By the end of the hour, Carol thought I was a lovely girl. I’m down on my luck, I told her, in search of a job. She told me to ask for Gavin at the newsagent on Bendelow Road, to tell him that she sent me. I was bound to get the part time cashier job if I told him my sob story. We Millennials have a terrible deal, and the older generations are too hard on us, apparently. We can’t afford to buy houses, the environment is fucked, and the recession has resulted in a freeze on pay rises in public sector jobs for too long. I swear, Leah, I came out of that hairdresser feeling sorry for you in your pedestrian nursing job, with a teenage boy to care for. The world isn’t on your side, is it? Do you go to food banks, Leah? No, I don’t think you do, because now that you’re in the witness protection programme, the taxpayers pay for your cost of living, or so The Sun continues to harp on about. They think you should pay for letting me out of Crowmont. They think you should come out in the open and show your face.
I do too, because then I could show my face, and show you my teeth.
With my brand-new haircut—a nice choppy bob that rests alongside my jawline, with a thick fringe that comes down to my brow—I decided to find a more affluent area for my next task. Isabel the vagrant was about to be no more. I’d had enough of drugs and smells and stained clothing. It was fun for a while, but not exactly who I am.
After asking a few older women on the street where was a good place to go shopping, I got on a bus and headed into the suburb of a town that caters to the more high-end clientele. It’s here that I realised that Carol’s hairdressing shop wasn’t my riskiest moment. This was about to be it. And for once, I almost felt nervous about it. There was a lot riding on my abilities. But I was confident I could do it.
No baseball caps or old-lady glasses here. Both would draw far too much attention, and I already stood out like a sore thumb in my cheap jeans and baggy bra. But there wasn’t much I could do about that. I also needed to avoid as much CCTV as I could, which is why I chose a small town and not a bigger city. However, I was aware that the shops I wanted to target would definitely have cameras. Perhaps I would get lucky in small independent cafes or bars. I decided on a tiny wine bar at the corner of the main shopping street. I went in and ordered an orange juice before sitting down near to a group of women sat around a chilled bottle of champagne; another already empty bottle was tipped upside down in a bucket by their feet. Also by their feet were several shopping bags in different sizes. These weren’t the flimsy plastic shopping bags of the high street, but the tough, reinforced card bags from designer stores. I remembered all the names of the designers from watching my mother struggle through the front door of our house with her bags, already tipsy by lunchtime.
I needed to acquire those bags.
It was 2pm, and they were wrapping up their liquid lunch. Soon, they would be gone, and I would have to stay here, hoping for another group of rich women to come along with their goodies. Two left to go to the bathroom, carrying Mulberry handbags in the crooks of their arms. One of them went to the bar to settle the bill, leaving just one on her own. I needed to act fast. If only Chloe were with me to help. For once, I missed her, and I was almost sad about it. But I had only myself to rely on, which I was used to at any case. The woman was engrossed in playing some sort of game on her phone. The blonde at the bar was tipsy enough to try to chat up the bartender. The bags by their table were strewn so far and wide that one was almost next to my foot. The smallest bag. I dropped my magazine, bent low to pick it up, and scooped up the bag, hiding it underneath Chloe’s old coat, which was slung over my arm. The woman didn’t even notice.
Then, as I got up from my seat, I bumped her arm with my hip, causing her to drop her phone.
“I’m very sorry,” I said.
She merely tutted and bent down to retrieve the phone, and as she did, I made my way to the opposite side of the table, closest to the door, hooked the handles of one of the bags around my wrist and walked straight out of the bar without looking back.
For almost the entire length of the street, I expected to hear voices behind me, but none ever came. I carried on walking, carrying my shopping bags as though nothing had happened. And when I realised no one was going to call me back, I went to the bus station and paid for the next bus to the nearest city. Cardiff. Only then did I open the bags and see what I’d “bought”. The smallest bag was—as I had suspected—jewellery. A Cartier necklace worth at least a thousand pounds. The larger bag contained a leather bag that would probably cost the entirety of your monthly wage, dear Leah. These were good finds. All I needed to do was find a pawn shop.
