by Helen Oliver
“Of course. Well done.”
32
Harriet Bloom screwed the top back onto her nail polish, blew on her nails and called Philip Parsons. “All are safely gathered in.”
She pictured him in the 1960s apartment. Could feel his frown when he asked, “What are you talking about?”
She made him wait. “…Your daughter and grandson. They’re both here. I brought them back today.”
“To Wychwood?”
“Where else? You knew they were coming.”
“Sorry. It all seems so quick.”
Harriet moved away from the window, swung her legs onto the bed. “Lucy couldn’t stay in hospital forever.”
“No, of course not. How are they both?”
“Leo’s absolutely fine. Lucy’s still finding her feet.”
Philip said, “Has she shaken off the depression?”
“Post-natal depression’s not generally shaken off that easily.”
“Is she seeing a shrink?”
Harriet sighed loudly. “She’s seeing a psychologist.”
“On the NHS?”
“Yes, so no need for you to worry.” She checked her nails. “You’ve not seen your grandson yet. When would you like to come across?”
“You say.”
“Tomorrow? I’ll be here. Will James be around?”
“He could be.”
“See if you can come together. Cup of tea in the afternoon?”
“All right. Three-thirty?”
Harriet rolled off the bed. “Fine,’ she said, “I’ll tell Lucy.” She ended the call and made her way downstairs.
A muslin square over her shoulders, and Leo in her arms, Diana came into the snug from the garden. “Hello, darling. I’ve been showing Leo the garden.”
“Honestly, Mother, He’s a bit young for horticulture.”
Harriet touched the springy dark hair. “Where’s Lucy?”
“Having a lie down.”
Harriet tutted. “The girl’s been lying down for days.”
“She’s been through a lot, Harriet. A C-section is tantamount to major surgery; never mind the death of her mother. I can’t imagine how difficult it must be.”
“Perhaps the young mum will cheer up tomorrow when Philip and James arrive.”
Diana smiled broadly. “Oh?”
“Philip’s coming, anyway, and he’ll see if James can manage it.”
“I’ll make a cake.”
“Open a packet of biscuits, Mother.”
“I shall make a cake.”
*
Lucy lay on the bed and wondered where her baby was. She wasn’t worried, she just hoped that whoever had him wouldn’t bring him back too soon. She supposed it would be nice when she got to love him, and wondered when that would happen. Was there an average time to start having maternal feelings, for mothers who didn’t fall in love with their babies straight away? The psychologist was very good. She’d tell her how many weeks. Or months.
She looked down at the Moses basket beside her bed. How many times would Leo need feeding? Would she have to do it all on her own? In hospital there’d been a nurse to help. What day would the health visitor come? Diana would tell her. She was so kind. More motherly than Harriet, even though Harriet was her godmother.
*
Thumping the punch bag, Dylan Beck thought about his son. He was dead sorry it’d all gone tits up. He’d looked on the Hemsworths as family. Okay, Martina was a bit rough and past her best, whatever that had been, but she was good in bed. Plus, he thought she loved him.
Then he’d gone and done the dirty on her. Though, to be fair to himself, it was just as much Lucy’s fault.
He gave the bag an extra hard punch. She’d given him the eye months ago: the night Martina brought her down the club for the big match. Not that big. Just big for south Leeds.
Martina, daft cow, started flirting with the club manager. Drank too much cheap wine and made herself look silly. The support match had started, the one after Dylan nearly knocked out Craig Welstead and Lucy was at a bit of a loose end. She’d looked fantastic, but wasn’t fitting in with the younger crowd. Cut to the chase: before he knew it, they were up the aisle, behind the heavy curtains the other side of the ring and going at it like knives. She’d grinned afterwards. ‘Mummy told me to be good. Was I?’ He’d thought she was hilarious, but he had to acknowledge she was Jez’s chick, and most of the time he’d been perfectly happy with Martina.
The thing was, he longed to see his son. Shouldn’t be hard to find out where he was.
