by Julie Corbin
Almost.
I wait until he’s gone, then go to join them. Lauren looks up guiltily.
‘Everything okay?’ I say.
‘Dad was just here,’ she says.
‘Really?’ I affect a casual interest. ‘What did he want?’
‘He was talking in his couch voice,’ Robbie says, holding his hand up against the sun. ‘I can never concentrate on what he’s saying when he does that.’
‘He wants us to go to Germany with him on holiday,’ Lauren says. She comes across and stands beside me, nudging her body against mine. ‘I’m not sure, though.’ She has a long blade of grass in her hand and is tearing it into strips lengthways. ‘What do you think, Mum?’
‘I think . . .’ I pause. ‘I think it’s up to you. But I also think that spending time with Dad would be good for you both.’
‘We’d be going to Erika’s house. She has ponies. Or her mum and dad do. They live there and she knows how to ride.’ Lauren decimates the grass then throws it to one side and squints up at me. ‘And I’d rather you were there, Mum, but at least if Robbie goes I won’t be on my own. I mean, I don’t really want to go.’ Conflict is written all over her face, so that her expression changes every couple of seconds, but I can hear that Phil has done a good job of selling the whole idea to her.
‘It’s a long summer holiday,’ I say. ‘And the first two weeks we’ll be in Ireland. I’m going to have to look after Gran when she comes out of hospital. She’ll be grumpy and maybe a bit confused and I’ll be busy trying to please her, so you and Robbie will be on Uncle Declan’s farm helping with the chores and hanging out with your cousins. A couple of weeks afterwards with Dad could be fun.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘I do.’ I pull her in for a hug and look up at Robbie, who’s still lying back on the trampoline. ‘What do you say, Mister?’
‘I suppose.’ He gives a prolonged sigh then rolls over and jumps back down on to the ground beside us.
‘And did Dad say anything else?’ I ask, as we begin walking.
‘About what?’ Robbie immediately looks suspicious. ‘He says we can forget about the counselling. That’s true, isn’t it?’
‘I’m sure it is. He wouldn’t lie to you, love.’ His forehead is a scowl of irritation. ‘I just wondered whether he’d been more specific about what will be happening when you’re there.’ Like being guests at his wedding, for example.
‘He just went on about all the things we could do.’
‘Right.’
As we round the corner of the house, Emily is organising the younger girls into cartwheel competitions and Lauren runs across the grass to join her while Robbie takes up position between the goalposts of a miniature football net. The boys start firing balls his way and there’s good-natured teasing every time they score. Perfect – with the children occupied, this is my chance to speak to Leila.
‘They’re all having great fun out there,’ I say, finding her exactly where I left her. ‘We might manage ten minutes’ peace before the next interruption.’
‘I’ve made you a coffee.’ She points to a mug on the table and I sit down in front of it. ‘Did Phil tell them he’s getting married?’
‘Not yet. So better not say anything until he does.’
‘I won’t say a word.’ She brings a chair up beside me. ‘So tell me. Where did you go just now?’
‘The Royal Ed.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘Do you remember Trevor Stewart?’
‘Should I?’ She frowns, her eyes moving from left to right as she places the name. ‘You mean the Trevor Stewart from way back?’
‘Yes.’ I take a sip of my coffee. ‘I thought there might be a connection with Robbie’s drink spiking. The writing on the wall got me thinking about the past, back to my residency when . . .’ I bite my lip, ‘. . . I effectively killed Sandy Stewart. It wasn’t murder but it’s as close as anyone in my house has ever got. So I decided to look him up and found he was still at the same address.’
Leila’s jaw has dropped a couple of centimetres, her mouth open as she listens.
‘His neighbours told me he’d been sectioned and I’ve just been to visit him.’
‘Liv.’ Leila reaches across and touches my upper arm. ‘What’s happening now can’t possibly have anything to do with Sandy’s death.’
‘I know it sounds like a tenuous connection, but I had to reassure myself that Trevor wasn’t doing this to punish me.’
‘After eighteen years?’
