by Chris Curran
‘But that was earlier. This happened more recently.’
A deep breath. Why keep it a secret? ‘She showed me those letters.’
‘Ah.’ A maddening silence.
‘She didn’t want to tell me who they were from, but she let the name slip.’
‘I see. Well, if they failed to persuade you of my innocence, I can imagine Mum being upset. She was so certain they would convince you.’
‘Well, they didn’t.’
‘I can understand that and I really don’t blame you.’
Rosie just managed to hold back a laugh. How gracious of him. But he was still speaking and she forced herself to listen.
‘It was different for Mum. She knew Natalie Grant was a decent girl. I told Marion that it wouldn’t have the same effect on you, but she is so desperate for us to be a family again.’
Rosie could hear tears in his voice, but all she could think was: Natalie Grant. The girl was called Natalie Grant.
‘Well then, why don’t you tell me more about this Natalie? Where she lives, so I can go and talk to her?’
He didn’t even pause. ‘No, dear, I can’t do that. For one thing, she’s unlikely still to be living with that terrible mother of hers but, more importantly, she obviously doesn’t want to be contacted. I really can’t betray her.’
A surge of anger. ‘Or are you afraid she’ll betray you? They say kids can feel a twisted kind of love for their abuser.’
In the silence that followed she was tempted to hang up.
When he spoke, his voice was thick. ‘Rosemary, even if I can’t convince you that I had nothing to do with Alice’s death, you must believe me when I tell you I’ve never, ever, had an inappropriate interest in young girls. Mum always knew that and I tried to explain it to you in my letters when I thought you were mature enough to understand.’
The letters she had thrown away unopened. ‘Well then, give me an address I can use to track down Natalie.’
‘I’m sorry. I can’t.’
‘Fine. Then there’s nothing more to say. Please, don’t call me again.’ She clicked the phone off and stood to look at herself in the mirror. Her face was blotchy and she could see a muscle jumping in her eyelid. Damn, damn them both.
‘All right up there?’ Oliver called.
She flushed the toilet. ‘Down in a minute.’ She held her hands under the cold tap and splashed her face with water then pasted on a smile.
Fay was standing at the bottom of the stairs holding a mug with both hands. ‘Daddy made you some coffee.’
As Rosie reached the bottom step Fay shoved the mug at her so hard that a dollop splashed over the side and onto the pale stair carpet.
‘For goodness’ sake, Fay, be careful.’
Fay stepped back, fingers in her mouth.
Rosie slowed her breath, put the mug on the table beside the stairs and pulled her daughter to her, feeling the little heart beating fast against her own. This was no good. She couldn’t let it affect Fay. ‘Sorry, baby, I didn’t mean to be cross. Just run and get some kitchen towel for me, will you?’
Fay’s eyes were still wary as she turned away.
Joe
When Joe got home he searched the house. The police had done it, of course, but he knew Hannah and he thought he might notice something they had missed. He was certain she had loved this man who had been Lily’s father; so, surely, she would have kept something from her time with him.
He wasn’t sure what he had been hoping for (or dreading) but there was no suspicious jewellery, no love letters, no secret address book. Her phone and purse were with her at the hospital, but he went through all her bags and the pockets in her clothes. Nothing.
Eventually, he lay down on the bed and dozed for a few hours. He woke knowing where he had to go. To The Children of Light again. And this time he would get some proper answers.
When he knocked on the big farmhouse door the older woman, who Jerome had called Clara, opened it. She obviously recognized him and her smile disappeared. He tried to look friendly.
‘Hello, again. I’m Joe Marsden. My wife, Hannah, was a member here. I’d like to see the pastor, please.’
‘Pastor Jerome won’t be back for some time.’
He looked at her, letting her know she couldn’t get rid of him that easily.
‘I’m afraid there’s no one else here,’ she said, ice in her voice.
‘Well, maybe you can help. I wanted to talk to anyone who was a particular friend of Hannah’s.’
