I push the hurtful memory out of my head, just like I did when I was eighteen. ‘All of the times I spent with my dad were great. When he was around we’d play these wonderful games. Imaginary games. And he’d make up songs for me on his guitar.’ I close my eyes, picturing my dad, his dark hair flopping over his forehead as he strummed away: ‘This is your song, Queenie. All yours.’
‘My mum told me stories,’ Lorcan says softly. ‘My favourite was “The Children of Lir”. D’you know it?’
I shake my head.
‘It’s an Irish folk tale about a king.’ He smiles. ‘The king has four children and their stepmother turns them into swans so they can’t speak to him. They’re apart for hundreds of years.’
I stare out of the window at the busy high street outside. ‘Why is it that fairy tales are full of evil stepmothers?’
Is Beth somewhere with another mother right now? The thought shatters in my head. It’s unthinkable that my child doesn’t know me.
‘We’ll get her back, Gen.’ Lorcan squeezes my hand.
I put my hand over my heart, almost trying to hold my feelings in. This is too hard. Too painful.
‘Come on,’ he says. We leave the restaurant. As we get back into Lorcan’s car, he asks where I’d like him to take me.
I suggest coffee back at his. I’ve got no intention of staying over, but I can’t face Art right now – and I’m not sure I want to see Hen either – though I’m aware both of them will be expecting me to turn up at some point later this evening.
Lorcan nods and drives away. We’re soon in Hampstead. Lorcan has to park at the other end of his road from his flat. As we walk along the cold street, I catch a flash of a dark overcoat out of the corner of my eye. I turn, look over my shoulder, but there’s no one there. I stare at the tree on the opposite side of the street. Is that a shadow or is someone lurking behind it?
‘What?’ Lorcan asks.
‘Nothing.’ I shake myself. But I’m not at all sure it is nothing.
Lorcan takes my hand. ‘I don’t think coffee’s what you need,’ he says with a chuckle. ‘Maybe some Valium.’
I laugh. ‘God, yes, please.’
The spooked feeling I’m experiencing persists. It really feels like we’re being watched. I look around again. This time I see him more clearly: dark overcoat tightly buttoned against the cold . . . blond head . . . pale, square face. I stop at the top of Lorcan’s road, frozen with fear.
‘What is it?’ Lorcan says.
‘It’s the man we saw in the window at Rodriguez’s house.’
‘The blond guy?’ Lorcan’s eyes widen. ‘Here?’
‘Yes.’ I nod. ‘He’s following us.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
We duck around the corner, down the next road. The houses are detached, with high brick walls. We dive along the side of the first house, then peer back round. My fingers are cold against the rough brick. The man following us is attempting to cross Lorcan’s road but the traffic is thundering past, forcing him back. He is frowning, clearly desperate to pass.
‘Oh, man.’ Lorcan is looking now. I can feel him behind me, his chin brushing against the top of my head. ‘You’re right, that’s definitely the guy from Rodriguez’s house.’
The traffic is still dense, but the lights are changing up ahead. Soon the man will be able to cross.
‘What do we do?’ I say.
‘Come on.’ Lorcan reaches for my hand and pulls me down the street.
I look back, over my shoulder. No sign of the man. He appears at the corner as we reach the next turning. We race down the street.
‘He’s seen us,’ I gasp, hurrying along the road. ‘Hurry.’
‘No.’ Lorcan pulls me back. He indicates a gap between two of the houses. ‘Let’s wait there for him.’
‘Wait for him?’ I stare at Lorcan. ‘Are you out of your mind? He’s following us.’
‘Then let’s find out why. Let’s stop him and ask him why he’s following us.’
I open my mouth to argue with him, then I realize he’s right. I need to find out what has happened to Beth. And this man must have some answers.
‘Okay.’ We scurry into the tiny alley between the two houses.
As I peer out, the blond man appears at the corner of the street. He looks up and down, uncertain, then breaks into a jog, heading towards us along the road. Lorcan is watching him, eyes intent. He presses his hand against my arm as the blond man draws nearer.
The blond man reaches the house just before the alley where we’re hiding. He’s looking round, clearly confused. Lorcan marches out.
‘Hey!’ he calls.
