My first thought is that she must be OK. But the first thing I ask is quite different. ‘What was in her file that she was so scared might be revealed?’
‘I have no idea.’
I kick away the chair and dash over to the shelves, Matt following closely behind. ‘Maybe her records are still here.’
‘Some of them are the wrong way round,’ Matt shouts as we finger our way through. I pull out file after file until I hear him shout, ‘Irini, over here. I’ve found a file for Harringford.’ I run to meet him just as he is pulling it out. He flicks it open but then stops, looks at me, confused.
‘What is it?’ I ask, pawing at the folder. ‘Is it Elle’s file?’
‘No.’ He turns the folder and holds up the spine so that I can see the faded lettering. ‘It’s for somebody called Casey Harringford.’
‘Casey? My mother was called Cassandra.’ I reach over, take the file. I flick through the first pages, look at the image staring back at me. A baby, cute; close-ups of the feet and legs. Reports about hydrotherapy. ‘The name can’t just be a coincidence, but I’ve no idea who this is. She is a Harringford, but I am so detached from my family I couldn’t tell you who.’
‘Cousin?’
‘I don’t think so. And look at the date of birth.’ I hold the file up and point to the details for the little girl. ‘February 1984. That’s nearly two years after I was born. If she was family, I’d know about her. I wasn’t given away until I was three and a half years old.’
‘Maybe she was given away too and you don’t remember.’
I lean against the shelf behind me, the dust lifting, settling on my shoulders like falling snow. I let the file drop to the floor, and cough to clear my throat.
‘It’s possible,’ Matt persists.
‘No. There was only one Harringford girl who was given away.’
He reaches out and touches my leg as we sit amongst the old paperwork. I feel it, that spark from before. No drugs this time, just me, him and honesty. ‘Yes, but there was only one person who was written into the will, remember. You. Everything left to you.’
Another reminder of just how deep I am in this mess. The will, the thing that makes me look guilty, the payout of blood money designed as restitution for my parents’ sins. I think about it in my pocket, and how the next visit needs to be to Witherrington so that I can relinquish anything my father left me and get him to talk to the police again. But then I remember the purposefulness with which it was placed in my bag. How the envelope had Irini Harringford written on it, unmistakably for me. I pull it from my back pocket, unfold the crumpled paper. ‘Give me that file.’
Matt hands me the file for Casey Harringford and I turn the will over to find the number written on the back. I hold them up alongside each other. The handwritten number is the same as the case file. The last six digits are Casey’s date of birth.
Matt shuffles up next to me and runs his finger along the numbers. ‘They’re the same, Irini. What is this?’
‘It’s my father’s will. He gave it to me, and I’m sure that he wrote this number on it.’
‘Then he knew about this file.’ He taps at the number with his finger, and as I look up, I see fine particles of dust settling on his eyelashes. He catches me staring at him, his eyes darting away, the slightest flush spreading into his cheeks.
‘Which means that he must also have known about a little girl called Casey Harringford.’ Matt begins to nod, but then looks away, somewhere lost in thought. ‘What is it? Did you think of something?’
He has the look of a person about to deliver bad news, his mouth hanging open, his cheeks sunken as he slips back against the shelves. ‘Now it makes sense.’
‘What makes sense?’
‘Why Elle told me that her sister had died.’ He looks down at the file and then back to me. ‘Maybe she wasn’t lying. She might not have been talking about you at all. Maybe this is who she meant.’
‘Another sister? Impossible. I would have known about it.’
‘Don’t you have any family left that you could ask?’
‘Only my aunt, but she doesn’t answer when I call. And a few cousins, I guess, but I don’t have their numbers.’
At that moment Matt reaches up and touches my cheek, brushes something away, and I realise that in the short time I have known him, I feel closer to him than I ever have to Antonio. He takes hold of the folder and starts flicking through the fragile pages.
