Person or Persons Unknown

by Anthea Fraser

  She turned quickly, and found herself face to face with the pretty, timid, and possibly abused Adele Yarborough. The man at her side was, to Rona’s surprise, smiling at her and holding out his hand.

  ‘Lindsey, isn’t it? Nice to see you again.’

  Adele flushed a deep rose on his behalf. ‘No, Philip, this is her sister Rona, Mr Allerdyce’s wife.’

  Philip Yarborough looked confused and embarrassed. ‘I do beg your pardon; I’d no idea—’

  ‘It happens all the time,’ Rona assured him quickly. ‘Please don’t worry about it. You’re Adele’s husband, I presume?’

  ‘Philip Yarborough, yes.’ He took her hand.

  ‘Rona Parish.’

  If the difference in surnames threw him, he hid the fact, simply turning to Max as Adele introduced them. While the two men shook hands, she murmured to Rona, ‘We met your sister at a neighbour’s party.’

  ‘Yes, she told me.’

  The pink silk blouse, Rona saw, had the usual long sleeves, and she found herself wondering if they really did hide bruises. To her untutored eye, Philip Yarborough didn’t look violent: in his mid forties, he was of average height, with a broad nose and thick brown hair that sprang up from either side of his off-centre parting. He also, she noted, had the practised, easy manner of the salesman. Quite a charmer, as Lindsey had said.

  Since the men were still talking, Rona asked, ‘Have the children settled in at school?’

  As usual, Adele wasn’t meeting her eye. ‘They’ve only just started, so it’s a little soon to say.’

  Of course; they’d stayed with their grandparents till the end of last term. ‘How about you, then? Are you getting to know more people?’

  ‘Yes, everyone seems friendly, but with workmen still in the house, I can’t get out much. It takes me all my time to fit in Max’s class.’

  So she was still going, Rona noted. Max hadn’t mentioned her.

  ‘You enjoy it?’

  ‘Oh, very much. It’s the highlight of my week!’ Adele flicked a glance at her husband and, catching his eye, murmured apologetically, ‘We really should be going, Philip.’

  ‘But I haven’t spoken to Rona yet!’ he protested, raising his eyebrows in mock dismay.

  ‘We told the babysitter eight thirty.’

  ‘Oh, very well. The burdens of parenthood!’ He turned to Rona with an unexpectedly attractive smile. ‘Perhaps we’ll have a chance to speak next time we meet.’

  She smiled back. ‘I hope so.’

  As they moved away, Max commented, ‘We’d better go, too. I booked the table for quarter past.’

  By the time they’d said their goodbyes and collected their coats from the cloakroom, it was already eight fifteen.

  ‘I enjoyed it more than I expected,’ Max remarked as they set off briskly along Guild Street. ‘What did you think of our esteemed MP?’

  ‘I agree with your assessment: pleasant enough, for a politician.’

  ‘He’s in the shadow cabinet, you know,’ Max commented. ‘I’d say he has an illustrious future ahead of him.’

  At Dino’s, they were ushered to their usual table and their order taken. It wasn’t until their main course had arrived that Rona said casually, ‘I didn’t know Adele had signed on again this year. You never speak of her.’

  Max shot her a glance from under his eyebrows. ‘Do you wonder? Every time I mentioned her name, we had a row.’

  Rona flushed. ‘That’s a slight exaggeration.’

  ‘Not as I remember it.’

  ‘It was just that you set yourself up as guardian angel on the flimsiest of evidence.’

  ‘You didn’t see those bruises,’ he returned, stabbing an artichoke heart.

  ‘So what did you make of her husband?’

  ‘Plausible.’

  ‘Plausible? What kind of judgement is that?’

  ‘The words “snow” and “Eskimo” come to mind.’

  ‘Well, he is in sales,’ she pointed out, mildly surprised to find herself defending Philip Yarborough.

  ‘Exactly. And the first thing a salesman learns to sell is himself.’

  ‘Oh, come on! He’s a director of a highly reputable store, not a second-hand car dealer!’

  ‘The basics are the same.’

  ‘So you still think he knocks her about?’

