by Emily Gunnis
He could see Liz sitting on the arm of the sofa, arms folded, shaking her head disapprovingly, the way she did when he lost his temper. He could hear her calm voice behind him now, feel her warm breath on his neck. They are just trying to find Jessie. You need to cooperate with them. But his wife’s experience of the police extended to a speeding ticket and a ticking-off for peeing in an alleyway on a drunken night out. ‘Why are you always so hostile towards them?’ she’d ask when he scowled at any copper he walked past.
Watching DC Galt and DC Paterson now was like being dragged back to that winter of 1960.
DC Paterson returned. ‘Someone fitting Jessie’s description has been seen, with a baby, in Chichester town centre. There’s also been a possible sighting of her getting on a train to London.’ The man spoke so infuriatingly slowly it was as if his batteries were running low, and Harvey felt an urge to slap him on the back to jolt him into life. Where was the urgency?
‘Right, so do you have police officers following this up? I should go into Chichester, join the search,’ said Harvey, pulling his shoes on.
‘We have officers out searching for her in Chichester and on standby for the trains coming into London. I think, for now, you’re better helping us with our enquiries here, Mr Roberts.’ Harvey let out a sigh, waiting for him to continue. ‘We’ve seen on the hospital CCTV that Jessie walked out wearing a dress, but did she have any other clothes with her – a coat of any kind? It would help us to give a fuller description of what she might be wearing so we don’t miss her. What we also need to know from you is what’s going on in her life right now – any mental health issues, any financial worries, issues with her partner?’
DC Paterson’s words sounded slurred and far away. Harvey watched his lips, trying to decipher what he was saying as he began to lose himself to the image of Jessie battling through the freezing cold November gale with his beautiful granddaughter in her arms.
‘We also need to contact as many of Jessie’s friends, family and work colleagues as possible – in the next hour, ideally – in case she has been in touch or is on her way to any of them.
‘We understand from the hospital that her boyfriend, Adam, is in Nigeria and apparently he has been in contact with them. He is due to depart on a seven-hour flight back to Heathrow at midday tomorrow our time, which will take us to seven p.m. So there is no point delaying the press conference for him. We’ll also need to go to Jessie’s flat, check through diaries, notebooks, emails, to work out who she is closest to.’
‘She was closest to her stepmother,’ said Harvey quietly. ‘My wife, Liz, is buried at Shoreham cemetery. Jessie sometimes goes there.’
Harvey thought back to the day they had put Liz in the ground. They had driven home in silence and made tea, with little idea of the force of the grief that was thundering down the tracks towards them.
‘Okay, we’ll get someone to check that out.’ DC Paterson turned to his colleague, who nodded and left the room, ‘I realize this is frustrating, but we need to get as much detail about Jessica’s life as we can.
‘It would be a great help to us if you could drive DC Galt to Jessica’s flat as we came in one car. I’m going back to the hospital to speak to the team that were looking after your daughter and granddaughter. We are aware the situation is urgent. I’ve just had word that we are going ahead with a press conference which is being set up now and, if you would be willing, we think it would be beneficial for you to make a personal appeal on that. It will be broadcast on all the news channels.’
Harvey looked up. Two hours ago, he had been walking the dogs on Wittering Bay, reflecting on the birth of his new granddaughter. Now, they were missing and he was expected to go on national television and keep it together while he begged Jessie to come home.
Harvey pushed his anger at Adam’s absence to the back of his mind, ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Whatever you need.’
‘Do you have a key to Jessica’s flat?’ said DC Paterson. ‘We should probably get going.’
‘I’ll get it. One thing I have to know. And I’d really appreciate an honest answer.’ Harvey paused, composing himself. ‘If you do find them, will the baby be taken away from Jessie because she’s done this?’
‘It’s in everyone’s interest to keep Jessica and her baby together.’
‘But are social services involved?’
‘Child protection have been in touch with the hospital social worker and they have referred the case to social services for backgrounds checks.’
