Her Sister's Child Page 5

  ‘Did they have kids?’ Johnny asks.

  ‘No, they didn’t.’ Alice fetches a jug of water and some glasses, pouring herself some. There is flour on her forearms and under her fingernails, and the half-completed batter for a cake on the worktop. ‘We bought this as a family home: our two were quite little back then. They’re both at uni now, but they still come and go. This is still home.’

  She smiles warmly in the direction of a cluster of family photos on the bookcase.

  ‘And the Glynns didn’t leave you a forwarding address?’ Paula asks.

  Alice looks perplexed. ‘Not that I was aware. They would have provided our solicitor with an address, I expect. We used Hooper and Chilton in Muswell Hill for the conveyancing. I don’t know if they’d be able to help you.’

  ‘What about the neighbours?’ Johnny asks. ‘Are there any still in the street that were around when the Glynns were here? That might know where they moved to.’

  ‘Next door on both sides are fairly new, I’m afraid. Number nineteen – Nick and Tamsin – moved in this year. Number twenty-three have only lived here four or five years so they wouldn’t have known them. Mrs Pinker at number twenty-five might know, though. She’s elderly; been here donkeys’ years, so she must have overlapped with the Glynns.’

  Johnny and Paula exchange glances and Paula makes a note on her phone. ‘Look, thanks, Alice; you’ve been really helpful,’ Johnny says, pushing his chair back and extending a hand to her. ‘We shouldn’t hold you up any longer. And looks like you’ve got a cake to finish.’ He gives her his most charming smile.

  ‘I’m just sorry I didn’t know more,’ Alice says, as she leads them back through the hall to the front door. Then, as they head back down the tiled path, she holds up a floury hand and beckons them back. ‘Wait!’

  Paul and Johnny retrace their steps.

  ‘There is one thing. I’ve only just thought of it. Wait here a second…’

  She scurries upstairs to the first floor and comes down a minute or so later with something in her hand.

  ‘We found this behind the kitchen dresser soon after we moved in. The dresser was left behind as a fixture, but we ended up refitting the kitchen and getting rid of it. I assumed this must have belonged to the Glynns, because it looked new. I hung on to it in case it had sentimental value and they came back for it. But they never did.’

  She holds out the object towards them.

  Paula exhales sharply as she realises what it is. ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘May I?’

  Paula takes the folded fabric and turns it over between her fingers. It’s pale pink, a bit discoloured in places, but very obviously a baby’s blanket. In one corner, a large ‘S’ has been appliquéd.

  ‘You said the Glynns didn’t have children of their own?’ she asks.

  ‘As far as I know,’ Alice Evershott replies quietly. ‘I mean, one supposes it’s possible they lost a baby at some point. Or that could have been left here by someone visiting. Although…’

  ‘Go on,’ Johnny prompts. He takes the blanket from Paula and examines it.

  ‘It was wedged in there out of sight behind the dresser back, as though it had been put there deliberately. It hadn’t just been dropped on the floor.’

  ‘So either Marian or Tom Glynn put it there?’

  Alice frowns. ‘Well, not necessarily. The dresser was an ancient, battered thing that looked like it had been there forever. It’s possible it was in situ when the Glynns themselves moved in. They were only here three or four years.’

  ‘Is it okay if we keep this?’ Paula asks.

  ‘I suppose you might as well, if you’re planning on speaking to her at some point,’ sighs Alice. ‘Though if you don’t find her, then I don’t suppose you’ll ever know the true story.’

  ‘Oh, we will.’ Johnny puts his sunglasses back on. ‘We fully intend to find out.’

  8

  Paula

  Johnny phones Paula a few days later.

  ‘I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘Careful,’ she teases. ‘You’ll do yourself a mischief.’

  She’s folding and putting away a pile of laundry, phone tucked under her chin. The last item in the pile is the pink blanket, which she has very carefully hand-washed to get rid of the musty smell. She strokes it absently, tracing the contours of the letter S with one finger.

