by Alison Keane
It only takes me a few minutes to search the kitchen. There’s no sign of it. I search the living room next, wondering if I’m looking in the wrong places. But he wouldn’t have hidden it away—why would he? Not in his own house.
The dining room at the front of the house is hardly ever used but I check it too just in case. There’s nothing there. The table is clean and free of dust and I start to wonder if that’s because he’s a clean freak or because he’s got a whole other life I don’t know about.
I grit my teeth as I walk up the stairs. I know I should give up and acknowledge that I won’t find that bracelet, but I can’t. Finding the truth is consuming me now. There has to be something here that explains it. That’s the only way I’ll find out.
It’s not that I resent him for trying to find love. The age gap is a bit weird but I could have gotten over that. It’s the deception I can’t deal with. Why not just tell me the truth? Why didn’t she just tell me? Why didn’t he?
I turn the handle of Dad’s bedroom door, trying my best to ignore the guilt that rises in me at the thought of snooping in his personal space. Guilt’s not all I feel. I’m not sure what to expect as I push the door open and walk inside.
I look around. It’s just as bare as the rest of the house. I check the bedside drawers first, just to get that over with. There’s nothing in one of them. The other one holds some prescription bottles and some throat lozenges. I take out the prescription bottles. They’re both in his name. I don’t recognise the names of the drugs.
I move to the wardrobe, anxiety rising again as I wonder if I’ll be faced with a rail full of familiar women’s clothes. But I’m not. It’s just suits and a selection of white and blue shirts. On the floor is a pair of brown leather shoes and a pair of trainers that don’t look like they’ve been used very often. The shelves are stacked with neatly-folded jumpers and polo shirts.
I close the wardrobe doors and hurry out. I check the guest bedroom next. The drawers and wardrobe are empty and there’s a faint mustiness to the room. I’d be surprised if he changed the bed linen frequently, though the headboard and bedside tables are just as clean and dust-free as elsewhere in the house.
A quick glance in the bathroom cabinet reveals only his toiletries. Either that or the woman of the house is incredibly low maintenance, which I know Steph is not.
I linger in the bathroom, looking around. What does she do? Bring a toiletry bag with her every time she comes here?
I shake my head. I don’t want to think of them together, but the conclusion I’m coming to is that they spend most of their time in her flat. I’ll have to find an excuse to snoop around it. Perhaps I’ll try and invite myself round this evening: that’s if she doesn’t suspect I’m on her trail.
But I can’t, can I? How can I look her in the eyes after this? She lied to me. They both did.
I come to the last room upstairs: the office. I check the time on my phone. I’m not sure whether to give up and go back to work or keep going. My heart skips a beat as I open the door. This isn’t just about him and Steph, I realise, but about my mother. Is there something in here that can help me make sense of why he won’t talk about her?
It’s as neat and orderly in here as the rest of the house, just a black leather chair and a desk pushed against one of the walls. There’s a computer monitor but no hard drive or laptop: he must take it to and from the office.
There are three drawers and I start with the first one, finding nothing but a few pens and pencils, paperclips, that sort of thing. The next one down has various business cards and more unused stationery.
The bottom drawer is more than double the size of the other two. And it’s locked. That puts me off initially, but then I grip the bottom and pull. The drawer bucks against the flimsy lock and before I know what I’m doing, I’ve grabbed a metal ruler from one of the other drawers and used it to reach in. After a few tries, I manage to knock the lock bar out of the hook it locks into.
The drawer slides open and I realise that I’ve bent the lock enough that it won’t slide back in. How the hell am I going to cover this up? He’ll know it was me—who else would have broken into his office desk?
I stare into the drawer. This was a stupid idea. There’s nothing in there except paperwork.
I start lifting out the papers, glancing over them and placing them upside down so I can put them back in the same order as I found them, though I’m impatient to get through them and get out of here.
It’s all boring stuff like insurance documents, legal agreements and that sort of thing. My attention starts to drift. Why are there no newspaper clippings; no pictures of my mother?
I forget all that when I see what’s next in the pile. I glance over it and think nothing of it at the start, it’s something to do with the company.
Then I notice the name.
Her name.
Two months ago, Dad transferred all his shares in Cartwright Packaging to the Stephanie Price Trust.
I sit back heavily on the floor, devastated. He’s given the company to Steph? This is so much worse than I thought.
He set up that company when I was little and he’s built it into what it is today. It’s his pride and joy.
No wonder they didn’t tell me.
I shake my head. This is bad. This is so bad. Has he lost the plot? He didn’t seem any different the last time I saw him, but then we never talk much beyond polite small talk on my Sunday visits.
Is it possible I’ve missed the warning signs?
Struggling to process what I’ve just seen, I forget my orderly investigation and tip everything from that drawer out on the floor. I scramble blindly through the bits of paper, desperate to find something that will help me make sense of this.
