‘How have you been?’ he asks.
‘Do you care?’
‘I’m being nice! Isn’t that what you want?’
‘Yes…’
He sips his tea and mutters something about it being hot. ‘So… how have you been?’
‘Fine.’
‘How’s the house?’
‘Unsold.’
He nods slowly but doesn’t add anything, then he starts opening the pile of mail on his desk. Despite the scumminess of his office, Jimmy has a fancy letter-opener with an opal handle and a razor-sharp tip. He slices open the top couple of letters and skims the contents. I know he’s not reading them, not really.
The investigator glances up to me: ‘Do you want to clean up?’
‘What?’
He nods to the door. ‘There’s a bucket and some bleach in the hallway cupboard. I figured you could mop the floor…?’
For Jimmy, it’s all about the humiliation. One thing after another. He wants me to walk away – except I’m not going to do that. Not now it feels so close.
Instead of complaining, I do precisely as he suggests. He tosses me a key and I unlock the office door and head into the hall, using the key to unlock what turns out to be a storage room. There are two mops, one bucket and an enormous drum of bleach, the type of thing that can only come from a cash and carry. There’s also a small sink.
I fill the bucket with bleach and water, trying not to feel too woozy from the fumes. Back in the office, Jimmy continues opening his mail and fiddling with his computer as I mop the floor around him. He tells me to open a window, so I do. Then he tells me I’ve missed a bit, so I swab away at it before moving on.
When I’m done, the water is black and the room smells like a hospital ward. I tip the murky liquid down the sink and then return everything to the cupboard before heading back into the office.
‘Lock the door,’ he says.
I do and when I turn around, Jimmy has shrugged his jacket off onto the back of his chair. As far as I can figure out, he wears the same clothes every day – the brown suit with the elbow patches, a white shirt and a brown tie.
He undoes his tie and hangs that on top of his jacket and then starts to unbuckle his belt.
‘You said you had news…?’
Jimmy stops unfastening his belt and presses both hands on his desk looking down on me. ‘What’s the rush?’ he replies.
‘It’s just… this is the seventh time I’ve been here.’
I know I shouldn’t have said something. It’s never worked before and any time I question him only makes things worse.
The belt comes off and then he drapes that over the chair, too.
‘I’ve got all the information you want,’ he says.
He’s grinning, brimming with arrogance, but it feels like he’s punched me in the face.
‘You’ve… what?’
I can barely get the words out.
‘I know who your mother is. I’ve got your birth certificate – and, let me say this, it’s a very interesting name indeed.’
I listen for any sense of ambiguity. He’s done this before: getting my hopes up, only to say I’d taken something the wrong way.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
‘Precisely that. I know your mother’s name. Once I had it, I did a quick Google search or two and, what do you know, if you choose to contact her, she’s going to have one hell of a story for you.’
I stare at him and he’s smiling, relishing the power he holds.
‘Can you tell me?’
He remains where he is for a moment and then surprises me by standing up straighter and moving to the filing cabinets at the back of the room. He pats his pockets elaborately, acting as if he doesn’t have the key and then taps the top of the cabinet before turning back to me.
‘Not yet,’ he says.
‘When?’
He undoes the button of his trousers. ‘We’ve got business to attend to first.’
‘I can’t. It’s my time of the month.’
His hand hovers over the zip. ‘We can do other things.’
‘I want to read it first.’
His eyes narrow as he straightens, then he rebuttons his trousers and digs into the front pocket for a key. He unlocks the cabinet and hunts through whatever’s inside before pulling out a buff-coloured cardboard wallet. Jimmy takes his time, using agonising seconds to re-lock the cabinet and readjust his crotch. If I ask again, he’ll find a way to delay giving me the information. I’m lucky I’ve got him to comply this much.
Jimmy crosses back to his desk and sits. He flits through the contents of the file, making the odd ‘hmm’ sound along with a muttered, ‘that’s interesting’.
I hate him.
‘Are you sure you want this?’ he asks, waving it towards me mockingly.
‘Yes.’
‘Are you really sure? It’s one thing to think you want it; another to actually want it.’
‘I want to read what’s inside.’
‘Hmm.’
He grips the folder tightly and then passes it across the desk. My hand is shaking as I reach and I fully expect him to snatch it away.
But no.
It’s in my hand and my fingers are trembling as I lift the front cover to look at what’s underneath. There are eight or nine pages. A birth certificate. Adoption forms. A letter addressed to Mum and Dad. More letters. Another form.
I flick from one page to the next, faster and faster, until I stare up with rage that’s now impossible to conceal. ‘What is this?’ I demand.
‘That’s everything you wanted.’
I toss the file onto his desk. ‘All the names and information are blanked out. It’s useless to me.’
‘I’ve got the full, unredacted version. Don’t worry about that.’
‘Where?’
He grins broadly and viciously, showing his teeth. ‘You get the full version when I get paid.’
His mouth twitches wider, a kid on a rollercoaster having the time of his life.
‘I thought we had an agreement,’ I say.
The smile doesn’t shift. ‘Is there something in writing that I’m unaware of?’
