by Diana Finley
Barbara would frown at me and mouth: “Don’t tease her!”
‘Oh, come on, Inspector Dempster, you know what I mean. What about Stacy?’
‘Sorry, Shelley, nothing new, I’m afraid. But the file’s still open. Won’t be closed ’til we find her, however long it takes.’
Sometimes Barbara would talk to her. She was good at that sort of thing. Motherly, like.
‘How are you, Shelley? You still working up at Moorside? Yeah? Good for you, pet. Isn’t Ryan doing well – fancy him having his own business! We heard he put in a bathroom for some neighbours of ours. And what about Ashley’s twins? They must be getting on for ten now, aren’t they? What …? Secondary school? Never! Where does the time go, eh? You what …? Uh-huh … I know, pet. You must miss her all the time, poor love. They never stop being our babies, do they …?’
Getting back to the letter. It came as a huge shock, of course, and yet, somehow, it wasn’t really such a great surprise, if that makes sense. I call it a letter; it was hardly that. Barely even a note, written on a computer. It was printed on A4 paper, but the writing only took up a few lines; the rest of the page was blank. It arrived on 25th October, in a cheap, white envelope.
An adhesive label with the address typed on it had been stuck on the front:
For the attention of:
Detective Inspector L. Dempster, Riddlesfield Central Police Department, Riddlesfield.
Inside, the following message was typed:
September 2001
Dear Detective Inspector Dempster,
I believe that it is possible that I may be Stacy Watts, who was taken from outside her home in Frainham, Riddlesfield, in March 1985. I am now 19 years old (at least I think I am), and of course, I have a different name.
I have no proof and may be quite wrong. But I have reasons to think my mother may have kidnapped me as a toddler, although I don’t remember anything about it consciously. I can’t reveal who she is because I don’t want to cause trouble and distress for her, especially if my suspicions are without cause, as I believe they may well be. She has looked after me well in every way and I know she loves me, but questions about my origins arose in my mind a few years ago, and have grown gradually.
Why have I written to you now? Because this suspicion – whether it is justified or not – has been a great burden for me for some time, and I needed to share the information with someone with an understanding of the circumstances. I can’t disclose more now – perhaps one day I will.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chief Superintendent Lawrence Dempster
That was it. No name, address or signature. The note had been typed on a computer, then printed, and posted in Worcester. I had no doubt that Stacy would have ensured it was posted some distance from her home. Could she be a student somewhere near? Could being away from “home” have made her feel lonely and isolated? Was she working in or near Worcester?
Somehow, I didn’t think she’d allow that connection. More likely, the visit to Worcester (from where?) was a one-off. The envelope was the “ready-stick” variety – a strip to remove from the pasted section – no licking ensured no DNA. Same with the stamp – a self-adhesive sort. She was as careful and cautious as her “mother”. It was sent to the lab, of course, but that just confirmed what I guessed: that it yielded no evidence or distinguishing features.
More interesting was the discussion with Eleanor Best, our exceptionally able forensic psychologist.
‘I’d say the writer’s honest about her age. She’s young, certainly not more than the nineteen years she admits to.’
‘Yes, well that would make her Stacy’s age, of course.’
Eleanor looked up from the note and peered at me severely over the top of her glasses. She didn’t welcome interruptions. She returned to her analysis.
‘There’s not a lot to go on, is there? Clearly she’s not prepared to commit herself one way or the other. I’d say she’s highly confused and perhaps anxious or depressed; she talks about the great burden of her suspicions. See here, she says she doesn’t remember anything “consciously” – as though maybe she’s had some unconscious intrusion of memory – a dream perhaps, or just a flash of recall, and been disturbed by it. Everywhere, when she raises a potential suspicion, she follows it with a “let-out clause”, like “if my suspicions are without cause, as I believe they may well be”.
‘She’s clearly attached to her supposed mother. Notice she refers to her as “my mother” although she clearly believes she is not, or may not be. Protective of her – but angry at the same time; furious, I’d say. I get a strong sense of controlled anger here. Notice too she says she has “reasons” – not “a reason” – for suspecting her mother kidnapped her. See here how she dates the note “September 2001” – but it didn’t arrive until the end of October. I reckon she wrote it, and then had second thoughts about sending it. She must have hung on to it for several weeks in a state of indecision. Eventually, I guess the urge to share her secret became too great. Maybe new evidence has just arisen for her; maybe she’s been totting up the reasons over time, until she’s reached breaking point.’
Eleanor looked intently at the note. She tapped her pen on the desk thoughtfully.
‘Also, possible identity problems. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was brought up in a single-parent household – female, that is. I suspect she regards her mother as vulnerable. Could be she has some sort of mental health problems – the mother, that is. Well, if she did abduct the child, it goes without saying. She talks about perhaps disclosing more “one day” – that sounds as though maybe she’s thinking of waiting for her supposed mother to die before revealing the truth.’
I groaned. Eleanor frowned at me, and returned to her scrutiny of the note again.
‘Missing a father figure, I’d say. That’s probably why she chose you to write to.’
‘That’s me, reliable old dad figure.’
