I pause. What the hell am I doing? My conscience nags me. I’m about to trespass on private property, to break the law. What if the press snap me climbing over the wall? Imagine. They’d have an absolute field day. Brand me a stalker as well as a suspected child abductor. But my desire for answers overwhelms my fears.
I roll my shoulders back and forth and take a breath. Then I press my right toe against the wall, grab on with both hands and heave myself up so that I’m draped inelegantly across the top. I slide my legs down the other side and drop to the ground with a dull thud, remembering to bend my knees so I don’t jar my joints.
My heart pounds. I’m now on private property. Don’t think about it. Through the bare-limbed fruit trees, I stare down the long garden, clenching and unclenching my fists, trying not to dwell on the fact that I now need to pee. Somehow I move my legs, propel myself towards the house, across the white lawn, my footprints stark and incriminating.
Reaching a slightly raised patio, I slow my pace and come to a standstill, wondering what to do. Can I really be about to rap on this stranger’s back door? I creep up to the right-hand window and peer into a dark room, creating blinkers with my hands to block out next door’s security light, which has suddenly clicked on, making me even more nervous. I’m looking into the kitchen. The decor is dated, with a battered-looking Aga and 1960s units. The room is an absolute tip, with dirty plates piled high at the sink, old boots and shoes strewn around the floor and all kinds of unidentifiable paraphernalia covering the worktops and the table at the far end.
I cross the terrace to the other window. The curtains are drawn, but there’s a gap where they don’t quite meet in the middle, enabling me to see in. A massive oval table dominates what I assume to be the dining room. On it sits an ancient computer, stacks of lever-arch files and piles of paperwork. I wonder if Fisher and Harry are even at home. Just as I’m pondering this, the door to the dining room swings open and the overhead chandelier floods the room with light. It’s Fisher, tall and very real.
I freeze as he stops and stares right at me. Holy hell. My insides turn to water as he takes a step in my direction. How am I not yelping in shock right now? I shrink back from the gap in the curtains, heart hammering, sweat breaking out under my hat and scarf. Did he see me? How could he not have?
With jelly legs and trembling hands, I step forward once more and peer around the curtains, see him take a seat at the computer, not casting a single glance my way. I exhale a long, relieved breath. Seeing him like this, up close, bearded and bespectacled, so stern and serious, I wonder how I’ll find the courage to confront him. But if I don’t, what then? Turn around and go home, this whole expedition a complete waste of time, money and energy? No. And annoyingly, a part of me wants to tell Carly: look, I’m not a complete wimp. I can do this stuff, I can clear my name myself. I don’t need to resort to your underhand methods. I push away the fact that technically I’m breaking the law right now.
I watch Fisher for a moment, getting my breathing back under control, calming my mind, trying to figure out exactly what I want to say to this man. How I’m going to persuade him to talk to me. But my brain won’t behave the way I want it to. It’s a jumbled mess. Either I stay here rooted to the spot, or I take the few steps required to carry me to the back door and get this over with.
After a few more moments’ dithering, I find myself standing at the kitchen door, my raised fist ready to rap on the glass. I bring it down three times. Knock, knock, knock. Dull thuds on the thick pane, rattling its wooden frame. To my ears, the sound is obscenely loud, but will Fisher be able to hear it in the dining room next door?
‘Daddy!’
It’s him. Harry. He’s here. His small blurred shape crosses the hall.
‘Daddy! Did you hear that?’ he cries, his thin, high voice excited. ‘Someone’s at the door!’
What will Harry do when he sees me? Will he call me his mummy again? Will he be the open, friendly boy from my kitchen? Or will he freeze up and act like I’m a stranger?
I hear the low rumble of Fisher’s voice, but I can’t tell what he’s saying. Harry appears in the hall once more. This time he moves more slowly, his head down. He disappears back the way he originally came. I move to the edge of the door to get a better view, and catch sight of his hand on the banister. He’s going upstairs. Maybe Fisher sent him up there, out of the way. I realise – with a thud of disappointment – that I probably won’t get to speak to him after all.
