I drank my tea in the hall under the watchful gaze of the stuffed owl. As I drained my cup, I became aware that there was one other room I hadn’t yet explored. The door was shut. My heart thudded, perhaps Frank was lying in there waiting for Grace to leave so he could pounce. I counted to ten and taking a deep breath, I reached out and turned the circular handle. It was locked. I tried again with more force. Nothing. I rattled it. I stooped down to see if I could force the lock out of its cavity, but it was no good. Either Grace or Frank must have taken the key. Adrenalin spiked through my body and for a moment my tremors subsided. I had to see what was inside.
I decided I might be able to climb in through the window and get to the chamber from the outside in, but how to get out of the bungalow in the first place was my next challenge. I’d have to find another window to climb out of. One by one I went around the windows, but they were painted shut – no wonder the house smelt rotten. The beep of the washing machine made me start. My autopilot activated, I went into the utility room to hang up the clothes, but when I stooped to the door of the machine I glanced up at the window. It was a new addition with a PVC frame. My heart skipped a beat – there was a visible lock.
Every house on the planet has a drawer-of-shame with random keys and cables wedged inside. I rushed back into the kitchen and pulled out every unit until I found it. Hidden amongst a few out-of-date guarantees, a ball of string and pair of blunt scissors was a small, shiny key. I grabbed it and ran back to the utility room, clambering on top of the still beeping washing machine. The key fitted in the lock and I opened the window sucking in the air which was tinged with the faint smell of bonfire smoke. I teetered out onto the sill and dropped to the mossy grass below.
A few strides later and I was standing outside the locked room.
I rattled the window, but discovered it was also glued together with paint. I glanced around and my eye fell upon a statue of a frog – or perhaps it was a meant to be a toad, all things considered. I ran over and without thinking picked it up. The frog-toad stared back at me with blank eyes, its mouth half open in a leer. I closed my eyes and hurled it with all my strength at the window. It made a loud thud then bounced back from the glass and dropped onto the ground. In slow motion, a small white circle appeared at the centre of the pane and then the glass splintered all around, like ice cracking on a frozen pond. I picked up the statue again and hurled it once more; this time the weakened glass shattered. I grabbed a stick from the hedgerow and used it to clear the spikes from the wooden frame.
When I was confident it was clear, I scrabbled up onto the sill and with tiny movements I manoeuvred my body through the open frame and onto the other side of the ledge. I pulled aside the thick curtains which had prevented most of the glass from flying into the room and brushed the remaining fragments onto the carpet below. Around the edges of the room were stacks of boxes, piled on top of each other so they almost reached the ceiling. At the centre of this cardboard wall was an armchair, small coffee table and angle-poised lamp. I leapt as far as I could into the centre of the room, landing with a thump.
I turned around the gloomy chamber and stepped forwards to the nearest box, letting my fingers trail along the cardboard. Each one had a description of what was within, written neatly in black permanent marker: Grace; fur coats and hunting dress, Grace; vintage tea service, Grace and James; Wedding memorabilia. So that’s the reason Grace had chosen it for herself. My eyes prickled with tears. Why didn’t I know that was my mother’s name? Then I saw a crate marked: Cassie; playroom. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. This was mine. I shifted a couple of the boxes and pulled my one out, ripping off the crusty packing tape which sealed the joins. Holding my breath, I peered inside. There were a couple of puzzles and soft toys which I didn’t recognise. I delved deeper and pulled out a Speak and Spell which I turned on and the green letters on the screen blinked at me. The American male voice cut through the silence: “Spell Tortoise.” I turned it off and put it back in the box. There was no time for games.
