Two For Joy (Isabel Fielding Book 2)

by Sarah A. Denzil

  We sit in awkward silence for a moment.

  “Did I tell you that I’m helping an elderly gentleman at the care home? His sister went missing seventy-odd years ago in suspicious circumstances. Maybe I could tell you everything I know so far, and you can tell me what you think.”

  He straightens up a little. Finally, I’ve caught his attention. “Go on, then. I bet I can figure it out.”

  “Well,” I say, and then I launch into the whole story, from the fire at George’s house, to the police not being able to find Abigail’s body, to the Pierce family disappearing, to the picture of “Mary” who bears a striking resemblance to Abigail.

  “Obvious, innit,” Tom says after I’ve finished recounting the tale. “The Pierce family couldn’t have kids, or they were paedos. They stole the little girl and moved away with her to start a new life. Then this girl grew up and became Mary. They felt guilty, or they were bastards and wanted to taunt George with a picture of the sister he never got to grow up with.”

  I can’t help but smile. “Got it all figured out, haven’t you? How could they get away from the area without anyone knowing they had Abigail?”

  He shrugs. “Hide her in the boot of their car.”

  “I guess we’ll have to see if they owned a car.”

  “I guess you will.”

  “Any more theories?”

  “Have you considered alien abduction?”

  I can’t help but laugh. “Funny you should mention that. One of the conspiracies on the internet goes into great detail about how Abigail was abducted by a race of purple aliens with tentacles who burned the house down with their blasters before the spaceship went back to X9. That was the name of their planet, apparently. In another universe. Which they got to through a black hole in space.”

  “I take it Stephen Hawking confirmed this was possible.”

  “Of course.”

  Tom laughs.

  Maybe I can still reach him, after all.

  *

  As I’m dealing with patient files, sending emails and answering the phone, I’m actually thinking about the Pierce family. It beats obsessing over Isabel, anyway. The morning drags on until I have a break, but unfortunately, on the way there I bump into Mrs Cartwright, who is delirious again.

  “Murderer,” she says. “Blood on your hands. Dirt on your skin. Where were you? Where were you when it happened?”

  She tuts at me as I edge away from her and down the corridor.

  By the time I get to George’s room, I’m shaken, and the good mood from the brief bit of banter with Tom on the bus has almost completely disappeared. But none of that matters when I see that George is laid up in bed again, this time with a drip. I quickly examine the contents, but it’s just saline and an anti-nausea drug, which is a relief.

  “Everything all right, George?” I ask.

  “Could do with a holiday. I’m not going to lie,” he says.

  “Just sit back and relax. Are you feeling a bit under the weather?”

  “Can’t seem to keep my brekky down,” he admits. “Got a dicky tummy. You’d best stay back, Lizzie love. If it’s a bug, I don’t want you to catch it.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ll wash my hands on the way out.” I frown. George appears very pale and pasty today. “Shall I leave you to get some rest?”

  “How did it go with Mark?” he asks.

  A few minutes can’t hurt. I pull up a chair and tell him the theory about the Pierces.

  “Oh, no,” he says. “It can’t be them. They were a lovely couple. The fella, he volunteered at the school. He used to set up the school play every year. He volunteered at the school all the time. He seemed old at the time, but maybe that was because I was young. Probably in his forties.”

  “They didn’t have children of their own, though, did they? Isn’t that a bit of a weird thing to do without having your own kids?”

  “I don’t think so,” he says. “Not in those days. We had a community then. Everyone chipped in.” But then his expression changes, shifting into contemplation. “Now, there is something I remember about Mrs Pierce. She did have a daughter, but the daughter died very young. There was some terrible gossip at the time that the child wasn’t his. She had an affair, they said. I remember my mother chatting about it around the kitchen table with the woman from down the street. Malicious, it was, but you know how people gossip.”

  They do. And since the internet was created, they do it even more and on a larger scale. The world is one big gossip machine, burning through news fast and destructively. I should know. I’m still at the centre of it.

  “Do you know where they moved?” I ask.

