The Other Child

by Charlotte Link

  ‘The suspected killer of Amy Mills?’

  ‘That’s ’im. Colin said he’s some psychopath. Snoops on women an’ then kills them. Completely loopy. No idea what ‘is problem is, but it’s nowt to do with Fiona and me.’

  ‘Maybe. But who’s to say that Amy Mills’s murderer is the same as Fiona’s?’

  ‘Police seem t’ think so.’

  ‘Are you sure they still do? I wouldn’t be too sure of this theory, if I were you,’ said Leslie. She crammed the pile of paper back into her bag. ‘Be careful, Chad. You spend a lot of time on your own out here.’

  ‘Where you goin’?’

  She rummaged around for her key. ‘I’m driving over to Robin Hood’s Bay. To Semira Newton. I’m going to find out what’s been going on, Chad. Count on it!’

  7

  ‘We’ve come up against a brick wall,’ said Valerie. She leant on the door and looked unhappily at Sergeant Reek. She had just accompanied Stan Gibson out of the door. Cursing silently to herself, she had to let him go after she had talked to him for two more hours. ‘He hasn’t put a foot wrong.’

  ‘And are you sure it was him?’ asked Reek. ‘That he murdered Amy Mills?’

  ‘Absolutely sure, Reek. The way he grins at me, because he knows that I know, and because he knows that I can’t do anything. He’s enjoying his game with me. He’s polite, patient. Even helpful. And inside he’s laughing away.’

  ‘And your chat with Miss Witty didn’t help?’

  Before her talk to Stan Gibson, Valerie had talked to Ena Witty for an hour. Nothing new had come up. ‘No. She just confirmed again that he had been in London at the time of the Barnes crime. Apart from that she repeated what she had already said about Gibson’s daily life. She’s afraid of him, Reek. Or at least, she was on the point of being afraid of him. Gibson really does have a screw loose. She was increasingly aware of that – me too. The man is very dangerous, but he hides it perfectly. Behind his polite smile there’s a highly disturbed psychotic. I’d swear my life on it.’

  ‘A screw loose, psychotic, your sworn oath – the judge will brush that aside in a second.’

  ‘I know. I’ve got nothing on him.’

  Cautiously, Reek said, ‘You are—’ before tactfully correcting himself: ‘We are at our wits’ end with this case, Inspector. A horrific murder and then no lead for months. We shouldn’t get fixated on someone just because we …’

  She laughed sadly. ‘Oh, Reek! Say what you think! That I’m clinging to Gibson because I’ve finally got a possible culprit? No. That wouldn’t be logical. Gibson has got everything perfectly covered. It would be stupid of me to waste time on him if I weren’t convinced he was the right one, because I won’t get a conviction. Not now. Not for this crime.’

  Reek rubbed his eyes. All the overtime was making itself felt. ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘I’m going to dig out every millimetre of soil from around him,’ said Valerie. ‘Figuratively speaking. Question everyone who knows him, no matter how distantly. His boss, his work colleagues, the people who live in the same house as him, all his acquaintances, relatives, friends. I’m going to sift through the sand in the hope that I find a nugget of gold somewhere.’

  ‘Although you are already convinced that you won’t be able to get a conviction?’

  ‘He’s too clever. Canny. But he’s human. He’ll make a mistake one day. And then I’ll be close enough to get him.’

  ‘What kind of mistake?’ asked Reek.

  Valerie went over to the window, and looked out. She did not know if Gibson had come by foot or car. She certainly could not see him in the car park. Maybe he had already left, probably whistling merrily all the way home.

  ‘He’ll do it again, Reek. For two reasons. He’ll want another woman. Not Ena Witty. He’ll keep clear of her because he knows we’re watching her. No, someone else. And at some point that woman won’t want what he wants. And then he’ll have a problem. And that’s what he can’t deal with.’

  ‘And the other reason?’

  ‘He’s sick enough to not be content with this one success. It won’t be enough for him to have given the investigating officer an ulcer because she can’t pin anything on him. It’s a massive triumph for him. He’s almost high on happiness right now, Reek. He’ll need to feel that again sometime.’