And then, Leah, I would have the funds, the will, and the means to find you.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Mark meets me at the Clifton train station wearing black jeans and a smart navy jumper. Every time I see him, I see a little more of the man George must have been when he was young, and for some reason, it makes me feel guilty. Surely, I’m not ready to feel anything for another man? Not after Seb. Not with everything going on. And someone so young? There’s a pang I can’t deny, but Mark is a friend.
“This is going to be a bit weird, isn’t it?” For once, Mark is frowning, which is surprising to see. This must be what he’s like when he’s nervous. “I’ve never actually got to the stage where I meet someone who might have answers about Abigail. After all these years, we might be able to find out what happened to her.”
“I hope so. Did you bring the photograph?”
Mark nods and pats his messenger bag. “I also brought photos of my grandmother, Mum, Grandad and Abigail before the fire. I know Rita isn’t much older than us, but maybe it’ll jog something.”
We grab coffee, and I try to rid myself of the morning grog. Sleeping without Tom in the house is a challenge, and lately the songbirds have been waking me up in the morning. Every time I’m awakened by a blackbird, I picture the drawing that Isabel made for me. The uncanny likeness of the house I lived in, which she created by simply listening to my description. Another death, Isabel still free, and Tom moved out. I haven’t told my therapist, but I’ve been slipping an extra pill into my daily dosage to help me sleep. Not that it matters. The nightmares still come, and I wake up feeling as though I’ve been sleeping in a stream of blood.
“Sugar? Leah?”
“What?”
Mark holds out a sachet of brown sugar for me to put in my coffee.
“No, thanks.”
“Are you all right?” he asks. “If you’re feeling under the weather, we can reschedule.”
“No,” I say firmly. “Absolutely not. George has been waiting decades to solve this mystery.” Besides, I need this. I need to get away from my life. Mark’s face is so etched with concern that it makes my heart swell. I find myself opening my mouth to speak. “I haven’t been sleeping well. I’m the guardian to my younger brother, and he recently decided to move out of the house. It’s very quiet without him. Too quiet.”
“I felt like that when I moved out of Mum’s house,” Mark says. “It takes a while to adjust, doesn’t it?”
“Yes.” There’s nothing I can say, of course. Nothing real. That’s the barrier between me and the rest of the world now. I can never be real. Never be the real me.
There are only two platforms at Clifton station, which makes it easy enough to board. Then, at St Pancras, the sudden bustle of the city takes my breath away. I’m immediately tense, tight in the chest, and anxious to get out. The faces in the crowd disturb me. A group of twenty-something girls have hair that’s too mousy, that same shade of mid-brown that I remember from my time at Crowmont. Then there are the pigeons everywhere. Did Isabel draw me a pigeon once? What did she say? They represent gossip, chatter, betrayal.
Mark leads the way, or at least I’m happy to allow him to. He doesn’t know I lived in Hackney for the first twenty-odd years of my life and that I’m more than capable of finding my way around, though I suppose my accent will have already told that tale. But I’m a different person now, and I c
annot hear myself think with all this din. The drugs are making me muddled.
The Piccadilly line moves across Central like a snake. We take the underground and find the small coffee shop Rita told us about. Mark orders a latte and a flapjack. I order a tea and a glass of water. And then we wait.
I know Rita as she walks in the door. She’s just like her profile picture, except a little shorter than I imagined. Her face is round, with pink cheeks and a small snub nose. Her hair is long, dark, and wavy, but lacks the volume to make it pretty. I can tell she leaves her hair to air-dry rather than blow-drying it. Her skin has not been cared for. There are tiny burst blood vessels around her nose, and as she comes towards the table, I see that it’s dry and flaky. Her clothes are smart but inexpensive. Comfortable, right down to the sandals with thick heels.
