by Caron Allan
Thursday July 30th—3.10pm
Paddy can almost swim, but Billy is still a bit scared to get her shoulders wet. Tom is not fond of the cold splashy stuff that interferes with his crawling up and down.
Watching the older two I realise now just how much they’ve grown since this time last year, they are growing taller and less baby-chubby. It makes me feel a little sad. It makes me feel excited for the future. It’s a bit like looking back at a mirror image of myself—I remember sitting last year and watching them and thinking, this time next year there’ll be three children…it’s an odd feeling.
And I have to say, dear diary, these golden days were worth every single thing I went through after Monica ran me down. Every single thing.
Saturday August 1st—10.30am
How quickly our week is over. Frantic packing of all the last bits this morning, hubby and children need rounding up from the beach where they’ve gone to empty the sand out of everything and say ‘goodbye’. We’re taking home another slightly stinky collection of shells and precious things, a few tattered flags and a bit of ‘driftwood’ that looks like half a pallet, only less useful.
We’ve bought a few little gifts for everyone—fudge and sticks of seaside rock and so on, and now that I know it’s time to leave, I’m anxious to be home.
Later: 8.15pm
Lill and Sid were so happy to see us back, I felt quite emotional. I know they were pleased we had done something normal, healthy, and they knew what a big step it was for all of us, not just me. The children were both talking at once and dragging things out of the bags to show them, the cats came to see what all the fuss was about, Jacqueline was there, Tom was crowing at the top of his voice and leaning towards Lill with his arms outstretched, it was truly a family homecoming.
Getting Sid to myself for a moment I asked him quietly how things had been. “Not a dickie bird,” he said, “everything’s been tickety-boo.” Which, translated into English means there have been no problems or concerns. Thank God for that!
Sunday August 2nd—11.20am
Matt took Lill and Sid to the airport this morning at five o’clock whilst I stayed home, obviously, to keep an eye on things here—that is to say, I went back to sleep.
I know they’ve only gone for a week—and hopefully they will have a lovely time—but I am a bit worried about how I’ll cope without them, I do rely on them so completely. But Matt will be here, I won’t be on my own, and Jacqueline will be here from Monday to Friday during the day, which will not only be handy but also will help the time to go a bit quicker. I hope.
Friday August 7th—8.05pm
I’ve hardly had any time to write, or even think, or even just to relax in the bath for five minutes. I never realised how much work Sid, and more particularly Lill must put in to the everyday running of our home! So glad they are back tomorrow. Though it hasn’t been anything like as bad as I feared.
Potentially this week could have been a total disaster, but although it’s been hectic, it’s actually been fine. Really hectic, but—fine.
Of course Jacqueline was here and a huge help. I feel that I’m getting to know her a little better and she’s actually not a bad kid. Matt says he thinks she’s a bit scared of me. Can’t think why. It’s not as though she knows I’m a mass-murderer. LOL.
Sunday August 9th—1.45am
I’m on a high! This afternoon, having only been back home a day (and they are both looking so tanned and relaxed, though Sid said it’s probably not tan but chafing from the wind—what did I say?) Sid got the name and address of Monica’s solicitor and he texted it to me from some greyhound track he was at. The company is called Deane and Perle—LOL—I can see why they chose to have the names that way round. I struck me as odd that her solicitor is based near us in Gloucester—that may be handy for me, but from where Monica used to live, it’s miles and miles away. This worries me—does this mean she has moved into our area?
Setting that on one side to worry about later, I did the spade work as always, researching the company online: looking it up on the internet and figuring out the easiest way to get there, and where we could park etc. I even looked at the firm’s website. The site itself wasn’t particularly impressive, very ordinary and so similar to thousands of others. Which makes me think that Sid was right when he said it was likely to be a small company with a small budget—which suggests their premises might be equally low-cost and possibly easy for us to break into. Small, dull website=small, cheap offices! It was difficult to tell much from the images of the business on the internet.
