by Alison James
Rachel turned on her side, so she could see his profile in the half-light. ‘You could. But he and his wife, Claire…’ She realised she couldn’t tell Joe they were trying to have a child; that would just be salt in the wound. ‘They’re going through some health issues. So please, at least let me lessen the shock a bit.’
He sighed a long heavy sigh. ‘Okay. I s’pose.’
She waited, but he didn’t say any more, and after a while he fell asleep and she lay there once again listening to the rhythm of his breathing.
Eighteen
Maris Balodis lived in a bleak pebble-dashed block of flats in West Pilton. Its grim facade was studded with satellite dishes and behind the iron-chain fence, the stringy grass was waist-high and piled with discarded furniture.
Rachel had left Joe wolfing down the contents of the breakfast buffet table, with plans to visit the Camera Obscura museum of illusions. After the high emotion of the previous evening’s conversation, she was grateful that they would have a few hours apart. She assumed Joe was too, though she was finding him hard to read. He had been polite but subdued during their brief morning interactions, and she had started to wonder whether inviting him to Edinburgh had been a mistake. Too much, too soon.
She pressed the buzzer for Balodis’s flat number and waited. Ten minutes later, she was still waiting. She started trying all the other buttons in turn and eventually someone buzzed the front door open, not bothering to enquire who they were letting in. It was that sort of place.
Balodis eventually opened the door of his flat, but only after she had hammered on it hard on and off for five minutes. The curtains – more draped pieces of dirty cloth, really – were all drawn, and he had clearly just woken up. His complexion was even more waxy than before, and the purple circles round his eyes almost black. He yawned, exposing gold fillings.
‘Mr Balodis – DI Prince. When we spoke to you at the police station, you told me you had a note of the mail box number you used. Could you find it for me?’
He stared at her blankly, then turned and shuffled into what could have been a bedroom: it was hard to tell through the heaps of clothes, plastic carrier bags and takeaway boxes. The outline of another human body was just discernible under a grimy duvet. It stirred and the unmistakeable platinum gleam of Iveta’s hair emerged onto the pillow.
After rummaging through a few of the bags, Maris pulled out a scrap of paper and handed it silently to Rachel. It was torn from a lined notebook, and on it someone had written: Box 235, Mail Boxes 4U, 15 South Bridge.
‘Thank you,’ said Rachel. ‘And don’t forget, we may need to contact you again, so please don’t go anywhere.’
He grunted, and pointedly went to shut the front door, only just allowing her time to squeeze out of the flat before it slammed.
* * *
The manager of the South Bridge branch of Mail Boxes 4U was a cheerful and extremely overweight young woman who introduced herself as Beth. She shook her head as she checked down a handwritten ledger, then cross-checked with her online accounts.
‘No, sorry, hen. There’s nobody using that box right now.’
‘But there was,’ Rachel persisted, ‘during the festival.’
‘Personal mailbox records are confidential,’ said Beth proudly. ‘I don’t have the authority to show you.’
Sighing, Rachel fished out her warrant card.
Beth’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, okay, sorry.’
Beth checked the record again. ‘It was rented by a Mr John Smith. Paid up until Sunday 27 August.’
Rachel’s heart sank. Fake name: no surprise there. ‘What ID verification do you require?’
‘We ask for one photo ID – it says here he used a student card…’
Figures, thought Rachel.
‘… and one proof of address. He showed a store card bill. The address is in Leeds. 99 Acacia Avenue.’
It only took a brief Google search to ascertain that there was no such address. Rachel looked around the shop at ceiling level, and spotted two security cameras.
‘What about CCTV footage?’
‘It’s backed up every week to the Mail Boxes 4U central server, then we delete it this end and start again. I’ve only got a memory card recorded since Monday here at the moment, and the box has been out of use on all of those days.’
Rachel pulled a business card from her pocket. ‘Okay Beth, I’m going to need you to request all the relevant footage from your head office. How long do you think that will take?’