Mark stands up to greet her, and I do the same. He has the right to the first handshake as the descendant of George Hawker and his parents. But of course Rita thinks I’m also a descendant of a person involved in this mystery. I have no actual right to be here.
“We spoke on Facebook,” I say. “I’m Evelyn’s granddaughter.” Mark has been told about my white lie.
“It’s nice to meet you.” For a moment, her eyes narrow. “You know, you seem very familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?”
My blood runs cold, and I wonder if we grew up in the same area or went to the same school. If she recognises me, it could turn my life upside down.
“I don’t think so,” I reply eventually.
She shakes her head. “No, I think I’m getting muddled. I’ve been so excited about this meeting, about talking more about Simon and the family. I’m probably hoping we knew each other somehow.”
“Yes,” I say with a laugh. “That’s probably it.”
Rita settles into the table with a tea and a brownie while Mark takes the photographs out of his messenger bag.
“This is my grandfather,” Mark says, passing the black-and-white pictures across the table. “And these are his parents. That’s Claire Hawker, who was married to Simon Blackthorn. I don’t suppose you recognise her, do you?”
Rita moves the photograph closer to her face for a better view. She sighs. “No. I don’t remember seeing any photographs of her. When my father passed away last year, I inherited a lot of his belongings, and there were photo albums included in it all. I brought some with me, actually.” She reaches down towards a large tote bag and pulls out a couple of leather-bound photo albums. “Here we are.”
Both Mark and I lean closer as she cracks the spine of the album. If there are photographs of Simon Blackthorn, we want to see them. If there are photographs of Abigail… or the mysterious Mary…
“This is Simon,” she says. “He was my great-grandfather on my father’s side. Dad resembles him a little bit, with the dark eyes and hair.” The picture is, of course, in black and white, but Simon’s dark eyes are arresting. He’s staring directly at the camera with a slight smirk on his lips.
“What was he like?” I ask, a little nervous to know the answer.
“My father said he was a very stern man. A big drinker. He had four wives, apparently. One died in an accident. She fell down the stairs of their house. One left him in the middle of a huge row and was only found again when Simon tracked her down for a divorce. That was my grandfather’s mum. He didn’t have a relationship with her at all. She left my grandfather when she left Simon. One must have been the Claire that you mentioned. The last one stuck around until Simon died.”
“Did Simon move around a lot?” Mark asks. “He must have lived near or around Clifton at some point. Did he live anywhere else?”
“I think he went to a town just outside Canterbury. I can’t remember the name, but it was famous for taking in children during the war. There was a home there, I think. Children from London went there, where it was safer.” Rita frowns down at the photograph of Simon. “Dad didn’t have a very good childhood. My grandfather took after Simon, by the sounds of it. He buried his problems by drinking a lot and took out his rages on Dad. Things move in cycles, don’t they? Human beings copy each other.” For a moment, she seems haunted, and I want to take her hand and tell her she isn’t alone. But it might scare her away. “Is there a reason why you’re researching my great-grandfather? Did he hurt someone?”
I let Mark tell the story. It’s his story to tell. Rita sits and listens quietly, an impassive expression on her face, all the while fingering the photograph in the album. Afterwards, she only nods.
“I understand now,” she says. “I have to say that I think it’s unlikely. From what I’ve heard of Simon, he was a thug with a bad temper, but a kidnapper? I don’t know. That requires an awful lot of preparation and planning, and I don’t think the men in this family have that kind of acumen. But shall we check through some more of the pictures? See if anyone jumps out at you?”
Rita thumbs through the photo album, giving names to the faces in the pictures. The black-and-white photographs make the people in them seem like actors in a movie. None of it feels real. As she turns the last page, I can sense Mark’s disappointment. His voice is thin when he thanks her for her time.