He unlocks the drawer of his desk and reaches in, taking out two pages of paper and placing them on the desk, side by side.
It’s an itemised bill, listing hours worked, miles travelled and all sorts of other things. The final item is ‘miscellaneous’, which, given it’s the largest amount of money spent, I can only imagine is some sort of bribe.
The only figure that really matters is the one in the final column of the final page.
£2,357.
‘That’s plus VAT,’ Jimmy says.
‘I don’t have the money,’ I say.
‘No money, no information.’
‘But I’ll have it – you know that. You know the house is for sale.’
‘I guess you’ll have to wait then…’
I haven’t cried in a long time but the lump is in my throat again. ‘I thought we had an agreement…?’
It’s more of a whimper than a statement – but that’s exactly what gets Jimmy off. ‘That was the deposit,’ he says. ‘Enough to cover initial expenses but nothing more. If you wanted to find another way to pay for services rendered, you should’ve said.’ He licks his lips. ‘And, let’s be honest, you’re not that good.’
He rolls his chair back a little and unbuttons his trousers once more, spreading his legs wide. ‘Now are you getting on your knees, or not? I can knock fifty quid off the bill if you want? My problem is that I’m too damned nice.’
Jimmy sneers at me over his desk as he unzips his flies and then pushes his trousers to the floor. He’s wearing flannel checked boxer shorts, as ever. I’d like to think he has a lot of matching pairs but it seems unlikely. The dirty bastard never changes his clothes.
He checks his watch. ‘Come on. I haven’t got all day.’
I’m on autopilot as I stand and round the desk. The floorboards are st
ill a little damp from where I mopped up and the bleach singes my skin as I fall to my knees. Jimmy grins wider and wiggles his backside, slipping his boxer shorts down until they’re around his ankles.
‘Let’s call it forty quid off the bill,’ he says. ‘Perhaps if you’re really good, I’ll bump it back up to fifty. Be careful with the teeth.’
He laughs and then it’s like I’m watching someone else. It’s someone else’s hand that reaches onto the desk and picks up the letter-opener. Someone else who thrusts forward and plunges it into the private investigator’s stomach. The blade comes out and then thunders into his throat, his chest, his stomach for a second time, then a third.
Jimmy doesn’t get a chance to fight. His final word is ‘teeth’ and then he’s on the floor, blood seeping onto the floorboards and pooling around the legs of the table.
I don’t know how long passes as I remain sitting on the floor. The investigator’s bare arse cheeks are facing up, riddled with stretch marks and pockmarked cellulite.
In the end, Dad was right. Sometimes people need to be put down like dogs. I might be adopted, but I suppose we share something in common. I didn’t know I had it in me but here we are.
There’ll be DNA in the office – but not only mine. Any other clients he has will have left skin cells and hairs. There’s not a lot of point in trying to clean up the scene, I’ll simply empty the drum of bleach over the body, floor and chair and leave it at that. Besides, I’ve watched enough crime shows on television to know I’m not on the DNA database anyway. The only way this can be traced to me is if I’m in his files. The alley on which his office lies is far too dingy for anything like CCTV. I came on foot and can head to one end of the alley, drop over the barrier to the lane below and then be in the park in moments. Nobody will have a clue. The only worry is the blood on my own clothes but I have a jacket that will hopefully cover that until I’m home.
Jimmy’s calendar is easy to find on his computer. I click into it and delete my name from today’s schedule, before searching for ‘Lily’ and deleting any other reference. I remove myself from his contacts list and then slip his phone from his jacket pocket and put it into my own. I’ve never emailed him, so no need to worry about that, which means the only other place I am in his life is within his files.
I set the computer to search for any references to ‘Lily’ or ‘Armitage’ and then unlock the filing cabinet.
His put-on search for my file was nothing but a show – ‘Armitage’ is at the front. I flick through a few more just in case but it seems unlikely I’d show up anywhere other than in my own file.
I know I need to get the bleach – but I’ve already waited too long for this. My fingers are trembling once more as I flip the front cover of the file and skim the first few pages.
There are two birth certificates – an original and the amended one. The writing is spidery and complicated on the original. No father is listed – but my mother’s name is there and so is an address.
It’s an anticlimax – someone named Sarah Hanham from a place called Stoneridge.
I’ve never heard of her or it. Was he teasing when he said it was an interesting name?
A few pages on and there’s a marriage certificate between Sarah Hanham and Daniel Adams. That also happened in Stoneridge, which makes it a good place to start looking if that’s what I want.
There is more in this file than the false one Jimmy first offered. It’ll be lots to take in but there’s a petition of divorce, a news story printed from the Internet about a missing child, a second marriage certificate.
Ultimately, as interesting as everything else will be, only one thing matters: I know my mother’s name.
Thirty-Five
I can’t see Max but I can feel him staring at me through the dark. ‘You’re adopted?’ he says.
He doesn’t sound convinced.
‘The DNA test confirmed it,’ I reply. ‘I had the papers before that but the test proved she’s my mum. It was confirmation for me as much as it was for her.’
‘I don’t understand. I’ve known Sarah since we were children. When were you born?’