‘Yes, but look at all the publicity I’ve been getting lately! It would be galling if some doctor had hastened your wife’s death and there she was being lauded as a star performer, wouldn’t it?’
‘Maybe, but . . .’
‘No matter how many years had gone by, it would hurt. But anyway,’ I sigh, ‘Trevor’s a ruined man. He’s not capable of lifting a teacup to his mouth. There’s no way he spiked Robbie’s drink or came into my house.’ I blow out a relieved breath. ‘But while I was there I found out something else.’
‘What?’
‘His baby didn’t die.’
I’m watching Leila’s face closely but in truth I could be at the other side of the room and still see the expression that settles on her features – guilt.
‘Leila?’
She’s staring down at the floor; her jaw is tight shut.
‘Leila?’ I shake her shoulder. ‘Did you already know this?’
‘Shit.’ She looks at me then, her right eye leaking a single tear. ‘I’m sorry, Liv.’
It’s my turn to be slack-jawed. ‘You lied to me?’
‘I shouldn’t have done; I didn’t want to!’ She throws her arms out. ‘I really didn’t.’
‘So why did you? Why on earth would you lie about something like that?’
‘Phil told me you were obsessing about the whole thing: Sandy’s death, and the baby, and how Trevor would never cope on his own.’
‘I wasn’t obsessed. I was having a normal reaction! Anyone would feel bad if they’d done what I had.’
‘He thought it was affecting your health. And when he told me Trevor Stewart had called the house—’
My spine chills. ‘Trevor called the house?’
‘Yes. He asked to speak to you.’
‘Because I left a letter in his door with my phone number on it!’ I shout. ‘Leila, the man needed help!’
‘But honestly, Liv, were you the right person to give him help? He had the hospital counselling service and various charities to support him.’
‘Jesus!’ I sit back, stunned. ‘He must have thought I was ignoring him.’
‘Phil told him you weren’t well and that he shouldn’t call back.’
‘Interfering . . . bastard!’ I bang my palms on the table. ‘How dare he?’
‘Liv, calm down.’ She tries to take hold of my hands but I shake her away. ‘I don’t always see eye to eye with Phil, but in this case he really was thinking of you.’
‘Was he now?’ Both my palms are burning and I blow on them. ‘So it’s fine to treat another adult like a child, is it?’
‘Think back to the person you were then. You weren’t as confident and well rounded as you are now. You’d almost had an abortion!’
‘Why are you bringing that up?’ I say, watching her wince at my frosty tone.
‘Only to indicate that . . . well . . . you weren’t yourself !’
‘I was myself, Leila.’ I poke my finger into my own chest. ‘That was me.’
‘Phil was worried that you were getting involved in something you shouldn’t. He thought you’d tell Trevor that you were responsible for Sandy’s death and you’d lose your career too. You know how I feel about Phil, but in this case he truly believed he was protecting you.’
‘And you? Is that what you thought?’
‘I thought . . . You weren’t looking after yourself or the baby you were carrying. You must remember how you were. You were sad and anxious and—’
I’ve heard enough. ‘There’s a fine line between care and control, Leila, and that’s something Phil doesn’t get.’ I stand up. ‘And you know what? I don’t think you always get it either. Thank you for lunch. I’m going home.’
‘Liv, please don’t leave when you’re angry. Please.’
I turn back at the door. ‘The baby was a little girl. She’s called Kirsty. And I’m going to find her.’
‘Liv . . .’
‘I don’t care how crazy you think I’m being. Don’t try to stop me and don’t, don’t tell Phil.’
I walk out to join the children, my eyes smarting with hot, indignant tears.
9
Monday morning surgery is always busy as, one way or another, the weekend throws up all sorts of trouble. My first patient had his shirt off when he was gardening and a neighbour told him he should have his moles checked. The second one has had diarrhoea, on and off, for six weeks and his wife has been nagging him to come and see me. And my final patient, the fifteenth this morning, has been having intermittent chest pain, so I give him an ECG and, seeing signs of cardiac irregularities, I call an ambulance.