I looked at the other labels. One of the boxes, labelled E & C documents, had been left open. It contained bank statements, birth certificates and immunisation records. Poking up from a bundle of utility statements was a passport. I opened the cover and there, staring back at me, was my face. My face! I peered closer. That didn’t make sense – it was me, as I looked now. I flicked to the personal details. This passport was in date and it gave my current address as Toad Cottage and my next of kin as Frank Fanshawe. My breathing rattled around my chest as I riffled through more papers and discovered several bank accounts in my name. Cassandra Tabitha Buchanan. One of them had over £1,000,000 in it. Spots danced before my eyes; I had money? Did that mean Grace had money too? I searched for her passport, but it wasn’t there.
I glanced at my watch. Time was slipping away, and I decided to go back into the sitting room and wait for Grace’s return. For the time being, I’d pretend I knew nothing about the broken window and with a bit of luck, what with it being on the far side of the house, she wouldn’t notice it until I’d come to a decision about what to do next.
On my way out, I passed another box with “family photos” written on the side and my fingers tingled. I couldn’t resist. This box wasn’t sealed, so I lifted the flaps and came face to face with hundreds of old snapshots. I picked up a handful and sifted through them. There was a picture of my sister as a toddler holding hands with a slim, auburn haired woman and a tall man with dark, wavy hair and big smile. I didn’t recognise her, but I thought I recognised the man. On the back it said ‘me with James and Emily walking through the meadow’. I flipped the picture around again. They were my parents. My fingers trembled. How was it I didn’t know what they looked like? I ran my finger over James’ face then cast the picture aside, hungry for more.
I found one of me wrapped in a long white shawl with Frank cradling me in his arms and laughing. Me on Dad’s lap at the top of a slide with my sister sitting at the bottom holding a green balloon. Mum certainly liked to take a photo, but it appeared that, after Mum died, Dad didn’t. But then I saw a picture which made me gasp. It was of a sullen looking teenage Grace; chubby, plain and scowling at the camera and there I was, holding up a jam jar with something blurry inside. Standing next to me, head thrown back in laughter, was a tall man with long blond hair and bright blue eyes. My heart stopped and, once again, a warm rush of contentment flowed through my veins. I recognised him.
I looked at my watch once again, my throat drying with worry at the speed with which time was slipping away. The walls of cardboard were closing in on me. I needed to process all of this without the worry of Grace’s return hanging over me. I put the photo back and as I did my fingers touched a large folder with Hospital Records written on it. I opened it and there was a typed report with my name at the top right-hand corner. There were stacks of initials and printed tables scribbled with more initials and abbreviations I couldn’t comprehend. I continued to flick through and came to a clear wallet containing a large, ornate key. I took it out of the plastic case and turned it over in my hands, pressing my fingers through the metallic weave. It was familiar in touch and smell. It was mine, I was sure of it and, instinctively, I put it inside my pocket. I carried on leafing through the folder, skimming over reports about my diagnosis but then I stopped short and it took a few seconds for my mind to catch up with what my eyes were seeing. I was no longer looking through my report but was now looking through someone else’s hospital records; those belonging to James Buchanan.
The air shot from my lungs and I bent double. Horror spread like a lit touch paper through my body and blood whooshed inside my ear drums.
According to these papers, James Buchanan was still alive and currently residing in a secure psychiatric hospital in the next county; The Fanshawe Clinic.
The knot in my chest tightened. I had to get out of this room and this place. To hell with the plan to stay put and wait for Grace. I needed to get as far away from there as pos
sible. I’d find Flo. I’d tell her everything and deal with whatever the consequences. Grace needed professional help and I’d surely be safer in prison where Frank couldn’t get to me.
In my panic to leave the room I caught my hand on a jagged piece of glass sticking up on the frame and blood trickled all over the sill turning the white paint crimson. Grace would know I’d been in there. This was all getting out of control.
I took the lace-edged handkerchief out of my tunic pocket and wrapped it around my hand.
