The way he reacted to Patrick really pleased her. He was as respectful as if the older man was his prospective father-in-law, yet he didn’t try to ingratiate himself. They had a brief man-to-man conversation about the damage done to the house, and what would be needed to rebuild it. But he also asked about Patrick’s trip to America, and said how much he liked his children’s book illustrations.
Later, over a bottle of wine, they told Patrick about the best moments in Scotland and the Lake District. But inevitably they were drawn back to discussing all that they’d discovered about Flora, and Eva’s shock when she found out about the snatched baby.
‘Tell me honestly, Patrick. Can you believe that of Flora?’
He frowned. ‘My first reaction was that it was impossible. But thinking now of how distraught she was when she lost our baby, and how reckless she could be, plus what you’ve told me about her time in Scotland, I’m no longer quite so positive. While I really hope the police will be able to prove Flora gave birth to you, Eva, this whole business of Andrew setting the fire makes that look unlikely.’
He paused for a moment. ‘Eva, you told me that the mother you knew didn’t seem to match up to what others told you about her. So it is possible that Andrew may well have used what she’d done to control and manipulate her. But the police seem to be dragging their feet,’ he continued. ‘How difficult can it be to prove if you are, or are not, this stolen baby?’
‘I’ve rung them twice,’ Phil said. ‘I think one reason for the delay is because the investigation involves London, Cheltenham and Carlisle police forces.’
‘Hmmm,’ Patrick frowned. ‘I suppose even if they had found the mother in Carlisle straight away, they could hardly rush into telling her about this until they were almost a hundred per cent sure you were her child. Imagine what a shock it would be for her!’
Eva could only nod. From what she knew of Sue Carling from the newspapers of the 1970s, she dreaded being told this woman was her real mother.
‘Even if she is your mother, you don’t have to meet her,’ Patrick said, looking at Eva intently as if reading her mind. ‘You are the innocent in all this. And although it might seem too cruel for the woman to be told you are her child but don’t wish to see her, that is your prerogative.’
‘It would be cruel,’ Eva said. ‘What sort of person would that make me?’
‘An honest one.’ He shrugged.
‘You have to keep in mind that Sue Carling isn’t blameless,’ Phil said, reaching out for Eva’s hand and squeezing it. ‘She cared more about putting on a bet than taking care of her baby’s welfare. We read that she’d had other children taken away from her too. I agree with Patrick, you don’t have to meet her. You can be nice about it. Write her a letter and say it’s all been very distressing but you are an adult now and, on balance, you think that there’s nothing to be gained for either of you in taking it further.’
‘I don’t think I could do that,’ Eva said, and her eyes filled up with tears.
‘Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it,’ Phil said soothingly.
‘She might not be your mother anyway,’ Patrick said. ‘But if she is, the police might be able to offer the services of a counsellor to mediate between the two of you. But shall we talk about something more cheerful? Tell me about your plans for the old studio.’
‘I couldn’t bear to live there again,’ Eva said. ‘It will have to be renovated, though, so that I can sell it.’
‘I’ll be getting some of my builder pals to sort it,’ Phil said.
‘One of my closest friends is an architect,’ Patrick said. ‘He’s drawn up plans for many renovations in that area. I could put him in touch with you, if you like? It might be a good idea to scrap the garage and make an extra room downstairs. You could probably add another room in the attic too. That would get you a much better price when you sell it on.’
Eva thought about that for a moment. ‘That makes sense, doesn’t it, Phil?’
‘It does,’ he agreed. ‘The garage is a waste of space – too hard to get into, and lots of people buying around there don’t even bother with a car. A good architect has ideas that ordinary tradesmen wouldn’t think of too. I think you should get Patrick’s friend in on it, Eva.’
‘Will you give him our number then?’ Eva said. ‘The insurance is all going through, so we’ll have the money to do all the work.’
‘I will,’ Patrick said. ‘My friend’s name is Simon Curlew. But there is another thing I wanted to ask you. The man who attacked you, Eva. What’s happening about that?’