The woman stepped forward, raising her chin. ‘That would be me. I knew little Lily well too. Hannah was expecting the baby when she came to us, if that’s what you wanted to know. And none of the brethren would have done anything to harm either of them.’ She pressed her arms tight against her chest, one fist clenched under her chin.
He went to speak, but she glared at him and said: ‘When she told me she was leaving with you, I tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t listen. You were going to take care of them both. That was one of the last things she said to me. Well, you didn’t make a very good job of it, did you?’
She shoved the door shut before he could answer, and all he could do was to bash his fist against the wood.
He sat in the car again, pushing back his seat and closing his eyes. He’d wait for that bastard Jerome no matter how long it took. The sun had gone in and the sky was heavy with rain: the heat trapped by a blanket of cloud. It was very warm in the car.
The rap on the window jolted him awake.
Samuel Barnes peered in at him. ‘Mr Marsden?’
Joe rolled down the window.
‘Will you drive to the end of the lane and I’ll walk up there and meet you?’
Joe nodded, not altogether surprised. It reminded him of when he first started seeing Hannah. The Children didn’t like members socializing with outsiders.
When he got to the end of the lane, the rain started, big heavy drops threatening a real downpour. Joe opened the door as Samuel ran up and jumped in, bringing with him the scent of damp earth.
He looked back up the road. ‘Can you drive on a bit?’
Joe pulled into a lay-by and Samuel twisted towards him, but didn’t meet his eye. ‘I’ve been thinking about Lily. Only, I might know how she found out.’
‘Found out what?’
‘About her dad. Her real dad.’
He wanted to be calm, not to frighten the boy, but found himself gripping Samuel’s arm, staring into his face. ‘Go on.’ The lad flinched away and Joe let go. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s just that the police are getting nowhere and Lily’s mum …’ He stopped, no need to tell him all that.
Samuel was watching the rain stream down the windscreen, his fingers scratching at a splash of mud on his jeans. ‘I shouldn’t have done it, but I told Lily about what happens when we join properly. We have to give up our past life. Put everything away in a box. Our testament box we call it.’
‘What?’ Joe rubbed his eyes. If only he wasn’t so tired.
‘Everything goes in there. Everything we brought with us, except our clothes and money.’
Yeah, the money goes to the cult. ‘So what’s this got to do with Lily’s father?’
A squirm in his seat to look back along the road again. ‘I don’t know for sure, but … Well, I let Lily see the box her mum left behind.’
Joe sat up, looking at the boy. ‘You had it?’
‘The testament stays with our chaperone. I knew Sister Clara was Hannah’s chaperone.’ His voice grew hoarse. ‘And people don’t lock their rooms.’
‘You took it?’
‘No, I just told Lily where it would be. Where Sister Clara’s room was. She was only meant to have a look.’
‘But she took it?’
‘Not the box. But …’ His knees were moving fast, up and down, his feet drumming on the floor. ‘She took some stuff out. Said it was her mum’s so she was entitled, but I never saw it and I don’t know what she did with it.’ Almost a whisper now. ‘S
he left the box behind. So Sister Clara wouldn’t realize it had been touched. No one’s ever meant to look inside, but I thought you should know. Maybe you should tell the police. It might help them find who hurt Lily.’
Joe nodded. ‘I will. You’re sure you don’t know where the stuff she found is?’
Samuel’s hand was on the door. ‘No, honest, I don’t. Sorry, Mr Marsden, I’ve got to go.’
And before Joe could say anymore he was out, slamming the door behind him. Joe watched him running back to the farm through the downpour.
Rosie
Rosie parked outside the Bexhill flat. Her mother’s car was gone and she knew she had no time to waste if she was to find what she’d come for before her parents got back. But still, she had to sit for a moment.
She had emailed Marion straight after the call from her dad:
Mum,
I’m sorry I upset you and I’d like to pop round one day so we can clear the air. Could you let me know when you’ll definitely be in?