Then Fisher walks into the hall, his back to me, filling the space with his large frame. He opens the front door a crack. Peeks through. He doesn’t realise that the knocking came from the back door. He’s probably worried it’s someone from the press. I know the drill.
Once he’s closed the front door, I rap again on the glass. Harder this time. Fisher’s head snaps up and he squints in my direction. It’s dark out here now, so I’m not sure he can even see me. ‘You’re on private property!’ he calls out, striding through to the kitchen. ‘Get out of my garden! If you’re another damn reporter, you’d better bugger off before I call the police. I’ve told you, I’ve nothing to say to you lot.’
‘Dr Fisher?’ I call out. ‘My name’s Tessa Markham… You’ve probably heard of me.’
Silence. He reaches out and clicks on a switch, flooding me with light. He stays rooted to the spot, and for a long moment we stare at one another through the glass.
‘Dr Fisher?’ I say warily. I can’t make out his expression. Right now, he’s the one in semi-darkness and I’m the one on display.
Finally, he crosses the rest of the kitchen to get to the back door. I step back as he pushes it open, a waft of warmth and old cooking smells flooding outwards. Seeing him up close like this, I get that feeling again that I’ve seen him before. I give a tentative smile, even though my heart is clattering against my ribs like a freight train.
‘Tessa Markham,’ he says, as though stating a fact.
‘Hi. I’m really sorry for showing up like this. I couldn’t ring your front doorbell because of the press. I didn’t want them to see me. I just… I just wanted you to know that I didn’t take your son.’ I’m gabbling now, but I don’t seem to be able to stop. ‘I wondered if we could talk for a moment. If maybe I could come in.’
Fisher just stares at me like I’m deranged.
‘I’m sorry,’ I add, ‘but do we know each other from somewhere? I’m sure I recognise you. Not from the papers, from somewhere else.’
‘No,’ he says. ‘I don’t know you.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Don’t come here and question me!’ he snarls.
I take a step backwards, shocked by his twisted facial expression.
‘You took my boy!’ he booms. ‘What the hell are you doing here in my garden? I’ll bloody well have you arrested. You’ve caused me and Harry so much pain. Do you have any idea…?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say with a shocked sob. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you, I just needed to explain. And to find out what Harry was doing in my—’
‘Don’t you dare talk to me about my son! My wife has just died,’ he cries, ‘and then you… you took him. Get out of here and don’t ever come back!’
I don’t wait to be told twice. I turn and stagger back up the garden, shocked at Fisher’s switch from calm confusion to blistering anger. It takes me four attempts to claw and heave myself to the top of the wall. As I’m hauling myself upwards, I’m terrified he’s going to come after me, tear me down and begin yelling at me again. Or worse.
I can’t imagine why I thought this would be a good idea. Of course this man whose child went missing wouldn’t want to speak to me – the only suspect. I must have been crazy to believe he would entertain the idea of letting me into his house. Am I crazy? Is that it? Right now, I understand that coming here was not the action of an entirely sane person. I was already under suspicion of taking Harry. Now… now what must Fisher think of me, creeping up to his back door like a thief or a murderer
? I should never have come. Am I losing my mind? Is the reason I recognise him because I’ve seen him before with Harry? Did I do something bad? If I did, why can’t I remember?
I’m still clinging to the top of the wall. My legs are shaking, and I think I’m in shock. Fisher’s anger has pierced my body like a physical wound. I somehow manage to drop down from the wall back into the dark meadow, and run up the hill until my lungs give out. It takes me a few minutes of lurching back and forth to locate the pathway onto the road.
Back at my hire car I fumble for the keys, wrench open the door and fall inside. My breathing is louder in here, ragged and harsh. I wipe the tears from my cheeks and lay my head on the steering wheel as shock and fear work their way through me.
* * *
Some time later, I don’t know when, I start up the car and begin the long drive back to London in a state of exhausted numbness. Again I wonder what possessed me to come here. Bloody Carly, getting my hopes up. Making me believe I could find answers. I should never have listened to her. Now I’ve gone and made things ten times worse.