‘What are you looking for?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe there’s something in here that helps. Maybe a copy of her birth certificate, or an old address.’ He turns page after page until he reaches the end of the file. ‘Nothing.’
‘Well, we know her birthday. Could we get a copy of her birth certificate online?’
‘Probably, but isn’t there somewhere that holds records of these things?’ I remember the countless death certificates I signed as a junior doctor, how the mortuary was always nagging me to get things done quickly so that the family could register the death and arrange the funeral. ‘There should be a registrar’s office somewhere where they keep them. Do you know where it would be?’
‘No,’ he says as he stands up, offering me a hand. I take it and with his support get to my feet. ‘But we can find the address on the way.’
38
We decide to take Matt’s car, and by the time we are on the road I am already on the phone to the records office. They are still open, will be for another hour. But we are over twenty miles away. That doesn’t give us much time if the traffic is bad. We have travelled at least five miles before I turn to face the front, but still I’m not entirely convinced that Elle hasn’t somehow acquired a car to follow us. I can’t help but check over my shoulder every time we turn a corner.
I call DC McGuire and tell him about the photos I found in Elle’s drawer, and everything that Matt has told me since. He asks me to scan the Polaroids and email them over, so I do so from my phone. I find it hard to believe how calm I am after discovering that my boyfriend had consensual sadistic sex with my sister, but figure that perhaps it’s because he’s not my boyfriend any more. Whatever we once had is over.
I open the file and look at the picture of baby Casey. Maybe this child could be my sister. She has a similar nose to me, and a high hairline just like I do that I try to hide with a fringe. I flick through the pages. The records are sparse, incomplete, but as I read, I see something that is just like me. A diagnosis. Dysplasia of the left hip.
‘Matt,’ I say as he negotiates the turns of Johnston Terrace, Edinburgh Castle rising high above us on our left. I reach out, grab his arm as if I am trying to warn him of danger. ‘Casey Harringford has the same diagnosis that I do. Dysplasia of the left hip. According to this, that’s why she was at the hospital. Hydrotherapy. It looks like she was treated there for the first six months of her life as an outpatient. Then all treatment stopped.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I say, but we are interrupted when the phone rings. It is DC McGuire.
‘Irini, thanks. We have the photos. But we will need the originals, and I would ask you, if at all possible, not to handle them. If we can get a good print from Elle on them, it’s highly unlikely she was harmed while she was handcuffed.’
For a second I’m confused, because in my mind the whole thing is already solved. ‘I told you, I just saw her at the house, and that Matt confirmed her intention was to disappear. He will make a statement today if he needs to.’ Why are they still looking for evidence?
‘Well, there is nobody that can prove either of those claims to be true. A fingerprint from Eleanor on those photographs would really help us with the timeline.’
I can feel the disappointment swelling as we are sucked into a melee of gothic architecture. We bobble over the cobbles and weave our way through open-topped tourist buses and congested commuter traffic. ‘You’re not going to let Antonio go, are you?’
Matt looks at me, pulls
a face, his hands raised in the air in disbelief. He honks his horn for people to get out of his way as we travel downhill along the Royal Mile.
‘I’m afraid it’s not that easy.’ For a moment I am sure I am on speaker phone, as if DC McGuire is waiting for somebody to give him the nod before he continues. That’s when DC Forrester speaks.
‘Irini, good afternoon. First things first, I did ask you to make sure you stuck around. You had no business running off to Scotland.’ She lets that hang there for a while, but I offer no reply. ‘But as you already have, and now that Antonio has pretty much cleared you of any wrongdoing, let me tell you where we’re at down here. Mr Molinaro has confessed that Elle first made contact with him months ago. She found him on Facebook. He has also confessed to taking the pictures you sent us, and to a consensual sexual relationship with your sister.’ She pauses before she says, ‘I’m sorry, Irini, but his story is that Elle paid him for information and your phone number. In return she promised to keep his name out of the mud. Seems they had a few secret liaisons in London before your mother died. Elle seems to believe that she was to inherit her mother’s jewellery upon her death, and she promised it to Antonio as a further payment if his information proved useful.’