*
It wasn’t such a bad night after all. Diana had promised that if she heard Leo cry she’d be with Lucy in ‘two shakes of lamb’s tail’. True to her word, she’d lifted him out of the Moses basket, helped Lucy unbutton her pyjama top and – miracle of miracles – Leo had latched on and had a proper guzzle.
33
Three-thirty-five. Father and son stood on the doorstep at Wychwood. Philip tugged the bell-pull, and took in the well-tended front garden and windows sparkling in the sun. “Looks as good as ever.”
James eyed the monkey-puzzle. “I always liked that tree.”
Philip pulled a face. “Each to his own.”
Diana, fresh in an azure dress, opened the door. “Come in, come in.”
James stood aside while his father extended a hand. “Good to see you again, Diana.”
James said, “Hi, Diana. You’re looking great.”
Diana laughed. “Come through. …Harriet!” she called, and looked at James. “She’s upstairs with your sister and the baby.”
“How are they both?”
“They’re doing very well indeed. Come into the sitting room, there’s a nice breeze from the garden.” Glancing back into the hall, she called up the stairs, “Are you coming down, darling?”
She beamed at the men. “This is nice.”
Philip walked over to the French doors. “The garden’s looking fantastic.”
Diana said, “We do our best. …Ah,” she said, looking towards the door into the hall. “Look who we have here!”
Stepping forward, Leo in her arms, Harriet wasn’t sure who would meet her half-way: grandfather or uncle. Philip, she thought, looked wary, whereas James seemed visibly to relax. Smiling widely, his soft mouth reminding her of April, he said, “Hello, little guy.”
Diana said, “Do sit down everyone, the kettle’s on.”
Harriet tilted her head. “James, would you like to hold your nephew?”
James looked to his father as if, by rights, this honour ought to be his. Philip, though, didn’t show any urgent desire to cuddle his grandson, so Harriet put Leo into his uncle’s arms. Shuffling backwards, James lowered himself into an armchair. Philip positioned himself on a sofa arm where he leaned sideways and took a closer look at Leo.
Harriet nodded to James. “Hang onto him, I’ll help Mother.”
Philip tweaked the collar of his new polo shirt. “Is Lucy putting in an appearance?”
Harriet eyed him. “Why don’t you pop up and ask her?”
Philip was saved by Diana’s arrival with a tray of tea-time crockery. He rose quickly. “Let me take that.”
She gave him a smile. “How kind, Philip. Put it on the console-table. “I’ll fetch the cake,” she added. “I hope you like lemon drizzle, I – ”
The sound of the doorbell cut off any appreciative responses. Diana looked puzzled. “Whoever’s that?”
Harriet said, “I’ll go.” With high-heeled sandals clip-clopping along the parquet, and a frown ready, she opened the door. He was tall and black: biceps bulging from a short-sleeved white T-shirt, calves gleaming below bright Bermudas. He was beautiful and she’d spotted him at April’s funeral.
Leo’s father said, “Hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Not at all,” she said, ‘in fact you’re just in time for tea.”
He stepped inside. “If you’re sure.”
“Of course.” Turning towards the si
tting room, Harriet called, “Mother, another cup and saucer, please.”
Three pairs of eyes swivelled – four if you counted Leo’s – as Dylan stood in the doorway. “Hi,” he said, and turned as Lucy reached the bottom stair in the hall. She made a face. “What are you doing here?”
“Hi Lucy. How’re you doing?”
James, Leo across his knees, made to stand up, reconsidered and sank back. His little finger in Leo’s fist, he looked up at Dylan. “Little belter, isn’t he?”
Bearing the drizzle cake, Diana said, “Is someone going to introduce me?”
Philip said, “Diana, you might not have met Dylan at the funeral.” He paused. “Diana, Dylan Beck, Leo’s father.”
Diana smiled. “How nice to see you. D’you take milk in your tea?”
Lucy sighed. “Jesus. Does it matter?”
Dylan stood over James, looked down at Leo. “Can I hold him?”
Lucy said, “I don’t expect we can stop you.”
Diana put a hand on Lucy’s shoulder. “It’s only natural. He needs to hold his baby boy.”