Why?
Why would he sign everything over to her? Is he ill? Has she tricked him? This is wrong.
I’m almost at the end of the pile and I’m about to give up. It’s all just old electrical warranties now and the TV downstairs is at least ten years old so there’s nothing recent here. The pile of documents left to go through is only a few sheets deep and I’m exhausted, even though it’s still only half eight in the morning.
Then I see it.
The envelope.
It’s white, which explains why it didn’t stand out from the rest of the pile. I stare at it. It’s discoloured from age, which means nothing of course, but there’s something about it that makes me feel on edge. Nothing else I found this morning was in an envelope and there’s no name written on the front.
The flap is open and there’s no sign that it’s ever been sealed shut even though the glue has turned yellow with age. I prise open the top and pull out the sheets of paper inside.
I place them side by side and stare at them. At first they make no sense to me. It’s a death certificate for someone called Josephine Kent and a birth certificate for Eleanor Kent. Then my vision starts to swim and I scan through the tiny writing for dates.
I shake my head as panic washes over me.
Eleanor was born the same year as me. The same month too—just five days earlier. I pick up the page and hold it right up to my face. Is this me? My hands shake. It seems like too much of a coincidence, but why would it say my name is Kent?
Then my brain makes another connection and it’s all I can do to keep breathing steadily. Josephine Kent is listed on the birth cert as Eleanor’s mother. Josephine… Joy… could it be?
My mother’s name was Joy. But she was Joy Cartwright, not Joy Kent.
What the hell is going on? If this is my birth certificate, then why does it say I was born in Hull? I’ve never been there. And why isn’t Dad listed as my father? The section where his name should be is completely blank.
Dread consumes me as I drop the birth certificate and pick up the other document.
Josephine died when I was almost two. That’s consistent with what Dad has told me, but that’s the only thing that’s consistent.
It’s not just the name or the f
act that her death was recorded in Hull. It’s the cause of death. When I finally bring myself to read those words, I’m stunned and more confused than ever.
Because Josephine Kent was poisoned.
19
Ellie
I walk back to town in a daze, barely aware of whether I’ve even closed the front door of Dad’s house, never mind had the mental clarity to fix the lock on his desk drawer.
Everything is a blur. Everything is a lie.
I’m not stupid.
The envelope feels heavy in my pocket. Perhaps I shouldn’t have taken it, but I was worried Dad might destroy the documents and deny everything.
Dad…
Why isn’t his name on my birth cert? If I’m not Eleanor and Josephine wasn’t my mum, why would he have those documents?
Is he even my dad?
A horrible thought pops into my mind. Did he kill her?
My fists clench by my side. What am I supposed to do? I’d planned to go to work after this, but how can I go in and sit at my desk after what I’ve just found?
I want to walk right into his office and confront him, but how can I? My thoughts are all jumbled up. I don’t even know what I’d say.
I can’t keep running away, though, can I? I check the time and realise if I hurry I can swing by Dad’s office and still get to work on time.
Tears well in my eyes and I bite my lip to try and stop them. As if this can be resolved in a quick visit to his office.
I turn onto the street where Dad’s office is and change my mind again. I’m too worked up to see him. I need some time to process this first.
I keep walking along the other side of the street, but I can’t take my eyes off the sign. Cartwright. Is that even my name? Why didn’t she put his name on my birth certificate?
My stomach heaves. Were they ever together? Those photos he gave me—how do I even know that was her?
Somebody emerges from the building. At first I don’t pay much heed: I’m too wrapped up in trying to make sense of the lies he told me. Slowly, though, I register the coat and realise it’s not one of Dad’s employees.
I look up, horrified. It’s her, sauntering along the street in that gorgeous black wool coat with the sky blue lining that appears in flashes.
It’s silk, she told me once, proudly stroking it and inviting me to feel how soft it was.
I watch her in disbelief as I see her enviable wardrobe in a new light. I was so grateful to have a friend that I never stopped to ask myself how someone working in accounts could afford clothes like that.
She didn’t.
My dad did.
I did.
I grimace. I’ve never thought of his company as mine, but it’s a slap in the face to know he’s been spoiling her with luxuries and he wouldn’t even give me a loan when I needed it.
I’m too far away to see the look on her face, but I can see enough from her body language. There’s a spring in her step that isn’t usually there.
Look at her, I think bitterly, strutting around like she’s just won the lotto.
It hits me then and I don’t know why I never thought of it before.
His staff. They must know about it if she’s openly visiting Dad at work. Does everyone know?
I must be the only one who doesn’t.
I think back over the last few months; over the disintegration of my relationship with my father and his anger when I brought up the topic of my mother.
I can’t think of a good reason for them to keep their relationship from me—but I can think of a very bad one.