‘So is there a chance the baby will be taken away?’ Harvey asked again.
‘Nobody wants that, Mr Roberts. Child protection is all about keeping families together. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, we do need to get to Jessica’s flat as soon as possible.’ And with that, DC Paterson ushered Harvey out of his house, into the bitter November air, the two officers flanking him on either side, as if he were already in the dock.
Chapter Seven
Harriet
Boxing Day, 1945
‘I’m sorry about this, Harriet. You have been a great asset to this house for the past five years and we will be very sad to see you go.’ Miss Clara stumbled over her words as Harriet stood in the doorway waiting for Jacob to appear at the top of the stairs.
‘Please don’t worry yourself, Miss Clara, we’ll be all right. It was very Christian of you and Miss Ethel to let Jacob stay here at all.’ Harriet heard the nervousness in her voice and cleared her throat. She felt close to tears to be leaving this house, which had been more of a home to her than a workplace.
‘We have tried to be understanding, but we just don’t feel safe with your husband in the house. We’re not as young as we were and it has been rather unsettling.’
‘Of course. Really, you don’t need to explain. I’m sorry again about yesterday.’ Harriet flushed red.
An awkward silence hung between them, the memory of the events of the day before still fresh in their minds.
‘Where will you go?’
‘Jacob has heard there’s a groundsman’s position going at Northcote Manor, so we are going up there today to see what we can find out.’
Harriet glanced over at the stairs and saw Jacob. He looked like he had tried to make an effort with his appearance, having shaved and combed his hair back with oil. But still he seemed a little bedraggled: his clothes were unpressed, he was deathly pale and the heavy bags under his eyes gave away the nightmares which plagued his sleep.
Miss Clara looked up at him too. ‘Well, good luck, Harriet. I wish you both well. Your references and wages are on the hall table.’ She leaned forward and kissed Harriet on her cheek, patted her arm awkwardly then scuttled off before Jacob reached them.
Harriet’s eyes filled with tears, but it was almost a relief that it was over. The strain of trying to hide Jacob’s behaviour from Miss Clara and Miss Ethel was taking its toll on her health. And she didn’t blame them for feeling frightened of him.
It had been a constant, unbearable strain since she had welcomed him home at Chichester Station six months earlier. She’d had to hide her horror at the state he was in when he eventually emerged from the train carriage and she had fought her way through the crowds to get to him.
He had lost so much weight he was barely recognizable. His once-ruddy cheeks were sunken, his tall frame cowering, his confident stride gone. His right hand was bandaged up to the elbow, and she’d had no warning that two of his fingers had been amputated after becoming infected after a burn. When he kissed and held her, his lips were cold and his hug limp. It was as if all the light and strength had left him, leaving just an empty sack of bones and skin.
Miss Clara and Miss Ethel had welcomed the war hero home, kindly letting him stay in Harriet’s small single room in exchange for some help in their garden. But all too soon the warm atmosphere in the small townhouse began to unravel and their nervousness took root. Jacob drank to excess, was short-tempered and unable to cope with any tiny changes of plan or nuance in the day.
>
Her diary had been her only outlet, and she would scribble in its pages in the early hours when Jacob finally fell into a drunken stupor in his chair by the window.
19 December 1945
Dear Diary
I miss my husband terribly, and feel most lonely at night, when I have to sleep on my own as Jacob is too frightened of the nightmares that haunt him to come to bed. Instead, he stays up, drinking cheap whisky and talking to himself. If he does nod off in his chair, he wakes, crying out like a wounded animal. I rush to him and he is drenched in sweat, there is no one behind his eyes, but it is the only time he shares any of what happened to him with me. He tells me he is back on the beaches of Normandy, in the moment when his childhood friend, Michael, was blown to pieces in front of him. He sobs as I rock him like a child, telling me things I wish I had never heard. That he picked up what was left of his friend’s body and tried to put the pieces back together. That he will never forgive himself that he couldn’t save him. Clinging to me, he eventually falls asleep at dawn, but we are both thoroughly exhausted and Miss Ethel often complains at breakfast about the noise. I try to quiet Jacob, but he is strong and his shouts are uncontrollable. He is like a man possessed by the devil when he wakes at night and I can do nothing to calm him.