Lucy said, “Go on, then.”
James lifted Leo up and Dylan bent down to take him into his arms.
Diana said, “He’s got your looks, Dylan,” and the new father grinned.
James wondered afterwards how they got round to drinking and eating cake. There seemed so much more to get a handle on than sending food into the gut.
In Diana’s book it was a thoroughly successful Sunday afternoon. Admittedly Lucy was churlish, but she could have been worse. Philip, not saying a lot, had begun to warm up when Harriet decided they had a pudding wine that needed drinking.
James, thought Diana, was as nice as ever. A little later, showing Dylan round the garden, she asked if he got the newly stitched cut over his eye in the boxing ring. He’d laughed and said, no – from a furious woman’s left hook.
34
Monday briefing over, and working his way through Judi Fox’s current diary, Hammond paused each time he reached a date circled in red. He’d never given much thought to a woman’s monthly cycle, though recalled a time or two in his younger days when a promising evening had ended in disappointment. He frowned: why did this woman need to remind herself in red? From what he remembered of Jan’s periods, she’d been in such a filthy mood for a week before hand, everyone within shouting distance ran a mile.
*
Yesterday Kerridge decreed that they let things lie low until today. Unless anything strongly suggested Judi Fox was still alive. Again, Hammond asked himself if she could be with Sykes. Did the guy, with no criminal intent, come to the door and whisk her away? Did she decide it had been a mistake to break off their engagement? Neither theory stood up, and, from what he’d heard of Judi Fox, she didn’t sound the kind of daughter who’d knowingly put her parents through such pain. He pored over the Parsons file and thought about Judi’s morning call on April Parsons.
While Sunday had remained as quiet as the grave, Monday morning saw uniforms searching fields and woodland behind ‘Dunedin’.
Hammond’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen. “Morning, Dan.”
“Hi, Dad.” A little pause. “We open Tuesday, that’s tomorrow week.”
The Tempest, guilt hit home. “That soon, eh?”
“You’re still coming, aren’t you?”
“To be honest, I’m in the thick of it. I’ve – ”
“– you mean you’re not.”
“I didn’t say that.” He hesitated. “Though it’s looking less likely.”
“Mum’ll be disappointed.”
“She’s bringing someone, isn’t she?”
“That’s not the same as having you both there,”
Hammond stood up. “I’m sorry, son.”
A sigh came down the line. “I should know by now, the Job comes first.”
Hammond said, “You know I’m sorry.” He waited for Dan’s next line, which didn’t come. “Look son,” he said, “I wish you all the luck in the world.”
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Can you sub me a monkey?”
“Sure.” At least this was something he could do.
“Thanks, Dad, I’ll pay you back.”
Hammond said, “Break a leg,” and accepted Dan’s thanks. He went back to Judi’s diary, turned to the page he’d reached. He was rolling his shoulders, ready for a good stretch, when the door opened.
“Morning, Steve.”
His mood lifted. “Cally. How are things?”
“Not bad, actually. How about you?”
Hammond ran a hand through his hair. “The Tempest has crept up on me.”
“The tempest? Oh – The Tempest!”
He pulled out a chair for her. “I’ve let Dan know I can’t make it.”
“Oh Steve, that’s such a shame.”
He knew she genuinely sympathized, but from the gleam in her eye he also knew there was more on her mind. She dropped today’s Post on his desk. “Page five.” She moved her chair and found Leanne Robb’s piece for him.