The blond man’s eyes widen as Lorcan strides up.
‘Why are you following us?’ he demands.
‘Where’s Geniver Loxley?’ The man is panting, trying to catch his breath as he rasps out the question. Now I’m closer to him I realize he’s older than I thought – in his fifties at least, with plenty of grey mixed in with that blond, and a weather-beaten face.
Lorcan steps forward and grabs the man by the lapels. ‘I asked you a question,’ he snarls.
The blond man stumbles back. He’s overweight and, as he pulls away, the shirt under his jacket strains over his belly. With a grunt he twists and ducks and somehow he’s out of Lorcan’s grip and lumbering away. Lorcan races after him. Catches him in a couple of steps. He slams the man against the wall.
I run over, panting. My breath spirals up in front of my face.
The man shrinks back, hands up in a gesture of surrender. He’s trembling. There are dark shadows under his wide, terrified eyes. Lorcan shoves him in the chest.
‘Who are you?’ he snarls. ‘Why are you following us?’
The man is open-mouthed now.
Across the road, a small knot of teenagers is staring at us. For a second I see the scene through their eyes: three middle-aged people in a fight – then my attention snaps back to Lorcan. He grabs the man’s jacket and bunches the material up in his fist. His body radiates anger.
‘It’s not what you think,’ the man says. He is still panting, breathless, but I notice his Midlands accent. He takes out an inhaler and draws a few puffs.
‘So what is it then?’ I say. ‘Why are you here?’
‘I’m here for you, Mrs Loxley,’ he says. His eyes are watery – a soft, pale blue. He looks terrified and defeated and alone.
I stare at him. ‘What do you mean?’
The man blinks rapidly. ‘I . . . I have information you want.’
‘What information?’ Lorcan spits. He tightens his grip on the man’s jacket. ‘Is this another threat? Like this morning?’
The man cowers away. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t threatened anyone.’
‘It wasn’t him.’ I touch Lorcan’s clenched fist. ‘Let him go.’
Slowly, Lorcan releases the man’s jacket. The teenagers over the road are still watching us.
‘How do you know it isn’t him?’ Lorcan demands. ‘You didn’t see his face.’
‘No, but this man is shorter than you are and the mugger was well over six feet.’
‘What mugger?’ The man looks horrified.
Lorcan turns to me.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’ I lean closer and whisper in his ear. ‘This definitely isn’t the guy.’ I turn to the man. ‘But you were at Doctor Rodriguez’s house; why did you follow us there?’
‘I didn’t, ma’am.’ The man’s forehead creases in an anxious frown. ‘I was following Rodriguez. I broke into his house to look for information. I didn’t know you were there until you left.’
‘Information about what?’ Lorcan asks.
‘Anything that linked Rodriguez to your husband. A recent link.’
‘What? Why?’ I stare at him. His hair is thinning on top. I can see the pink of his scalp underneath his grey-blond comb-over. A strand of hair has come free. ‘Who the hell are you?’
The man looks up, properly m
eeting my eyes for the first time. He smoothes the stray hair back over his head. ‘I’m Bernard O’Donnell. You met my wife last week.’
He pulls his wallet and passport out of his pocket and, with trembling fingers, hands me both. Lorcan takes the passport and studies it.
‘This looks real enough,’ he says.
I open the wallet and find a picture of Bernard with Lucy O’Donnell.
‘Oh.’ I look up and see the pain in his watery eyes. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’
Bernard looks away. ‘Thank you.’
There’s a silence. I take in the shiny patches on Bernard’s suit and the scuff marks on his moccasin shoes. Everything is faded and worn, just as it was with Lucy. The teenagers over the road are moving away. A car squeals past us, its engine fading into the distance.
‘I don’t understand,’ Lorcan says. ‘What exactly are you trying to do? Why did you want to speak to Gen?’
Bernard looks up at him and gulps. ‘I saw you both leaving Doctor Rodriguez’s house.’ He turns to me. ‘I . . . I followed you here this morning after your class.’
I nod, remembering the spooked feeling I’d had earlier.
‘You got in a car and I was on foot so I lost you. I’ve been waiting for you here ever since.’
‘Outside my house?’ Lorcan says.
