An owl hoots. I hear the ticking of the clock. Somewhere someone screams. It sounds like a baby. But then I remember that’s what foxes sound like in the dead of night, but it sure reminds me why I am here.
It’s something Myrus said, just before I was leaving her. She remembered something. I knew she had by the look on her face. And I knew that what she’d remembered had taken her by surprise.
‘What is it, Myrus?’
‘I’ve remembered another reason why I was so suspicious of her.’
‘Oh, right. And what’s that?’
‘I saw her out digging one night. In the garden.’
‘Lovers’ Leap garden?’
Myrus nodded. ‘I could see their back garden from my bedroom window. She was there in the wee small hours. At first I thought she was gardening. But she didn’t have the look of a gardener. And why would you do gardening so late?’
‘Digging?’
‘The light was on in the back kitchen so it was lighting the garden and I could see her in her nightie with a big spade.’
‘Maybe she couldn’t sleep.’
‘She was meant to be nine months’ pregnant, dearie.’
She pointed to my stomach.
‘Would you get out there in the dead of night and spend the better part of an hour digging into the earth?’
I shook my head.
‘Did you say anything to her?’
She shook her head.
‘None of my business.’
‘Did it make you think she wasn’t really pregnant?’
‘Not at all. It just made me think how odd she was.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Did you tell the police?’
‘I can’t remember. I don’t think that I did, as it was before she brought the baby back.’ She corrected herself. ‘Before she brought you back. Didn’t seem relevant.’ She faltered. ‘Actually, maybe it was after. I’m sorry.’
But why was she gardening so late at night?
Maybe it’s a clue. Maybe Shirley Burke is a gardener. Was a gardener.
Why did I think staying in Lovers’ Leap was going to lead me to her?
All reports about her online say she went to prison for abducting me. But then the trail runs cold. There is a theatre in Australia named after someone called Shirley Burke. At first I wondered whether she had done what my mum had wanted to do, which was to run away as far as possible and start a new life. But when I did further searches for the woman who inspired this theatre in Melbourne, I found that she was already a Melbourne resident by 1962. And a photo of her in that year showed she was certainly in middle age, so this wasn’t the ingénue who stole me, that’s for sure. And then, to top it all, I saw that she had died in 1975. Even I know it’s difficult to die and then steal a baby six years later.
Shirley Burke is elusive.
I suppose part of me thought that by gaining access to this so-called cottage I’d – miraculously – find a clue that would lead me to her.
But what?
I must be the only person who has rented this Airbnb who has practically done a fingertip search from top to bottom looking for something from their past.
You can imagine the sort of thing. A dusty snakeskin handbag that I find under a settee. I blow the cobwebs off it, snap open the clasp and pull out a piece of paper. It has some fading handwriting on it: Property of Shirley Burke. 1981. In the event of loss, please return to . . .
And then an address. And I get in my car. And head to the address. And knock on the door. And wonder of wonders, she hasn’t moved house in over thirty years and is still there . . .
And then what do I do?
Well, it doesn’t matter. Because she breaks down in tears and throws herself in my arms, begging forgiveness. I don’t even have to explain who I am. She just knows. She has never forgotten me. She has never stopped loving me. And then I go into labour. And she helps deliver it. And she saves the baby’s life. And all is forgiven.
Or there’s another scenario. I find some graffiti. It’s behind a curtain in an upstairs bedroom. My old bedroom, probably. It says: ‘SHIRLEY BURKE WOZ HERE. 1981.’
Below it she has drawn an arrow, pointing to the floor. I bend and find a bit of carpet missing. A floorboard is exposed. And Shirley has written ‘OPEN ME’ on it in nail varnish. And so I do.
Inside is a set of house keys with a cardboard tag attached to them. An address is written on the tag in pencil.
This time, in my fantasy, I take an Uber to her address and this time I am unable to get any answer at her front door. Losing patience, I eventually break in. It’s then that I find Shirley Burke lying dead in the bath. Scrawled across her breasts in lipstick she has written ‘SORRY, RACHEL’.
Because of course there must be a distinct possibility that Shirley is dead. She might have left prison and become a heroin addict, or a prostitute. She couldn’t have come out of a place like that and ended up with a joyous life, could she? Life just doesn’t work like that.