  ‘For God’s sake!’ Max looked quickly about him, but no one appeared to have heard.

  ‘Have there been any more signs of it?’ she pursued.

  He hesitated. ‘Not physical signs, no.’

  Rona leant back in her chair. ‘Oh, so we’re back on the psychological kick? I was forgetting you were a trained therapist.’

  Max threw down his fork. ‘What did I tell you? Every time! Do you wonder I never mention her? It’s obvious you’ve taken a dislike to her.’

  ‘I think she’s manipulating you, that’s all, and you’re falling for it.’

  ‘Exactly how is she manipulating me, when she keeps herself covered up all the time?’

  ‘By doing just that; she knows you saw the original bruises and were suspicious of them, even if they were only a result of heaving furniture around during the move. She’s playing on your sympathy by making you wonder what she’s hiding.’

  He raised a hand wearily. ‘Can we just drop it, please, and enjoy our meal? This is giving me indigestion.’

  Rona did not reply.

  It took a while for the conversation to teeter back on to an even keel, and they were still being careful with each other as they prepared for bed. She stood listening to the running water as Max brushed his teeth in the en suite, and when he came back into the bedroom she went to him and put her arms round his neck. After a minute he responded, and they stood in silence, holding each other.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered contritely. ‘I didn’t mean to spoil the evening.’

  ‘I just don’t understand what you have against her,’ he said, kissing her hair.

  ‘Nor do I, really, but now that I’ve met him, I honestly can’t see Philip Yarborough as a wife beater.’

  ‘They don’t wear badges, you know.’ He sighed, gently putting her aside. ‘All right, I might have overreacted to the bruises. I hope to God I did, because either way there’s nothing I can do about it. Now,’ he added, his voice lightening as he climbed into bed, ‘we’ve wasted enough time arguing, so let’s start making up for it.’

  And, harmony restored, Rona thankfully complied.

  Zara phoned at lunch time the next day. ‘The certificates came in this morning’s post,’ she said. ‘I’ll be in town after school; would you like me to drop them in?’

  ‘It would be a help, if it’s not out of your way.’ Rona gave her directions to the house, adding, ‘It looks rather like the big brother of yours!’

  ‘I’ll find it. I want to go to the supermarket first, so will it be OK if I get there about six?’

  ‘Fine; I’ll be here.’

  When she rang off, Rona took out a clean folder, labelled it Zara Crane and set it aside. Tomorrow, she thought with a twinge of excitement, it would be bulging with the photocopies Zara was bringing with her. Then she could really get to work.

  ‘I see what you mean!’ Zara commented, staring up at the frontage of the house. ‘The difference is, yours is the real thing.’

  Rona stood to one side and she came in, looking about her with interest. ‘Oh, you have a basement! Lucky you! How many bedrooms are there?’

  ‘Would you believe only one?’

  At her look of surprise, Rona added, ‘We made a lot of changes when we moved in. For instance –’ walking into the sitting room – ‘this was originally two rooms and we knocked down the dividing wall.’

  Zara looked admiringly at the marble fireplace, the antique tables, comfortable armchairs, and the duck-egg walls displaying Max’s collection of modern paintings, harmoniously blending the new with the old. ‘It has such character!’ she exclaimed, and Rona remembered the bare magnolia walls in Gro
svenor Terrace.

  ‘Would you like a quick tour?’ she offered.

  ‘Oh, yes please! I love looking at other people’s houses.’

  She dumped the heavy carrier bag at the foot of the stairs and Rona led the way up, showing her into the large bedroom with its en suite. ‘This is the only floor that we didn’t knock into one room,’ she said. ‘Principally because I needed somewhere to work.’

  Zara walked to the window and looked out at the leafy avenue. ‘It’s like being in a tree house!’ she said. ‘You see everything through a screen of leaves.’

  ‘In summer, yes.’

  They moved on to the study and it, too, met with approval, in particular the miniature fridge and electric ring. ‘The kitchen’s in the basement,’ Rona explained, ‘so this saves me going down two flights in search of refreshment. When I’m busy, I have lunch up here – to the frustration of my dog, who’s not allowed above the ground floor.’