My surgery finishes over an hour late, and it’s gone half past two before I’m all done for the morning – patients seen, prescriptions printed out, emails replied to, a couple of referral letters dictated and a phone call to the hospice to check up on one of my young adults who suffers from cancer.
Leila came to my room at lunchtime, as she always does, and started to apologise for lying about the baby. I found I couldn’t look her in the eye without wanting to shout at her, so I told her I still had work to do and turned my back on her until she got the message and left. Five minutes later, she snuck a chocolate-covered flapjack – my favourite – and a card around the door. The card has a picture of an apologetic bear holding a bunch of flowers and inside she’s written – ‘It was SO stupid of me and for years I worried about you finding out. Please forgive me. Leila.’ A sad face is drawn next to her name.
Part of me wants to immediately forgive her, because she’s my best friend and she’s making the effort and I know that she cares about me and the children. But a larger part of me is too hurt to let it go. She colluded with Phil in lying to me. She’s as close to a sister as I’ll ever get, and it hurts me to think she could go against me this way. Of course, we’ll get past it, but not yet. I need time to put it in perspective.
When I left her house yesterday afternoon, I was angry and hurt, but I didn’t have the chance to take myself off on my own to dwell on it. Robbie invited Emily and Ashe back home with him, and we were in the house five minutes when Lauren suggested we shop for some wallpaper. We left the older ones listening to music and trudged round a couple of shops. Lauren chose a bright, modern pattern, and by the time we got home, everyone was hungry. Emily and Lauren took charge of making supper and I forgot all about Sandy’s daughter, and Leila and Phil’s betrayal, and enjoyed an evening of lively chat and board games. It felt suspiciously as if they were making a concerted effort to cheer me up, but I entered into the spirit of it anyway. When Emily and Ashe had gone off home and Lauren was in bed, Robbie helped me strip the wallpaper off the remaining walls in the living room to prepare the whole room for decoration, and just before midnight I fell into bed exhausted, all thoughts of Kirsty lost in a fug of tiredness.
Now, with my morning surgery over, I have a chance to work out what to do next. Making amends is impossible, but now that I know the baby lived, I want to reassure myself that she’s okay. From what Sally said, she’s achieved a lot in her eighteen years and looks set to have a good career.
I wonder whether there’s anything about her on the Internet. I type ‘Kirsty Stewart actor’ into a search engine and it comes back with a couple of relevant links. One is about her part in the play at the Lyceum – several reviewers are quoted praising her performance – and the other link mentions that she was educated at Sanderson Academy out near Livingston. I click on the link to their website and read their mission statement: ‘We provide an environment where students are encouraged to develop their skills to the highest level, be that through dance, drama or music.’
My mobile is on my desk, on mute, but the screen lights up to tell me I have a call. It’s O’Reilly. ‘Hello?’
‘Not interrupting, am I?’ he says.
‘No, I’m on a break.’
‘I had another conversation with Tess this morning. She doesn’t open up easily. Her parents told me she’s been having all sorts of problems at school so is staying at home this week. As I thought, her father wanted a lawyer present but still, she agreed to allow us to take her fingerprints. There’s a . . .’
I stop listening to O’Reilly because a memory spark has ignited. School. School and Tess. I try to remember back to what Leila said when I first asked her about Tess. It was something about head lice and how her mother could never get rid of them and because she went to a boarding school it made it all the harder. On the screen underneath the mission statement there are details about the length of the school day and then: ‘Sanderson Academy is fully boarding by age fourteen, in order for the girls to take advantage of the programme of evening classes in all areas of dance, music and the dramatic arts.’
Boarding school isn’t the norm in Scotland. In fact, I remember reading once that less than 1 per cent of children are educated this way here. Interesting then that Tess and Kirsty both go to boarding school. Is this significant? Could it be the same school?
‘. . . is as far as we’ve got,’ O’Reilly says, coming to the end of what he has to tell me.
