‘That made it so much easier,’ she said. ‘I could kind of say anything after I knew that because who would know if I was telling the truth or not?’
And, after all, she only needed to fool us all for a short time, didn’t she? She started her ‘campaign’, as she put it, as soon as possible after I’d accepted her into my home, subtly making me self-conscious about my weight, buying me a top a size too small, starting to play with my mind. She made me distrustful of Robin, of everyone. She paid Mike to hang around (it was him. I knew it, I knew it! He lied to me on the phone – of course he did) to make sure I saw him talking to my friends.
‘How did you manage that? How did you get him there just at the right time, every time?’ I asked, remembering how he kept popping up wherever I happened to be.
‘He knew what all your friends looked like from when he was tracking you down for me initially,’ she said. ‘After I moved in with you it was easy. With Robin, that was the day you were looking for your keys, and when Mike texted me to say he was about to nab Robin in the street – he’d been lurking, waiting for her to arrive for work – I told you to go out and check the driveway and the bit round the bins, to see if you’d dropped the keys there, remember?’
I did.
‘At the surgery he just waited until he saw you come out to talk to your homeless friend and made sure you spotted him. And with your neighbours, well, that was the night we went out for pizza. I just texted him when the taxi arrived and he made sure he was still chatting to those two stupid women when you came out. He wore different clothes each time, made sure he changed his appearance a bit – one day a gardener, one day a plumber, you know – so you wouldn’t be quite sure. Screwing with your head again. Nice touch, wasn’t it?’
She grins widely, clearly pleased with herself, but I don’t react.
‘Oh, and those missing keys … that was me too,’ she says. ‘I nicked them. Twice actually, but the second time was just for fun. You only gave me a front door key, you see, and I needed to get a full set of keys copied …’
‘Why?’ I ask.
She keeps on talking then, telling me everything, explaining it all until my face is hot with anger, my body so tense I’m starting to ache. And then, finally, she’s done. I can tell she’s struggling now; exhaustion is etched on her face.
‘Can you call a nurse, please?’ she says. Her voice is weak and I remember that this is not just a very sad woman but a very sick woman, and I feel ashamed all over again.
‘Yes,’ I whisper, and stand up. I’m just about to press the call button when the door opens and the two police officers from last night walk into the room.
‘Mrs Holland, hello. We need to speak to you urgently. And actually, I believe you need to speak to us too? We’ve just had a call from your ex-husband. Something about some sort of fraudulent behaviour, about your mother not being your mother after all? The line was bad and we got cut off unfortunately, but that seemed to be the gist of it.’
The male officer looks from me to the bed and I curse silently.
Bloody Jacob. Couldn’t you just have left this to me?
I glance at Alison but her eyes are closed now, her breathing fast and shallow. I know I need to call somebody, quickly. I turn back to the police officer, suddenly feeling oddly protective.
‘It’s complicated, but it’s not a police matter. I mean, we still need to find out who attacked her, but, well …’
The policeman interrupts me, waving a piece of paper he’s carrying in his hand.
‘Well, if she’s not your mother, it helps explain something we’re getting very confused about. We already have the initial forensics report, you see,’ he says, and turns to his colleague.
‘We do,’ says the female officer. ‘And the good news is that we have some of the perpetrator’s DNA and fingerprints now, from the lamp that was used as the weapon. It’s not a match to any on the police database unfortunately, so it wasn’t left by anyone with a criminal record. But … well, this is the strange thing. You’ll remember we took a DNA sample from the victim last night, and you kindly gave us a sample of your DNA and fingerprints too, both for elimination purposes?’
I nod. Last night seems like a lifetime ago, a blur really, but I remember a swab in my mouth and touching my fingertips onto an electronic tablet. It was some sort of digital scanner and I remember feeling surprised by that, having expected an inky pad like I’ve seen on so many television crime dramas.
‘Well, Ian at the lab – he’s a bit of a DNA whizz – noticed something about two of the samples: yours and one found on the lamp. So he did some sort of test – I can’t remember what it’s called. And it turns out the DNA sample on the lamp belongs to your mother.’
‘My … what?’
I stare at her and she stares back.
‘I know,’ she says. ‘So at first we thought, hang on, the victim here is Mrs Holland’s mother. So that would mean she’d bashed herself over the head with the lamp, which seems highly unlikely. But not all of the lamp DNA matches that of the victim; her blood is on it, obviously, but the attacker left a sample too, and that’s the one we’re talking about. And then your ex-husband called, telling us that this lady isn’t your mother at all, but has just been pretending to be in some sort of scam. Ian at the lab confirms that the lady in the bed definitely isn’t your mother. And your ex told us that in fact you haven’t actually been in contact with your real mother for decades. Which is very odd, because—’
‘Hang on, hang on.’
I’m completely lost.
‘Can you start again? Yes, OK, I know she’—I point to Alison—‘I know she isn’t my mother. Her name is actually Alison Allen. I didn’t know that last night, but I do now. But are you saying that the person who used the lamp to attack her’—I point to the bed again—‘was my mother? My biological mother?’