Beth bunched her plump cheeks. ‘A few days, I reckon. I can ask them to rush it.’
‘Please do that. And phone me as soon as you have it.’
* * *
As she was walking back towards the hotel, Brickall texted her
How’s my dog?
Oh God, Dolly. She had been so bound up in Joe’s appearance in her life that she had completely forgotten about leaving the dog with her mother. And it came to her in a rush that she was somehow, at some point, going to have to tell her mother and her sister about Joe. They had been there throughout her pregnancy and had fiercely resisted her giving up her baby for adoption. Especially Lindsay of course, who had recently married and was in the process of starting her own family. Her father had been understanding, a calm voice of reason in the furore, but a year later he was dead from a heart attack. Which she knew Lindsay attributed to the stress Joe’s adoption had caused.
Rachel phoned her mother now. ‘Just checking how you and Dolly are getting on.’
‘Oh, she’s such a sweetheart,’ her mother sighed with love-struck pleasure. ‘She’s absolutely lovely, we’ve become firm friends.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Are you going to pop down and see her? You can bring your friend with you if he’s missing her.’
‘I’m back in Scotland, but I will come down Mum, soon. There’s something I need to talk to you about. Something important.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Eileen. ‘I’m not sure I like the sound of that. Can you give me a clue?’
‘No,’ said Rachel firmly. ‘No I can’t. Give the mutt a kiss from me, and I’ll see you soon.’
She texted Brickall back.
Dolly being spoilt rotten. Custody visits available on request.
She was looking down at her phone as she walked into the hotel lobby, and collided with Giles Denton.
‘Whoa there Rachel, look where you’re walking!’
‘Sorry,’ she thrust her phone into her pocket. ‘Walking and texting: a terrible habit.’
‘So… you on for a catch-up over dinner?’ His aquamarine eyes locked on hers with shocking boldness.
‘Sounds great, but I’ve got plans. Let’s try and get together tomorrow.’
‘Ah, yes. Your boy.’
‘Exactly. My boy.’
* * *
Joe seemed more relaxed since he had been able to check into his own room at the hotel. They still needed space from one another, it seemed. He readily agreed to go out somewhere for dinner, and he and Rachel found a table in an Italian trattoria in the Old Town. Italian food, he assured her, was his absolute favourite. His family had enjoyed summer holidays in Tuscany since he was very young.
‘It’s okay,’ he told Rachel as she hovered over his wine glass with the bottle of Barolo. ‘I can have wine. I’m an adult now, remember?’
The reminder that his childhood was in the past was like a small stab in her heart, but Rachel was determined not to show it. She smiled and poured him half a glass.
‘Do the rest of your family know about me?’
Rachel nodded. ‘It’s just my mum and my sister, Lindsay. My dad died when you were a baby. And yes, yes they do know. I mean, they did know. Back when you were… they knew about the adoption.’
‘Are you going to tell them I’ve found you?
‘I am.’
‘How d’you reckon they’ll take it?’
‘Honestly, I’ve no idea.’
There was an awkward silence
. What was needed was a neutral topic of conversation. ‘What do you know about the dark web?’ Rachel asked, as Joe went back to shovelling down his risotto bianco.
‘Not a whole bunch,’ Joe mumbled through his mouthful, spraying bits of rice. He caught sight of Rachel’s expression and used his napkin to wipe his chin. ‘But my mate Charlie’s studying Computer Science at Edinburgh Uni, and he knows loads about how it works. Why?’
‘The case I’m working on has led me down that particular rabbit hole.’ Rachel took a forkful of her bubbling lasagne and waited for it to cool down enough for her to put it in her mouth without risk of sustaining burns. ‘I’m aware that I’m pretty ignorant about it. But I expect there are experts back in the office in London who will be able to enlighten me.’
‘When are you going back?’ Joe tipped his head back and tossed half of the Barolo down in one go.
‘I really need to leave tomorrow. So I guess you’ll be heading back too?’