  George shakes his head, and I can see that he’s growing tired. “It was after the fire. We were in a state of shock, what with losing Mum. I don’t think we even noticed. I only heard they’d gone when I went back to school. One kid said they went north. Another said London.”

  His chin begins to drift down to his chest. I lean over and give his hand a squeeze and let him nod off in peace.

  Every day, he weakens a little more, and I can see that old age is taking its toll. It’s time for me to find out what happened to Abigail, because if I’m too late to tell him, I’ll never forgive myself.

  *

  Perhaps it was Tom who planted the seed in my mind, but the one detail that jumps out at me is how Mr Pierce directed the school play every year. I decide to research the local school to find out how long it’s been open. Over a hundred years. Good. Then I create a fake Facebook profile under a completely different name, and post in a few local history groups asking if anyone remembers the school plays at Clifton Junior School and whether they remember Mr. Pierce. It’s a long shot. Anyone who does will be in their eighties. But I also know that people love to reminisce and I hope that even a son/daughter, or grandson/granddaughter might see my post and ask a relative if they remember.

  And then I email Mark to arrange a meeting with George’s daughter. I hate to admit it, but George is growing weaker and weaker, and his memories might not be as reliable as they once were. Perhaps if she can recall her dad talking about this stuff when she was growing up, she might be able to help.

  Mark emails back immediately.

  *

  Before meeting with George’s daughter, Susie, I have a therapy session with Dr Qamber and afterwards need to pick up a new prescription. She isn’t happy with my progress. I’m showing signs of anxiety. There are scratch marks on my hands and psoriasis on my wrist. I’ve lost weight, and my face is gaunt. There are dark circles under my eyes from lack of sleep.

  And the big one: I wake up in places I shouldn’t.

  This needs to stop. There’s a chance that my sleepwalking will lead to hallucinations and psychotic delusions. She’s very serious about this. Tom needs a stable environment, and if I don’t get this under control, he might leave. The thought makes me feel sick: being alone in that house without anyone to talk to, waiting for Isabel to find me.

  I pick up the prescription and take the pills, barely even bothering to learn about what they are. Perhaps it’s because I’m not nursing anymore, but I’ve lost my desire to keep up with the medical profession.

  It’s a short walk to Susie’s house from the bus stop, but it’s up quite a steep hill. Despite my half-hearted attempt at the plank challenge and a few self-defence classes (which Tom has now given up on, and I probably will soon), I struggle to get up there without a long break halfway up. But the street itself is quaint and pleasant, lined by blossom trees, dotted with drives that lead up to painted semi-detached houses with big bay windows. I could live here if I had a family to enjoy these large houses.

  I wonder how Susie manages living on this hill while being in a wheelchair, but when I reach the appropriate house, I notice that the drive and the ramp leading up to the front door have been arranged with her in mind. The door is wider. The house is actually on the flat top of the hill, and there’s a car parked outside in a bay lined with yellow p
aint.

  Susie’s front door is almost as yellow as the paint marking the disabled bay. A large brass knocker sits in the middle, and above the door is a colourful stained-glass depiction of daffodils. There is a saying about yellow doors symbolising happiness, or hope, or something like that, but I can’t remember it now. I only think that it’s bright and colourful, and I hope Susie is the same way.

  I hope this because I’m nervous about meeting her, though I’m not sure why. Perhaps it’s because I’ve come to know and love her father. We’re connected intimately by a thread, and it’s a strange sort of intimacy to have with a person, to know a family member well enough to share thoughts and feelings with them. I didn’t grow up in a house that shared that kind of thing. Maybe I’m craving it now, looking for validation from a new family to replace the one I lost.

  Not a great time for epiphanies, Leah. I have a job to do for a man I care about.

  Mark opens the door after I knock, smiling as always. He shows me in through the hallway and into a small but quaint kitchen with emerald-green walls and potted herbs on the windowsill.