‘Correct. Ian’s positive about that. I remember now; it’s called a maternity DNA test. It’s ninety-nine point nine nine per cent accurate, apparently. But Mr Holland says you aren’t in touch with your biological mother, so we don’t really understand how that’s possible.’
A strange buzzing sound has started in my ears and I’m wondering if I’m about to faint. I reach out a hand and lean on the back of the nearest chair for support. I’ve never felt so confused in my life.
‘I’m sorry, I just … I just don’t understand.’
The police officer looks at me quizzically.
‘You do look pale, actually. Right, let me make this as simple as I can. The DNA tests have shown that this lady – Alison Allen? – was attacked last night by your biological mother. She left her DNA on the lamp, as well as in one or two other locations in your home – slightly older samples apparently. I don’t understand how that’s possible, if you say you’re not in contact. But it looks like the victim here let her in, as there was no sign of any forced entry. Mrs Holland, your biological mother, was in your house yesterday. There’s absolutely no doubt about that.’
Chapter 39
‘Alison! You need to wake up, now!’
I hiss the words fiercely, poking her on the shoulder for good measure. She groans softly, eyes still closed.
‘Alison! Come on.’
After dropping their bombshell, the police have left, saying they’ll be back to interview Alison as soon as she’s well enough to speak. I’ve had to give them details about my mother too, now that she’s the prime suspect in the case – not that I’ve been able to tell them much. Her full name is about all I’ve got. Now I’m in shock; my legs are wobbly, my skin clammy.
‘Alison!’ I say again, louder this time, and finally her eyelids flutter. She blinks once, twice, and I lean over her, willing her to stay awake.
‘Alison, I need to talk to you urgently, OK? Just for a minute, and then I’ll call a nurse for you.’
‘Ummm …’ she says, then swallows, blinks again and says, ‘What is it?’
‘OK, good. Look, the police have just b
een here and they’ve told me something incredible, something totally bizarre. They’ve now got DNA evidence and it shows that the person who attacked you last night was my mother. My real mother. Alice. And I know you said you can’t really remember anything, but I need you to think, Alison. I need you to think very, very hard. The police will be coming back to talk to you too; they’re going to want a description – anything you’ve got. So come on, think. What happened last night? What did she look like, the person who attacked you? You must have let her in … so come on. I need to know. You have to tell me anything you can remember. Anything …’
And then I stare at her in astonishment because she’s grinning. Not just grinning, laughing. Actually laughing, a low, rumbling laugh, her chest heaving.
‘What … what the …?’ I splutter. She coughs and her laughter fades.
‘Ahhh, this is funny,’ she whispers. ‘Funny, and so ironic, don’t you think?’
I’m still staring at her, not understanding, and she rolls her eyes.
‘So ironic that the person who stopped me pretending to be your mother was actually your mother,’ she says. ‘You’re not very bright, are you, Beth? You let me walk into your life, no questions asked. And you let your actual mother do the same, didn’t you?’
‘What? Look, I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
She smiles.
‘I know, and that’s what’s so funny. OK, what the hell. I’m going to tell you something, Beth. But first, I want you to promise something. I’ll tell you this, but I’m going to carry on telling the police I can’t remember anything about last night, OK? And in return, I’m asking you not to make any formal complaint against me for impersonating your mother, or for any of the things I’ve done to you over the past couple of months. I haven’t got much time left, Beth, and I don’t have time for a police investigation, for possible charges. I want to spend my final days with Liv. With my daughter.’
I stare at her for a moment – what on earth is going on here? – and then I nod.
‘I promise,’ I say.
She sighs.
‘OK. I lied earlier, Beth. When I said I only had vague memories of last night. I know exactly what happened. And yes, I did let her in. I didn’t know she was your mother, not until a few minutes later, not until she told me. But I let her in because I knew who she was. As in, I recognised her. She wasn’t a stranger.’
‘You … you recognised her? What do you mean you recognised her?’
I’m starting to feel dizzy, spots dancing before my eyes. She sighs again. Her voice is weakening; it is barely audible.
‘I mean, Beth, that I knew who she was. Or who she’s been saying she is, anyway. Your mother is someone you already know. Someone you’ve known for a while, actually. I’m not surprised you didn’t recognise her, I suppose. I certainly didn’t – she looks very different these days from the photos I’ve seen of her from back in the day. And I have no idea why she hasn’t told you who she is. But you know what, I’m not going to tell you who she is either. I’m going to let you work that one out for yourself.’
Chapter 40
‘I can’t take this in. I just can’t. It gets more bizarre by the day.’
Jacob shakes his head and takes another slurp of his coffee, and Crystal, who’s sitting next to me while he paces up and down the kitchen, looks at me incredulously.
‘It really does. You should write a book, Beth.’
‘Hmmm. Well, I’m hoping I’ll be able to go back to work soon now. But if that doesn’t pan out, maybe!’