“Abigail isn’t in any of those photos,” I explain. “But you’ve been very helpful.” I show her the photographs we brought of Abigail and the mysterious Mary, but Rita doesn’t recognise either.
“I’m sorry. I wish I could have helped more.” Her eyes droop at the edges, tinged with the sadness of not being useful.
“We just appreciate you coming here to meet us,” Mark says. “It was very generous of you.”
“I wish I could have solved the mystery for you,” Rita says. “I can see that it means a lot to you.”
“It does,” Mark says. “But thank you.”
*
Later, on the train back to Clifton, I sit across from a tired and silent Mark. I make an attempt to rally him. “It isn’t completely hopeless. I thought what she said about Canterbury was interesting. If they did take children in during the war, then perhaps Abigail was smuggled into the children’s home. I’d imagine it was a complicated time. Identification papers were a lot easier to forge. Maybe Simon kept Abigail there. After all, there’s every chance that Simon was Abigail’s real father. Why would he let her go like that? Men like Simon see their women as property. He wouldn’t like another man raising his own.”
Mark purses his lips slightly in interest at my words. I can tell he wants to ask me questions, but he then seems to dismiss the questions with a little shake of his head. He clears his throat and says, “That’s a very good idea. Except that she couldn’t remember the name of the town. I just don’t know. Wouldn’t the home need some sort of identification?”
“It must have been a confusing time back then. With children all over the place, some might have parents who had died in the bombing and no living relatives. Did they stay in the homes? What happened to them? Simon could have made it seem like Abigail was one of them.”
“But why wouldn’t she speak up?” Mark says. “Why wouldn’t she tell people she’d been kidnapped?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Fear? Simon was a scary man, by all accounts. He’d already murdered her mother, if he did set fire to the house. Perhaps he told her he’d murder her father and brother too. She was only twelve years old. I could imagine her being very frightened.”
“Jesus.”
“Sorry. I know this is all very dark.”
Mark shakes his head. “I don’t know what else I expected. Maybe part of me hoped she wandered away and was found by a nice, childless family who decided to raise her. Some sort of happy ending. But there won’t be one, will there? There never is.”
There never is. Not for me, I want to say. But I don’t, perhaps because I don’t really believe that. “At this stage, I’m willing to believe anything is possible. We still need to track down the Pierces.”
Mark leans back in his chair, appearing as exhausted as I feel. “How are we going to do that?
”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
ISABEL
CASH4GOLD is a brilliant place. I took in the fancy jewellery from the drunk lady in the bar, and they gave me money. Next, I found a pawn shop for the designer bag. Next thing I knew, I had a fat wallet full of cash. In a charity shop in another affluent area, I picked up some good-quality clothes for a fraction of the original price, and I kept the rest of the money for coming expenses.
The expense of finding you, dear Leah.
The trickiness to all of this is finding you without attracting attention to myself. I can hardly buy a laptop and set up wifi, can I? Public libraries have become my friends, but it means risking CCTV picking up my image and some eagle-eyed police officer recognising me. Hats and sunglasses are extremely conspicuous. Let’s hope the fringe does its job and obscures my features as much as possible. You can do a lot with a change in posture, a little weight loss and a new haircut. I’ve considered wigs, but they’re a bit of a caricature. I have to fit in with society, and yet not look like myself at all.
Searching for you on the internet is interesting. You’re a ghost, Leah. No one knows you. You don’t exist anymore. No Facebook, no Twitter, no Instagram. Every trace of you has been removed. There’s no Tom, either. Well, except for the millions of other Tom and Leah Smiths. None of them are either of you. At this point, I’ve stopped searching for your name and have been searching for your face instead. I’m sure you got a new name after you were taken in by the police, but I doubt they gave you a new face. Your name and photograph were never released to the public, were they? You were never hounded by the media. But I’ve discovered something very interesting as I search for you, Leah. I’ve discovered that people on the internet, the great British public, blame you for a lot.
Two For Joy (Isabel Fielding Book 2) Page 13