The Black Sheep

  ‘I looked in Lanagh,’ I said, unable to stop myself. ‘There’s nothing but reports, stuff that backs up Dad and Uncle Perry investigating PAAUL, not being a part of—’

  ‘It’ll be in Jayson’s house,’ Graham insisted. ‘Something incriminating, I’d bet on it.’

  ‘No.’ I drew back. Graham was drunk. And vengeful. He didn’t know Dad like I did. I folded my arms, trying to convince myself that he was wrong. ‘It’s impossible.’

  ‘Not to me,’ Graham growled. ‘Clearly you’re as blind and arrogant as Sheila . . . and the rest of them.’ He waved his hand vaguely.

  ‘Graham, can you—?’ I started.

  ‘Enough,’ he interrupted. ‘Because I’m really not fucking interested in anything you have to say or in talking about this any longer.’

  I hesitated. ‘Please,’ I said. ‘Calm down.’

  ‘Please,’ he said, mimicking me in a high-pitched voice. ‘Fuck off.’

  There was no point trying to talk to him any longer. I stumbled out of the pub. It was dark and the temperature had dropped. I made my way to my car and slumped into the driver’s seat.

  Yet another allegation against Dad. I couldn’t bear any more of this. I had to find out if he really was involved with PAAUL once and for all.

  I started the engine. Graham had seemed convinced there was evidence connecting Dad with PAAUL actually in his home. Tonight was the sacred music concert at St Cecilia’s Lucy had invited us to. She, Dad and Jacqueline were having an early supper at a local Italian restaurant beforehand, which meant they would be out between 6.30 and 10 p.m. or so.

  I could go over there, let myself in and see if I could find something. It felt like clutching at straws, but Graham’s accusations reverberated around my head. I had to do something. Sitting at home and worrying about it all was no longer an option.

  As I drove away from Ladbroke Grove I called Ayesha on the hands free and asked if Lori would mind babysitting a little longer.

  ‘Tell her to order in pizza, I’ll pay when I get back,’ I offered.

  Ayesha said she’d go over herself. Relieved, I gritted my teeth and headed to Kensington, planning my search of the house as I drove.

  HARRY

  It grew dark outside the café and Harry could wait no longer. Fran still hadn’t answered any of his calls and he needed to know whether the information on his laptop had convinced her he’d been right to investigate her father. Most of all he wanted to find out if she believed he truly wanted to make amends. He had to get past her fury that he’d lied to her, but at least maybe he’d opened the door to a future conversation.

  It was raining hard as he strode to Notting Hill tube station and still drizzling as he emerged at Southfields. Fran’s house was a couple of streets away. Harry’s pulse thundered at his temples as he stood on her doorstep, remembering the look of hurt and betrayal in those caramel-coloured eyes of hers as he’d given her the computer. It seemed strange that had happened just last night; it felt like years ago. Harry steeled himself as the door opened. He was expecting Francesca – or possibly one of her children. But instead Ayesha stood there, tall and fierce in a long orange tunic and pink leggings.

  ‘You,’ she said, rather theatrically. ‘What the hell do you want?’

  Harry drew himself up. ‘I’m looking for Francesca.’

  ‘She’s out,’ Ayesha spat. ‘And she won’t want to see you.’

  ‘It’s important,’ Harry insisted.

  ‘You tosser.’ Ayesha advanced towards the door, nostrils flaring. She was far shorter than Harry yet filled his entire field of vision. ‘Go away.’

  She slammed the front door in his face. Stunned, Harry stood, staring at the chrome knocker. What did he do now? Ayesha was clearly not going to tell him where Fran was. He glanced up at the first-floor window. Fran herself was quite possibly in the house, letting Ayesha act as her guard dog. He took a step back so he could see to the second floor as well. All the rooms were in darkness. If Fran was inside she was staying well hidden.

  A rap on the window to the left of the front door floated over the distant hum of traffic. Harry looked across. A small, pale face wreathed in smiles peered through the glass. It was Fran’s daughter, Ruby. She had the same dark hair and elfin face as her mother, though her eyes were paler and rounder. She waved and Harry motioned for her to open the window. A little hand reached up to the latch and a second later they were face to face.

