The Other Child

by Charlotte Link

  First he had told her that Leslie Cramer’s testimony had stood up to investigation: ‘She really was in the Jolly Sailors at the time of the crime, and the landlord is still amazed that a woman can drink so much whisky and walk out the door!’ Then he came to the actual news.

  ‘Amy Mills didn’t take her A levels at the school Jennifer Brankley taught at,’ he reported. ‘But between the age of twelve and fourteen she attended a different school – guess which one!’

  Valerie quickly gulped down the bit of toast in her mouth. ‘Jennifer Brankley’s school?’

  ‘Exactly. One of our colleagues in Leeds did some research and has just emailed to tell me.’

  Valerie noted with approval that Reek obviously got to work at his computer very early in the day.

  ‘However,’ continued Reek, ‘Mrs Brankley never taught Amy Mills’s classes. So she was not necessarily lying when she said she didn’t know the name. It’s a very big school. She wouldn’t have known all the pupils.’

  ‘Nevertheless, there is the possibility that they knew each other. If she ever stood in for another teacher, for example. Did she have pastoral responsibilities back then? If so, Amy Mills could have gone to her with any problem she had.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ admitted Reek.

  ‘Find out. But that was good work, Reek. Thanks.’

  After the call she was too excited to eat any more breakfast. While she loaded the dishes into the dishwasher, she tried to calm herself down. She knew that she had a tendency to get worked up and agitated when things did not move along as quickly as she would have liked. The Amy Mills case had been moving along at a snail’s pace. She felt under pressure. She knew that her work was being observed critically by her bosses. Now that Fiona Barnes had died too, they wanted to see some progress. Without anyone telling her this, she felt that she was at a decisive point in her career, possibly a turning point. She had the reputation of being a talented, intelligent but somewhat nervous officer. This was the reason why recently her career had – as she saw it – stagnated somewhat. She had not been promoted because people were not sure whether her nerves would be strong enough to deal with higher pressures.

  She had to solve the Barnes and Mills killings, which were possibly a single case, and do it quickly. But at the same time she had to keep her cool and not make any rash decisions. She should neither assume that the murders were by the same culprit, although some factors suggested this, nor should she focus exclusively on Jennifer Brankley, just because she had lost her job and seemed to be psychologically fragile and bitter.

  Although that wasn’t all, she thought. Jennifer Brankley also knew both victims. Fiona Barnes in any case. And probably Amy Mills too. If that were the case, then why had she denied ever having heard the name, at least until it was the talk of the town in Scarborough?

  She decided to drive down to the Beckett farm around lunchtime. She wanted to confront Jennifer Brankley with her new find and have a good look at how she reacted.

  Her talk with Paula Foster the day before had not been that fruitful. It had only led to her crossing the girl off the list of potential victims. She felt almost one hundred per cent sure about it. There was nothing to suggest Foster would have been a killer’s target, unless you were to suppose that someone was simply out to get any young women, which made Foster no more likely a target than thousands of others. Paula Foster did not know Dave Tanner or Jennifer Brankley. She had not been working on the farm for long, and was so involved with its activities from morning until night that she had not had time to get to know her neighbours. At the end of the year she would return to Devon. She had found the body of an old woman on the edge of a sheep field. It looked like this was going to be the only experience from her time in Yorkshire that would dwell in her memory for a long time.

  Valerie cleaned her teeth, put on some lipstick, took her bag and left the flat. Fog outside, nothing but fog. Yet she felt positive. She had the feeling that she was finally holding in her hands the end of a thread that could unravel this giant, tangled-up case. Not that the case looked any less confusing. But the thread gave her hope that she had a way in.

  3

  ‘Is Gwen there now?’ asked Jennifer. She entered the hall, followed by her two giant dogs, which she had done her best to wipe down outside with a handkerchief. Colin was just coming out of the kitchen. ‘No. Goodness, you’re soaking!’