This morning, Marion had emailed back:
Dear Rosemary,
I’d love to see you of course. I’m driving Dad to Eastbourne for a series of hospital appointments today and they usually take hours, but the rest of the week will be fine.
Rosie hadn’t replied, because all she’d wanted to know was when the flat would be empty.
She was teaching nearby, so she had driven over at lunchtime.
As she climbed the stairs she told herself this was for Mum’s own good and there was no need to feel guilty, but all the same it felt wrong.
If she could trace Natalie Grant, and learn once and for all what she knew then … Even as she told herself this, she wasn’t sure if she actually wanted to find the girl, the woman, who seemed so certain her dad was innocent. Who had possibly seen something that day.
She already had her key in her hand, but at her mum’s front door she paused. Perhaps it would be best to leave it. That was what everyone else seemed to think.
But now she was inside and staring at the little bookcase by the window. Her mother had kept all her appointment diaries. As well as the normal family stuff, the old ones were filled with Dad’s orchestra dates, his tours, the parties they’d been to and the dinners they’d hosted. When they moved here all those years ago, Rosie had said she should throw them away. She remembered Marion clutching a bundle of the books to her chest. ‘They have so much about you in them, and about Alice. I know it’s only the dates of your term times, injections, school plays, and parents’ evenings, but each date has so many memories associated with it. It would be like throwing away your childhood.’
But Rosie wasn’t interested in the diaries today. She knew the only entry for the day of Alice’s death was: ‘Alice and Rosemary tennis’. Her mother hadn’t noted her own trip to visit her sister that weekend because it had been a last-minute decision. And no music lessons had been scheduled either.
What Rosie wanted was the smaller pile of books next to the diaries: Mum’s old address books. Until Alice’s death she always had two on the go, replaced every few years. And they were piled one on top of the other on the bottom shelf of the bookcase, as they’d been since the move.
The books for their friends always had pretty covers, while those for business were plain blue or red. The business book was filled with Dad’s contacts as well as tradespeople, doctor, dentist, and Rosie’s and Alice’s school details.
After Alice’s death, they hadn’t needed two address books, so the final couple were the pretty picture type. Underneath, was the very last plain book. The one that must have been in use at the time of Alice’s death.
She took it out and looked at the letter G then the N, but there was nothing. Starting from the front she ran her finger down each page. And on the second page of the letter P there they were: two lists of pupils. Names, addresses, and phone numbers, with a day and a time beside each one. Her mother had colour-coded them. In black ink were three names that Rosie recognized as people from the village and the surrounding area. The ones who paid for their tuition.
The others were written in blue and also had a school name in brackets. All the schools were in deprived areas. The places her father’s free pupils came from. And Natalie Grant was there, just underneath David Crawford. It looked like they’d lived near each other too.
She scribbled the address, began to replace the book carefully, then had a thought. Dave Crawford hadn’t wanted to talk to her, but one of the others just might. She copied the rest of the blue list: Alison Brewer, Natalie Grant, Jane Gredecki, Harry Marshall, Tess O’Brien. There was a chance that some of their parents might still be at these addresses, or have the same phone number, even if no one connected with Natalie Grant was still around. And a slim chance that someone might feel like talking.
Chapter Sixteen
Joe
Joe pulled the Fiat into the lane behind the house. No reporters here, at least. He opened the garage doors. On the way home, he’d been thinking about what Samuel had told him. Could Lily really have found something in this testament of Hannah’s? And where was the stuff she’d taken away? The police had given the whole house a real going over, including the loft, so surely there could be nothing to find there. They’d even searched the garden shed and the garage. Looking for something to incriminate him, of course.
When he redecorated Lily’s room last year she cleared out a lot of old toys and books. He remembered coming upstairs and seeing her looking at a couple of favourite dolls and a picture book she used to love when she was little. At one time, she had a stack of brightly coloured plastic crates crammed full in the corner of her room, but over the years the stack had reduced to just one pink box.
When she looked up at him he could see she was sad about letting it go. ‘You can keep that if you want,’ he said.