‘He’s still on remand, waiting for a court date. But I’m tempted to drop the charges,’ she said a little sheepishly. ‘In the light of everything else that’s happened, I haven’t got the stomach for more nasty stuff.’
Patrick raised his eyebrow in surprise.
‘I didn’t agree when Eva first said that’s how she felt,’ Phil said. ‘But when I think what giving evidence means – the defence lawyers picking holes in Eva’s story, maybe even bringing up things about her past – I’m inclined to side with her now. The chances are he’ll only get a suspended sentence. Is it worth seeing Eva get upset again just for that?’
‘I suppose not,’ Patrick said. ‘I just don’t like the idea of him getting off scot-free.’
‘Nor me,’ Phil said. ‘If it was down to me, I’d like to go round to his house and give him a good kicking. But I’d be arrested immediately, and that won’t help Eva.’
Patrick laughed. ‘I’m so glad she’s got you beside her. You are a man after my own heart. I want you both to know that I will help in any way I can with the house, and giving any evidence about Flora – if that becomes necessary.’
‘There is one thing I wanted to ask you about my mother,’ Eva said. ‘Do you see anything of her in me?’
He looked at her for the longest moment. ‘Not physically,’ he admitted. ‘Well, aside from both being small and blue-eyed. But there is something – whether that’s nature or nurture, I couldn’t say. You’ve got the directness I always liked about her, and her inquisitive nature. But you are kinder, Eva, and you also have inner strength. You will come through all this, and she would’ve been very proud of how you turned out.’
Just before Patrick left, Eva showed him the Cornish painting which had survived the fire.
‘I remember that one so well,’ he sighed. ‘We used to talk all the time about going down to Cornwall to paint – the light is so good there – but sadly we never got around to it. I’m so glad it wasn’t burned, it was always my favourite one of hers. It needs a good clean. Would you like me to take it and get it done for you? I have a friend who restores old paintings, and he’ll make a lovely job of it. You’ll be amazed at how vibrant the colours will come up.’
‘That would be lovely,’ Eva said. ‘I intended to get it reframed too. That gilt frame is horrible and all wrong – it needs something more contemporary.’
‘Well, that will be my little housewarming present to you both,’ Patrick said with a wide smile. ‘I’ll take it with me now.’
After Patrick had left Phil looked thoughtful. ‘How different things would be for you if either Patrick or Gregor had turned out to be your father.’
Eva felt a shiver run down her spine. It was bad enough thinking Sue Carling might be her real mother. And if that was the case, she certainly didn’t want to think who her father might be.
Chapter Twenty-One
‘Are you sure this is the place?’ PC Clive Avery pulled up the collar of his waterproof coat against the heavy rain and shone his torch at the derelict old cottage tucked down in a dip on the Cumbrian fells. ‘I can’t imagine anyone choosing to stay out here, especially a young girl.’
The call had come in from a farmer from Caldbeck who had seen a girl out on the fells several times in the past couple of weeks. He didn’t think anything of it at first, because the weather was still good – this was, after all, a favourite place for walkers – but when he spo
tted her early this morning, in the rain, without a waterproof coat, he became suspicious that she was sleeping rough.
Unfortunately, he hadn’t got to a phone to call the police until the evening. Now it was pitch dark, raining cats and dogs, and on this part of the northern fells the roads were just dirt tracks to remote farms.
‘When Sarge told me we had to check it out I knew where he meant, because I used to come out here camping with my brother,’ WPC Sonia Banbury replied. ‘We stayed in that cottage one night too when it was tipping down with rain just like tonight. My brother said he’d never take me camping again, because all I did was cry to go home. The cottage was tumbledown then, and that was twelve years ago.’
Avery turned his torch off for a moment and then put it on again. ‘Well, there’s not a glimmer of light coming from it. So if she’s in there, she can’t be right in the head,’ Avery said. ‘Come on then, we’d best go down. I’ve got water dripping down my neck already.’
