His Kidnapper's Shoes
Page 10
He pulled a face. The idea seemed so far-fetched, so bizarre. Things like that rarely happened and when they did, they happened to other people. Not to him, not to Daniel Bateman, an average guy from West London.
Abduction. Impossible. Ridiculous, even. So why couldn't he get the idea out of his head?
Because it seemed to fit most of the facts and he could think of nothing else that even came close. It would start to explain who the two women of his memories were. He didn’t have a clue who the girl might be, but the woman by his bed, the one he’d always felt safe with - she had to be his birth mother, as he'd always thought.
Kidnap. It still seemed a crazy idea. It wouldn’t do any harm to do some digging, though. Might turn out a waste of time. He’d laugh about it with Katie if it did; he’d let her common sense wash over him and together they’d figure out what came next.
He hesitated. It had been one hell of a couple of days so far and he felt more than a little wrung out and washed-up inside his head. Perhaps it would be better to run this by Katie first, see what she thought.
He’d need to wait, though, due to her shifts, and reluctance punched him in the gut at the thought of delaying taking action any longer. Maybe he was obsessed, but the idea had taken root. He had plenty of time to spare anyway. The kidnap would have been big news in the national newspapers if his idea were right; they would probably be the best source of information. He’d start looking there.
He got up and switched on his laptop, opening up Google to type in ‘UK newspapers archive.’
The British Library featured top of the results. He clicked on their website. They had an online search facility, but the link to the page was broken. He groaned with frustration. Shit. He needed to do this now, today. An online search wasn't possible, but what about the newspapers themselves? Anyway, where the hell was the British Library?
He found the answer; Colindale, NW9, and they kept all UK newspapers from 1801 up to the present day, via hard copies and microfilms. He’d need a pass card, which he’d get straight away if he provided two forms of identification. They stayed open until five. He didn’t hesitate; he located his bankcard and driving licence to serve as I.D., grabbed his jacket and keys, and set off.
Formalities completed, a couple of hours later Daniel was sitting in front of a reading machine in the British Library, a packet of microfilms in his hand. He slid the first one into the reader, scanning through day after day, the first three pages only. Hell, a child kidnap would surely be front-page news, but just in case - he didn’t want to miss anything.
His shoulders and neck started aching after an hour, and he’d only got up to March 1990. Sheesh.
Nothing in April. Nothing in May. He slid the next microfilm, starting in June, into the reader.
And there it was. The child kidnap that dominated the front page and most of the next two. The case that had shocked Britain at the time and sparked a huge nationwide hunt for the missing youngster.
Daniel dragged his chair closer, pulling a breath into lungs that suddenly seemed too small. He started to read.
On June 2 1990, Daniel James Cordwell had been reported missing from his home in Bristol. The Cordwells had gone out for the evening, not returning until shortly before midnight. They arrived back to find the police at the flat, their four-year-old son gone, and the fresh out of college eighteen-year-old nanny who they employed hysterical.
It seemed the nanny, Alison Souter, hadn’t had time to eat that evening. She’d gotten hungry, fancied fish and chips, and figured the nearest fish shop was only a two-minute walk away. She’d checked on the sleeping Daniel, thought she’d be back in five minutes, no harm done.
She arrived back to an open front door and immediately dashed to check on Daniel. She found his bed and the rest of the flat empty.
There were no signs of forced entry or disturbance, simply the unoccupied bed. Alison Souter’s screams had ricocheted around the flat, alerting the neighbours.
Daniel’s chest tightened again. He looked, really looked, at the pictures, the grainy black and white pictures, accompanying the words. He scrutinised the snapshot of the four-year-old Daniel James Cordwell, at the dark hair, at the eyes giving no hint in the photograph of the green they’d be.
Alison Souter’s face looked out at him as he took in the shoulder-length dark bobbed hair; hair he knew shone in the sunlight and swung around her shoulders as she moved. Recognition stirred within him.
Howard Cordwell’s picture; merely a photograph of a man, nothing more. Daniel felt no connection with him in any way. Dark hair, sombre expression, arm around his wife. Daniel’s chest tightened again as he switched his gaze to her face.
He stared at her, at the woman who had suffered the theft of her only child, at her stricken expression, captured in the photograph of so long ago. The memory of the woman beside his bed, of the safety and warmth he’d experienced with her, crashed over him and he recognised, deep in his gut, this woman as his mother. For some unknown reason Laura Bateman, then Covey, had found a way to break into the flat after the nanny had left. She’d snatched the sleeping Daniel and disappeared with him, leaving only an empty bed, still warm.
He’d found what he’d been looking for. He’d uncovered his roots, where he came from. He was Daniel James Cordwell, kidnap victim. The two women of his memories now possessed names and identities. He’d found a father as well, although he retained no memory of him. Not the handsome student Laura Bateman had told him about, killed in a car crash, but an ordinary looking man, still very much alive, at least in 1990.