‘But you haven’t spoken to my dad yet.’ Joe’s face fell. ‘I was hoping I might get a chance to meet up with him before I left.’
Stupidly, Rachel had been hoping that Joe had forgotten about Stuart. Obviously not. And she owed it to her son – and to her ex-husband – to make things right.
‘I’ll tell you what, why don’t you go and find a movie on the hotel’s cable channel, and I’ll go over to Stuart’s house now and talk to him. If he’s in, of course. After that, it’ll be up to him.’
Joe narrowed his eyes slightly. ‘How do you think he’ll react?’
‘I’ve honestly no idea.’
Fifteen minutes later Joe was in his room watching Batman vs Superman and Rachel was in a cab on the way to Inverleith. She had weighed up texting Stuart first, but remembering his overwhelming need to control, decided against it. She wanted to retain the advantage of having him on the back foot.
She walked up the flower-lined path to the front door of the house and rang the bell. Stuart looked both surprised and puzzled when he opened the door. And not, she noted, especially pleased.
‘Rae… sorry, I wasn’t expecting you.’ Stuart kept his voice low and glanced over his shoulder, in the direction of the stairs.
‘Is this a bad time?’
‘It’s not the best… Claire’s not well: she’s gone up to bed early. But come in for a minute now you’re here.’
Stuart led her through into the sitting room and indicated that she should sit down. There were embers glowing in the hearth and the room felt unseasonably warm. ‘Claire was chilly earlier, so I lit the fire,’ Stuart explained, as Rachel tugged off her denim jacket and draped it on the arm of the sofa. ‘What can I do for you?’
Where to start?
Here’s the thing Stuart, remember when we separated nearly nineteen years ago? Well the stress made me lose loads of weight and I assumed that was the reason my periods had stopped, but then – hey presto! – it turned out I was around five months pregnant. Far too late to have a termination, so I decided to have the baby adopted and not tell you. It was a boy, and his name is Joe. And guess what – he’s back.
‘The thing is, Stuart, something’s come up, and it’s quite important… well, extremely important… that we talk about it…’
Upstairs a door opened and a faint voice called out, ‘Stu?’
‘Look, I’d better go and see to Claire,’ said Stuart, standing up. He lowered his voice again. ‘The IVF… we got a positive pregnancy test, but this morning she started bleeding.’
Rachel stared at him, horrified. ‘God… I’m so sorry.’
I can’t do it now, she told herself. I just can’t. I can’t announce that he’s got a child with me on the day that he and his new wife lose theirs. It’s just not possible. It will have to wait.
‘Look, Stuart, I can see this is not a good time. Let’s catch up soon.’
Rachel stood up and followed him into the hall. ‘Be there in a sec, darling!’ he shouted up the stairs before turning back to Rachel. ‘Can I at least order you a cab?’
She gave him the name of the hotel and ten minutes later she was on her way back there, wondering what on earth she was going to say to Joe.
As she paid the taxi driver, she received a text from him.
Crashing out now, see you at breakfast. Night.
A reprieve, if only a brief one.
* * *
Rachel called at reception to settle both bills on her way to breakfast, and by the time she reached the restaurant, Joe was already there with a heaped plate in front of him. His appetite was truly prodigious, and yet there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. In that respect, he reminded her of Mark Brickall.
Brickall. She was also going to have to tell him about Joe. Even though she knew him inside out, somehow she just couldn’t second-guess his reaction. Not over this.
Rachel sat down at the table and poured herself orange juice and coffee. Joe had to munch his way through a mouthful of sausage and hash browns before he could speak. ‘So,’ he said eventually, ‘how did it go?’
Rachel opened her mouth to come out with a platitude about the time not having been right when Joe’s eyes flicked away from her face and over her shoulder, distracted by someone standing behind her. A slight shadow fell over her plate, making her instinctively swivel her head.
Stuart.
Rachel could feel the blood drain from her face and her mouth slipped open. What the hell was he doing here?