  Susie and her wheelchair are positioned next to the dining table, with a teapot set out ready next to a plate of assorted biscuits. The little touch of hospitality reminds me of the yellow door with the colourful flowers. I immediately see George in her, around the eyes, in her smile. In the house, even, full of natural light. Ah, if only I’d been born into this family.

  “You must be Lizzie,” Susie says, extending a hand. I ignore the twinge of guilt about not being able to give them my real name, and take a few steps forward to shake her hand. “Nice to meet you. Dad’s very happy that you’re helping us. I am too. I know this isn’t your job, but I can’t tell you how nice it is to have some help. It makes you think better about people, doesn’t it? When they help you out for no reason. Sorry, I’m rambling. I do that. Sit down, won’t you? Mark, pour the tea. Do you want tea?” She regards me questioningly.

  “I’d love one. Milk, no sugar, thanks.”

  “Grab a biscuit,” Mark says. “No, seriously. They’re my weakness, and you have to move fast.”

  Mark is like a tall weed, with barely an ounce of fat. Either he’s exaggerating to make me feel more comfortable about taking one, or he has an enviable metabolism. But I take a chocolate digestive anyway.

  “Mine’s crisps,” I admit. It’s also wine, but that isn’t quite as fun to admit. Not when you’ve given up.

  “Dad says you’re making good progress. I talk to him on the phone most nights,” Susie tells me. “I would go to the home more often, but after the accident, I… Well, I’m in a lot of chronic pain, and the painkillers can send me a bit…” She mimes a loop next to her temple with a finger. “That’s why Mark helps me out, you see.”

  “I understand.” I sip on my tea before adding, “I’m just sorry that I haven’t managed to find much out so far. There’s one small detail that cropped up when I went to the library. Did Mark tell you about it?”

  “Yes,” she says. “The Pierces. Now, I think I do remember people talking about that. Obviously, it was well before I was born, but this is a small town, and any strange occurrence will be remembered for decades. Grandad talked about it sometimes, too. Not often, because it happened around the same time as the fire, and he never wanted to talk about that.”

  “What did people say about the Pierces?” I ask.

  “Every now and then, I’d be at the dentist’s, or on the bus, and a couple of older folks would start talking about it, usually saying something like, ‘Do you remember the Pierces?’ And then they’d gossip about the disappearance. One of the prevailing titbits of gossip was that the wife had an affair and got pregnant and that the husband forced her to have an abortion. But I don’t know how true it is. Don’t know where they went, either. No one ever seemed to know.”

  “Your dad mentioned that they lost a child. Could that piece of gossip have come about because of a miscarriage? Sometimes rumours are twisted versions of the truth.”

  “Yes, definitely. She could have had a miscarriage, and it could all have been very tragic. But for some reason, people genuinely did believe she had an affair.”

  “Were the Pierces liked?” I ask.

  Susie shakes her head, but not in a “no” gesture, more as though she’s trying to dig up old memories to answer the question. “I don’t think I remember what they actually said about them as people. To be honest, I don’t think they said an awful lot about them. There was something else, though.” She frowns now, before sipping her tea. Even the action of tipping the cup appears to bring her pain. She winces before placing the cup back on its saucer. “This is a very malicious rumour that I only heard once. I was a child, perhaps ten years old, waiting at the doctor’s surgery with Dad. There were two women behind us, and Dad had nipped to the loo, so he didn’t hear. Otherwise, I think he would have told them to shut up about this around a child. I don’t know who the women were, because I never saw their faces. The topic of the Pierces’ disappearance came up, as did the topic of the affair, and then one of them said, ‘Belinda MacDonald said he touched her during the school play.’ She went on to say that this Belinda claimed he was a pervert.” Susan’s gaze flashes guiltily across to Mark. “I shouldn’t be talking about this in front of you, should I?”

  Mark, mid-bite through a biscuit, rolls his eyes dramatically. “I’m twenty-seven, Mum.”

  “I know, but still. This is horrible stuff.”

  “No, it’s important,” he reminds her. “Keep going. It might help find out what happened to Abigail.”

