Survivor: Only the strongest will remain standing . . .

by Roberta Kray

  8

  Mal Fury shifted his gaze to the left and looked through the window towards the fine view of the lake. This morning there was a ripple on the water, an autumnal breeze catching the surface. The sky was a clear pale blue. It was thirteen years now since Kay had been taken. Where had all the time gone? Sometimes it seemed like only yesterday that Esther had walked into the library, nervously glancing at her watch, asking why Cathy was taking so long.

  Yes, he should spare a thought for Cathy Kershaw too, drowned in the calm cold water. An accident was what they’d thought when they first came across the scene; the empty pram lying tilted in the bulrushes, the dead girl floating face down. He had pulled her on to the bank but it was too late by then. Scrabbling like a madman, going under the water again and again, he had searched until he was exhausted, but there had been no baby, no blanket, no sign of little Kay. He could still hear Esther’s screams in his head, a wild despairing sound that echoed in his dreams.

  They’d expected the worst when the police drained the lake, waited for the dreadful news, but her body hadn’t been found. That was when despair had turned to hope. There was still a chance Kay was alive, that she wasn’t gone for ever. He had never entirely given up hope but time had dulled the edges of his expectation.

  Mal shifted his gaze back to the private detective. He released his breath, unaware he’d even been holding it.

  ‘So, we have another one,’ he said wearily. ‘It’s been a while.’

  Stanley Parrish gave a nod. ‘Indeed.’

  When Mal had originally announced the reward, twenty thousand pounds, for information about his missing daughter, it had opened the floodgates to every shyster and hustler out to make a fast buck. Not to mention the cranks. There had been hundreds of alleged sightings, of babies being seen with people who were not their parents, with women who had not been pregnant, with men who were acting suspiciously. Back then every new lead had filled them with hope, but as each one came to a dead end the agony was almost too much to bear.

  The police had been all over the case at first, but as the weeks passed into months and then into years, it had ceased to be a priority. So Mal had employed Parrish to investigate instead. For the last eleven years he had acted as a useful buffer, shielding them from the timewasters and the crooks.

  ‘Go on then,’ Mal said. ‘What have you got?’

  Parrish leaned forward and put his elbows on the desk. He was one of those sad-looking men with a long thin face and bags under his eyes like a basset hound. ‘I wouldn’t have bothered you with it normally but there are some unusual circumstances. The girl was orphaned recently – her mother was a suicide – and there are question marks over her true identity. No record of a birth certificate, for example, at least not one for the date she claims is her birthday.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘June tenth. She’s thirteen, of course, born in 1958.’

  Mal nodded. Kay’s birthday was the first of June. ‘And?’

  ‘Well, the other odd thing is that no one’s been able to track down a birth certificate for the mother either. She was called Angela Bruce. I don’t suppose that name means anything to you?’

  Mal turned it over in his mind for a moment, but came up with nothing. ‘No.’

  ‘Although that might not have been her real name. So you can see how there’s a problem. No birth or marriage certificates, no driving licence, no passport, no official identity papers of any kind. The woman didn’t even have a bank account. No tax records or National Insurance. She was living under the radar, so to speak.’

  ‘There could have been all sorts of reasons for that. What about the girl? What’s her name?’

  Stanley Parrish hesitated before he said, ‘Lolita. They call her Lolly.’

  Mal’s eyebrows went up. ‘An unusual choice.’

  ‘Yes. She’s currently living with a married couple, Freddy and Brenda Cecil. They run a pawnbroking business in east London, in Kellston. It was the wife who came to see me. She’s already had the initial blood test done. Type “O”.’

  ‘She came prepared then.’

  ‘Exactly. And we both know that result doesn’t mean anything – half the population is type ‘O’ – but it also means we can’t completely rule out the girl.’

  ‘Have you seen her?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Parrish opened a buff folder and slipped out a strip of three passport-sized photos, the black and white type you had taken in a booth. ‘I’ve got some pictures, though.’

  Mal felt a fluttering in his chest as he stretched out his hand. No matter how often he went through the procedure, he couldn’t help wondering if this time he might finally see the face of his daughter again. His eyes darted eagerly towards the images, absorbing the features – the eyes, the nose, the mouth – and his disappointment was instant and gut-wrenching. The kid looked nothing like him or Esther. She was a pale, washed-out, nondescript thing with long lank hair and a startled expression.

  ‘Brown hair, blue eyes,’ Parrish said. ‘I know there’s not much of a resemblance but —’

  ‘But what?’ Mal snapped, dropping the pictures on the desk. ‘This isn’t my daughter. You only have to look at her to see that.’