Leaving the car headlights on to give them some light, they slithered down a narrow path flanked by rocks on both sides. It was so muddy it looked more like a stream in the light from their torches, and it was hard to get a firm foothold.
‘If this is a wild goose chase, or one of Sarge’s sick jokes, I’m going to make him pay to get my uniform dry-cleaned,’ Sonia said.
The tiny cottage, little more than a hut, was built into the hillside and would have belonged to one of the hardy tenant fell farmers in the last century. Part of the roof had caved in, and if there had ever been glass in the two windows it was gone now.
‘My brother tried to light a fire when we stayed here,’ Sonia said. ‘But the rain came down the chimney and put it out. We were freezing – and that was in July.’
The old door was hanging off its hinges. But when they shone their torches on the ground around it, they could see the earth was well trampled. Avery yanked the door open enough for him to squeeze in, and Sonia followed him.
‘Someone’s been here alright,’ Avery said. In the light of his torch they could see a wooden crate with a saucepan, a tin plate and a mug on it. The side of the cottage where the roof had caved in had nothing in it other than a plastic bucket. But as he shone the torch around the other side, they saw what looked like a mound of old sacks, ancient blankets and bits of carpet. ‘No one here now. Maybe the girl was just meeting a boyfriend here, or something.’
Sonia moved closer to the mound of sacks and blankets and shone her torch directly on to it. Seeing a slight movement, she jumped back thinking it was a rat.
‘What is it?’ Avery asked.
‘Something moved there,’ she said.
Avery picked up a stick lying on the floor and flicked back the sacks. There was more slight movement and what sounded like a low groan.
Sonia forgot her fear of rats and darted forward to pull the sacks further back, revealing a young girl, her eyes wide and fearful in their torchlight.
‘Don’t be scared, we’re police officers.’ Sonia realized the girl was blinded by the torchlight. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’ She reached out and took the girl’s hand in hers; it was very cold, yet she could see beads of sweat on her forehead. ‘What’s your name, love? Are you hurt?’
‘It’s Freya,’ she whimpered. ‘I’m not hurt, but I don’t feel very well.’
‘Then we’d better take you to the hospital to get you checked out,’ Sonia said. ‘How long have you been living out here?’
‘I think it’s about a month,’ she said, her voice weak and shaky. ‘I lost my job and couldn’t pay the rent, so I came here.’
‘Freya Carling!’ Sergeant Withers exclaimed when Avery and Banbury reported back to him later that night that they’d found the girl and taken her to hospital. ‘Is she Sue Carling’s daughter?’
Avery and Banbury looked at each other in consternation. In their concern for the girl’s health her surname hadn’t registered with either of them as being the same as the woman whose whereabouts were currently being sought.
‘Sorry, Sarge, we didn’t think of that,’ Avery said. ‘But she isn’t fit for questioning right now anyway. They think she’s got pneumonia.’
‘Well, as soon as she is up for it, she’ll have to be asked where her mother is. The Met are getting very impatient – they think all the police north of Blackpool are useless turnips as it is.’
‘She said she lost her job and couldn’t pay her rent, so it doesn’t sound like her mother is around,’ Banbury said. ‘She’s a sweet little thing, and she strikes me as a kid who hasn’t experienced much kindness in her short life.’
‘Sue Carling was in trouble right from the age of sixteen. She had two kids taken away from her because of neglect before she had the baby that was allegedly taken from the street,’ Withers said. ‘But there was another child, born a few years after the baby disappeared. One of the bleeding-heart-brigade social workers got involved at the time, and she wanted Sue to be able to keep the new baby. I’m assuming that child is Freya. I don’t recall Sue getting into any more trouble after that, so maybe she did turn over a new leaf – at least for a while.’
‘Well, Freya is only seventeen, and I got the idea she’s been living on her own for a good while,’ Banbury said. ‘Maybe her mother isn’t around any longer?’