  “Well, not much happened after that. The other woman shut her down, saying it was a nasty accusation and she shouldn’t say things like that. One thing I do remember, though, was that the first woman seemed offended by being called nasty, as though she wouldn’t usually talk about such matters if she didn’t have a reliable source.”

  “Bloody hell,” I say. “So they were childless, and there was a chance that the husband was a paedophile? How come no one investigated their disappearance?”

  “I’ve often wondered what happened back then,” Susie says. “I’ll never be able to find out, because most of the people who were around have passed on. But I’d imagine the police tracked them down and questioned them, at least.”

  Perhaps DCI Murphy would have access to the police file to find out. It might be a big ask, though.

  “There’s another thing you don’t know.” Susie splays her fingers against the wood of the table and stares down at them for a moment. “Dad doesn’t even know about this. Not long before the accident, I was researching Abigail’s disappearance, and I did some digging into our family background. When I was poking around, I found out that my grandmother was divorced before she married my grandfather. It was a short marriage. Barely lasted six months. My great-auntie Sally was still alive at the time, though she’d been living in Australia for several decades. I phoned her up and asked about this first husband. According to Sally, the man was mean. A ‘wrong ’un’, she called him. She said he was abusive and possessive. Very controlling, and very jealous. She said that Grandma married Grandad to get away from him. I checked the dates, and they’re very close together. As is Abigail’s birth.”

  “Oh,” I say. “You think this controlling man was Abigail’s real father?”

  She nods. “I’m sure they kept it very hush-hush if he was. No one ever told Dad.”

  That makes me wonder whether George should be told sooner rather than later. But it isn’t my place to say.

  “Surely, this ex-husband would have been the number one suspect.”

  “According to Great-Aunt Sally, he was. She said, though she was very old at this point—in her nineties, bless her—that the man had an alibi.”

  “Do you remember his name?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she says. “Simon Blackthorn.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The time flashes on my phone screen. 3am. I’m awake, but I don’t
know why, and I’m so tired that my eyelids feel as though they’re glued together. Something woke me. What was it?

  I quiet my breathing in order to concentrate harder, my mind finally sharpening, and my eyes prising open. Now that I know I was awakened by an unknown sound, my body is on high alert for danger. Moving quickly, I turn on the lamp next to my bed and retrieve the knife I keep between the mattress and the bed frame. If Isabel is here, I want to be prepared.

  But my room is empty. The window is shut, as I left it, and there is nothing lurking in the shadows. No slip of a girl waiting with her sharp knives and sharper smile. Finally, I can let go of that breath I’ve been holding in. Perhaps it was a bad dream that woke me. I’ve had plenty of those.

  And then…

  A scream.

  It wasn’t a bad dream that woke me. It was Tom crying out. Without a moment’s thought, I leap out of the bed, cross the room to my door, and snatch it open. The knife blade glints in the moonlight, gripped in my fist of whitened knuckles.

  I’m coming for you, Isabel. Keep the fuck away from my son.

  Tom’s door is closed, and inside I can hear him screaming. The sounds are nothing like the kinds of screams you hear in horror films. They are low and guttural and desperate. I’m convinced that he’s in pain.

  As I open the door, I hold my knife aloft, ready to pounce on the girl who feeds my nightmares, ready to defend my son. I flick the light switch on, relieved that I have at least one advantage: knowing the house. But when the light fills the room, there’s no one else there. Just Tom, writhing in his bed linen, his head moving from left to right, his eyes screwed shut and his legs kicking. I was awakened by a nightmare, just not my own.

  With adrenaline still pumping through my veins, I leave the knife on Tom’s desk and hurry to him, shushing him, cooing soothing words. It’s all right. It’s going to be all right. But Tom is hard to wake. I place a hand on his shoulder, but he wrenches it away in his sleep. When I try again and grip harder, his eyes flash open, and everything happens extraordinarily quickly. In the seconds that follow, I have to allow my brain to piece it altogether. He opens his eyes, turns his body towards me, and his right arm twists around and lands a punch just above my right cheekbone.