  ‘The fog,’ said Jennifer and wriggled out of her coat. ‘You can’t see further than the tip of your nose. It’s like walking through a wet wall.’

  He looked at her affectionately. Her hair was damp and messy. Her cheeks were ruddy. She was wearing an old jumper covered in the dogs’ hairs and her jeans were now splattered with mud. He always felt that she was most herself when she came in from outside, when she had been doing something with her dogs. Then she was simply Jennifer – relaxed, calm and peaceful in herself. She was cheerful in a natural, not overly excited way. She was quite different to how she used to be when she came home from school. He had tried to show her that again and again, whenever she suffered depression and saw her life as one long failure.

  ‘You weren’t happy then. You were tense, nervous. Often with too much on your plate. You were far too involved in it all, too close to everyone. You wore yourself out. You—’

  Naturally, this was normally where she would interrupt him. ‘Oh right, and now I’m a completely happy person?’

  ‘I expect no one is ever a completely happy person. But you’re seeing things with rose-tinted spectacles. And you’re refusing to see the good things you have now.’

  ‘There isn’t much good to see, when you’re a failure.’

  ‘You aren’t a failure.’

  This was the way all those conversations went – round in circles. Jennifer would spiral down and down to the bottom of her melancholy and a despairing feeling of inadequacy. It was difficult, almost impossible, to lift her out of those pits. So this time he did not mention anything about how good she looked, how much inner harmony he could see. She would have rejected it. It was as if she could not accept that – at least sometimes – she too felt good. He often had the feeling that she felt her depression was a punishment for her failure, and that she clung to it because it seemed to her like her just deserts. She could not allow herself to feel good, not after having made such a mess of her life.

  So he simply said, ‘Breakfast’s ready.’

  ‘I’ll just change quickly and dry my hair. I’ll be there in a sec.’

  Colin went into the living room. Chad was sitting at the table, but he had pushed his plate to the side and, lost in his thoughts, was just stirring his cup of coffee. In the few days since Fiona’s death, he seemed to have aged considerably. Colin had to think of what Fiona had written. Chad and Fiona had never really been a couple, but since their youth there had been a close connection between the two of them, which had lasted years and then decades, until their old age. Both of them had married other people, had their own families, but none of this had broken their bond. Chad had just lost the person who was probably most important in his life, and in a shattering, unforeseeable way. It was typical of him that he did not talk to anyone about it, although you could see that he was suffering.

  ‘Gwen is still not here,’ said Colin.

  Chad looked up. ‘She’ll be at her fiancé’s place.’

  ‘Does she often leave for the night?’ asked Colin. Jennifer had claimed that Gwen had never yet stayed the night with Dave, and as Gwen shared a lot with Jennifer it could be true. Chad did not know.

  ‘Don’t know. Don’t think so. But she’s old enough. Anyroad, the two of ’em no doubt ’ave some talkin’ t’ do – after Saturday.’

  ‘Hmm,’ went Colin. Obviously no one cared apart from Jennifer and himself. Gwen’s own father did not, and Leslie Cramer’s reply had revealed a mix of touchiness and unconcern. He thought with some irritation about the call the night before. Right from the start he had not found Leslie particul
arly nice, and the call had only confirmed that impression.

  ‘I know it’s not right that Gwen’s away an’ not made breakfast,’ said Chad. ‘If she’ as guests, she should take care of ’em. Of course she’ll take summat off the price when you go, Colin.’

  ‘I couldn’t dream of it. That’s not why I mentioned it. I think of Jennifer and myself as friends more than holidaymakers. It’s no problem for us to make breakfast once in a while. No, I’m just worried. It’s not like Gwen to stay away all night and not tell anyone.’

  ‘Young people are like that,’ said Chad, and again Colin asked himself if Chad saw Gwen as she was, or whether she was some kind of object in his house, not all that different from the sofa or the kitchen table, which you got used to but never thought too much about. When he said, Young people are like that, he seemed to be talking about a teenager and not a woman in her mid-thirties. And certainly not about Gwen. For if there was one thing she was not and would never be, then that was part of the young people’s scene. That was what was different about her, but also tragic. Her father did not seem to have noticed.