  ‘What that lady – Alice – said about the blanket makes sense. It might not have belonged to the Glynns.’

  ‘I know. We agreed on that.’

  ‘But what I’ve been thinking is, maybe we’re barking up the wrong tree.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Instead of getting sidetracked by things we can’t prove, we should be concentrating on what we can prove.’

  Paula presses the blanket against her cheek, before putting it on a shelf in the airing cupboard and closing the door. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Given how your sister died, right, there must have been a post-mortem. There always is when a dead body is found, and the circumstances are unexplained.’

  Paula frowns. ‘But they were explained. She haemorrhaged to death after drinking herself stupid.’

  ‘Yes, but what I’m saying, Paul, is that for them to know the aneurysm was the cause of death, there must have been a post-mortem done first.’

  ‘So? I still don’t follow. There was never any doubt about how Lizzie died.’

  ‘Ah, but what else might they have found? They examine absolutely everything. If she had just had a baby, they would have been able to tell. And it would have been in the report.’

  Paula leans against the landing wall, taking this in. Biscuit presses against her legs, wagging his tail, and she reaches down and fondles his ears absently.

  ‘So what happens to the report?’

  ‘I’ve just looked this up. The coroner’s office has to report the pathologist’s findings to the deceased’s family, if they’re known. Then a full copy of the written report is sent to the deceased’s GP.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure Lizzie never had a GP.’

  ‘Well, in that case, it probably would have been sent to the next of kin. Your mother?’

  ‘I suppose it must have been.’ Paula’s hand starts to shake and she grips the phone. Her mother has never said a word. Had she known all along, but decided for some reason not to say anything?

  Johnny eventually breaks the silence. ‘You okay, Paul?’

  ‘Yes… yes… it’s just a lot to think about.’ She’s quiet for a few seconds. ‘What I’m trying to get my head around is… if it did say in the report that she’d had a baby, why didn’t anyone in my family say anything?’

  Johnny’s tone is gentle. ‘You said your family had disowned Lizzie a long time before she died. Maybe they couldn’t face reading the coroner’s report. Or simply didn’t want to. That would make sense. You know, like they were unwilling to reopen that can of worms. They must have been feeling guilty, right?’

  Paula opens the door of the airing cupboard, touches the blanket. ‘I suppose they were. But why didn’t anyone else do something? Surely the coroner would have raised the question of what happened to the baby at Lizzie’s inquest?’

  ‘Yes, exactly. So that must have been why there was a police investigation when I was a Special. I’ll ask around if you like, see if anyone can find a file from… when was it?’

  ‘2003. The twenty-second of July 2003 was when she died.’

  ‘And you probably need to speak to your mum.’

  ‘Yes,’ Paula agrees without enthusiasm. ‘I probably do.’

  ‘I want to come with you to see Granny Wendy.’

  ‘You can’t,’ Paula tells her daughter, firmly.

  The following weekend, she’s in the car with both children, dropping them off with her ex-husband before driving on to her mother’s flat in Edgware.

  ‘But we always go with you to Granny Wendy’s,’ Jessica complains. ‘She has the special sweetie tin ready.’

  Ben, who has
his headphones plugged in, rolls his eyes.

  ‘Not this time. I need to go on my own.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because, okay?’ Paula doesn’t hide her irritation, jumping out of the car in the driveway of Dave’s house and yanking the rear door open. ‘Come on, out you get!’

  Dave appears on the driveway and takes Jessica’s overnight bag from his ex-wife. ‘All right, Paul?’

  She nods curtly, already getting back into the car.

  ‘When am I bringing them back? Only Natalie and I—’

  ‘I’ll ring you,’ Paula says through the open window, before backing the car off the drive again. ‘Got to go.’

  Disraeli Court is a red-brick development of thirty-eight flats, built in the 1980s and surrounded by well-tended gardens. There’s a residents’ lounge, a laundry and on-site support staff. Wendy Armitage is lucky to live there, as she never tires of telling anyone who’ll listen.