Eleanor didn’t do humour. She regarded me with her formidable intelligence. I took a deep breath and tried again.
‘Anything to be gained by me trying a response, maybe through a newspaper or on TV?’
‘I’d say that could be counter-productive. For one thing, if the abductor found out, it could cause serious problems between the two of them. Even assuming that didn’t happen, it could alienate the girl completely – she’ll feel it’s a betrayal of the very minimal trust she has shown in you. I think you have to wait for her to contact you again.’
‘Do you think she will?’
‘I do, but it could be some time. Something’s triggered this contact, maybe some sort of personal crisis. She’s very fragile. Could be you’ll have to wait until something else happens, or perhaps until her current situation deteriorates.’
‘How long might that be?’
‘How long is a piece of string? As we don’t know what her current situation is, I can’t possibly say. Could be six weeks, six years or sixteen years. All I can say is, I think she wants to be “found”. Have you thought about whether you’re going to inform the birth mother about the note?’
I’d already been struggling with this question. There was some obligation on the police to keep parents informed of any new development – but how cruel it would be to raise Shelley’s hopes, only to find out the letter was a hoax? And even if it really did come from Stacy, as Eleanor pointed out, she might not get back in contact again for years. Knowing Shelley, if she heard about the note, she’d be bound to attempt to send some sort of message back to Stacy, to try to get her to make contact – through television, internet or newspapers – and that could scare the girl off for good.
No, I thought, we’re going to have to keep quiet about this, leave the press well out of it – and hope that Stacy’s patience runs out before mine does.
So I put a couple of detectives back on the case to follow up any leads the letter might have thrown up, but in the end, as I said, she was that careful; she made sure there were no leads.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
2001
Alison
It was such a relief when Lucy finally emerged from those awful teenage years, almost like a rebirth. Although I had grown to appreciate Fiona and Simon for their loyalty and kindness, I still found Cassie difficult to like. I’m sure that initially she was partly responsible for steering Lucy towards the unsuitable clothes, make-up, behaviour – and above all the company – all of which were so out of character for her. I tried not to hold a grudge.
Very gradually, things got easier. Of course, it didn’t happen all at once, but slowly I noticed small changes for the better. Eventually Lucy stopped finding it necessary to challenge everything I said, or to bat against every normal code of civilised behaviour that I suppose I must have represented to her. She no longer glared icily at me as though she detested and despised me, at least not so frequently. I had tried not to show how hurtful I found her attitude. Really, she had treated me with total contempt at times.
Then at last, the day came when she condescended to eat some of her meals with me again, and even chose to sit in my company sometimes, without freezing the atmosphere. To my astonishment, I noticed that occasionally she might even ask my opinion or advice – as she had done regularly up to the age of fourteen or fifteen, but rarely since then. In fact, I would go so far as to say that the “old”, dear Lucy, who had all but disappeared and been replaced by a raging, ranting harpy, had reappeared at last.
Susan had assured me that all this was normal behaviour in adolescence, especially in adolescent girls, but I can’t accept that this is the case. Many girls seem to go through their teenage years being quite amicable and pleasant. For example, I don’t believe that Susan’s daughter Claire ever demonstrated such unattractive traits at a similar age – and I am perfectly convinced that I myself remained serene, polite and compliant, and certainly never put Mother through such trials.
At her most difficult, some of Lucy’s behaviour was extremely distressing, because it seemed to show not only a loathing of me – which perhaps I could have tolerated, though it wounded me deeply – but also of herself. I hated to see her refuse to eat, to become thin and gaunt. Worst of all, I hated to witness how she abused herself, beginning with those hideous piercings, and ultimately by deliberately inflicting wounds on her arms and legs. She tried to hide them from me, but of course I knew; I saw.
Paradoxically, in the end it was Cassie who helped both me and Lucy through this difficult time. I admit I had never greatly approved of Cassie, nor, I suspect, was she very fond of me. Over the years I had tried to warm to her – she was Lucy’s closest friend, after all – but I just could not. However, I had to concede that she remained a steady friend and supporter to Lucy, and became, at my most anxious and unhappy times, reassuring and kind to me.
Once, after a particularly upsetting argument, Lucy had stormed out of the house in fury, abandoning Cassie and me in the sitting room together. In my despair I think I had murmured out loud something like, ‘Oh Lucy, Lucy, why do you hate me so?’
Cassie had turned to me with a surprised expression on her face.
‘Lucy doesn’t hate you, Alison; she loves you more than anyone.’
Of course, I made no comment on this observation, but I did find it both touching and comforting.
* * *
Oh, what a joy it was to learn that Lucy had achieved top grades in her A levels.
I was delighted when, of her own accord, she showed me prospectuses from the four universities to which she was applying. We began to discuss the pros and cons of each course and institution. In the end, Lucy was accepted by her first choice of university – Birmingham – to study Psychology. I couldn’t help regretting that she had chosen a location at such a distance from Newcastle, when Durham – only half an hour away by car or train – offered a similar degree. Of course, I had my own private reservations about Durham, with all its negative associations for me, but logically I realised that it made little sense to condemn the university – or the city – because of my distressing experiences long ago.