Suddenly Tiggy came trotting across the lawn and just for a few seconds I was glad. I screwed up my eyes as she approached. The white of her fur was pink and her muzzle was crusted with a dark brown film. I crouched, holding my arms out to caress her, but it was only when I pressed my hand onto her body, I realised she too was covered in blood.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Flo
HMP Rainsford was a Victorian red-brick building set into the old city walls. I glanced up at the windows which overlooked the pavement below; the small panes of glass were frosted and set back behind thick iron bars. If Dad was on the other side, he wouldn’t be able to see anything apart from a block of striped light.
“Right,” said Annie. “Try not to worry. You’ve had a text from your Mum to say she’s fine and on her way home. Grace has no idea we’ve got our suspicions about her. Frank’s their only relative – it stands to reason she’s turned to him for refuge. For the moment, things are fine as they are until we know for certain what actually happened.”
“But Lily’s frightened of him.”
Annie locked the car. “Because he knows their real identity. Come on. We don’t want to miss our appointment.”
The visitor’s block was a boxy building right by the main entrance of the prison. They’d tried to hide the barbed wire fence, which went all the way around it, with a thick hedge, but it was still really obvious. We had to go through a door with a time-lock, then our bags were searched as we passed through a scanner. Two huge sniffer dogs sat at either end of the room. It was a bit like being at an airport, but without the excitement of a holiday at the end. Annie, used to all this, made me leave most of my stuff in the car so all I had on me were notebooks and pens – it didn’t stop me feeling guilty though, like they were going to find a bag of coke in my back pocket.
A fat officer with gelled brown hair showed us into a cubby hole off the main hall.
He grinned. “Bit more cosy.” The walkie talkie hanging from his belt beeped and a stream of babble crackled over the airwaves. “Right. Take a seat and I’ll bring Mr Marchant through.” I sat on the orange plastic chair and drummed my fingers on the table. Annie, sensing how nervous I was, started jabbering on about the new Nepalese restaurant on Main Street which she was going to try tonight. She thought I might want to go with her. But the thought of food made me want to heave so I ignored her and fiddled around with my pad of paper.
The door opened and in came Dad. I think I screamed. His cheekbones were hollow, his lips were puffy and the skin around his right eye was bruised. The moment Dad saw me he turned back to face the officer and pointed to the door.
The officer folded his arms. “What’s this. An ambush?”
“I want to go back to my cell,” said Dad.
“Dad. Please.”
Annie stood up; chair legs screeching across the floor tiles. “Tom. I’m sorry I lied, but this is important. Flo really needs to talk to you. It’s about your court case.”
Dad paused, then turned back into the room. The officer nodded at Annie. “Alright DS Harper – you’ve got half an hour.”
“Don’t suppose we could get some coffees?” asked Annie.
“What do you think this is? A bleeding hotel?” He smiled. “I’ll see what I can do, but don’t hold your breath. I think the machine is on the blink.” The moment the door shut, I ran over and threw myself at Dad. He winced at bit, then pulled me towards him. He still smelt like Dad.
“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he whispered into my hair.
“I know.”
“Come on,” said Annie, her voice bossy. “We’ve got to get a move on.”
I tore myself away from Dad and pointed to the nearest chair. I sat down opposite him and held out my hands which he took in his. The knuckles on his right hand were bruised too. Good – maybe he’d fought back.
Annie opened her notebook. “I’m not meant to be here. If this gets out, I’ll be in all sorts of shit. I’ve put on the form I’m here to examine evidence, but that’s totally out of my remit – I’m off the case altogether.” She ran her fist down the crease of the empty page. “This was the only way we could think of to get you to see Flo. Us.”
Dad squeezed my fingers and I’m ashamed to say I started sobbing.
“Don’t.” Dad’s voice was shaky. “If you start, you’ll set me off and I really don’t want to go there.”
“Absolutely,” said Annie. “Pack it in, Flo.”
I sniffed and pulled my hands away, pinching the skin under my eyes to try to stop the tears. Annie was right – this was no help to anyone.
“So, Tom, lovely to see you and all that, but we’re really here to ask you some questions,” said Annie.
Dad sat up. “Okay.”