I reach the outskirts of London at around 7.30, but it feels far, far later. When I finally get to Barnet, my stomach begins to knot at the thought of running the gauntlet again. What if the press have somehow found out I’ve been to Cranborne? No. How would they know? They couldn’t. Not unless Fisher told them, and I get the feeling that he is as likely to speak to the press as he is to invite me to stay for a long weekend.
Nosing the car into my road, I try to mentally prepare myself for the familiar sight of journalists, but I still can’t stop my stomach giving an almighty lurch when I see them in the street – more of them than ever, milling about, leaning against walls, smoking, chatting. And worse than that, parked right outside my house is a car with blue-and-white flashing headlights.
The police are here.
Chapter Nineteen
I park up about a hundred yards from my house and sit for a moment gathering my limited energy for whatever lies ahead, wishing I could just curl up and fall asleep in the car. It’s a tempting thought, but the police are there, waiting. If I don’t come out now, they’ll catch up with me eventually. And if one of the journalists were to spot me sleeping, I’d be surrounded in no time. No, I’ll just have to be brave.
I hold my breath and open the door, stepping out onto the icy pavement and heading towards my dark, sad-looking house with its overgrown garden and boarded-up first-floor window. It’s only a few seconds before one of the journalists notices me and strides my way, a hungry look on his face. Almost as one, the rest of them turn like a pack of wolves and begin eagerly filming me and snapping away on their cameras.
As I come nearer to the house, two officers get out of the police car. I recognise them: it’s Chibuzo and Marshall. Marshall starts speaking to the press. I don’t hear what he’s saying, until he raises his voice. ‘Okay, move back,’ he commands.
Of course, they listen to him. Reluctantly, they step down off the pavement to let me through – a small mercy – but it still doesn’t stop them yelling out their questions.
As usual, I don’t respond. Just keep my eyes aimed at the frosty ground, only occasionally glancing up to get my bearings.
‘Evening, Tessa,’ Chibuzo says as I draw closer. ‘We’d like you to come down to the station for a chat.’
The cold creeps through my coat and settles on my chest. ‘A chat?’ I say, my voice wobbly and high. ‘I’m really quite tired. Is there any chance I could come tomorrow instead?’
‘We’d rather you came now,’ she says firmly.
‘Am I under arrest?’
‘Not at the moment,’ she says, but I can detect a warning note in her voice.
‘Okay,’ I say, not feeling like I have much choice.
‘We can drive you there if you like,’ she says, gesturing to the silver BMW parked outside, its silent lights still flashing.
I consider how that might look to the press. Me getting into an unmarked police vehicle, being driven away. ‘I’ll meet you there,’ I say.
Chibuzo nods.
* * *
Less than twenty minutes later, I’m back in an interview room, the chill in my body spreading outwards to my fingers and toes, despite the stifling, musty heat of the room. Marshall fires up the recording equipment and Chibuzo runs through the time, date, who’s in the room and all that official stuff that makes everything feel ten times worse.
‘Mind telling us where you’ve been today, Tessa?’ she says, her voice distinctly less friendly than the last time I spoke to her at the station, her brown-eyed gaze unwavering.
I’m sure they know. Why else would they have been waiting outside my house? Fisher must have called them after I left. I decide I have no alternative but to tell them the truth.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say in a small voice. ‘I went to Cranborne. To see Dr Fisher. To explain. After everything that’s been in the news, I needed him to know that I didn’t take his son.’
‘James Fisher claims you trespassed on his property,’ Chibuzo says.
‘I didn’t want to,’ I begin.
‘So you admit to trespassing?’ she says.
I huff at her interruption. ‘I told you I didn’t want to. I would much rather have gone up to his front door and rung the bell, but as you probably know, the media are camped outside his place, too. If they saw me at Fisher’s front door, they’d have drawn all the wrong conclusions and I’d never have heard the end of it. So I went round the back and knocked on that door instead.’
‘I see,’ Chibuzo says.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, hearing the petulant tone in my voice.