He carried on reading. The newspaper told him of his mother’s pleas for anyone who had seen or heard anything to come forward. He read her appeal to whoever had taken her son to bring him back, deliver him safely to her, saying he was a tiny child who needed his mother. She spoke of her devastation, about how much she loved Daniel, of her guilt at ever having left him. She said her life was on hold until she held her son, her precious Daniel, in her arms again. The article went on to say she had been too distraught at the time to say any more and her husband had led her away.
Daniel leaned back in his chair, shock and confusion flooding his brain in equal measures. Weird didn't begin to describe the emotions in his head.
Impossible; there’s no way you’re a kidnap victim, logic said.
Wrong, his gut retorted. You’re Daniel James Cordwell.
He read the newspaper article repeatedly, sensing every time the same recognition of his mother, eventually convincing himself his instincts had it right.
A part of him clamoured to leap back into the protection of his comfort zone. Hindsight, such a wonderful thing. None of this weirdness would have happened if he’d taken the easy way instead of the hard one, concentrating on a future with Katie in Australia. A different reality would have stretched before him, his identity as a kidnap victim forever hidden.
He’d chosen the hard way instead, though, and another part of him savoured the triumph of sticking two fingers up to logic.
The inevitable warning bell of what the hell will happen next sounded in his head. A crime had been committed, meaning he'd need to get the law involved. Telling the police seemed unavoidable, although he’d probably need more to be able to talk to them than memories, his gut feelings and a DNA test he’d obtained by deception. He did have more, though, he realised. What with focusing on his parents and his nanny, he’d neglected something else mentioned in the newspaper article. A distinguishing mark, a mole, by which the missing child could be recognised if found. Daniel sported on his right hip that same mole, the pea-sized patch of brown skin proof of his identity.
Yeah, a visit to the police was inevitable. Not yet, though. First, he’d tell Katie. He’d go to her flat tomorrow, once she got free of her double shifts at the hospital.
He pictured her reaction. Dumbstruck amazement, he reckoned. Not like Katie to be scrambling for something to say, but hey, there’s a first time for everything, he thought.
What lay ahead was sure to prove challenging all right. His visit to the police would set in motion an inescapable chain of events. They’d arrest Laura Bateman and perhaps he'd find out what had motivated the bitch to steal him from his family. He’d meet his biological parents as well. What sort of people were they? Would he be able to re-establish some kind of relationship with them, after being wrenched away so many years ago? There would be that moment, that pivotal moment when he'd stand before his mother, claiming her as the woman from his memories, as the shadowy figure beside his childhood bed. He'd also be reunited with Howard Cordwell, the paternal figure he’d never had.
Don’t get your hopes up, he warned himself. Odds were he was setting himself up for a major disappointment. What guarantee did he have of finding in his parents the elusive something for which he’d always been searching? OK, so he got those warm fuzzy feelings whenever he brought his hazy memories of his mother to mind. They might be springing from the idealism of his four-year-old self, though. He had no real idea of what she’d be like. As for his father, he was even more of an unknown quantity.
Shit. Katie seemed the only constant in his life he could count on. Her wide smile breezed into his mind, pushing away his dark thoughts, transforming his glass from half-empty to half-full. Optimism for the future washed over him, a sense of something out of kilter finally clicking into place. Thank God for a woman like Katie, the best thing ever to happen in his messed-up life. With her beside him, he’d get through this.
He pushed back his chair. He needed to get out of this place and find a way to forget, for one night at least, the weirdness in his head. He'd go back to the flat, crack open a beer, and try to make sense of things. Hell, he might even raise a toast to the forthcoming reunion with his parents. And another to Katie and their future together. Why the hell not? His glass was half-full, after all.
Damn the demons in his head, he thought. He might be able to outrun them after all.
15
SHATTERING ICE
I didn’t sleep the night following my baby's burial. I sat in an armchair asking myself over and over why the hand I’d been dealt in life was such a shit one. I’d had a few months of contentment with Gran and my baby, no more, and it didn’t seem fair when the rest of my life had been so crap. Not that I believed in any kind of higher power dealing out happiness as a reward to the deserving. To me, life seemed more like a giant lottery and some people pulled out a dud ticket. I was one of them, obviously.
The temptation of suicide danced in front of me, its allure soft and seductive. I thought about finding rope to hang myself with, swallowing a bottle of sleeping pills or taking a sharp knife to my wrists.
The numbness stopped me killing myself, Daniel. Some primitive survival mechanism, some self-generated version of Valium deep within my brain, took over and the only thing remaining was a kind of frozen unresponsiveness. Choosing between a length of rope, a bottle of pills or a kitchen knife required more effort than I was able to manage. I'd stick with the decisions I'd already made. I needed to leave this house as soon as possible. I made a pact with myself. I would try to find some way of dealing with my baby’s death. I’d give myself six months in Bristol. Suicide would be my release if, at any time during those six months, I returned to the agonising pain I’d gone through before the numbness. I couldn’t survive pain as intense again; the torment would crush me and I’d end up either swallowing a bottle of pills or slashing my wrists.