The door opened and in came the officer with three plastic cups of coffee balanced on a tray. He set them onto the table and threw a few sachets of sugar down next to them. “Courtesy of Her Majesty.”
Annie grinned. “Thanks. Much appreciated.”
The officer nodded then left the room.
“They’ve told me to plead guilty.” Dad hung his head. “They said the judge will be more lenient in his sentencing if I do.”
“No way,” I said. “That’s fucking ridiculous. Don’t you dare. What the fuck do they think–?”
Annie clicked her fingers at me. “Enough. That’s irrelevant for now. Tom, what can you tell us about Frank Fanshawe?”
Dad frowned. “What? Why?” He turned to me. “Wouldn’t your mother be a better person to talk to about him?”
I shook my head. “It’s important we hear it from you.”
Tom sat back in his chair and tilted his chin upwards. “A long time ago, eleven years to be precise, Frank was my boss. He ran a mind clinic within one of the main hospitals in Oxford – and asked me to come and work for him. They were trialling some new drugs and he wanted me, as a junior, to take notes and record my clinical findings.”
Annie scribbled into her notebook, her tongue sticking out. “Why did you leave?” she asked without looking up.
Dad was staring at the grey tiles on the ceiling. “I guess, it just didn’t work out.”
Annie stared at him. “Liar.”
Dad did a double take and I shifted in my seat.
Annie smiled. “You always do that when you are telling a fib.”
“What?” asked Dad.
“Jut your chin out at the end of the sentence.” I couldn’t believe I’d never noticed that before.
Dad folded his arms and sulked.
I tugged on his sleeve. “Look, Dad, we haven’t got time for all this bullshit. Why didn’t it work out?”
Dad’s mouth twitched and he laid his arms on the table, staring at his wrists. “There was an allegation made about me.”
Annie’s pen hovered over her notebook. “What sort of allegation?”
“A sexual one.”
I swallowed and tried to keep my expression even.
“Go on,” said Annie.
Dad looked up and stared into my eyes. “Someone said I touched them inappropriately. I mean it was utter nonsense – a complaint made by a nurse I don’t recall ever having spoken to, let alone…” His words trailed off. He took a sip of coffee. “Good old Frank said he’d make it go away, but that I would need to lie low while he went about sorting it.”
“So the allegation didn’t come in front of a proper panel?” asked Annie.
Dad shook his head. “Frank said it w
ould be better if it didn’t. Mud sticks and all that. He said it would harm my career.”
Annie stared at him. “Did he sort it?”
Dad shrugged. “I took a teaching job and then before I knew it, Nina had walked out on me and it just didn’t make any sense to go back to medicine. Life with a small child is so much easier when you have fixed working hours.” He gave a dry laugh. “I never for one second thought she’d end up with Frank though. He seemed old even then.”
I had to bite my lip to stop blurting anything out. We needed to hear it from him.
“Do you remember James Buchanan?” asked Annie.
Dad sighed and screwed up his eyes. “James Buchanan,” he repeated. “Yes. You’re talking about Frank’s brother-in-law? I’ve often wondered what became of him.”
I nodded. “Did you ever meet him?”
Dad sat back in the chair and stretched his legs out. “No. I didn’t ever meet him, but I was there when he opened the new hospital wing.”
“So, you didn’t speak to him?” asked Annie. Dad shook his head.
“And, Dad, did you ever meet James’ daughters?”
Dad shook his head again. “Didn’t know he had any daughters.”
Okay. We were getting somewhere. I pulled out the article I’d photocopied and handed it to him. He stared at it. “Jesus! I wrote this a long time ago. Where did you get it?”
“Tell me about the girl,” said Annie.
Dad shrugged. “I can’t tell you any more than what’s in there. It’s confidential.”
“You’re not a fucking doctor anymore,” snapped Annie. “You’re a man who’s very close to being locked up for the rest of his life. This is important. Who was she?”
The Cry of the Lake Page 19