  ‘Hey, Arsenal,’ Harry whispered.

  ‘Hey, Man City.’ The little girl giggled.

  ‘I was looking for your mum,’ Harry said. ‘Is she in?’

  Ruby shook her head. ‘She’s at Granddad’s,’ she hissed. She glanced behind her. ‘Gotta go.’ She disappeared from the window.

  Yes. Fran had gone to her father’s house at a time when he knew, from what Lucy had told him earlier, the family would be out. Which could only mean one thing. She was looking for information on Jayson Carr’s connection with PAAUL.

  Harry turned and trotted down the rain-spattered steps, his mood lifting.

  FRAN

  An hour passed as I searched Dad’s study. Memories of exploring Perry’s basement haunted me, especially the gay porn I’d unearthed. I braced myself every time I opened a file marked private.

  But there was nothing remotely scandalous buried in Dad’s paperwork. I yawned as I scanned file after file, taking in random lines of reports and spreadsheet figures. Most of the information stored here related to Dad’s business interests – he was on the board of at least six companies – and his property portfolio. The only personal items were to do with tax and accounting. I lingered briefly over Dad’s will which, I already knew, left everything equally to Jacqueline, Lucy and myself – then flicked past a series of insurance documents going back ten or so years.

  I turned to Dad’s computer. He had a small laptop which he carried with him and which I knew was password protected, but his desk PC was easy to open. I did a couple of searches using the keywords ‘PAAUL’ and ‘abortion’.

  Nothing.

  I checked the time. It was almost 7 p.m. Lucy, Dad and Jacqueline would be out for another three hours at least and I was determined to carry on searching. Trouble was, I had no idea where to look next.

  The doorbell rang. I ignored it. Then my mobile trilled. I glanced at the text, bracing myself for another warning.

  I’m outside @ your dad’s. I need to speak to you. Please open the door. Harry.

  How the hell did he know I was here? And what on earth did he want?

  The doorbell sounded again.

  Exasperated, I scuttled across the polished parquet floor – Jacqueline had insisted on it being relaid last year – and opened the front door. Harry stood outside, his jacket crumpled and his hair dishevelled from the wind that whipped up the street. He stared at me, an expression of consternation on his face.

  ‘Are you alone?’ he asked.

  ‘Why?’ I snapped. ‘Worried my dad will beat you up?’

  ‘Your sister told me she and Jayson and Jacqueline were going to a concert this evening, but I . . .’

  ‘You spoke to Lucy?’ Why on earth hadn’t my sister mentioned that?

  Harry nodded. ‘I came to see her to . . . to tell her . . . to talk about you,’ he said.

  ‘Oh,’ I said. My heart hammered. Harry moved closer. His presence was overwhelming. I gazed up into his intense eyes. I should just slam the door on him. I should feel angry.

  But instead, I felt excited. Attracted.

  Hopeful.

  ‘I’m guessing you’ve come here because you’ve read the files I gave you and you’re trying to find out the truth . . . looking for links between your father and PAAUL.’

  I stared at him, knowing my face was giving away the fact that he was right.

  ‘That’s what I thought.’ Harry smiled. A thrill of desire shot through me. How could I feel so connected to someone who’d deceived me so badly? ‘I want to help,’ he went on. ‘Ple
ase let me help.’

  ‘You’re just trying to get your stupid story.’ Fury rose inside me. After everything he’d said. All that bullshit about liking me. I pushed at the door, trying to shut it.

  ‘Wait.’ Harry wedged his foot in the gap.

  I glared at him. ‘Go away.’

  ‘I promise I’ve dropped my story,’ he said, pushing back against the door, keeping it open. ‘I’m only offering to help because I can see you need to know.’

  ‘You have to be kidding.’ Surely he couldn’t think I’d be so gullible as to trust him again?

  ‘You can decide what we do with whatever we find,’ Harry persisted. ‘I’ve already given you all my notes. My entire bloody laptop in fact. There are no copies. No back-ups.’

  I wrestled with the door. Harry was still forcing it open.

  ‘Please,’ he said. ‘I just want to help. I’ll do whatever you—’

  ‘You’re a liar. A fraud. I don’t believe anything you say.’