She pauses again, and I glance down at my empty ring finger, and then at Matt. Twenty-four hours, and so much has changed. Forrester picks back up.
‘I guess it did prove useful. You might also like to know that his bank loan was never approved, and we have tracked three bank transfers from Elle’s account into his since their first meeting. Rest assured, Irini. Everybody will get what they deserve.’ I know she includes me in that, but I also feel that she has softened towards me. She has stopped addressing me as Dr Harringford, for one. ‘I’m going to need you to check in at the station up there, provide a statement. Matt too.’
‘OK, we’ll do that.’
‘And listen, Irini. If everything that we think we know is true, you’d be best off staying away from the house. We have no idea what Elle is capable of.’
After we hang up, I reach for a tissue in the side of the car door. I wrap the photos inside it and place them in the glove box.
‘So they’re not letting him go yet?’ Matt asks as he pulls on to the pavement outside the Bank of Scotland on Lawnmarket. He sounds his horn again to move the pedestrians out of his way; people complain and curse as he mounts the kerb. It’s a side of him I haven’t seen before: forceful, making things happen, as if nothing can get in his way. His eyes appear heavy, perhaps as if he has been crying, but it could just be from the dust. Yet his face is still kind, and soft. This is what safety feels like, I realise. Having a team member on your side. Not that suffocating feeling of losing myself like I always had with Antonio.
‘I’m not sure you’re supposed to park here,’ I say.
‘Never mind. Tell me,’ he says as he pulls on the handbrake and turns off the engine. ‘Are they letting him go or not?’
‘Not yet.’ Money. Payments. Antonio sold my trust. Bastard. ‘He sold me out to Elle in exchange for money. And sex. Maybe it’ll do him good to stew in a cell for a while.’ Right now I’m thinking he deserves whatever they can throw at him. But I try to remember that he was sucked in by Elle, which makes you do things you normally wouldn’t. I only have to remember Margot Wolfe to be reminded of that.
‘No doubt.’ He nods to the glove box. ‘And handcuffs, eh? His idea, you think?’
‘It would be a first.’ I can’t look at him when I say it. I feel so stupid. So suckered in by the pair of them. ‘But at least now that Antonio has confessed his side of the story, they can see that Elle is really the one to blame, and that she was playing him to get what she wanted.’ After a brief pause I add, ‘Perhaps they’ll see that she was playing me too.’
‘What do you think she was trying to get out of it?’ he asks as he unclips his seat belt.
‘She wanted to get me here, prove that my father loved her more than me. Our parents might have sent me away, but Elle never believed it was what they really wanted. She always doubted their love. It was as if she needed to prove to herself that they didn’t regret keeping her. But she also wanted me to need her in just the same way as I always wanted her to need me. The easiest way of doing that was by making sure that all I had left was her.’
‘You think that’s why she slept with Antonio, to ruin your relationship with him?’
‘No. I was never supposed to find out what she had done with Antonio. That would have made it her fault. I would have been angry with her. My relationship had to fall apart because of me.’ I shake my head, brush my hands over the dusty file. ‘Why do you think she drugged me? Me sleeping with you was just another part of her plan. She would have told Antonio when it suited her. Once she was ready to be my hero. But my father’s will changed everything. And now this file,’ I say as I hold it up for him to see, ‘changes everything again.’
We exit the car into a chilly Scottish breeze and I glance up at the grand building. The brass plaque outside reads City Chambers. Inside it is palatial, and my boots resonate in lofty echoes on the monochromatic marble floor. We pass through to the records office, stuffy, the smell of old paperwork trapped in the dry air of central heating. There is a mood of library quiet, the studious atmosphere that reminds me of university and loneliness. I take Matt’s hand, and he slips his fingers through mine. I squeeze them tight.