  ‘A dangerous game, Inspector.’

  She turned around. Reek was startled by the anger burning in her eyes. ‘Yes. It’s a shitty game, Reek, you’re right. But there’s no other way. Except waiting, and then getting him. It’s my only chance.’

  ‘That doesn’t clear up Amy Mills’s case. At least not officially, and not for her relatives. Her mother and father might not see the guy convicted who has their daughter on his conscience.’

  ‘Maybe not. And believe me, Reek, I find that as tough as you do. But shit happens. Again and again. We don’t get them all. We don’t get them all for what they have done. We can’t always satisfy the need for justice that the family of the victim feels. It’s terrible, but true. In Gibson’s case it’s just about getting a highly dangerous individual safely behind bars. To prevent any further crimes.’ Suddenly Valerie felt exhausted. She guessed that she looked it too. ‘A case which cannot be officially closed. Not exactly satisfying.’

  And not good for my career, she thought to herself, before feeling embarrassed for her thought.

  ‘That’s just the way it is sometimes,’ said Reek. He could see how down his boss was. ‘Still, Inspector, Stan Gibson’s conviction wouldn’t have helped us with Fiona Barnes’s case. So at least we don’t need to worry about whether we’ve just sent a murderer of one or two people home.’

  ‘Although Gibson’s not Fiona Barnes’s murderer, we’ll probably never know whether he has another murder or a rape or two on his conscience,’ said Valerie. ‘And in the Barnes case we are just as much in the dark as we were at the start. Not exactly comforting. And still no sign of Tanner?’

  That morning they had arrived almost simultaneously at the house in Friargate. There they had learnt from the landlady that she had thrown Tanner out the previous evening.

  ‘I wasn’t going to have a murderer in my house any second longer!’ she had screamed, still bordering on the hysterical. ‘I threw him out. Him and all he owned. I’ve got no wish to be the next one, have I?’

  ‘It’s almost certain that he has nothing to do with the murder of Amy Mills,’ Valerie explained. ‘And in the Barnes case there is no evidence against him either.’

  ‘But he crept out on Saturday night, we know that now,’ said Mrs Willerton triumphantly. ‘And he claimed something completely different!’

  Yes, and unfortunately nor was that his only lie, thought Valerie, but of course she did not share this with the excitable Mrs Willerton.

  ‘Do you have any idea where he might have gone?’ she asked. ‘I mean, he needed somewhere to sleep.’

  ‘No idea. To his fiancee, I suppose. If she still wants him. You wouldn’t feel your life was too safe with a guy like that. When I think about the danger I was in …’

  Yet he was not to be found on the Beckett farm, which they tried next. After what Reek had found out that morning, it did not seem likely that Karen Ward had taken him in.

  ‘Still no trace of him,’ said Reek. ‘I’ve posted an officer at the Friarage School. Tanner has a Spanish class there at six tonight. But somehow I don’t think he’s going to turn up. Perhaps we should put out a warrant for him?’

  ‘He’s not on the run. He’s been chucked out of his room, and had to find a place to stay for now. He has no idea we’re looking for him,’ said Valerie.

  ‘He lied to us about his whereabouts on the night of the crime – twice,’ added Reek.

  Valerie looked at her watch. ‘It’s a quarter past five. We’ll wait for an hour. If he doesn’t appear for his Spanish course, then we’ll take things up a notch.’

  They looked at each other.

  ‘That’s when we’ll
put out a warrant,’ said Valerie.

  8

  As Leslie had suspected, it was not difficult to find the house in Robin Hood’s Bay where Semira Newton lived. She had asked in a gift shop and the assistant had nodded immediately. ‘Of course I know Semira. She owns the little pottery shop down the road. You can’t miss it.’

  Leslie had walked down the steep village street. Robin Hood’s Bay clung to a precipitous hillside, winding down almost to the bay. Although the village had become a tourist destination, full of gift shops and boutiques, it had retained its original charm with its low, small houses, its cobblestones and the little stream which purled down through the village towards the sea. Tiny gardens in which the last flowers of the year bloomed. Small terraces with painted tables and chairs placed close together, telling of lazy summer evenings out in the open. And the smell of salt and seaweed from the sea wafting over everything.