  ‘Believe this then.’ Harry chucked something through the gap between the door and frame. I glanced down. It was a black leather wallet. Two sets of keys followed, then a tablet. ‘That’s all my cards, the keys to my flat. My iPad. Take them. Keep them. Give them back when I’ve proved I mean it.’

  I hesitated, still pressing the door against his foot. Harry let it go, until only the tip of his toe was preventing me shutting it entirely.

  ‘I know I screwed up,’ he went on, his voice low and suffused with shame. ‘But I’ve told you before, I never meant to upset you. I . . . I didn’t know how much I’d like you.’

  Shit. My head fought with my heart. Of course I shouldn’t trust him; once bitten, twice shy was exactly how I should feel. And yet every instinct told me he was sincere, that he did like me and that he genuinely wanted to make up for lying to me before.

  ‘I said back in that bar that I needed to tell you something. I was going to confess everything, the whole undercover thing, the lies I’d told . . . Then you asked me back to your house and I was so . . . so over the moon you liked me it went out of my head.’

  ‘Right,’ I snorted, trying to force some steel into my voice. ‘You’re a lovesick puppy. Give me a break.’

  ‘Please, Fran,’ he went on. ‘Even if you don’t ever want to see me again, this is a massive house. I can help you—’

  ‘I don’t need your help.’ But even as I said the words I knew they weren’t true. It was a massive house and there was no way I could manage to ferret my way solo through all the main storage spaces before the others returned home. I looked down at the worn leather wallet and the house keys glinting on the parquet floor.

  ‘What about your car?’

  Harry fished in his pocket and handed me a Vauxhall key. ‘The car itself is at home, but I’ll drive it over with the spare key if—’

  ‘I don’t want your stupid car.’

  Harry fell silent. I couldn’t see him on the other side of the door, but I could hear the rain falling, heavy on the front path. Further back, in the road, something zoomed past at high speed. Mum used to complain about the traffic when Lucy was little. ‘It’s all very well being so central,’ she’d grumble to Dad. ‘But the road is a rat run, cars race down here, all the faster because they’ve been stuck in jams for hours.’

  I felt like one of those cars now. I’d been stuck in a state of indecision, swinging this way and that over Dad’s involvement with PAAUL. And now here I was actually acting on my fears, trying to get to the bottom of it. The prospect of going to bed tonight still without any answers was unthinkable. Perhaps I should let Harry help. Whatever we found would be useless to him unless he kept the proof and I could make sure he didn’t do that.

  I opened the door a fraction so that I could see Harry’s face. His brown eyes met mine. I still couldn’t trust him. But maybe I could make use of him. I let the door swing fully open as I stepped back to pick up his wallet and tablet and keys. I put them all in my handbag, which was where I’d left it, on the hall table, then beckoned him inside.

  ‘You can help,’ I said. ‘But you don’t leave my sight and I keep all your stuff for as long as I want.’

  Harry nodded and came in. He shucked off his jacket and rolled the sleeves of his jumper up his arms. His forearms looked muscular – strong and brown. I tore my gaze away.

  ‘Follow me,’ I said.

  I led Harry into Dad’s study and showed him the files on the top shelf which I hadn’t had time to explore yet. According to the labels they contained data on Dad’s old property portfolio, but maybe there was something incriminating inside. I made sure Harry was positioned examining the files where I could see him, then resumed my search of Dad’s PC.

  We worked in silence. I was only half-concentrating on Dad’s files now. My mind ran over what Uncle Graham had told me. I wouldn’t pass on any of that to Harry. Nor would I let him talk about his feelings any more. What had he said to Lucy? She would be in the middle of that concert right now, but I was going to ask her as soon as she got home.

  After twenty or so minutes Harry cleared his throat.

  ‘I don’t think there’s anything here,’ he said. ‘You say you’ve examined most of these files. There’s nothing remotely connected to religion here, I just don’t see your dad storing PAAUL info with all this legit business stuff.’

  I sighed. Annoyingly, he was probably right.

  ‘So where do you think the PAAUL stuff might be?’ I asked.

  Harry shrugged. ‘Somewhere more personal, like a bedroom?’