  ‘Children don’t always look like their parents. Genes can skip a generation.’

  Mal glanced down at the pictures again. Both he and Esther were fair-haired, and Kay had been blonde as a baby too. There was nothing about this girl even faintly reminiscent of either side of the family.

  ‘But you’re probably right,’ Parrish continued. ‘You want me to drop it?’

  Mal reckoned the chances were a million to one that this was his daughter, but despite the odds he still didn’t want to make any hasty decisions. It was the loose ends that always nagged at you, the fear that a lead could slip through your fingers. ‘Do you have a picture of the mother?’

  ‘No, there aren’t any. Well, none from when she was alive. That’s another odd thing – no mother and baby photos. That’s peculiar, isn’t it? Most people, most mums, would usually have at least one snap taken with their child. There must be pictures of her from the morgue, but there’ll be some red tape to go through before we can get hold of them. And I don’t know how useful they’ll be; she jumped from a high-rise in Kellston.’

  Mal winced, wondering how desperate you would have to be to do such a thing. ‘What else do you know about her?’

  ‘Not much. Brenda Cecil says she had psychiatric problems, although she didn’t quite put it that way. It sounds like the woman suffered from some kind of paranoia. She also claims that Angela mentioned you on several occasions, but whether this is true or not…’ Parrish lifted and dropped his shoulders in a sceptical shrug. ‘People say a lot of things when there’s a twenty thousand pound reward up for grabs.’

  ‘Mentioned me in what respect?’

  ‘In a rambling kind of respect. Apparently Angela wasn’t exactly lucid when she was ill. She’d claim people were looking for her, following her, spying on her. Your name came up on more than one occasion – or so Mrs Cecil says.’

  ‘You don’t believe her?’

  ‘I think she’s on the make. And I reckon that’s the only reason she took the kid in. But, like I said earlier, there are unusual circumstances. For some reason or another Angela Bruce wanted to keep a low profile, cover her tracks, which begs the question why.’

  Mal pulled a face. ‘Not necessarily. Not if she had psychological problems. If she believed she was in danger – even if she wasn’t – she’d behave in exactly that way. There might not have been anything sinister about it.’

  ‘The chicken or the egg.’

  Mal stared at him. ‘Huh?’

  ‘Did she become ill because she was afraid of something or someone, or did the illness make her believe she had something to be afraid of?’

  ‘You think it’s worth doing some digging?’

  Parrish pursed his lips, lifted a hand and scratched his scalp. ‘That’s up to you. I
f you’re sure she’s not your daughter then —’

  ‘I can’t be sure of anything, can I?’ Mal leaned back and gazed up at the ceiling for a while before slowly lowering his gaze again. ‘But I don’t feel it. Do you understand? When I look at the pictures, there’s nothing there. If I was her father, wouldn’t I… I don’t know, but surely I’d recognise something about her.’

  Parrish nodded. ‘You have to trust your own instincts.’

  A silence fell over the room.

  Mal drummed his fingers on the desk, concerned perhaps that his instincts couldn’t be trusted. This girl wasn’t how he imagined his daughter to be, but was that just his prejudice talking? He had a preconceived idea of how Kay should look at the age of thirteen – a younger version of Esther, pretty and graceful, clever and charming. Lolita Bruce showed no signs of having any of these attributes. But for all that, he wasn’t prepared to dismiss her out of hand.

  ‘Okay, well, there’s no harm in making more enquiries. See what else you can find out about the mother. And try to get hold of a picture of her.’

  Parrish closed his file, rose to his feet and gestured towards the strip of photographs. ‘I’ve got copies if you want to hold on to those.’

  ‘Write down the address for me. Kellston was it?’

  ‘You’re not going to go there are you? I don’t think it’s a good idea, not before —’

  Mal waved away his objections, pushing a sheet of paper across the desk. ‘Just write it down, for Christ’s sake.’

  Parrish did as he was told. ‘All I’m saying is —’

  ‘I know what you’re saying. You don’t need to spell it out for me. I’ve got no intention of confronting the Cecils, okay? Not right now, at least. You don’t need to worry on that score.’

  Parrish finished writing and passed the address over to Mal. ‘I’ll let you know when I’ve got more news.’

  ‘You do that.’

  After he’d seen him out, Mal returned to the library, sat down and stared through the window again. Sometimes he felt a kind of crazy anger towards the lake as if it was deliberately withholding its secrets, refusing to share the truth of what had taken place all those years ago. It was irrational, but the thought never completely left him. Perhaps they should have sold the house, moved away – a fresh start somewhere else – but he hadn’t been able to take that step. His ties to the scene of the crime were deep and profound. This was the last place he’d seen Kay and until she was found it was all he had left to hold on to.