‘Can I help you?’ A frail old lady is standing at the desk. She is wearing a high-buttoned blouse with frills running down the front. A small locket, no doubt containing those she loves, sits around her neck. She is not unfriendly, but she is aware of the clock, and looks at it twice before we have even spoken. We are the visitors at the end of the day that she doesn’t need.
‘Yes, I hope so. Anna? We spoke on the phone.’ I move towards her, holding Casey’s file tight to my chest.
‘Oh, you must be Dr Harringford.’ She perks up and shuffles out from behind the desk. She must have been on a step, because by the time she is alongside me she seems even shorter. ‘I have found the records I think you need.’
She guides us over to a large oak table, the kind that would be more at home in a servants’ kitchen. The old building creaks and groans as we walk towards it, the parquet floor moving up and down, especially as Matt follows behind.
‘We are looking for a birth record from the year 1984,’ I say as we approach the table. ‘A girl called Casey.’
‘Well, based on the information you gave me over the telephone, I pulled some old records, but I also did a computer search. Most of our documents dated after 1971 have been filed electronically now,’ she says with a degree of pride. ‘I ran a check and found a birth registered for the year 1984. The nineteenth of February.’ I look down at the file and see the number: 0020-95-03-19-02-84. I angle it towards Matt, but he is already nodding. ‘Here, I pulled the original document so that you could see it for yourself.’
I look down at the old register. Casey Harringford, born 19 February 1984. Mother Cassandra Harringford, father Maurice Harringford.
‘My sister.’ I turn to Matt, tears in my eyes. ‘I have another sister.’
Anna coughs a little and I realise that I have been premature. ‘I’m afraid that is not the only record I have. When I ran the computer check, two records came back. The first, a birth,’ she says, tapping the book. ‘The second . . .’ she pauses, her lips pursed, ‘a death.’
‘For the same person?’ asks Matt, moving in closer to me.
‘Yes.’ The old lady lifts a heavy green leather book from a shelf, dust flying up in clouds like smoke. She opens it at a page marked with a sticky note. ‘The same little girl, it would seem. Date of birth matches. Date of death, the fourth of June 1984. It seems that she lived little more than three months.’
‘Are you sure there isn’t a mistake?’ Matt asks, leaning in to inspect the name, as if something might change the closer he gets.
‘There is only one registration for wh
ich the details match. I’m very sorry to be the bearer of bad news,’ says Anna, backing away.
We thank her and retreat to the car. Outside, the afternoon shoppers are making the most of the dry weather. We are still sitting there in silence when Anna leaves ten minutes later. She waves, gets into an old Punto parked a little distance from the building, and drives cautiously away.
‘What do you think?’ Matt asks. ‘I mean, how do you feel?’
‘Confused. I should feel sad, because I have just learnt that I had a sister, and according to those records she died. But according to this,’ I say, holding up Casey’s medical records, ‘for the first six months of her life she was receiving outpatient treatment at Fair Fields for a dysplastic hip.’ I sigh. It couldn’t be called a breath, because it feels like I haven’t breathed for the last ten minutes. ‘What I feel like hearing is the truth.’
He starts the engine, pulls the car forward and we rumble back on to the cobblestoned road. We wind through the city, passing the Scott Monument and the Balmoral Hotel clock tower, and I can’t help but think of Elle, the times we sat in the park below it, the hours we wasted together in this city. Is all that over? Has she really disappeared this time? For good? After a moment Matt turns to me.
‘What do you want to do now?’
I try calling Joseph Witherrington, but he has already left his office for the evening. That will have to wait until tomorrow. I consider asking Matt to drive me to Aunt Jemima’s old house. I could probably still remember where it is, and just maybe she still lives there. But I’m not sure I could face a rebuttal, so I scrap that idea before it leaves my lips. We should go to the police like DC Forrester asked, but where will that get me? The police can wait.
My Sister Page 29