You had a dirty weekend with Louisa, saw her again in a hotel today, and you’re angry at Erin?’ Den was laughing, approving almost.
‘It’s not like that.’ Whatever he said, he knew Den would read it as he pleased. ‘I’ve hired her. She’s going to investigate this mess for me. It’s best that I don’t go steaming in any more than I have to. After last time,’ he added. ‘But keep it quiet. If Erin finds out I’ve hired Louisa, that’ll be it between us.’
It made Robert realise that he didn’t want it to be over. It also made him realise that because he’d been wrestling with guilt and dealing with grief after Jenna’s death, he’d completely overlooked the signs, glaring and obvious to most, that Erin wasn’t all she claimed to be. He’d not even been on the rebound; he was ricocheting through the post-Jenna days. Erin had been the light, him the moth.
Tula called them for dinner. The conversation reverted to the ghastly garden design team who had made a botch with the Japanese maples – they were in quite the wrong place, Tula moaned – and the Bowman case, which Robert again asked Den to take over. Den refused.
‘Got too much on, I’m afraid. You’re on your own on that one.’
‘Oh well, I’ll just have to represent him then. With any luck, we can wrap it up in one hearing. It’s those kids I feel sorry for, living with the man they’ve seen beat up their mother countless times.’ Robert instantly realised what he’d said.
‘Your client’s admitted that?’ Den said through a mouthful of lamb.
Robert sighed and laid down his knife and fork. ‘His wife, Mary Bowman, came to see me the other day. She said she was going to let her husband have the children. She looked like she’d been in a car accident.’
While Den remained silent, chewing and pondering, Robert thought about what he had just said. Mary Bowman was going to let her husband have the children. What right did she have to give them away? And what right did Jed Bowman have to claim possession in the first place? It seemed clear to Robert now: the children should be allowed to speak for themselves. At their age, one was eleven and the other thirteen, they were capable of deciding where they wanted to live. He considered the same situation with Ruby in mind and knew without doubt that he was right. Both he and Erin, if they should split, would respect their daughter’s wishes about where she would reside, although in this particular instance Robert had no claim over his stepdaughter. But it proved to him that no one had the right to ownership, least of all parents like Jed and Mary Bowman.
‘I’m not sure that colluding with the opposition is entirely—’
‘Leave it, Den. I’ll handle it.’ Robert raised his hands to halt the conversation.
Robert paid the cab driver and walked carefully up the steps to his front door. He was well fed and after the wine and cognacs his thoughts were pleasantly numbed and ready to deal with Erin in a mellow way.
Following the lamb, Tula had served baked fruit with crème fraîche and then Den had led Robert back into his library where they sat and talked and drank bran
dy for another couple of hours. With Den’s help, although Den still wasn’t aware of the entire truth, Robert decided that he needed to adopt the ‘innocent until proven guilty’ tack and lay off Erin. He was a lawyer, after all, and slamming his wife on the say-so of Baxter King, a complete stranger, was a pretty low act. Den convinced Robert to go home and apologise, whatever their problem was, and talk things over calmly in the morning.
The house, as Robert expected, was dark and quiet. The neon-green digital display on the oven clock blinked eleven thirty. Robert drank some water and collected his thoughts before going up to his bedroom. He knew he would feel rough tomorrow, having consumed more alcohol in one day than he usually did in a week.
Erin had forgotten to close the bedroom curtains and an orange glow from the street light flooded the room in a dangerous shade of amber. Robert stopped when he saw that their bed was empty. Stupidly, he pulled back the undisturbed quilt to make sure Erin hadn’t slipped out of sight. She must be sleeping in the guest room or tucked up beside Ruby. He crept across the landing, only to find that the spare bed was also unoccupied, and as he pushed Ruby’s bedroom door open a few inches, his breathing halted completely when, again illuminated by amber light, he saw her bed was empty, too.
Cursing, Robert marched back to his bedroom, snapped on the light and flung open the wardrobe doors. Most of Erin’s clothes were missing while some lay heaped on the floor of the cupboard. On the dressing table, her jewellery box was gone and in the bathroom all female toiletries and Erin’s toothbrush were absent. He checked Ruby’s room, and while more belongings remained, it was obvious that clothes and personal items had been packed and removed.
Robert fell onto Ruby’s bed and pushed his face into the pillow. He felt as bereft as the day when he’d finally managed to dispose of Jenna’s possessions from their home. Piece by piece he had packed her away and shipped her off to charity shops, grieving relatives, the dustbin; her life nothing more than a couple of visits to the council tip.
Robert, she said.
He jerked his head up, hopeful it was Erin. When Robert realised it was Jenna’s voice, urging him not to repeat his mistakes, he finally acknowledged that Erin and Ruby had left him.
SEVENTEEN
Sarah comes to see me every week. It’s a comfort for both of us. I never take any money from her but I always lay out the tarot, always scam a shot of hope in an otherwise bleak life. She hasn’t told her father that she’s carrying a baby. It tells me how much attention he pays to his beautiful daughter because her belly is proving like bread dough.
She’s visiting on Saturday at six o’clock this week. Her father and brothers are going to a family celebration, and like all good Cinderellas, she’s not invited.
‘It’s men only,’ she tells me when Saturday finally comes. The week has dragged by and clients have been scarce. I get ready for her visit two hours before she’s due. ‘I’m glad not to be going,’ she says. ‘I’m not feeling very well.’
I guide her to the chair and switch on one bar of heat on the electric fire. The sun seems to have dropped too soon and, despite being June, there is an unusual chill in the air. Andy and I were going to open up the tiny fireplace and have real log blazes but we never got round to it before he left.