  ‘Shame you didn’t bring the kids with you,’ she sniffs, kissing her daughter on the cheek. ‘Not like they’re at school today.’ She still has the slight, wiry frame she’s always had, only now she doesn’t bother to dye her hair, which is completely white.

  ‘It’s Dave’s weekend,’ Paula says, shortly. ‘And, anyway, I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ Wendy’s tone is wary. She goes into the kitchenette and switches on the kettle, arranging tea things on a tray.

  ‘It’s about Lizzie,’ Paula says, when her mother comes back into the living room with the tea.

  Wendy raises her eyes heavenwards and sighs. ‘Why now, Paula? It’s all done with, long ago. Can’t we just let her rest in peace?’

  ‘Mum, please, this is important.’ Paula takes a deep breath, trying to control her rising frustration. ‘When she died, there must have been a post-mortem done.’

  ‘I expect there would have been. The police got involved… when she… you know.’

  Even now, her mother can’t bring herself to speak about the pitifully sad circumstances of her eldest daughter’s death: the discovery of her unattended dead body by a total stranger. And then there was the travesty of a funeral. One single sheaf of wilting carnations, and Wendy staring at the coffin throughout with a stony expression. Steve had not been able to get back to the UK, so there had only been Paula, her parents, Great-Aunt Cissie, Uncle Alan and Aunt Shirley and her two oldest cousins. A short, bleak service at the crematorium, with no wake afterwards.

  ‘Have you ever even visited the cemetery? Where her ashes are buried?’

  Paula knows the answer to this question, yet still feels the need to prod her mother, to try and understand.

  ‘What’s the point? She’s not there.’ Wendy pours milk into the tea cups, but her hand is shaking. She draws in her breath sharply before holding one out to her daughter. ‘Biscuit?’

  ‘But she’s your daughter, that’s the point! Christ, if anything ever happened to Jessie’ – Paula crosses herself to ward off the possibility – ‘you wouldn’t be able to drag me away from her grave. I’d practically camp there.’

  ‘That’s different,’ says Wendy, stirring sugar into her tea. ‘You haven’t been lied to, and abused and stolen from by your daughter.’

  Ah, yes, Paula thinks, the business of Great-Aunt Winifred’s ring. Wendy Armitage had two childless aunts, Winifred and Cissie. Winifred had married a well-to-do solicitor, and when she died, she left her jewellery to her nieces. Wendy’s bequest had been an Edwardian ring that featured an octagonal emerald flanked by diamonds. Paula had never seen her mother wear it, but occasionally she took it out to clean it, turning it this way and that, admiring it. It was valuable to her not just because of its monetary worth but because of what it represented: a link to a better, more gracious world.

  When Paula was ten, she heard her parents having a heated argument one night, and lurked at the door of her bedroom to listen.

  ‘Maybe we should give her one last chance?’ she heard Colin Armitage saying.

  ‘But how many times have we been here?’ her mother protested. Her voice sounded strangely distorted, and Paula realised it was because she was crying. She had never heard her mother cry before. ‘How many promises has she made to sort herself out? How many disappointments has she put us through?’

  ‘It’s not really her, though, is it? This isn’t our Lizzie. It’s the drinking.’

  ‘I told her I couldn’t take it any longer, and I mean it. Oh, yes, sure, she’s full of good intentions. She’s going to do this or stop doing that, and before you know it she’s drinking again. And this… this is the final bloody straw, Colin!’

  The next morning Paula had discovered that the final straw had been Lizzie taking Aunt Winifred’s emerald ring and selling it to buy vodka and cannabis. She was ordered to leave the family home, packing her bags and moving into a squat. Soon afterwards Colin and Wendy’s marriage collapsed. Paula met Dave some years later while she was in the sixth form, and married as soon as she had left school. Her parents both approved of the solid, steady Dave and she had been desperate to please them, to prove that they still had one ‘good’ daughter. A daughter they could be proud of.