My warm, fun-loving husband is suspicious of everyone and talks of German spies hiding in the countryside still, waiting to invade our town. I have been feeling increasingly isolated of late and pressed him to go into town for a Christmas Eve drink at our old local pub, hoping it would help to see some old friends. I asked tentatively if any of the other wives were experiencing a change in their husbands, but I was made to feel that my questions were in rather bad taste, as the men had been told by their superior officers on the ship home not to dwell on the past, that it would be unpatriotic to talk about what had happened to them.
As the evening wore on, I noticed that Jacob was very morose. The other men laughed and chatted, but he sat, glaring at me, and I could tell the other girls were starting to feel quite uncomfortable. By the time we came to leave Jacob wouldn’t talk to any of us.
When Pete complimented me on my new coat I smiled at him. In a flash, Pete was being dragged across the table, all the glasses were sent flying and smashed on the floor and it took most of the bar staff to haul Jacob off him. The landlord went to call the police, but Jacob and Pete go way back, so Pete just headed home with his bloodied nose. I apologized desperately to everyone, but this just infuriated Jacob more. He said it was my fault, that I had been flirting all night with everyone and was drunk.
When we got home he started asking me if I was having an affair with Pete. He told me that I was in love with Pete because I was disgusted by my husband. That I thought he was a coward for letting his friends die. That I didn’t love him any more. He was shouting so much I couldn’t calm him. Suddenly, his fist came from nowhere and he punched me. I cried out as my mouth filled with blood. I was so terrified I buried myself under the covers to shield myself from any more blows, at a loss what to do. He’s never laid so much as a finger on me before. Miss Ethel heard the commotion and came knocking on the door, and I told her I was sorry, that all was well. But she was horrified by the state of my face and I knew then that their good will was at an end. Had I known what was going to happen on Christmas Day, I would have packed our bags right then and there and slept on the street.
On the long bus ride out of Chichester and into the countryside Harriet and Jacob sat in silence, the memory of Christmas Day haunting them both. Harriet looked out of the window and recalled preparing the Christmas turkey and putting it in the oven, then laying the fires while Jacob went into the garden to cut more logs. It was when he came back and checked on the turkey that their fate had been sealed.
She had heard Jacob shouting from the kitchen, dropped what she was doing and rushed to find him kneeling next to the Aga, pulling the turkey out of the oven with his bare hands, the fat hissing and burning his skin as he yelled at her that his friend was burning.
She’d tried to calm him, but it was impossible. He’d thrown the turkey in the sink and poured water over it as he yelled and cried for her to do something to help.
With all her strength she had managed to drag and pull him away. And as she put him to bed he had wept as he told her that when he opened the oven, the sizzling skin on the turkey had triggered a flashback of the skin on his friend’s torso burning in front of him on the beaches of Normandy. She had managed to rescue what she could of Christmas lunch, but before long Miss Ethel had appeared at the kitchen door, breaking the news that they would have to go. She and Jacob hadn’t mentioned it that morning, she couldn’t really bear to think about it, and when she looked down at Jacob’s hands burnt and blistering from the heat of the cooking meat he had pulled out of the hot oven, she had to turn away to stop her tears.
The bus juddered to a stop outside Northcote, bringing Harriet back to the present. ‘Come on, let’s go,’ Jacob said, dropping her case at her feet as she stared in awe at the huge iron gates and the long, ice-covered driveway that led to the Georgian mansion.
Jacob started off across the stone-covered ground, snapping at her to follow, but she felt rooted to the spot, despite the harsh December wind swirling around her, lacking the strength she knew it would take to work as a servant in a house which, rumour had it, held thirty bedrooms, four drawing rooms, two libraries and a state banqueting hall.