So this evening, once all the children were in bed, and we adults had eaten our meal, Sid and I set off. As ever, I left Matt (and Lill obv) out of the loop. It’s the same situation as last year—if anything goes wrong, I need to know that someone will be left behind to look after the children.
Obviously we had to wait until it was dark—didn’t want to be caught too clearly on CCTV. We parked some distance from Pearl and Dean’s (haha!) offices, and Sid was sporting a large Stetson, and he provided another from the boot of the car and gave it to me.
“To hide our faces from the cam’ras.” He said. A sensible solution, even if not an elegant one. But it’s a good thing one of us had come prepared. Apart from a couple of pairs of disposable latex gloves, I hadn’t even spared a thought. A far cry from all my meticulous planning and the detailed lists I used to create at one time. And last year, I used to agonise over which was the most appropriate outfit to wear for a simple break-and-enter, or a quick murder. But no more—today I just wore the same jeans I’d worn all day, and an old jumper of Thomas’.
We found the place easily. Right in the city centre, the firm was located on the ground floor of a sprawling Victorian villa, really rather beautiful, converted into office suites as so many of these lovely old houses are nowadays. It was a quiet neighbourhood surrounded by similar buildings, all bustling in office hours and morgue-like after six o’clock or so. The whole area was deserted.
Sid checked around the back, then came back and joined me. He decided we’d be safer breaking in the front than the rear—the alleyway behind the villa was dark and full of little hidey holes, and consequently was just groaning with CCTV and locks. There was a single camera above the front door, which Sid pointed out to me, and so we kept our heads well down, meaning that if the break-in is discovered and the police called, they would have next to nothing to go on. Apart from the camera, there was no other real impediment. Oh, and the front door.
Sid had the door open in less than a minute. And with no damage to the door, I’m hoping no one will ever know we were there. I don’t know how he does it. Actually that’s not true—he’s got loads of ‘skeleton’ keys, and he has clearly practised and practised and practised.
We slipped inside, and Sid quietly closed the front door behind us. We were in a dark entrance hallway complete with reception area, mailboxes and a list of businesses and where to find them. Another minute and we were inside the offices themselves, conveniently located on the ground floor close to reception.
He had a torch. He flashed it around and decided there were no cameras inside the suite, and there didn’t seem to be any large panels of buttons to press to disable an alarm. All they had were a couple of sprinklers. As long as we didn’t set fire to anything, we’d be fine.
It took a little effort to locate the filing cabinets; they were stashed away in a large walk-in cupboard. The door was locked. Sadly this security measure was somewhat undermined by the fact that the key was lying in the middle of one of the desks in the office, with a paper label attached to it, and neat handwriting stating ‘cupboard key’. Once inside the cupboard, we were thrilled to find there were no cameras or windows here, so we could put the lights on.
We found the cabinet labelled ‘Conveyancing 2014/2015’. It was locked.
With a sigh I went back into the office and began to look around all the desks in an attempt to find the key for the filing cabinets. It looked as thoug
h someone had either had the sense to lock it away, or accidentally taken it home. Empty-handed I went back into the cupboard to tell Sid. He had brought a flask of coffee and a packet of sandwiches which he proceeded to set out on the cabinets’ tops. He unwrapped the sandwiches, neatly cut into dainty triangles, and put a whole one in his mouth. He wasn’t bothered about the lack of a key, and I soon saw why. Still chewing vigorously on cheese and homemade pickle, he grabbed the two opposite top corners of the cabinet and manhandled it forward out of its little gap then tilted it backwards. Nothing happened. He pulled the cabinet a little further forward, then tilted it back at a sharper angle and I heard the ‘chonk’ of the locking bar dropping down. The drawers were now open. I gazed at Sid in admiration. He preened.
“Good thing they’re too tight to get modern cabinets,” he said, then added, “I saw them do that on Rosemary and Thyme.”