  I made a face. Jacqueline kept their bedroom pretty tidy; I couldn’t imagine Dad creating a hiding place for secret papers there.

  ‘Is there a safe?’

  I shook my head. ‘Just a locked box for Jacqueline’s diamonds. But it’s too small for anything but jewellery.’

  ‘Does your dad have a dressing room? Somewhere he relaxes on his own?’

  ‘He uses the spare room next to Lucy’s to keep old suits . . .’

  ‘Let’s take a look.’ We went upstairs and searched the spare room, then checked all the cupboards in Dad and Jacqueline’s bedroom.

  Nothing.

  It was now past 8 p.m. and I was tired and hungry.

  I sat on the bed with a sigh. Harry looked up from the wardrobe he was investigating. It was empty apart from three of Jacqueline’s hat boxes.

  ‘Do you want to stop?’ he asked, sensing my frustration.

  I shook my head.

  A beat passed. ‘Is there anywhere else?’ Harry asked. ‘Somewhere people don’t go very much? A place which is a bit of a dumping ground for your dad’s things? Maybe a bit of a mess?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Jacqueline keeps the house shipshape, as she would say. Even the attic only has a few bits of furniture and a box of silverware and that’s all my mum’s.’

  ‘What about the garden?’ Harry asked.

  I shrugged. ‘There’s a summer house,’ I said. ‘That is full of junk. More of Mum’s old stuff mostly, but Dad stores things there too. Jacqueline never uses the place. No one does any more.’

  Harry nodded. ‘Let’s take a look.’

  I led Harry across the lawn and through the copse of trees to where the summer house stood. I hardly ever came out here any more, in fact I hadn’t been any further than the patio for years. Growing up, the house had seemed very normal to me, but I was aware now that this was a massive garden by London standards: wide as well as long, with the trees almost masking the main house – and its neighbours – from view.

  The summer house was about six feet by eight and made of painted white pine with green gloss – now chipped and peeling – at the windows. Surrounded by a rockery made of smooth white stones, it had once seemed an almost magical place in the middle of the trees. When we first moved here I told Lucy in a fit of big-sisterly meanness that it was the house that the witch in Hansel and Gretel lived in and that if she went inside she would be captured and eaten. I could still remember the look
of panic on her little face as I’d spoken. I’d got in big trouble for that and rightly so. I can’t imagine Ruby ever doing anything half so cruel.

  I found the spare key under the third stone from the door. Inside the air was stale and cold. Even using my phone as a torch we couldn’t see much, but it was obvious that the place was crammed with Mum’s old bits and pieces, long since replaced in the main house by Jacqueline’s more streamlined designer tastes: an old coffee table, two small stools, upholstered in wide cream-and-pink stripes, an ornate wooden bookcase. There was also junk from the garden: folded, faded canvas loungers from when we were kids, a pile of moth-eaten blankets, an old boules set in a tin box. Everything was covered with dust. Clearly nobody had been in here for years. I felt a sudden pang of loss for the free, easy childhood I’d enjoyed out here, the long summer days playing with Dex, Lucy tagging after us, when the sun beat fiercely on our heads and the air was clotted with heat. At least that’s how I remembered those summers. One thing I knew from my psychology degree is how faulty memory can be, how easy it is to idealise the past.

  Harry found a battery-operated garden lantern with a set of batteries still in their plastic wrapping taped to the outside. He set the lantern up and shone its light into the corners of the room. ‘I’m going to pull stuff away from the walls, see if there’s anything interesting hidden behind.’

  While he worked, I examined the pile of blankets, checking nothing was concealed in or under them. I didn’t hold out much hope.

  ‘I can’t imagine Dad ever comes in here.’ I glanced around. ‘No one does from the look of it.’

  ‘Someone’s been here recently.’ Harry pointed to a dust-free path I hadn’t noticed before. It ran between two sets of lounger cushions and led to another suspiciously dust-free wooden box. The box stood on a faded red rug, wedged between more cushions.

  I pulled the cushions out of the way. One had a rust-coloured stain in the middle.

  ‘God, is that blood?’ I said, peering at the stain as Harry fumbled with the lid of the box.

  ‘Looks like it,’ he said. ‘Old blood.’