Withers sighed. ‘I was always surprised that she didn’t leave right after her baby was taken. Most folk believed she killed her and buried her somewhere. Sue certainly never behaved like a grieving mother. Now there’s this girl in London who might be that child!’
‘And we’ve got Freya, malnourished and sick in hospital,’ Banbury said.
‘You found her and clearly made some sort of connection with her, so be at the hospital first thing in the morning and see what you can find out,’ Withers said to the WPC.
Two days after seeing Eva, Patrick called on his friend Nathan Cohen with Flora’s Cornish painting.
They had been friends since meeting at Goldsmiths Art College in the 1960s. Back then Nathan had ambitions to be an artist too but, as happened to so many of their friends from that era, the need for a real income took over. Nathan was offered work on an art restoration project in Italy and soon found it to be his forte – along with being well paid – and he’d never looked back.
Nathan hadn’t aged as well as Patrick. Spending so long bent over old canvases had made his back stooped; he wore thick glasses, and his once thick black hair was now white and sparse. Patrick often dropped into Nathan’s home in Primrose Hill to see his old friend. As always when he visited, Nathan’s thin lined face broke into a wide and welcoming smile.
‘I’ve brought you work as well as a drink,’ Patrick said, waving a bottle of brandy with one hand, the other firmly holding Flora’s painting wrapped in brown paper.
‘The brandy would’ve been enough,’ Nathan said. ‘I’ve got enough work to last me till they carry me out in a box.’
‘Ahh, but I thought you’d like this little job,’ Patrick said as he followed Nathan down the passage to his studio at the back of the house.
The house was a beautiful Edwardian semi with three floors and a basement. Rosemary, Nathan’s wife, lavished all her time and energy on it now that their four children had all left home. The wood floors were polished, not a speck of dust sullied the lovely antiques, the cushions were always plumped, and the curtains were draped to perfection. But Nathan’s studio was a different story, and he claimed he never allowed Rosemary to set foot in it.
Books covered two of the walls – not arranged neatly, but thrust in wherever they would fit. An ancient sofa with stuffing coming out of the arms was by the fireplace. Two large trestle tables were covered in everything from paints, cleaning materials and brushes to piles of papers and works waiting for collection, or to be started. There were several easels by the huge north-facing window, each with paintings on them, and the floor was littered with crates of chemicals, old newspapers, paint-splattered overalls and other equipment.
‘I think you’ll quite enjoy doing this,’ Patrick said once they were sitting on the sofa. ‘It’s not an Old Master!’
As Patrick removed the brown paper he’d wrapped it in, Nathan grinned. ‘Why, it’s an Old Mistress!’ he exclaimed. ‘And it looks like she’s been in a fire!’
Patrick chuckled. He had told Nathan about Eva getting in touch with him, and that Flora had died, but little else. ‘She has,’ he said.
He then proceeded to tell Nathan about the fire in Pottery Lane, though not that it was believed to have been started by her stepfather. Nathan had been to Pottery Lane many times when Patrick and Flora were together. But despite being such good friends, Patrick didn’t feel it was right to tell him the whole story. ‘I told her I’d ask you to clean it up and reframe it. It’s the only one of her mother’s paintings that survived the fire, and it’s important to her.’
‘I’d forgotten what a good painter Flora was,’ Nathan said, looking at it carefully. ‘Such a shame she gave up, she had a rare talent. It won’t be difficult to clean it, though I expect under the ash and soot there’s twenty-odd years of grime too. I’ll just take the frame off now, so I can assess it better.’
He got up and went over to one of the tables. ‘You can make yourself useful and pour me a drink,’ he said. ‘This is a hideous frame. I suppose her philistine of a husband, thought a gilt frame would make it look more valuable?’
Patrick laughed. He found two dirty glasses and rinsed them out in the sink.
‘My God! Flora didn’t intend anyone to remove this frame easily!’ Nathan exclaimed. ‘I’ll have to break the frame to get the canvas out.’
‘That’s no great loss,’ Patrick said.