‘Rae, you left your jacket at the house last night, so I thought I’d drop it in on my way to the General.’
Stuart held up the denim jacket she had left on the sofa.
Joe’s mouth had also opened slightly, but in his case his eyes were alight not with shock, but with delight. Before Rachel had the chance to speak, he had leapt to his feet and extended a hand. ‘Hi, I’m Joe.’
The blank expression on Stuart’s face stopped him, instantly, in his tracks. It was only too clear that Stuart had not the faintest idea who this young man was.
Joe rounded furiously on Rachel. ‘You didn’t tell him, did you? When you promised me you would! Christ, what is wrong with you?’
Rachel realised, too late, her grave error of judgment in not speaking to her son sooner. She had done it again. She had completely messed up their fragile new relationship. ‘Joe, hang on a minute, I—’
But he had grabbed his jacket and his rucksack, and as he pushed past the table, he roughly shook off Rachel’s restraining hand. Joe stormed towards the door of the restaurant past staring diners, pausing at the door to shout in Stuart’s direction.
‘Want to know exactly who I am? I’m her son. And you’re my father.’
Nineteen
Rachel woke to a bright, sparkling September day. Outside the hotel window, the city of Leiden beckoned.
There was the merest hint of autumn in the air, with the promise of Indian summer warmth to follow. She slipped into jeans, a T-shirt and trainers and headed to the Botermarkt on the edge of the tree-lined canal, avoiding the cyclists bumping their way along cobbled bike paths. The city was a lot smaller and less frantic than Amsterdam, but with the same quaint, timeless feel. Rachel bought a coffee and planted herself on one of the benches that lined the edge of the canal, watching the kayakers and rowers glide past. The faint rippling of the water was soothing. There was something about the whole place that was soothing. And she badly needed that.
She had flown to Amsterdam on Monday evening, taking the short train ride to Leiden from Schipol Airport. Patten and Brickall had both tried to persuade her not to rush straight off, that it could wait another few days, that she needed a break. But for reasons she could not explain to them, she had been anxious to get away immediately. The more distance she could put between herself and the disaster of the previous Friday in Edinburgh, the better.
And it had been a disaster. A fiasco. Joe had stormed straight off to the station and caught a train home, refusing to answer his phone. Stuart, at first thinking the whole scene had
been some sort of bizarre joke, had been confused. But after Rachel had sat him down and managed to persuade him that it was true – that she had been pregnant when she left him and had given up their son for adoption – his shock and rage had been spectacular.
‘It all makes horrible sense now!’ Stuart had spat at her. ‘You doing a vanishing act and refusing to have contact with me. You had a bloody great big secret to hide, didn’t you?’
Apologising wasn’t going to cut it, but Rachel had at least made an attempt to explain. Stuart had stopped her in her tracks by holding up a hand. ‘You had no right!’ He didn’t raise his voice, but spoke with a savage disdain, which was worse. ‘That was my child too. I had a right to be consulted about his future! I could have taken him, raised him myself if you weren’t prepared to. But I wasn’t even offered the chance.’
‘Our marriage was over. I didn’t think it was right for us to be tied together forever. I thought the best option all round was for him to have a normal life in a stable home.’
‘And did your family know about this?’ Stuart had snarled. ‘They clearly didn’t think I deserved to know, but did they at least try and make you see you were wrong?’
Rachel had hung her head, twisting her napkin between her fingers. ‘They knew. And they didn’t agree with me. Lindsay in particular… she wanted to tell you about Joe.’
And it’s caused tension and ill feeling between us ever since. Because my family had an image of how my life should be: marriage, children. Exactly like their own. And I shattered all that. Trashed it. Trampled over their values, made them feel slighted, because I didn’t conform.
‘Well at least someone had some decency…’ Stuart had ranted on, stared at by the waitresses and hotel guests, until Rachel had had enough. She’d stood up abruptly, knocking over the orange juice.