Bernard stares at him. ‘Excuse me, sir, but who are—?’
‘This is Lorcan Byrne,’ I explain quickly. ‘He’s a friend of mine. He knows what . . . what your wife told me.’
Bernard nods. ‘Lucy was telling the truth about your baby, Mrs Loxley,’ he says. ‘And now she’s . . . she’s dead and I want to find out who killed her.’
‘What do you mean “who killed her”?’ What does this man know?
‘Her death wasn’t an accident.’ Bernard’s mouth trembles. ‘I’m sorry, but I think your husband was involved.’
‘Art?’ My pulse races. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Someone murdered her.’ Bernard’s voice drops. ‘Lucy always carried her handbag and yet the police couldn’t identify her. Whoever made sure she was knocked down also organized someone to take her things. I think that person was looking for evidence of the baby being born alive. Your husband certainly had a motive to do all of that. So did the doctor.’
‘So you think Art or Rodriguez had your wife killed in order to protect themselves?’ Lorcan says slowly. ‘And now you’re looking for proof?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Why not go to the police yourself?’ I ask.
‘I did go.’ Bernard sags against the wall behind him. ‘I was scared to at first, but I couldn’t bear the idea of Lucy lying in some police morgue . . .’
‘What happened?’ I ask.
‘I . . . I identified the body, then the police explained they’d just had an anonymous call saying Lucy stepped out in front of a car, that it was an accident.’
‘What about her missing bag?’
Bernard shrugs a single shoulder. His shirt under his jacket is creased and crumpled. I’m suddenly aware just how far out of his depth he feels. ‘The police seemed to think it was more than likely someone stole it while the ambulance was on its way.’ He sighs. ‘I tried to suggest maybe it wasn’t that straightforward but . . . anyway, if I tell the police everything I suspect, I put myself on the line when . . .’ He tails off again.
‘When what?’ I hold my breath.
‘When I know for sure if Rodriguez or your husband was involved,’ Bernard says quietly. ‘I’m sorry, I know this must be hard for you, but I’m not giving up. We were married for thirty-two years.’ His voice cracks and he looks away.
A shiver wriggles through me.
‘Why are you here now?’ Lorcan eyes Bernard suspiciously.
‘To tell you something . . . see if you can explain it, if that’s okay, Mrs Loxley.’ Bernard looks up at me, his eyes pleading with me to listen. ‘See, I know you didn’t believe Lucy last week, but she was telling you the truth.’
He means it. Like his wife, he sincerely believes Beth was born alive. A painful lump lodges itself in my throat. I sent Lucy away in anger. I dismissed her claims and then told Art. And now she is dead.
‘Why don’t we talk somewhere inside?’ I suggest.
‘Thank you,’ Bernard says.
Lorcan and I exchange glances.
‘Okay, let’s go back to my place,’ he says.
Five minutes later we’re installed in Lorcan’s living room. He fetches a bottle of whisky and three glasses. I take mine, but Bernard pushes his away and asks for water.
He listens intently as I explain what I know for sure: that I overheard Rodriguez admit to receiving money, that the anaesthetist present at Beth’s birth, Gary Bloode, died mysteriously – and in a similar way to Lucy – and that the funeral home claims to have no record of who dealt with Beth’s body.
Bernard nods slowly as I speak, acknowledging each fact in silence. But when I tell him about the memory stick with the CCTV footage, and the way in which it was stolen from me, he actually gasps.
‘But surely that’s the proof we need,’ he says, hope lighting up his eyes. ‘The proof Lucy’s sister was telling the truth – your husband and the doctor were involved.’
I shake my head. ‘Art says the film must have been faked. Anyway, I don’t have it any more and—’
‘You showed him this film?’ Bernard’s mouth falls open.
‘No,’ I explain, ‘I just told him about it—’
‘And then it was stolen from you?’ Bernard wrings his hands. ‘Who else knew you had the memory stick?’
‘Dr Rodriguez.’ I hesitate. ‘To be honest, I don’t see how Art could possibly have had time to organize someone to mug me. He didn’t know about the CCTV film until I told him just a few minutes before I was attacked.’
Bernard looks at Lorcan. The two men exchange a knowing glance. With a jolt I realize they think I don’t want to admit the truth.