  Leslie had quickly found the pottery. It was just above the place where the road widened and opened out onto the beach. The house was as small and crooked as most of the other village houses. It had whitewashed walls and a door of shiny black wood. Beside the door there were two windows in which Semira Newton’s wares were displayed: mugs, cups, plates and bowls in glazed clay. They were thick, sometimes unsymmetrical, but certainly unique and highly original. Not one of them was colourfully decorated. Depending on the glaze used and the firing temperature, they varied in tones of brown between light beige and a dark brown, but that was the limit of their variety. Leslie, who had no love of crockery decorated with flowery motifs, liked the simplicity of these pieces.

  Unfortunately, Semira Newton was not home, at least not in the shop. A note on the door read I’ll be back around four o’clock!

  Leslie looked at her watch. Just before two.

  Nevertheless she knocked on the door, and looked up at the upper windows in the hope that she might see a stirring there. Nothing moved behind the white curtains. Obviously Semira really was not home.

  Leslie went down to the beach. There were barely any tourists at this time of year. Armed with drawing pads, a class of about twenty eight- or nine-year-olds sat on the long flat rocks at the top end of the bay. Their teacher was reading a book, while the children painted, deep in concentration, often with their tongue between their lips. The sea, the sand … Leslie glanced at a few of the drawings as she passed.

  Nice to come out here for the art lesson, she thought.

  Two elderly women were walking along the mudflats and collecting stones and shells. A man was leaning against the wall which supported the houses at the edge of the village nearest the bay. He looked thoughtfully into the distance. Another man was throwing a tennis ball for his dog. The dog bounded up and down the beach, barking enthusiastically. Leslie watched him for a while, then she sat on a rock and wrapped her coat more tightly around her. She was not actually all that cold, but she was still shivering. She knew why: she was afraid of the upcoming chat with Semira Newton.

  Perhaps she should just drive back to Scarborough, she thought. Let sleeping dogs lie.

  Perhaps it was already too late for that. The mystery would pursue her. She could leave the past alone, but would it leave her, Leslie, alone?

  The beach slowly emptied of people, because the tide was coming in. The man disappeared with his dog. The class packed away their pads and pencils. The two elderly women turned to go home. When Leslie set off for the pottery at four, only the lone man was still standing at the wall. He continued to look out over the sea at a spot on the horizon which he and no one else could see.

  In spite of her promise to be back by four, Semira Newton was nowhere to be seen, not by a quarter past, and not by half past four. Walking up and down in front of the house, smoking cigarettes, feeling increasingly cold and depressed, Leslie was about ready to read it as a sign: their meeting was not to be. There was no point to it; it served no purpose. Perhaps she was being given the chance to not meet Semira, and if she did not take it, one day she would wish she had.

  At ten to five she decided to leave Robin Hood’s Bay. Just then she saw a figure coming down the road. Instinctively she knew it was the woman she had been waiting for all afternoon. A little woman, who found it difficult to walk and used a Zimmer frame. The steep street did not make it any easier. She walked slowly. It seemed that every step required her determination and concentration. She was wearing beige trousers and a brown anorak. In other words, she was wearing the colours of the pottery she sold. Her dark skin, black hair and coal-black eyes showed her to be Indian or Pakistani.

  Leslie’s heart was pounding like crazy. She went towards the old lady.

  ‘Mrs Newton?’ she asked.

  The woman, who had been looking down at the street the whole time, looked up. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m Dr Cramer. Leslie Cramer. I’ve been waiting for you.’

  ‘I took longer than expected,’ said Semira. It did not look like she was prepared to apologise, although she did explain her lateness. ‘I always have a massage on Thursdays, from a friend here in the village. It’s important, because my frame,’ by which she meant her body, ‘is so bent and crooked. Today we had a cup of tea too, and a chat, so we lost track of time.’ She had reached the door to her shop. Awkwardly, she fished her key out of her anorak pocket and opened up. ‘Not often that someone comes at this time of year wanting to buy something. Busy as anything in the summer, but now … Didn’t expect to find someone waiting.’ She entered slowly, turning on the light. ‘Do you want to buy something, Dr Cramer?’