I smiled, shaking my head. I pulled out the drawer of Ps and began to search though the files for Pearson-Jones, Monica. I didn’t find anything.
“What about trying the Js?” Sid suggested. He was pouring coffee into two plastic cups.
“Double barrel names are always filed under the initial of the first name.” I pointed out. He shrugged, and handed me a coffee.
“You know that, and I know that. But do they?” he said. “Sugar?”
“No thanks. I suppose it’s worth a try,” I said, mainly to please him.
“They don’t seem exactly the brightest here.”
But there were easily two dozen Joneses. None of them, however, was a Monica Jones. There was not even a Huw Jones, the name of Monica’s deceased husband, although there was a Hywel Jones-Ap-Gryffydd.
I was stumped. As Sid manoeuvred the cabinet back into position again, tearing his gloves in the process on a sharp corner, I slumped into a chair in the main office. What now?
I pulled off one of my gloves to gnaw at a nail. Sid sat on the desk next to me and gnawed a chocolate biscuit from the office biscuit-tin next to the staff kettle. Crumbs descended to the floor from his beard. I could only hope there was no trace of DNA attached to those crumbs.
And then I had a brainwave. I hauled Sid back into the cupboard.
“Pull it out again,” I commanded.
“It’s not locked,” he said, “it’ll still be open.”
Feeling stupid, I pulled out the P drawer again. And almost immediately I found her—Zinnia Pearson. With a muffled whoop of triumph—because obviously I couldn’t really let go and make the racket the discovery warranted—I waved the file at Sid. He read the label and looked at me.
“Zinnia?”
“Her middle name, and her maiden name,” I explained. He beamed at me, and it felt very gratifying to be the clever one for a change. Whilst he packed away the remnants of our picnic, I flicked open the front cover of the document wallet and there right at the front were her ID photocopies—passport and driving license, now in the name of Zinnia Pearson, but with the original, genuine, one-in-a-million albeit somewhat blurry face of Monica Pearson-Jones.
I scooped up the lot, shoved it all in my bag, and returned the empty document wallet to the file and placed the file back in its slot in the drawer. We quickly checked the place was tidy, and left. All completely without incident.
When all the staff come back in tomorrow, Monday morning, all they’ll find is an unlocked cabinet and the lid off the now-empty biscuit-tin. They probably won’t even notice anything is wrong.
Monday August 10th—10.30am
It was all there in black and white—everything we needed to know. She had changed her name, so that explained why Sid’s mate hadn’t been able to find her new address—and now we had that too.
I didn’t have the time or the energy to look it up on the computer last night, because it was pretty late by the time we arrived home, and we arrived home to find Matt in a tizz because Tom had been screaming for over an hour, so I had to take over as parent extraordinaire. Another massive boost to my confidence that almost as soon as I wrestled Tom from Matt’s arms, he stopped crying. But my smug grin soon faded when I discovered that he started screaming again every time I tried to put him to bed. By the time I collapsed into my nice warm bed next to my nice warm husband, it was well after one o’clock, and I went out like the proverbial light, only to be woken at six o’clock by a happy, chattering baby and two happy, chattering children. Tom just wanted to get downstairs and get on with his crawling, and Paddy and Billy wanted their chocolate crunchies.
Sid’s mate is going to check with yet another contact—this time with the one who is in the road tax department. He should be able to see if he can find a car registration number for Monica—or should I say ‘Zinnia’—ghastly name and rather working class. It might not be essential but it would be nice to know what to look out for.
And then Sid and I will need to plan another excursion out to Monica’s new place. Was rather unsettled to find she is now much closer to us than she was previously. But at least if it is handy for her—well, it could be just as convenient for us.
Later: 4.30pm
Lunch with Madison. I offered to take Tom with me, but Lill was happy for me to leave him with her, and she said she’d pick up Billy and Paddy from their friends’ house too, so there was no need for me to rush back.