  ‘It’s a brilliant idea!’ Zara enthused. ‘I spend half my time running up and down stairs.’

  Back on the landing, she glanced at the flight of stairs leading upwards. ‘What’s on the top floor?’

  ‘Nothing of interest. It was Max’s studio for a while, but we disturbed each other, so, as you know, he now works at our other house.’

  Zara flushed. ‘Me and my big mouth!’ she said.

  Her most fervent enthusiasm was, however, elicited by the sunshine-yellow kitchen, the patio garden seen through its glass door, and Gus, who, waking from his nap, came to greet her.

  ‘I’ve always wanted a dog,’ she said, scratching his ears with both hands, ‘but with our lifestyle it wasn’t practical, and now with the baby coming, goodness knows when we’ll get round to it.’

  Rona handed over the carrier bag she’d collected on the way down. ‘Take a seat. Would you like a glass of wine while we look at these?’

  ‘No, I’m off booze, thanks, but don’t let me stop you having one.’

  ‘Fruit juice, then?’

  ‘That’d be lovely.’

  They sat at the table and Zara took out the bundle of papers.

  ‘These are what we copied from the newspapers,’ she said, extracting a thick pile of sheets from a manila envelope. ‘And here are the copies of the birth and death certificates. They weren’t as easy to get as mine; I hadn’t got all the dates and addresses, and had to go through the General Register Office. Still, I got there in the end.’

  She smiled ruefully. ‘You know that phrase from the inquest verdict, about persons unknown? It could just as easily be a description of my parents, couldn’t it? My father’s a total mystery, and I can’t really picture Gemma, either. All I’ve got is that grainy photo they kept reprinting when she was killed. I’d give anything to see a proper one.’

  ‘If we can trace your grandparents, they’re sure to have one.’

  Her face lit up. ‘That’s true. But what about my father? Is there any hope at all of finding him? I might have a complete family of half-brothers and sisters in Australia.’

  ‘We’ll advertise on the web,’ Rona said, ‘but unfortunately, since he’s not even aware of your existence, he’s not likely to log on to those sites.’

  She reached across for the certificates, picking up the one that lay on top. It was Zara’s birth certificate – or rather, that of Amanda Grant.

  ‘That’s interesting!’ she commented. ‘Gemma’s occupation is given as radio reporter. With luck, we’ll be able to trace people who knew her.’

  ‘Where will you start?’ Zara enquired, sipping her fruit juice.

  ‘First, I’d like to meet your adoptive parents. They do know now that you’ve approached me?’

  ‘Yes, but they won’t be much help. They’ve told me all they know.’

  ‘Something might emerge. Could I have their name and address?’

  ‘Margot and Dennis Fairchild,’ Zara said reluctantly. ‘The Gables, Swing Gate Lane, Cricklehurst.’

  Rona’s heart jerked. The last time she’d been in Cricklehurst, she’d come face to face with murder. ‘Phone number?’ she asked, and Zara gave it, adding, ‘Let me know how you get on.’

  ‘Actually, Zara, that’s something I need to explain: I know you instigated this search, but as I told you at the beginning, I’ll be working as a journalist, not a professional people-finder. Which means, to put it bluntly, that I won’t be under an obligation to keep reporting back to you. That might sound harsh, but it’s in your interests too; suppose I had a lead, told you about it, and then it faded away, having raised your hopes for nothing?’

  Zara looked mutinous. ‘You mean you’re not going to tell me anything?’

  ‘Not unless it’s definite. And, as I explained, I’m limiting the search to six weeks. If something arises in that time – which I very much hope – fine, I’ll carry on working on it. But if, despite all the feelers I put out, we don’t get anywhere, then that’s it. OK?’

  ‘I’ve already said so,’ she answered sulkily.

  ‘You do see my point, don’t you? It could take years, and obviously I can’t afford to spend an indefinite time on it. As I said at the beginning, you’d be much better advised—’

  ‘I want you to do it,’ Zara broke in. ‘All right, I won’t keep pestering you. I’ve waited this long, I can wait a little longer.’ She glanced at her watch, then pushed her chair back. ‘I must be going; Tony’ll be home by now.’