  The sales room was very simple. Wooden shelves with the displayed pottery lined one wall. A lead box on a big table stood in the middle of the room. Probably it was her cash box. A door led to another room. Leslie assumed her studio lay behind it.

  Semira moved laboriously around the table, sinking onto a chair with a sigh. She kept her Zimmer frame to hand.

  ‘Excuse me for sitting down at once. But walking and standing are very tiring for me. Although I should do them more often. My doctor always tells me off, but, well, he can’t feel how much it hurts!’ She looked at Leslie. ‘So, you’d like to buy something?’

  ‘Actually I’ve come for another reason,’ said Leslie. ‘I … would like to talk to you for a little, Mrs Newton.’

  Semira Newton gestured to a stool in the corner. ‘Pull it up, and sit down. I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything more comfortable.’

  Leslie put the stool on the other side of the table from the potter. ‘It’s fine,’ she said.

  ‘So?’ asked Semira again. Her eyes were focused on her visitor. Leslie saw that they were clever, lively eyes. Semira Newton might move like an eighty-year-old, but mentally she was still agile.

  She forced herself to start. ‘I’m Fiona Barnes’s granddaughter,’ she said. ‘Her maiden name was Fiona Swales.’ She waited for a reaction, but none came. Semira remained impassive.

  ‘You know my grandmother, don’t you?’ asked Leslie.

  ‘I met her a few times, yes. But that’s an eternity ago.’

  ‘She was … murdered last Saturday night,’ said Leslie. She had trouble saying this. It sounded so odd.

  ‘I read about it in the paper,’ replied Semira. ‘Do they know yet who did it? And why?’

  ‘No. The police are still in the dark. At least that’s what I gather. They haven’t suggested in any way that they have a hot lead.’

  ‘I read recently that many crimes remain unsolved,’ said Semira casually, as if just in passing. Leslie could see the woman was withdrawn. It was not going to be an easy conversation.

  ‘Yes, that’s true,’ she agreed. Then she looked earnestly at Semira. ‘You can imagine why I’m here, can’t you?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I never knew everything about my grandmother’s life. Some things I only heard about by chance after her death. There are names I hadn’t heard before, like Brian Somerville, for example.’

  Semira froze. Not a single muscle in her face m
oved.

  Leslie persisted. ‘You know who I’m talking about, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. And you do too. What do you want from me?’

  ‘From a letter which my grandmother wrote to Chad Beckett a few weeks before her death, I gather that there was a scandal in 1970 around Brian Somerville. She wrote that there was a real storm in the press. She wrote about police investigations … and about you. I take it you set things off.’

  Semira smiled wanly. She did not look tense; tired instead. Like a person who has to deal with a topic which has been part of her life for decades, and which she barely has the energy for now.

  ‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘I did set it all off. I told the police and the press. At least, that was after I narrowly escaped death and could do something.’

  ‘You told the police and press because you … found Brian Somerville?’

  ‘It was a December day,’ recounted Semira, her voice remaining monotonous and her face immobile. ‘December 19th, to be precise, in 1970. A Saturday. Bitterly cold. Snow was forecast. My husband and I lived in Ravenscar back then. My husband was the cook in an old people’s home. I was unemployed. I had been a social worker in London, but we moved to the north because my husband had finally been offered a job here after a long time out of work. I was also hoping to find work at some point, but back then in a rural area like this one … I didn’t have the best of chances as a Pakistani. There were still lots of prejudices. Not that I was unhappy. John -my husband – and I loved each other. We were hoping to have a baby.’ She paused, and seemed to be remembering the time for a moment.

  ‘Anyway, at the beginning of December the children of one of John’s fellow workers told me something,’ she continued. ‘They had been wandering around the countryside and had ended up near Gordon McBright’s farm. And, by the way, all the parents had strictly forbidden their children to go near it. Barely anyone ever saw McBright, but there were any number of rumours about him. Apparently he was unpredictable, brutal and dangerous. Some saw him as the devil incarnate.’