The spade clunks into the earth at my feet and I close my eyes for a second, saying a silent prayer for the sister who’s buried beneath my feet. I can never say sorry enough for stealing her name – but it was the only way. Before I came, it never occurred to me that she’d been murdered by someone in the village. I assumed – like everyone else – that she’d been abducted, never to be seen again. Nobody ever comes back.
‘You must know your birthday…?’ Max says.
‘I do.’
‘How old are you? It’s the thing that always confused me. Olivia would have been eighteen and you look eighteen.’
‘Olivia would have been eighteen years old and six months. I’m twenty and four months.’
I still can’t see him clearly through the dark but the cogs must be whirring in Max’s mind. I’m almost two years older than Olivia, which means…
‘You’re my dad.’
Silence.
The critters and rustling undergrowth has hushed and even the animals have stopped to listen.
‘I can’t be…’
‘You are. I didn’t know that before I came here, but you’re my father.’
‘Stop saying that.’ He snaps his words and then the light darts from me as Max marches away from the grave, ending up in a hollow between the trees. The moon seeps through the trees, providing him with a halo. For the first time in a while, I can see his face. His eyes are wide, staring out to the darkness. The torch is aimed at the floor, the knife limp in his other hand.
I drop the spade onto Olivia’s resting place and walk slowly across the clearing.
‘Stop.’
The light flashes up to my face and then settles on my feet. I freeze where I am.
‘Sarah went missing for a year,’ Max says. It’s the softest I’ve ever heard him speak. He’s genuinely hurt. ‘Her mother wouldn’t let her leave the house.’
‘Georgie told me.’
Max looks up, but I don’t know if he can see me properly. Apart from my feet, I’m in the dark. He’s still being spotlighted through the trees.
‘That bitch always hated me,’ he adds.
‘Georgie?’
A shake of the head. ‘Sarah’s mum. She was always poisoning her against me, telling her to find some doctor or lawyer, or something. When she locked her in the house all year, I assumed it was to keep her away from me. I didn’t realise she was pregnant.’
‘She made her give me up for adoption.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Mum sort of told me. Not quite – she was talking about Olivia. She said her mum wanted her to put Olivia up for adoption but she chose not to. She said she was tired of being told what to do. I think that’s because her mum had already forced her to give up one child for adoption and she wasn’t going to get rid of another.’
Max doesn’t argue. It’s speculation but the times match. The only real question is how Mum managed to get pregnant twice by the age of eighteen. I suppose she wasn’t the first and won’t be the last – and the fact Georgie was also pregnant at a similar age means there was something not quite right about the sex education at the local school.
It’s not a question I’ll be asking if I ever get the chance.
‘I can’t believe she never said anything…’
I don’t reply – and it’s not as if I disagree. Mum’s carried this secret for twenty years. I wonder if, deep down, she has an inkling that perhaps the DNA test wasn’t all that it appears. Ashley will never know how close he was when he pushed my dad and told him that the test didn’t prove he was the father.
Because that’s how I think of him.
Dan might not be my father but he is Olivia’s father and I’m her. Lily’s parents are both dead and so is she. All that’s left is the money from the sale of the house – and I’ll be switching that into a new account as soon as I
have one in Olivia’s name. Now I have her birth certificate, I’ll be swapping everything else, too. I might even retake my driving test with her details. I’ve been driving for long enough to know what I’m doing.
Except none of that is going to happen because I’m stuck in the woods with my other father. Dad number three. The one who’s going to kill me.
‘I never wanted children,’ Max says. He’s calm and introspective, looking at his feet. ‘I would’ve never wanted you and I didn’t want Harry. All I wanted was her.’
It’s awful but there’s something about his brutal honesty that’s almost to be respected. He loves a woman so much, loves my mum so much, that he’s done all this.
Almost to be respected.
It’s terrifying. If Max could snap the neck of an innocent girl and callously bury her in the middle of nowhere, then what’s he going to do to his own son? There will be a day where Mum pays Harry too much attention and then that poor little boy will have ‘an accident’. Or he’ll go missing, too. There is no length to which Max won’t go.
He stands straighter and the devil is in his eyes. It’s only there for a moment, then he steps out of the moonlight into darkness once more. The torchlight flares into my eyes, sending green and purple shapes spinning once more.
‘I’m done,’ he says. The knife flashes up in his grasp, the blade catching the light and glinting. ‘I’ve already killed Olivia Adams once and now it’s time to do it again.’
Thirty-Six
Low branches and hidden tripwires or not, there’s no point in hanging around now. I’ve got a couple of metres’ head start and bolt sideways. The light flashes towards me and it’s then that luck finally strikes. Max trips on something and I hear him crashing to the ground with a bellow of fury. The light spins away from me and I don’t waste a second in looking back to see where it’s gone.
The earth is a mix of moss, caked soil and branches at ankle height. I dodge around a large thick clump of bushes, head down, and race towards what looks to be the darkest area of woods. I’ve not got much chance of outrunning Max, especially not as he has the torch, but I can at least find somewhere to hide.
The Girl Who Came Back Page 25