‘Art could have known you had that memory stick all along,’ Lorcan says gently. ‘He could have just pretended he didn’t so that you wouldn’t suspect him.’
‘But we heard Rodriguez phone someone else . . . someone who definitely wasn’t Art.’ Desperation rises inside me. My instincts and all the evidence point towards Art. Why is it so hard for me to acknowledge his guilt out loud?
‘That just proves another person is involved,’ Lorcan says. ‘It doesn’t prove Art isn’t involved.’
‘That’s true, Mrs Loxley,’ Bernard adds.
‘I know.’ I feel humiliated by the admission. My voice comes out small and flat. A dull ache spreads across my chest and I look down, Lorcan’s carpet blurring at my feet.
Lorcan strokes my cheek with his thumb – an intimate gesture, full of concern and affection. Something inside me shifts and slips – a mix of desire and relief. I’m not alone.
Lorcan drops his hand and I follow his gaze to Bernard. I wonder what he is thinking about us.
‘You said you had something to tell Gen,’ Lorcan says. ‘Something you thought she might be able to make sense of.’
‘Yes.’ Bernard gulps nervously. ‘I was wondering if you knew what it is your husband does when he goes to that little hotel near . . . where was it?’ He fumbles in his jacket pocket.
‘I don’t know about any hotel,’ I say. I press my fingertips hard against my palms. I’m not sure how many more revelations I can take.
Bernard fishes a business card out of his pocket. It contains a picture of a pub hotel with the name ‘Wardingham Arms, Andover’ written across the front.
‘It’s in Hampshire. I followed your husband there two days ago. He checked in for the afternoon.’
‘And?’ Lorcan frowns. He turns to me. ‘Did you know Art was going here?’
I think back to Monday. ‘Art said he was at an out-of-office meeting all day. He got home just after eight.’
Bernard runs a fleshy hand over his blond hair. ‘Apparently your husband’s a regul
ar visitor to the hotel. This time he arrived at one p.m.,’ he says, staring intently at me. ‘He left at six that evening and drove back to London.’
‘The timing fits,’ Lorcan says. ‘Two hours to drive back to London’s about right.’
‘So what did he do at this hotel?’ I ask. ‘It could have been a business meeting.’
‘It’s not that kind of place,’ Bernard says.
‘How do you know he stayed in his room all that time?’ Lorcan adds.
‘I was in the hotel lobby or the restaurant all afternoon. And they both overlook the front of the hotel, so I was watching the car park almost the whole time too. The hotel is in the middle of nowhere. If Mr Loxley went anywhere he’d have taken his car and I’d have seen.’
‘He could have got a taxi,’ I suggest.
‘No record of any taxis leaving that afternoon,’ Bernard says. ‘They keep a log and I made some excuse and got them to check. Anyway, I’m certain I’d have seen Mr Loxley if he’d left the building.’
‘Well, maybe someone came to him, then.’ I blush, my mind racing ahead over the ramifications of what I’ve just said. There’s usually only one reason why men spend anonymous afternoons in out-of-the-way hotel rooms. And yet surely Art can’t have been unfaithful to me? Surely, if he had, I would know?
Bernard blushes too. ‘I suppose it’s possible that someone did slip up to see him when I was in the restaurant, but I don’t think it’s very likely. It’s a small place and definitely no one else checked in the whole time I was there.’
He gets up to go to the bathroom and I lean back on Lorcan’s sofa. I can’t hide from the evidence any longer. Art was in a hotel when he said he was in a meeting. I press my fingers into my forehead and close my eyes. How can I trust anything he says now? It all adds up . . . all the suspicious behaviour: the fact that someone called him twelve times in one day and he didn’t even mention it; the way he shredded all the papers about Beth and made a payment to a debt company just after she was born – which, for some reason, Hen knows about, but which Art chose to keep from me. In fact, all the conversations with Hen. And then, most terrible of all, there’s the CCTV footage from the Fair Angel hospital showing Art with our baby. I’m certain, now, that Lorcan and Bernard are right to dismiss Art’s claims that the film is a fake. If it could be proved false, why would anyone want to steal it and threaten me?