‘Did you realise at the time that you were trespassing on private land?’ she says. ‘I have to warn you that if you attempt something like that again, you could be arrested for harassment.’
‘I’m sorry!’ I cry, this time really meaning it.
‘For now,’ Chibuzo says, ‘we’re issuing you with a harassment warning. It’s called a police information notice, or PIN for short.’ She hands me a document.
I stare at it, the words a blur on the paper, as she carries on talking.
‘It states that you have been accused of trespassing and harassment. It lists the points of law and warns you that if your conduct continues, you could find yourself arrested.’
‘What?’ I say stupidly, not understanding what she’s telling me. ‘I didn’t harass him!’
‘Don’t worry about the letter too much,’ Chibuzo says kindly. ‘These PINs aren’t actually covered by legislation. They don’t constitute any kind of formal legal action, they’re more like a warning of wrongdoing. Telling you not to do it again.’
I suppose I should be grateful they didn’t arrest me outright. But I’m still shaken up by the formality of the document.
‘Why did you really go there today, Tessa?’ Chibuzo asks.
‘I already told you. I wanted Fisher to know that the stuff in the media is all lies.’
‘Don’t you think that going to his house could’ve been seen as an aggressive act?’ she says.
‘Aggressive?’ I stutter. ‘No, not at all. If you must know, I wanted to ask him why it took him so long to report Harry missing.’
Chibuzo’s eyes narrow and Marshall stops writing for a moment to look up at me. I notice the quick glance that passes between them.
‘How do you know about that, Tessa?’ Chibuzo asks.
Shit. I can’t tell her that someone from inside the force leaked it to Carly. That might make things worse for me. I think quickly. ‘One of the reporters outside my house told me.’
‘Which one?’ Chibuzo asks.
‘I don’t know. One of them shouted it out, they’re always yelling things like that.’
Her shoulders relax; she seems to buy this. ‘Well, you more than anyone should know how much credence to place on those tabloid stories.’
‘But Harry was with social services for days before his dad came forward,’ I p
ersist. ‘Why did Fisher leave it so long to report him missing? He was—’
Chibuzo cuts me off. ‘We strongly advise against playing amateur detective. We have the facts, and if anything seems amiss we’ll follow up on it. You taking matters into your own hands isn’t helping anyone, least of all yourself.’
‘It’s my reputation that’s being dragged through the mud,’ I counter.
‘Tessa,’ Marshall says. ‘Did you take Harry last Sunday and bring him to your house?’
‘What!’ My chest tightens. I can’t believe they’re going over all this again. ‘No, I didn’t take him. How many times do I have to tell you before you’ll believe me? I never set eyes on him until I found him in my house.’
‘The thing is,’ Chibuzo says, ‘you going all the way to Dorset today, it doesn’t look good, no matter what your reasons.’
‘Okay,’ I agree. ‘I know, I messed up. I shouldn’t have gone. But I’m under a lot of stress with all those journalists camped outside my house. I just wanted to try to clear my name. But I get it, I made a mistake.’
‘Look,’ Chibuzo says, her tone softening once more. ‘Like I said, we’re just warning you that it’s in everyone’s best interests if you stay away from Dr Fisher and his family. Leave the man in peace, okay? Can you do that for me, Tessa? I don’t want to have to turn up at your house to arrest you.’
‘Fine,’ I say quietly, already feeling like a criminal.
‘Good.’ She ends the interview and gets to her feet.
Marshall stands to join her, and tells me I’m free to go.
* * *
I cannot wait to get home, despite the chaos outside my house. Today has seemed to last forever. I drive back on autopilot, cursing the police for showing up like that. Because of them, the press will now recognise my hire car. They’ll see me coming. Sure enough, as I head towards the house, the pack turns towards me. With a grim smile, I flick the headlights to full beam to blind them as a little ‘fuck you’. My small triumph doesn’t last very long, as they soon crowd around the car. I fling the door open, hoping it will hit one of them in the face or, even better, the nuts. But they’re wise to it, and move back out of the way just in time.
The Secret Mother Page 12