There was more than the pain to ensure my suicide. I thought about the numbness as well. I would definitely kill myself, if at the end of the six months, I still felt frozen. There seemed absolutely no point in existing if I had to go through the rest of my life with my soul encased in ice. I had nobody to love me and I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to love anyone again. All I wanted was a chance at a happy, stable family life and it looked like my dream wasn’t going to happen. There was nothing to replace it. I didn’t care about having a prestigious career. I didn’t want to travel the world like Gran. What else was there?
No, Bristol it would be. I’d go there; I would mourn my baby, and attempt to come to terms with the devastation of his loss. If I never did – well, one day my landlord would knock on the door, and he’d find my body, like my mother so long ago, and beside it a note.
I don’t know if you can grasp how things were for me back then, Daniel; what it was like, wanting to end my seemingly pointless life. I can’t think you’ve ever gone through anything bad enough to make you want to kill yourself, and I pray to God, the one I don’t believe in, you never do. I’m not sure how to describe it so you’ll understand. It’s as if I’d retreated into a dark world, where all that existed was unhappiness and despair and unending misery, my existence narrowed down to a bleak tunnel going on and on. I didn’t believe there would ever be any light at the end, or even that an end existed. I think once someone like me finds herself in such a place inside her head, the idea of suicide becomes the light, like a beacon pointing the way out.
The numbness stopped me, as I told you. I went through the motions the next day, packing what few possessions I owned. Clothes, photos of Daniel and Gran, her jewellery. I placed Daniel’s birth certificate, proof he was still alive under the sapling, on top of everything. My entire life fitted into one canvas suitcase. Then I boarded the next train for Bristol.
I picked the first guesthouse I found in Yellow Pages after I arrived and took a taxi there. Then, after unpacking, I bought the local paper with the aim of finding myself a cheap bedsit. The next day was spent making phone calls; I took the first available place. The room smelled of the dirt in the shaggy carpet, which might once have been cream but was now grime-coloured, of stale cigarette smoke mixed with a whiff of drains. It was vile, shabby and ugly and exactly what I wanted. No beauty existed in my life right then and my scruffy bedsit spoke back to me of the desolation of my frozen psyche. We made a good match.
I spent most of the first few weeks in Bristol in my room, only going out to get food or to use the payphone to sort Gran’s estate and then going back as quickly as I could to my bolthole. I signed over power of attorney for my solicitor to sell the house on my behalf; besides him, I spoke to nobody unless I had to. I slept as much as possible, finding sleep a welcome oblivion. I'd lie on my bed if awake, looking at the stains on the ceiling, my mind a sanctuary of inertia. That’s what happens when you’re as numb as I was.
I never thought I should be doing something, getting a job, exploring Bristol. The city was alien to me apart from the busy road on which I lived. Every time I went out I passed people of all skin colours, women wearing strange and exotic clothes, heard languages I couldn’t identify. At night, looking out of the window, I’d see girls in tight short skirts, hanging around in doorways, smoking cigarettes. The city pulsed with life around me without touching me in any way. I had no thoughts, no feelings. I never let myself think about the event that had shattered my life.
God knows what a psychiatrist would have made of me back then. Shrinks have visited me so many times since I’ve been in this place, wherever I am, Daniel; they all think they can unlock my tongue and get inside my head. They haven’t a clue. Seems to me the human brain is more complex and far more multi-dimensional than any psychiatrist can ever gauge. Oh, they have their theories, which change according to the latest so-called expert, and they try to categorise people’s behaviour to match some arbitrary set of rules, but I don’t think our depths are so easy to reach, Daniel. Can one person ever fathom what
goes on in another person’s head; really get to grips with what drives them? Probably not. I only know I was doing what I needed to in order to survive. I showered, dressed, ate my food, all the while frozen inside, the numbness a shield against my grief. Weeks went by like that; I had no notion of time or dates. Nothing mattered anymore.
One day I dragged myself off the bed and walked to the corner shop to get some eggs. A new assistant, one I’d never seen before, a middle-aged woman, stood behind the counter.
‘Morning, sweetheart!’ I glanced up, startled. ‘You need a bag, love?’
‘No,’ I mumbled.
‘Well, haven’t you got the prettiest blue eyes?’ My face flushed. I looked at her.
Our eyes met, and she knew some awful thing had broken me, because she was one of those people who connected easily and naturally with her fellow human beings. She could read me because she’d studied people all her life. A woman who understood others, this one. She’d reached right in and got straight to the core of me, with no more than a look.
The ice around my soul melted a little as her warmth touched me.
‘Thanks,’ I muttered. I grabbed the eggs and walked out.
The next day, I needed milk.
She was there again, the same warm smile, the same look of knowing.
‘Morning, my love!’ She rang up the milk. ‘You moved in round here, have you?’
‘I live in one of the bedsits above the launderette.’ It was more words in one go than I’d uttered at any time in the last few weeks.
She laughed. ‘I know your landlord! Barry Cummings. We went to school together. My, that takes me back. He asked me out once, but I had too big a crush on the head boy to notice Barry. We laugh about it now.’ She handed me my change, her fingers skimming my palm briefly, and the warmth of her touch melted my icy shell a bit more.