Madison has arranged to meet the most recent, most promising ‘suitor’ who has been chatting with her online. It’s this evening, so that is rather short notice. She wants me to come along and loiter in the background, so that if she gives me a sign, I can waltz up and invite myself to their tete-a-tete. That way if it’s not going well, she won’t be all alone and stuck with a weirdo. Poor chap—I hope he realises what he’s let himself in for! She’s read all the warnings and stories of nasty encounters on the internet, and is most definitely forearmed. I wonder if he will do the same—bring along a sneaky friend in case Madison turns out to be a Psycho or a Bunny Boiler.
Must phone Jessica later too, for a chat—it seems like ages.
Wednesday August 12th—12.50am
Had a nice chat with Jess this morning. She said she had planned on ringing me in tomorrow to wish us a happy anniversary (our first!). But—lovely surprise—they want to pop in and see us at the end of the month, they will be going down to Cornwall to stay with Jess’s old school-friend and her husband the trout farmer for a couple of days, so as Jess and Murdo will be passing within twenty or so miles of here, they wanted to take the opportunity to nip in and say hello. They’ve got hordes of visitors there this week, what with the big shoot starting today. I think she just wanted to talk to someone about something other than killing. Lol. If only she knew.
So Lill and I (and Lill’s little shadow, Jacqueline, of course) have planned a gorgeous buffet lunch. I’m so excited. Jess said she can’t wait to see the children again, and esp Tom of course, whom she hasn’t seen yet. And I am full of maternal pride and eager to show them off—as if somehow their growth and achievements reflect well on me!
Meanwhile, I must come back to last night. Madison’s new beau.
The whole evening felt a bit surreal. Madison was at one table, under the window, in a lovely cosy corner, and I was at another table situated at the opposite end of the lounge bar, but with an uninterrupted view of Madison.
She was all dolled up in smart navy trousers, and a nice, if unadventurous, little white blouse, with big earrings and make up. She was horribly nervous—I could tell as much even from where I was sitting. In no time at all she had bitten off most of her lipstick through nervously gnawing on her bottom lip.
She and her chap were supposed to meet at eight o’clock. She insisted on getting there at a quarter to. By a quarter past, she and I had both had two glasses of wine, and she was quite tipsy. That girl cannot hold her drink. I was rather concerned that she would be completely smashed by the time he arrived. If he arrived. By quarter past eight I was beginning to think she’d been stood up. Madison signalled for another glass of wine. Rather tha
n calming her down, the alcohol was making her even more nervous. But still no sign of the famous Tyrone.
He had described himself as six feet two (so prob five eleven or even ten), dark haired (presumably with help from Just For Men), medium build (means slight paunch), not bad looking (ordinary), with GSOH (laughs at his own jokes), nice car (flash, therefore compensating for something) and own home (shoebox, mortgaged to the hilt) about five (thirty!) miles the other side of Gloucester (or maybe Worcester city centre?). Oh and he’s supposed to be 38. (44). But how do we really know any of this is true? This is the problem with the internet. After a few drinks, anyone can say anything. Maybe in the cold light of day (8pm) his claims did not stand up to scrutiny, and he’d decided not to risk it.
Oddly enough, it had been Madison who was so keen to meet up and get to know one another properly. From what she’s told me, I’d formed the impression he would have been happy to continue chatting online every evening without any actual contact.
“Well, what do you talk about?” I asked her yesterday.
“Oh, you know,” she said. Helpful.
“What?” I asked.
“Films, books, music, travel, food, art…the usual.”
“So you’ve got a lot in common?” I cleverly surmised. Just call me Cupid.
“Hmm. Kind of,” she said in a dragging voice that clearly meant NO! Then she said, “but his father was also in the army, and so we talk about our experiences of being carted about all over the place then packed off to boarding school, of summer holidays with parents we barely recognised, of the discipline, you know the drill.”