Together they examined a carefree shot of Judi Fox, with a smaller insert of Russell Sykes. The Headline shouted, “Anti-Fracking Woman Hoped For Baby,” and went on to tell how Judi Fox’s mother, Kate, clung to the hope that their missing daughter, who practised Reiki healing, would be found. She told Leanne Robb that although Judi, 29, broke off her engagement to gardener, Russell Sykes, 24 – currently sought by police – her younger daughter hadn’t given up hope of having a child. As a friend of April Parsons, brutally murdered two weeks ago, Judi had been looking forward to sharing her friend’s joy in the birth of her first grandchild, Leo, safely delivered only days before his granny’s funeral. When asked if Mrs Fox thought her daughter, who had booked to attend a Complementary Treatment Convention in Bath, had changed her mind in order to renew her previous relationship with Russell Sykes, she said she very much hoped this was the case. Mrs Fox and her husband, Colin, had been delighted when their daughter and Russell Sykes planned to marry. She said it was unlike Judi to stay out of touch for so long. Mr and Mrs Fox had been on holiday in Sussex, and returned to the tragic news of April Parsons’s death. Judi Fox’s sister, Zena Bailey, an award-winning rug-maker from Kirk Pulham, said it wasn’t like Judi to keep her parents in the dark. Harriet Bloom, a close friend of April Parsons and godmother of Leo’s mum, Lucy, said she prayed Judi Fox would be found safe and well.
Hammond turned to Cally. “She must have worked like stink, our Miss Robb.”
Cally nodded. “Pulling in the sister. And Bloom.”
Hammond rubbed his chin. “Regarding Chez Bloom.” He paused. “The way it’s all slotted in so conveniently… Future granny, who dislikes assumed father of daughter’s child, is murdered before kid is born. Hemsworths don’t want daughter and mixed-race kid. Looks like no one else does, until all of a sudden daughter’s godmother, victim’s best friend, pops up and says mother and baby can live with her and her mum.” He lifted his shoulders. “Reason?”
Cally shrugged. “Sense of duty?”
“Or money? Lucy ought to be in line for a good whack. Probably shared with brother, James.” He frowned. “But Bloom? What’s in it for her?”
“Change of heart?”
He shook his head. “Pay them a visit. See what you think.”
“Yes, boss.” She indicated the diaries. “Whose are those?”
“Judi Fox’s.”
“How did they get here?”
“Your protégée, Kylie Akpata. Got the bit between her teeth and hightailed off to Little Brampton.” He fingered the spine of the diary he’d been checking. “did you know Akpata’s father is a church minister?”
“Yes.”
Of course you did.
Hammond opened the diary, handed it to her. “Entries in here endorse Robb’s article.”
Cally leaned forward. “In what way?”
“Fox wanting a child.” He pointed out the days circled in red. �
�Her menstruation dates. Or the likely ones. Akpata thinks the emojis denote either good or painful periods.”
She gave him a look. “Got the date for your masters in gynaecology?”
“Very funny.”
“I wonder if she has difficulty conceiving.” Cally looked thoughtful. “Though if that’s the case, you’d think she’d have been referred to a consultant.”
Hammond said, “Her mother would know?”
“Quite likely.” Cally turned the pages of the diary. Back and forth, month to month. “You know something,” she said. “I don’t think these are menstruation dates. She’d more than likely know when to expect her next period.” She looked again at February and March. “This is all about ovulation.” She paused, looked sideways at Hammond. “When she was most likely to conceive.”
“I know what it means.”
Cally upended her pen, tapped it on the desk. “Though looking again, it seems a bit hit and miss. She wouldn’t be able to work out her probable ovulation days until her period had started.” Frowning, she turned back several pages. “After estimating her period dates, she starts circling possible ovulation days.” She turned the pages again. “There are a couple here, three and four months apart, both with smiley faces.”
“That’s when Akpata thinks Judi guessed the right dates.”
Cally looked at Hammond. “I’d go further than that,” she said. “I think these could be the days she had intercourse, during her optimum chance of conceiving.”
Hammond caught the positive look in Cally’s eye. “So what are we saying?”
Cally took a deep breath. “She could be pregnant.”
Hammond pushed his chair back, walked over to the window. “Pregnant by Sykes?” he said. “Or maybe she attended a fertility clinic.”
Cally asked, “Have we got DNA to match against Sykes’s Middlesbrough incident?”
Hammond nodded. “Parsons’s greenhouse, Sykes’s room in Leeds and his jacket. Plus it’ll be all over Parsons’s Dear John letter.” He eyed the diary. “Was Fox engaged to Sykes at the time of the probable ovulation dates?”