She laughed. ‘No, Dad. I need room for my new desk and dressing table. Don’t want any old clutter in here.’ She stood and dropped the doll she was holding into the crate and pushed it towards him with her foot.
But it was obvious she wasn’t sure.
‘Tell you what,’ he said, ‘why don’t I put this in the garage for a while, in case you change your mind?’
After the room was finished he noticed a china ornament she’d won at a fair, years before, on her dressing table. It had been with the rest in the pink crate. She must have gone to the garage to get it.
There was a chance.
The pink crate was under the workbench and he knelt to pull it out. Oh, Lily. He hadn’t prepared himself and the lurch inside made him slump back at the sight of the stuffed rabbit, its fur flat and thin from where Lily had cuddled it. Sitting on the rough concrete floor, he looked into the box. Could he bear to touch any of it?
How long he sat there, just staring, he didn’t know, but finally he pressed his hands hard onto the plastic sides and closed his eyes for a minute, taking a deep breath.
One by one, he lifted the things out and laid them on the floor. It was slow going. Every so often the memories kicked in. Lily cuddled up in bed at 5 or 6, begging him to read Peace at Last just one more time as she chanted the chorus with him. At 7 years old, crying, because the Barbie doll they’d bought her for Christmas was the wrong one. Hannah said they could take it back and change it straight after Christmas, but by then Lily had decided she loved it. She was always like that, quick to cry but happy again in no time. There were three other Barbies as well and here was funny old Ken. At one stage, Lily had become obsessed with Bob the Builder and they’d bought her a couple of the machines. One of them she’d loved so much she used to cuddle it like a soft toy when she was in bed.
When he reached the bottom of the crate, he turned it over just to check she hadn’t stuck anything on the bottom. But, no, that was it. Just toys, and a hot water bottle with a cover in the shape of a panda. It had been a present from his mum. Nice and light so she could send it through the post and avoid a visit. But Lily had loved it, even though she was alway
s warm and they never put water in it.
Lily had been careless with her stuff, hurling toys from her bed into the crates, or more often onto the floor beside them, but he took his time. He had been scared to touch these things when he started, but now he could hardly bear to stop.
But as he was putting the panda hot water bottle back he thought it felt a bit odd. And when he undid the cover, there it was: a brown envelope folded carefully in half and pressed flat so there was no lump in the panda’s fur.
He stood up, opened the envelope, and emptied it out on the bench. It was all paper. He was hardly breathing as he turned the things over.
They looked like certificates of some kind and there were a couple of newspaper cuttings too. But as he began to read, he realized there must be some mistake. These couldn’t be Hannah’s memories: there was nothing here about her. The name on all the certificates was someone else – Natalie Grant.
A bunch of swimming awards. Something for diving: ‘Winner – East Sussex County Championships’. This person was nothing like Hannah. Awards for piano: all of them merits or distinctions. Hannah wasn’t musical, didn’t even listen to music much. She never went swimming. So who the hell was this?
The newspaper cuttings might give him a clue. One was a review of a concert given by a youth orchestra. Another showed a group of young teenagers in swimming gear. The paper was the Hastings Observer and a caption above said:
The team from Alexandra School, St Leonards, who triumphed in the East Sussex Schools Competition.
Underneath were the names of the team and there it was again:
Natalie Grant: Girls’ Captain.
Joe scanned the faces. The girl in the middle. Could it be a young Hannah? She looked very different – blonde hair rather than chestnut brown – but he knew Hannah dyed her hair. She once told him she used to lighten it, but now preferred it darker, and she had seemed horrified when Lily wanted to go blonde like one of her friends.
The grainy newsprint meant it was impossible to see if the girl had freckles like Hannah, but her smile … Yes, the closer he looked the more certain he was that it was her. Yet Hannah’s name was missing. He checked at the bottom, matching names to faces, and this time he wasn’t surprised when he saw the name that belonged with Hannah’s young face.