I laugh, and she does too. It’s the Sunday morning of the most extraordinary weekend of my life, a weekend during which I seem to have experienced every possible emotion from terror and despair to utter bewilderment. But now I’m feeling … OK. I’m still struggling to process the scale of Alison Allen’s deception, and my own naiveness in falling for it, of course. Why I didn’t even think to question her identity when she first arrived is something that will haunt me for a long time. But now that I know what’s really been going on over the past couple of months, that I’m not, after all, delusional or having some sort of breakdown, the relief is overwhelming. And already, my life has taken a turn for the better. The children are home, both of them upstairs now and settling back into their bedrooms. They are calling to each other across the landing, the sound of their giggles floating down to where we’re sitting and it makes my spirits soar.
‘It’s time they came back,’ Jacob said when they arrived this morning. ‘And I’m sorry, Beth. I should have trusted you. I should have realised something wasn’t right …’
‘Shh, it’s fine. I’m just so thrilled to see them,’ I said.
He’s done his best to explain things to Eloise and Finley, without going into too much detail; that the lady they thought was their grandmother was actually somebody else, trying to hurt Mummy because of something that happened a very long time ago. Amazingly, they seem to have accepted that for now, although I suspect Eloise will have some questions when she’s had time to settle back in and think about things a little more. She appears to have forgiven me though, for all the things she was so mad at me about. The hugs they both gave me in the hallway earlier were long and warm, and as I wrapped my arms around them and kissed their beautiful faces, I thought my heart might burst. My babies, home again.
I’ve spent the past hour chatting to Jacob and Crystal, filling them in about all I’ve learned. After Alison’s remarkable revelation that her attacker, my biological mother – how the hell? – was someone she already knew, she’d refused to say another word. She’d closed her eyes and her breathing had become shallow. I’d stood there staring at her for a full minute, my mind racing, my heart juddering. Then I called the nurse, picked up my bag, and left. On the way home I left another message for Liv, this time telling her I knew the truth, who she was and who Alison was, and told her to come and get her mother. It was over. Over. All of it.
I didn’t call anyone else last night. Instead I came home, made a mug of tea and sat in the lounge, looking out at the darkening sky, thinking. And then I went to bed and amazingly, managed to sleep. I was physically and mentally exhausted after a day and a night at the hospital and the astonishing events of the past twenty-four hours. But my dreams were vivid and plentiful, plagued by visions of a faceless woman brandishing a lamp and peering in through my window. When I woke I remembered the times I’d thought I’d seen a real face outside my window, and lay there in the half-light of dawn, wondering. I’d asked Alison about that yesterday, and she’d shrugged.
‘That was nothing to do with me,’ she said. ‘Still think you were seeing things.’
And so the question of who’d been lurking outside the house remained unanswered, for now. Weirdly, I believed everything she’d told me yesterday, for what did she have to gain by lying now? She’d done what she’d set out to do, and now she was dying. There was no point in lying anymore. Oh, she’d enjoyed it though, hadn’t she, that last brief conversation? She’d enjoyed leaving me with this one final mystery. But the deal we’d made had been a single tiny kindness: I make no complaint about her to the police, and in return she gives me the chance to find my mother before they do.
What Alison had said had sounded ludicrous, impossible. How could my mother be someone I already knew, someone I’d already ‘let into my life’, as she put it? And yet, as she’d also kindly pointed out, she’d managed to fool me pretty easily. Was it so far-fetched to think that someone else might have been able to do the same? Why my long-lost mother would do that escaped me, but that was another question which would have to wait. I needed to work out who she was first. And so I started to think, really think about it, to think again about the people in my life who’ve definitely been acting oddly recently. Remembering too that all of their oddness began shortly after Alison arrived on the scene.
Robin. Barbara. Deborah.
I thought about how Robin had reacted when I told her about my mum reappearing, how
utterly shocked she had seemed. How she’d simply stared when I’d first introduced her to Alison, and then seemed to recover before bombarding her with questions. How when I’d told Brenda she’d shrieked with excitement on the other end of the phone, in stark contrast to Barbara, who’d responded with a stunned silence. It had been a similar picture at work: Ruth leaping from her chair, Deborah sitting open-mouthed, gaping at me. She’d said it was ‘impossible’ – that was the word she’d used, wasn’t it?
Could I really be onto something here?
So I thought some more. Thought about how all of these women had appeared in my life in the past couple of years. How they’re all about the right age, too. OK, so my mother’s birthday was last week, at the end of April, and as far as I can remember Barbara’s is in June and Deborah’s in July, but people can lie about their birthdays, can’t they? I’m not sure when Robin’s is, and I wondered why I don’t know and whether that’s significant. And then I thought about how none of them look like my mother at all, not how I remember her at least, but also about the fact that I haven’t seen her for thirty years and people can change so much as they age. What did I know about their pasts, their families, these women? Again, very little about Robin’s. She’s so private; she gives so little away about her personal life, and again that made me wonder. Meanwhile, Barbara is gay, and I thought hard about that.
The Happy Family Page 27