  Colin sat down and reached for the coffee pot. He would have liked to talk about what Fiona had written for Chad and which had now been read by everyone in the house. But he did not dare. Chad had no idea that his daughter had been snooping around in his emails, let alone that she had passed on what she had found to other people. On the other hand, they suggested a potential which, in view of the events … But Leslie would have to decide that. Once she had read it all, she would have to determine what happened next. He and Jennifer were outsiders. It was not for them to interfere.

  Jennifer came into the room, wearing a fresh pair of jeans and a clean jumper. She had quickly tidied up her hair. Once again Colin thought that she could have been a very attractive woman, if only more cheerfulness were visible in her face. Her unhappiness had settled deeply into her features. Only Cal and Wotan could lift it. A person could not, not even her own husband.

  ‘I’m off to Scarborough,’ she said. ‘I want to have a stroll, go shopping, maybe browse in a bookshop. I feel like spending a few lazy hours reading on the sofa.’

  Colin smiled. ‘And you aren’t perchance going to pass by Dave Tanner’s place to see if Gwen’s there?’

  Jennifer did not let this throw her. ‘Yes, maybe. Someone has to look out for her.’

  The barbed comment was aimed at Chad, who gave no sign that it bothered him. He drank his coffee in silence. There was a tension in the air, but luckily no one wanted to push it to conflict.

  ‘I don’t know if I’ll be back for lunch,’ Jennifer said after a while. ‘I’d appreciate it if you could take the dogs out for a bit, Colin.’

  He promised he would. He was happy. It was a good sign that Jennifer was taking the initiative, even if it was driven mainly out of concern for Gwen. But perhaps she would make a nice time of it, looking round shops, wandering around town and going to eat pasta in an Italian restaurant. It was a start, at least. After she had been dismissed from her post, she had buried herself in the house for ten months, not even going outside. Colin still congratulated himself that he had persuaded her to get the big dogs. The need to take them for regular walks had led to her breakthrough.

  ‘Are you taking the car?’ he asked, although he knew the answer.

  Jennifer thought for a second, but then shook her head. ‘I’ll take the bus. You know …’

  ‘I know,’ said Colin resignedly. Jennifer had been an uncomplicated driver. Only after the incident had she no longer dared to sit behind a wheel. Colin was not sure where the connection between the two lay. It appeared that she no longer trusted herself to drive. And the more time elapsed, the less likely it was that she would ever do so again.

  He looked out of the window. It seemed that the fog was getting thicker and thicker. A strange day. So silent. Even the seagulls could no longer be heard.

  He was restless. He did not know why.

  It might have been the fog.

  4

  ‘My landlady gave me notice for the 1st November,’ said Dave.

  They were the only customers in King Richard III, a little coffee shop on the front which offered breakfast. A young man was lounging around bored behind the counter. He had brought them coffee and scones with a scowl.

  ‘It’s not particularly cosy here,’ Dave had said when they entered. ‘But they have scones with jam, and they’re not bad at all.’ From its windows they could see the deserted promenade and the masts of the yachts looming out of the mist.

  The coffee was surprisingly good too, thought Leslie. Strong and hot. Just right after the cold, damp air outside.

  ‘Is she allowed to?’ asked Leslie. ‘Just throw you out so quickly?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Dave. ‘We never signed a contract or anything like that. I’m living at hers illegally and don’t have anything in writing. How would I complain? Anyway, it’s not as if I’m inordinately fond of my prestigious domicile, as you can imagine.’

  ‘What reason did she give?’