  The library door opened and Esther came in. She was wearing a blue dress and had a tight, angry expression on her face. She walked over to the desk, folded her arms across her chest and stared down at him.

  ‘What was that man doing here?’

  ‘The usual,’ Mal said.

  ‘The usual shit, you mean.’

  ‘Would you rather I just turned him away?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I don’t want him in the house. I don’t want him anywhere near me. He’s a creep and a user. Why can’t you see that? He’s been bleeding you dry for the past ten years.’

  ‘Eleven, actually, and he does what I pay him for.’

  Esther gave a derisory snort. ‘You pay him for false hope – and that’s exactly what he gives you. Why can’t you see that? He encourages people to come forward with any damn kid of the right sex and age so he can spend the next six months proving that she isn’t Kay. And then he sends you the bill. He preys on you, Mal. He takes you for a bloody fool. It’s pathetic.’

  Mal listened indifferently to the tirade he had heard a hundred times before. What she really meant, of course, was that he was pathetic. Once, back in the dim distant past, her scorn would have cut him to the bone, but now it no longer touched him. Their marriage had fallen apart years ago and all that held them together was the glue of grief and bitterness.

  ‘So what would you like me to do?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘You’re chasing after ghosts and you know it. Kay’s dead. Face up to it. She’s never coming back.’

  Sometimes Mal wondered if she was right. Perhaps, as a mother, she knew instinctively that her child was gone, that there would be no second chances. Or was it just her way of coping? Maybe she would rather have no hope than some, especially when that hope only brought recurring pain and disappointment.

  ‘Is this the latest?’ she said, leaning over to snatch up the strip of photographs. Esther gazed at the pictures, shaking her head. ‘He’s really scraping the barrel now. Look at her, for God’s sake. Do you really think this could be our daughter?’ She flapped the photos in front of his face. ‘Well, do you?’

  ‘What do you want me to say?’

  ‘That she isn’t Kay. That in your heart you know she isn’t. What’s the matter with you?’

  Mal met her cold stare and shrugged. ‘What harm does it do to check it out?’

  ‘You’re ridiculous!’ she said, throwing the photos on the desk. Esther turned and quickly walked back across the library, her high heels tapping angrily on the wooden boards. She opened the door and glanced back over her shoulder. ‘And keep that man away from here. I don’t want to see him again. You understand? He makes me sick.’

  Mal didn’t even flinch as she slammed the door. He was expecting it. He only ever expected bad things these days. Looking down at the photos, he gave a sigh. None of this was the girl’s fault; she was a victim too. He felt sorry for her, alone and orphaned, left with the legacy of a mother who had topped herself. ‘Well, Lolita, what do we do now?’

  9

  Stanley Parrish was aware of Esther’s eyes on him as he climbed into the old white Cortina. She was standing at the window, her stare as hard and cruel as Medusa’s. What was that saying: if looks could kill? He only glanced once in her direction but that was more than enough to grasp the full measure of her anger.

  Quickly he chucked the file on the passenger seat, pulled his seatbelt across and turned the key in the ignition. He was relieved when the car started first time – it was getting more unreliable by the day – and he could pull away from the house. He never liked coming here, preferring to see Mal in London, but sometimes it couldn’t be avoided. This whole business with Angela Bruce needed sorting before the trail went cold.

  As Stanley rounded the bend in the drive he speeded up, lit a cigarette and sucked in the smoke. He knew why Esther hated him and, although it irked him to admit it, she was not entirely mistaken when it came to her suspicions. For the last eleven years, the search for Kay Fury had subsidised his meagre income as a private detective, enabling him to keep his head above water. It had always been in his interest to encourage the con artists and timewasters to come forward, to chance their hand, in order for him to investigate and ultimately dismiss their claims – and then to charge Mal for the time and effort of doing so.

  For all that, Stanley was not a completely cynical or dishonest man. Although it was his belief that Kay had probably died on the day she was abducted, he did not know it for certain. As there was no body, there was no proof of her death, and so he gave every new lead his close attention. There was a chance, albeit a small one, that she was still out there somewhere. It was this slim possibility that enabled him to justify his actions.

  Stanley liked Mal Fury and had enormous sympathy for him. Over the years he had watched the grief eat into his employer, its effects as corrosive as acid. Once the Furys had been a golden couple, the talk of the society pages – Mal the handsome jeweller, Esther the beautiful actress – and their romance had been played out in a glare of publicity. But the bright lights had gone out long ago. Now their names had faded and they were rarely seen in public.