  She sets her tea cup back on its saucer. ‘She did that because she was an alcoholic,’ she says now. ‘She was an addict. It’s an illness. And what about forgiveness, eh? What the hell happened to that?’ Her voice rises, as does the colour in her cheeks.

  Wendy looks away. ‘We all have different ways of dealing with things. It wasn’t that I didn’t love her. You mustn’t think that.’ There’s sorrow in her voice, despite her attempts to mask it, and her hand shakes again as she lifts her tea cup.

  ‘In that case, will you come to the cemetery one day then?’

  ‘I don’t know about that.’

  ‘We could take the kids, too. I’ve been meaning to take them; now they’re old enough to understand. About Lizzie.’

  ‘Maybe. I’ll think about it.’

  Paula wonders if she should tell her mother about the search that she and Johnny Shepherd have embarked on, but decides now is not the time. Perhaps when they have some definite proof of what happened. Or if her mother ever does make the visit to Lizzie’s resting place.

  ‘The post-mortem,’ her mother says suddenly, looking at Paula directly. ‘I never saw it, but now I think about it, I’m pretty sure the report was sent to your dad.’

  9

  Charlie

  It’s another four days before Jake bothers to return her text about flat hunting.

  Charlie spends one more night with Hannah, but Faye Watson is preparing for relatives to visit. She drops hints about her daughter’s friend out-staying her welcome, so Charlie is forced, reluctantly, to return to her own family home.

  And it’s awkward. She’s committed to the pregnancy, but her parents are not – not really. They keep raising the question of how her education will be able to continue. How will she manage at university with a three year old? People do, Charlie tells them, but still they carp. She mustn’t think that she can just leave the baby with them while she goes out clubbing and to festivals with her mates, her parents insist. That’s not how this is going to work. She’s going to have to miss out.

  Charlie sends a series of text updates to Hannah.

  Mum’s googling unis with childcare facilities

  Now she’s telling me where all her friends kids are having their gap years

  Dad and Mum are arguing about whether I should defer school for a year. Grim

  During this time, Charlie also keeps a close eye on the filing cabinet in the office, but as far as she can tell, nobody has had reason to look in the savings file and in doing so, discover the missing debit card. She plays along with her mother’s micro-managing, keeping a constant eye on her phone until finally Jake sends a message.

  Tomorrow morning good for me

  She forces herself to wait at least ten minutes before replying.

  Cool. See you then

  Charlie avoi
ds the elite estate agencies, which she is sure will refuse to deal with her once they know her age. Instead, she and Jake visit a high street agent that claims to welcome students as renters.

  ‘This is sick.’ Jake immediately seizes on the details for a newbuild flat with floor-to-ceiling windows and a roof terrace. ‘Party central.’

  ‘The price, though. There’s no way we can afford that.’

  Jake pulls a face. ‘I don’t want to wind up in some shithole.’ He continues to scowl as the agent pulls out details for more affordable properties, then drives them to see a dilapidated two-bedroom flat in an ex-local authority block in Tufnell Park. If they can overlook the peeling paintwork and stained carpets, then – the agent assures them – it’s a steal at £1,095 per month.

  ‘It’s been empty for a while; I could probably get the landlord to accept £1,050.’

  ‘Great,’ says Charlie. ‘We’ll take it, won’t we, Jake?’

  He merely grunts. ‘Whatever.’

  The estate agent says their credit scores will have to be checked, and they will both need to provide a reference and the name of a guarantor. Neither of them has a credit score, or can think of a suitable referee.

  ‘How about something from your employers?’ the woman suggests.

  Charlie and Jake exchange glances. ‘Jake’s about to start looking for employment,’ Charlie mutters.

  ‘How about you?’ the woman asks.

  Charlie doesn’t want to have to tell her that she’s still at school. Her father works with the property and construction industries, and she’s often heard him bargaining with agents on the phone. ‘How about this?’ she says, quickly. ‘I’ve got the money in my account now; we’re in a position to pay the full twelve months’ rent up front. Then the issue of our credit scores and income is irrelevant.’