  ‘She claimed that the daughter of one of her friends is going to study in Scarborough and wanted to live with her. I bet there is no such friend. The truth is, of course, that she’s scared of me. She’s scared I’ve murdered Amy Mills and Fiona Barnes and that she could be the next victim. She no longer sleeps in her own bed, but goes to some neighbour’s house. And it seems she spreads terrible stories about me while she’s there. Whenever I’m out on the street, I can feel a hundred eyes drilling into me from behind the windows. But I don’t care. Let them think what they want.’

  ‘As you and Gwen are planning on marrying in December anyway, it shouldn’t be a problem. Just move to her farm at the beginning of November.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. He did not sigh, but his Yes sounded like a sigh.

  Leslie cupped both her hands around her mug. Her fingers tingled as the warmth spread up them. Then it seemed to flow up her arms too. It was a pleasant feeling which not only drove the clammy cold from her bones but also soothed her overwrought state. She knew that she was probably going too far, but something about the way Dave Tanner was looking at her gave the impression that he wanted to talk, and that he did not feel cornered with her.

  ‘You’re not exactly head over heels in love with Gwen, are you?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He leant forward. ‘I don’t love her at all, Leslie. That’s the problem. And that’s not because of her drab appearance. A woman could be as ugly as hell and still fascinate me – and Gwen isn’t ugly. But the fascination – that’s the nub of it. Nothing, just absolutely nothing about her fascinates me.’

  ‘In most relationships fascination goes after a while.’

  ‘But it’s the spark at the beginning. There has to be something there, something which captivates you in the other person, something which provokes curiosity and won’t let you go. You know what I mean, don’t you? Why did you marry your husband?’

  The last question surprised her and for a moment unsettled her. ‘I fell in love with him,’ she said in the end.

  ‘With what?’

  ‘With all of him.’

  He did not let up. ‘There was nothing, absolutely nothing, which annoyed you about him?’

  ‘Of course there was.’

  His passivity. His need for harmony. The fact that he often told me what I wanted to hear, that he let me and others tell him what to do. His weakness.

  ‘But something else eclipsed the things you found annoying and let you fall in love and even marry him. And want to spend the rest of your life with him.’

  ‘Yes. What I liked about him was stronger.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘His care and attention, his warmth,’ she said. ‘He made me feel secure.’

  He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘You felt a lack of security? Gwen told me that you grew up with your grandmother. After what I’v
e experienced of Fiona Barnes I could imagine that—’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about my grandmother,’ said Leslie sharply.

  ‘OK.’ Dave immediately retreated. ‘Of course. I’m sorry if I’ve been asking too much.’

  ‘We were talking about you and Gwen. You’re faced with a decision, not me. I made my decision two years ago: I left my husband.’

  ‘But he can still put you in quite a state, I’d say. The conversations you were having with yourself at that very early hour were obviously to do with him.’

  She took a sip of coffee, burning her tongue as she did so. ‘He cheated on me,’ she said. ‘Just over two years ago. With a woman he had met by chance while I was away on a training course. I would never have known, except that unfortunately his voice of conscience was so strong that he confessed in the end. After that I could no longer live with him. We’ve been divorced since last Monday. That’s all there is to it.’

  ‘And what had upset you so much this morning?’

  ‘Last night he suddenly explained to me that it was all my fault. Some therapist woman had convinced him of it. He only had the affair because I was so cold and he had been the victim of my career ambitions and – as he saw it – my superiority. Apparently his confession was not down to his conscience but was a cry for help. I didn’t understand that, and so to top it all, I threw him out of our flat. The poor man! It really wasn’t easy for him.’

  Dave looked at her, but did not say anything. Suddenly the door was pushed open and two men came in along with a gust of damp air. They seemed surprised for a moment to find other customers there, but it did not bother them. They ordered coffee, and stayed at the counter talking to the waiter.

  Leslie pushed her plate away from her. She had barely touched her scone. ‘I don’t think I can eat anything.’

  ‘Doesn’t it taste good?’ Dave asked.

  ‘It does, but whenever I think too much about my ex, I lose my appetite,’ she explained. She gave him a challenging look. ‘Is it the same for you? When you think of Gwen?’