  She stood up a little clumsily, one hand going to the small of her back.

  ‘OK?’ Rona asked quickly.

  Zara nodded. ‘It’s just that I get tired by the end of the day, and my back starts to ache.’

  Rona led the way up the stairs. ‘I’ll do my very best to come up with something,’ she promised as she opened the front door.

  ‘I know you will. Thanks for taking it on.’

  Rona closed the door behind her, and wondered belatedly what to do about supper. Not Dino’s, two nights running; in any case, she was impatient to read through the papers Zara had brought and make some initial notes. She’d ring for a take-away, she decided, and eat it at the kitchen table with the papers spread about her. Not for the first time, she reflected that there were advantages in spending some of her evenings alone. However, before phoning her order through, she’d ring the Fairchilds and try to make an appointment for the next day. Nothing like striking while the iron was hot.

  With the tingle of anticipation any new project engendered, she ran back down the stairs to check their number.

  Six

  Swing Gate Lane led off the main road through the village, its detached houses standing in good-sized gardens. The Gables, about halfway down, was a long, low house approached by a curving drive. Since the gates stood open and the lane was fairly narrow, Rona drove inside.

  The appointment was for eleven o’clock, and having assumed Mr Fairchild would be at work, she was surprised when he opened the door to her. Perhaps, she thought, he was needed for moral support. He was a tall, sandy-haired man with light-blue eyes, who shook her hand with a grave smile and shepherded her through the palely panelled hall to a conservatory built on the back of the house. His wife was standing nervously by a table bearing a silver coffee pot and cups and saucers. Like her husband, she appeared to be in her mid to late fifties. She was a small, plump woman, smartly dressed in a silk blouse and tailored skirt, and was regarding Rona with apprehension.

  ‘It’s good of you to see me,’ Rona said, taking her hand. ‘I know this must be hard for you.’

  ‘It’s come as a shock,’ Margot Fairchild admitted. ‘We didn’t think Zara was interested in her birth parents.’

  Dennis Fairchild said gruffly, ‘We took our time telling her she was adopted. She was a happy, secure child and there seemed no point in unsettling her, especially when her mother was dead and her father unknown; it wasn’t as though they might try to contact her at some stage. Whether we did right, I don’t know; nowadays, received wisdom says they should be told from the w
ord go.’

  ‘In any case, it didn’t seem to make much impression.’ Mrs Fairchild waved Rona towards the wickerwork sofa, and, when she’d seated herself, handed her a cup of coffee. ‘She never referred to it again. In fact, we congratulated ourselves on how smoothly it had gone.’

  ‘Would you have any objection to my recording this?’ Rona asked tentatively. ‘It’s hard to remember, later, exactly what was said, and it would save me having to take notes.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ Fairchild said, and Margot, after a quick glance at him, nodded.

  Rona extracted the recorder from her handbag and switched it on. ‘So what was the first indication you had that she did want to find her father?’

  Margot passed round a plate of shortbread – home-made, by the look of it. ‘When she and Tony came to tell us she was pregnant. She was obviously delighted, but there was an underlying tension that I picked up at once. And then she came out with it: now she was having her own baby, she needed to know where she had come from. That’s how she put it. It – was like a physical blow.’

  Dennis put his hand briefly over hers. ‘We’d assumed we were all the family she needed. Wrongly, as it turned out.’

  ‘How old was she when you adopted her?’

  ‘Well, she had to live with us for three months before we could start proceedings,’ Margot replied, surreptitiously wiping her eyes, ‘so she’d have been about six months when it became official; but we’ve had her since she was ten weeks old.’

  ‘I don’t know much about the procedure,’ Rona confessed. ‘You’d been on a waiting list, had you?’

  ‘Yes, for some time. But to give these people their due, they do try to match you up if possible. In those days, Dennis’s hair was more auburn than it is now, and so, of course, is Zara’s. It’s surprising how often people say she looks like him.’

  Personally, Rona couldn’t see it, but she smiled and nodded. ‘And you knew about her parents?’