In any case, Lucy convinced me that the course content was what had decided her, and that the department in Birmingham was very well regarded. Meanwhile, Cassie was accepted to read Medicine at Edinburgh. How ironic, I thought, that Cassie, with her unconventional leanings should be off to that most traditional institution to study conventional Western medicine! Perhaps Susan was right to assert that the wayward directions pursued by teenagers were not to be taken too seriously.
How lacking I had been in my understanding of adolescents. My only continuing concern was that Lucy seemed to have lost some of her former sparkle. It was as if there was a lingering sadness at her core.
* * *
The week before both girls were due to leave for their prospective universities, Fiona and Simon invited Lucy and me to a buffet dinner party at their house. Fiona had written on the invitation:
It was kind of her to arrange the evening – she is thoughtful about such social events in a way that I am not, and could never be. It was not the sort of occasion I enjoyed; supper parties – or any other parties – have never been a pleasure for me, but rather an occasional necessity to be endured. I still feel nervous about making conversation and have never really got the hang of “small talk”, despite Susan’s well-meant efforts to coach me. However, this time I was determined to overcome my anxieties and present a positive front, if only for Lucy’s sake.
Cassie was there, of course, with her current boyfriend, Ed, an intelligent young man about to start his third year of Engineering studies at Glasgow University. Susan and Mike had also been invited, as was Claire, now twenty-five and home for a long weekend break from her teaching job in Leeds. Charlie, who had completed his first year of Computer Sciences, was spending the entire summer vacation travelling in Europe with a group of friends – a somewhat frivolous use of time, I felt.
Fiona had sensibly arranged for a buffet rather than sit-down supper. There were too many people to sit comfortably around the table. I was pleased to note how happy and relaxed Lucy seemed. She felt so at home in Fiona and Simon’s house, and was familiar with everyone in the room. In fact, she had grown up with them all, apart from Ed, whom she had known for over a year. She obviously liked him and felt comfortable with him too.
I was trying to cut down on alcohol, which had become something of an anaesthetic recently during times of stress and anxiety. I knew there was a danger of becoming overly dependent on it, so I had initiated a gradual reduction of my intake. But tonight I decided to allow myself one glass of wine. It was a special occasion, after all.
Limiting myself to a single glass became increasingly difficult as the evening wore on. Simon – ever a generous host – was quick to refill glasses as soon as they were half empty. I noticed he made several advances on Lucy’s wineglass too. It was hard to keep exact track of how much she – or I – had drunk; two … or was it three? It could have been more.
‘Special occasion!’ Simon said amiably.
The food was delicious of course, with a Middle Eastern theme on this occasion; Fiona and Simon are both good cooks. There was plenty of it too. A long table had been set up at one end of the large sitting room cum dining room. It was laden with exotic dishes of every description. People were encouraged to make more than one excursion to the table and help themselves freely.
The young people seemed happy to remain sociably in the large main room together with the parental generation, seemingly quite uninhibited about raising their voices and offering their opinions, unlike me at their age. Conversation flowed along with the wine. Cassie could often be provocative in discussions, enjoying challenging others. She named one of the books on Lucy’s reading list, which she had chosen to read herself out of interest rather than need. She asked if anyone else had read it.
Of course Lucy had, in preparation for her course, but none of the others. Lucy remained quiet and watchful from her place on the sofa op
posite me. She took a long swallow of her wine. I wondered if I could tactfully suggest she’d had enough and ought to move on to fruit juice or water. Before it was possible to act, Cassie began elaborating some of the book’s themes.
‘It’s really interesting,’ she said. ‘The writer examines the influence of “nature” versus “nurture” in determining developmental outcomes.’
‘Well, that’s got to be a topic that particularly interests me,’ Claire said. ‘Of course for me as a teacher it’s not just a fascinating subject, it’s a crucial consideration. How far is a child’s potential set by genetic inheritance alone, and how far can we change or improve that potential with the right learning conditions and stimulation?’
‘So, what do you believe, Claire?’ asked Fiona.
‘I’ve got to believe it’s the latter,’ Claire said, ‘otherwise, much of my job would seem pointless.’
‘Do you really think you can overcome the potential – or lack of it – that a child is born with, Claire?’ asked Simon. ‘Surely there are innate differences in intelligence, interest, attention and so on, that with the best will in the world we can do little about?’
‘Well, yes, of course I agree that nature, or genetics, determines ability and personality to some extent. But I also believe that through encouragement, good teaching, motivation – in other words, nurturing – we can vastly extend each individual’s potential to learn and to achieve. Surely that’s the theory behind a principle such as universal education?’
‘That’s an encouragingly positive view! Even after three years teaching in what’s regarded as a “sink school”, my daughter is an eternal optimist!’ said Susan, raising her glass towards Claire with a smile.
‘What about you, Mum?’ said Lucy suddenly. Her speech was slightly slurred. My heart immediately began to hammer painfully in my chest. Having the attention of the group diverted to me was exactly what I hated, as Lucy was well aware.