What if I’m thinking about this all wrong and Dad knows nothing about my friendship with Steph? What if she’s fed him a whole load of bullshit about needing to keep it a secret from his daughter without revealing she knows me?
I stumble backwards and grip the railing of the building behind me to steady myself.
What if she’s been playing the two of us off against each other in the hopes of driving us apart permanently and getting her hands on his money?
She’s gone now, but the more I think about it the more it makes sense. Even last night she was so dismissive of me when I told her I was looking into what had happened to my mother.
My eyes widen.
She knew I wasn’t going to get anywhere because she knew Dad had told me a false name.
And why did he do that?
By the time I walk into the lobby at work, my head is pounding from trying to make sense of this.
At least I’m on time. It’s becoming more and more clear that this job is the only half-decent thing in my life and I can’t afford to let my performance slip any further.
After the first couple of calls, I’m consumed by the need to delve deeper into the past. I have something to go on now. A name. I thought I had that before, but I didn’t: not really.
I resist the urge. Every time I think about searching ‘Josephine Kent’, I glance at Jason’s office. He hasn’t spoken to me yet today and I don’t want him to either.
I’ve got to stay on track.
I throw myself into my work and promise myself I can do all the research I need to do on my lunch break.
I dash out of the office to get a sandwich to eat at my desk. I need to eat as quickly as I can so I have more time for research.
Thankfully Jason isn’t in his office—I saw him go out earlier with a load of people from a different team—so I don’t have to watch out for him. It doesn’t matter that it’s my lunch break and I’m allowed to use the internet—I don’t want to risk another confrontation where he flies off the handle before I can explain I’m on my break.
I look around. The office is quiet. It seems like lots of people in my team have gone out for lunch too. I don’t care—I’m past the point where it bothers me that I don’t get invited to these things. In a way it’s good: I don’t have the money to spend on whip-arounds and birthday lunches and all the other pointless events they seem to have around here.
I finish my sandwich and wipe my fingers on the rough napkin that came with it.
At first I don’t know where to start: the present or the past. Then Steph’s smug face and designer clothes pop into my head and I know that’s where my focus needs to be. What if she’s trying to rip him off?
I hesitate for the thousandth time today. Am I seriously thinking about protecting my dad, the man who lied to me about who I am and what happened to my mother?
No, the first thing I need to do is find out what happened to her. Who poisoned her? There has to be a record of that.
I hiss out a breath and type in the name from the documents I found this morning.
Josephine Kent.
There’s nothing. I grit my teeth when I realise why: there are a lot of people called Josephine who live in Kent. That gives me an idea.
Josephine Kent Hull.
I sigh as I skim through the results and see there’s nothing relevant.
I sit back and drink some water from the bottle I keep on my desk. There’s a lump in my throat and I don’t know whether it’s from eating too fast or for different reasons.
I don’t know what to think about anything anymore.
I replace the cap on my bottle.
Josephine Kent death.
Josephine Kent poisoned.
There’s nothing. No outpouring of grief. No sentencing of whoever was responsible.
I try Eleanor Kent.
I hold my breath expecting that there must be something. But there’s not. I sigh. The trail is just as cold as before. How can that be?
As I type in Steph’s name, I realise how little I know about her. I never asked prying questions about her life in case she did the same to me. I realise that she probably knows all about my past.
Unlike my mother, there are lots of pictures of Steph online with her equally glamorous friends down in London. The most recent ones are from only a few months back, right before she started chatting to me at yoga.
Why, is all I can think. Why did she
move here? Was it because of Dad?
I slam my hands on the keyboard as I tap in my next search query.
Steph Price golddigger.
There are some pictures of her in the image results, including one of her with an older man. I click on it, but it won’t let me open the website it’s linked to.
I grit my teeth and look for others. Is he her last boyfriend? He looks like he’s in his fifties and judging by the big gold watch on his wrist, he’s loaded.
I sigh.
I need to calm down and think. Knowing she’s gone out with rich men in the past isn’t going to solve anything. I try to remember the name of her company, but I can’t.
I sit back heavily, frustrated now.
John Cartwright Steph Price.
There’s nothing nothing nothing. I can’t stand it anymore. I’m exhausted and I have no idea what’s going on all around me.
The worst thing is there’s one place I can go that might be able to help.
But I swore I’d never set foot in there again.
I lose my nerve long before I get to the police station. I try to convince myself that it might be different now; that there are lots of officers who work there and I might not necessarily see the same ones.
It doesn’t work.
All I can remember is being sneered at; the detective’s anger when I suggested that maybe the reason he was shielding Mikey had something to do with his rugby connections.
I stop outside the building and stare up at it, telling myself it’s just a building and they’re just people; that I’ve done nothing wrong.
In the end, it’s my obsessive need to find out what happened that drives me through those doors even though it’s far more tempting to scuttle back to work. This place brings back too many bad memories.