‘Well, thank you for calling. Let’s speak soon,’ I say, finishing the call without waiting for him to reply because my attention is back with the school website. There are several buttons down the side to click on, covering all aspects of school life from student welfare to current news. I begin with the first button and, not bothering to read much of the text, scroll through each page looking at photographs of the pupils, some playing musical instruments, others performing on stage or sitting drinking hot chocolate in the dorms. I have to know whether this is the boarding school that Tess attends because, if it is, it will link the two girls. I have no idea what Kirsty looks like, so I’m trying to find Tess and, after about ten minutes, I come across a photo entitled ‘fourth years preparing for their end-of-term musical, Annie Get Your Gun’. My heart comes up into my throat and I gulp it down, hold my breath to keep it there. Tess is in the photo. She’s standing sideways on but has turned her face to smile at the camera. She’s holding a sponge in her hand and is applying foundation to the face of the girl seated in front of her.
Although I have no definite idea of what this could mean, I know I’m on to something. The first thought that occurs to me is that Kirsty Stewart and Tess Williamson could be the same person. Sally said that Kirsty was in a series of foster homes and it’s possible that she was legally adopted. That’s easy enough to find out because, if she was adopted by the Williamsons and had a name change, it’s likely to be recorded on her medical file. I navigate back into the surgery database and find Tess’s notes, scrolling through her medical history as far back as vaccinations and then her birth. She was a breech delivery and was delivered by Caesarean section, her mother’s name is Audrey Williamson and she has two older sisters. No record of any adoption. That rules out my same-person theory and I go back on to Sanderson’s website. There are just over three hundred children in the school, aged between seven and eighteen, and one hundred of the older children board. Kirsty is almost eighteen and Tess is sixteen, and as senior pupils it’s very likely that they know one another. They could even be friends. Best friends.
I click on the contact button at the head of the home page and up comes a phone number. Swept along on a tide of apprehension and curiosity, I key the digits into my mobile and the phone at the other end rings for several beats before it’s answered by a cheerful young woman.
‘Sanderson Academy for the Performing
Arts, how may I help you?’
‘Hello, I’m interested in sending my daughter to your school and wondered whether I could make an appointment to come and see round?’
‘Of course. Let me find the headmistress’s diary.’ I hear a door opening and closing, a rustling of papers and then the thud of a heavy book as it falls to the floor. ‘You’ve just missed out on our Open Day, but the headmistress also sees prospective parents and pupils in the afternoons. Now let me see . . . She has a space tomorrow, at three thirty?’
I do a quick calculation. My surgery will be finished by one o’clock at the latest. I have an antenatal clinic in the afternoon but our community midwife often manages that alone and only refers to me if there’s a problem. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘That time suits me.’
She takes my name and contact details and then says, ‘Will your daughter be coming?’
‘No, just me, if that’s okay.’
‘Of course. Can you tell me her particular area of interest?’
I quickly refer back to the website. ‘She’s a keen musician. She plays violin and piano but is also hoping to develop her acting skills.’ The truth is that Lauren has already given up the violin and reluctantly practises piano as a trade-off for sleepovers or computer time. And as for acting? She has only ever had minor roles in class plays and has never aspired to more.
‘I’ll make a note of that. It lets the headmistress tailor her talk to your needs.’
‘Many thanks and I’ll see you tomorrow.’ I hang up the phone and am completely still for a second or two before covering my face with my hands. What am I doing? Is this really the right way to go about this? Setting off on my own investigation and leaving a trail of lies behind me? Should I not just hand the information over to O’Reilly, let him see whether there’s any significance in it?
Not until I have something concrete, I tell myself.
But you do have something concrete, the voice in my head replies. You have a connection between Tess Williamson and Kirsty Stewart. And Kirsty Stewart is Sandy Stewart’s child.
I take time to consider this but decide I can’t tell O’Reilly about the connection yet. It feels too personal. I made the mistake; I need to find out whether it’s come back to bite me. I’ve never before completely understood why people conceal information from the police, but now I do. It’s about control and it’s about self-preservation. And I’m counting on the fact that as long as I’m in the driving seat, there’s a chance I can fix this before anything else happens.