But she forced herself on, towards the manor, where, soon, they would be ringing the bell and asking for work – and closing the door for good on the life she’d had before Jacob came home.
Chapter Eight
Iris
11:30 a.m. Wednesday, 19 November 2014
Iris ran for the train to Chichester and, as she jumped through the doors just as they were closing, she heard her phone ring.
‘Newsdesk’ was flashing on the screen and she picked it up.
‘Hi, Miles.’
‘Hi, Iris. Apparently, the baby is on medication, or needs to be in the hospital for some reason.’ Miles was tripping over his words. ‘I think this is going to turn into quite a big story as the day goes on. The police obviously think she’s going to jump off a bridge, or in front of a train with the baby. How did you hear about it again?’
Iris tried to fight back the image Miles had just planted in her head, of Jessie and the baby, and fumbled for the right words. She hadn’t expected such a reaction to the story. She would have to come clean soon enough, but she didn’t want Miles to pull her off the story and send someone else. It was too important.
‘I’ve got an old friend – a contact – at St Dunstan’s Hospital, he tipped me off,’ she lied.
‘Right, well, see if you can meet him today. The police are with the baby’s grandfather now. He was with the mother when the baby was born, I believe, as the baby’s dad’s not around. Not sure why, but hopefully you can shed a bit more light on it all. This has all come from a tip-off from another mum on the ward who spoke to the first reporter at the hospital, but the police have got to her now so she won’t say any more. That’s what I was hoping you could help us out with. Might this contact of yours know anyone who works in the Maternity Wing?’
‘I’m going to make some calls on the train so I’ll try and get hold of him but he might be nervous to say more. There’s also the element that the hospital may have screwed up in some way so the staff will have been told not to speak to the press – or anyone. When I get there, I might try and speak to any other new mums coming out, or any other patients who may have heard something and be willing to talk.’
‘No point. The police have now spoken to all the women being discharged today and told them not to talk to the press. We need to get hold of someone on the inside, someone who works at the hospital, ideally.’ She could almost feel Miles’s adrenaline.
‘Well, I’ll try this contact again, he works at A&E at St Dunstan’s so I don’t know if he’ll know much. It’s a big hospital, so he m
ay not know anyone in Maternity—’
‘Well, he must know something to have tipped you off!’ Miles cut her off. ‘Just get on it. We need a name of a midwife at St Dunstan’s Hospital we can doorstep, preferably the one who was responsible for Jessie. And also, you need to get hold of a specialist in this field, get their take on postnatal depression and psychosis. Royal College of Psychiatrists, Royal College of Paediatrics.’
‘Yup,’ Iris said as a sea of commuters pushed past her at the next stop. ‘We need to look at medical ethics. If she’s walked out with her baby because she doesn’t want it to be treated, the court would need to make an application to go against the mother’s wishes, so could we get hold of Legal and find out the situation there, if we can write about that?’
She could hear Miles barking orders across the office.
‘Does this woman have a name, by the way?’ said Iris when Miles finally returned his attention to her.
‘Yes, Jessica Roberts, she’s thirty-nine. First baby.’ Thank goodness Iris was not responsible for the name getting out. Miles went on, ‘From her Facebook page, it looks like she lost her mother fairly recently, Liz Roberts. Also, there’s an obit in the Telegraph from October 2012. The mother died of breast cancer; does Jessica have any siblings we can get hold of and interview?’ Iris stayed quiet at Miles’ assumption that Liz was Jessie’s mother, it was all much too close to the bone, and she couldn’t tell Miles yet, he’d pull her off the story.
‘It all adds to the profile of a woman on the edge,’ Miles went on. ‘This is going to be huge, it’s the lead story on the lunchtime news, and they’re planning a press conference with her dad. Everyone thinks she and the baby are on borrowed time. It’s just a matter of when and where. Call me when you’ve got something – this is your chance to get back in my good books, Iris, okay? Don’t screw it up.’