I reach my arms around Sarah’s belly, as if to welcome the baby into my home. Sarah smiles.
‘I can feel his shape,’ I tell her. ‘That’s his foot there and that lump could be an elbow.’ I place Sarah’s hand on her baby’s protuberances and her grin broadens. I make her happy and I’m happy because there is a baby in the house again. ‘You will still visit me, won’t you, when he’s born?’ It suddenly occurs to me that perhaps she won’t need my friendship when the new love comes into her life.
‘I want you to be his godmother,’ she says. The roof lifts on my miserable existence and sunshine pours in, making everything look like it’s been painted bright yellow.
After the press conference Andy and I didn’t take our eyes off the telephone or the television. Sheila moved in with us although she sent Don back home, mainly because he was offering me sympathy and that, as far as Sheila was concerned, wasn’t something I deserved.
The next day our story was on the front page of most newspapers, local and national. When it was obvious there wouldn’t be any immediate developments, like a body, the reporter’s vans gradually diminished as other news became more exciting.
That was it really, apart from a couple of mentions on the evening news and radio bulletins. Our story slipped further down the list until we fell off the bottom. Several of the nationals ran a follow-up story and more pictures of Natasha a week later, reminding the country that our baby was still lost. But before long the people of Britain had forgotten us; we were old news and our plight was in the hands of the police.
Of course, had Natasha been found alive and well, that would have caused a spatter of stories for a day or so but what the press really wanted was a body. Natasha’s dead body would have set the presses rolling triple time, but for now, more important things were happening in the world like Russia announcing stuff about their nuclear stash.
Sheila, despite her pursed lips and severe hairstyle and choppy way of speaking, kept us alive in the weeks that followed Natasha’s disappearance. By attending to the basics of life, such as cooking, cleaning, washing, deflecting phone calls, shopping and sending away unwelcome visitors, she allowed Andy and me to grieve as the faint thread of spider-spun hope stretched and thinned and eventually snapped. As February drew to a close, Natasha minus seven weeks, we knew that we would never see our baby again.
Andy lost his job during the same week that they suspected me of murdering Natasha. I can’t remember clearly whether Detective Inspector Lumley and PC Miranda hauled me in for questioning before or after Andy came home early, angry as sin, saying he’d been fired for spending too much time in the toilets. I could tell by the clear lines cut through his grimy face that he’d been sobbing a while in the loos. We both sobbed every day but not in front of one another and not for the same reasons.
Sheila finally moved back to her own house but visited regularly, mainly to see Andy, to bring round bags of frozen stew and soup. The day I was taken in for questioning she’d called by unexpectedly and handed me a box of food for the freezer, knowing I was still incapable of shopping, but she wouldn’t come in when I said that Andy was out.
A few minutes after she’d left, there was another knock at the door and I recall thinking that she’d changed her mind, that perhaps I wasn’t such a careless daughter-in-law after all and maybe it wasn’t entirely my fault that her granddaughter was gone. I skipped back to the door, desperate to be loved by Sheila, feeling the first pang of hope in ages that something good could come of this, but it was the police standing there. Detective Inspector George Lumley and PC Miranda, all serious, requested that I accompany them to the station for questioning. Once again my world crashed into an unfathomable vortex of noise.
I was allowed to put on my shoes and a coat and lock up the house. I sat in the back of the police car with PC Miranda next to me. I wanted to grab her by the shoulders, pull her hair, scratch her face, poke out her eyes – anything to make her consider the time we had spent together in the days immediately after Natasha was taken. She was my ally in the endless and lonely search for my baby. She was the person who had reeled me through the early days, consoled me and talked endlessly to me about the future, that there would be one, and once she had even bathed me when I’d vomited and my hair was matted. PC Miranda had gone above and beyond the call of her duty. Now she was just doing her duty.
‘You’re not being arrested, Cheryl. The detective inspector just wants to get a few things clear about what happened that day.’ PC Miranda patted my leg and gave me a forced half-smile, which told me I was as good as arrested.
At the police station I was taken to an interview room and told to wait. PC Miranda sat with me but didn’t talk. The room was cold and everythin
g in it was grey. When she saw me shivering, she went and fetched me a coarse blanket. That was grey, too. She offered me a cup of tea but I couldn’t drink it. While I waited, I was thinking, am I the criminal now?
DI Lumley came into the room with another policeman who I didn’t recognise. Lumley was tall with broad shoulders and an impatient face with small features. His eyes looked like boiled sweets that had been sucked away and his nose was a crooked line, too narrow for such a wide man. Now that he wasn’t on my side any more, he didn’t look very nice.
PC Miranda moved me over to a melamine table and I sat on one side while the police sat opposite. They each had clipboards and there was a tape recorder between us. They switched it on and began to log dates and case numbers and state who was present in the room. I’d seen all this before, on the television, when criminals were arrested. I tried to remember what it was I was meant to have done but all I could focus on was that I’d lost my baby.
Lost my baby, I repeated over and over. Lost my baby.
Perhaps they were questioning me because I’d been so careless. That could be a crime, leaving your car unlocked or indeed leaving your baby in the car in the first place. Maybe I was unfit to be a mother and I deserved to be locked up.
‘This won’t take long, Mrs Varney. There are just a couple of things we want to clarify about . . .’ DI Lumley paused, glanced at his partner and then continued. ‘About the day that your baby was abducted. I know this isn’t easy and I want to assure you that I have a number of my top men working on this case. But we have very little to go on and just need your clarification on a couple of points.’