I lie in my strange bed, ruminating on all of this.
What on earth am I doing here? I don’t feel safe. I don’t feel happy. And I want to feel both of those things. I need to, especially here. But was I ever going to feel safe in a house with so many bad associations for me?
Talk about revisiting the scene of the crime!
This was a mistake. I don’t know what I thought I’d gain from staying in this draughty Airbnb. And even though it’s cold enough to feel like an old house, it can only have been built in the sixties. Low ceilings, a pine kitchen that’s been painted white, those vertical choppy blinds that old people have. There is a flat-screen telly on the wall, some rooms smell of paint, and the carpets have plastic sheeting over them here and there. Nothing about this house says 1981. Of course it wouldn’t. In order to be rented out it will need to feel a little bit contemporary. This was such a bad move.
The curtains are too thin. There must be a full moon because it feels like I’ve left the main light on, even though it’s the dead of night and I’ve not a switch on in the house. I feel sad, I feel lonely, and I feel stupid.
Why did you come here, Shirley Burke? Why did you bring me here? Well I now know the answer to that. Your married boyfriend owned this place. How depressing. Were you that much under his thumb? You must have been more than that to take me.
I feel like I’ve had enough. The only thing keeping me going is the knowledge that tomorrow I will get in my car and drive back to London and go and meet this detective. She sounded so warm and friendly on the phone. And she sounded delighted to hear from me.
But maybe that’s a bad thing. Maybe she’s so unsuccessful she’s thrilled to get any job going.
I have to stop thinking like that. I must try to get some sleep.
Might have an apple first, mind you.
I look at what I’ve written in my phone. Kelly Hopper, Enquiry Agent.
I wonder if I’ve written it down wrong and he actually said Kelly Hoppen. I know the name Kelly Hoppen. She’s off the telly. What does she do again? I quickly Google her. Okay, so she’s an internationally renowned interior designer. It’s doubtful she does detective work on the side so maybe I heard it right and wrote it right. And, also, if Ms Hoppen was a private dick I doubt she’d have an office above a ‘mixed sauna’ on Kentish Town Road.
What is a mixed sauna?
It has paintings of palm trees on its white-brick walls, and a photo of some happy couples looking overtly jovial in a sauna hanging by the door, which, I have to say, has seen better days.
I toy with nipping into the mixed sauna, just to see what’s going on, but I realize I’d have to walk round in a towel tucked over my boobs with the bottom of my bum showing, and I decide I’m really not ready to inflict my huge pregnant fatness on the world of swinging. Because it must be full of swingers. Who else goes to a sauna that claims to be mixed, and shows photos of couples looking thrilled to be semi-naked?
No. Kelly Hopper’s offices are above the sauna, so I ring the bell of the door to the side of the main entrance. No-one replies. I ring again; then a frustrated voice squawks at me through an intercom.
‘Yes?’
‘Hi, it’s Rachel Taylor? I’ve got a two o’clock appointment with Kelly Hopper?’
‘Who?’
‘Kelly Hopper.’
‘No, who are you?’
‘Rachel Taylor?’
‘Who?’
I find myself shouting. ‘RACHEL TAYLOR.’
Then silence.
Then, ‘Oh, you may as well come up.’
I hear a buzz and the door disengages from the lock and I push my way in.
The carpet on the stairs is filthy. All I can smell is cats. It’s gloomy. The staircase twists and turns. Up ahead I hear a door open and an aerosol being sprayed. The smell that hits my nostrils says it’s very cheap air freshener.
‘Sorry!’ the voice calls. ‘Wasn’t expecting you till tomorrow! Come up!’
At the top of the stairs I’m greeted by a mixed-race woman in a tweed two-piece and a string of pearls wearing mismatching shoes. They’re both court shoes, but one is shiny, one is not. Maybe she’s just the secretary. Which detective worth their salt wouldn’t detect that they weren’t wearing matching shoes? But she stretches out her hand and beams, saying, ‘Kelly Hopper. Lovely to meet you, Rashelle.’
‘It’s Rachel.’
‘Oh. You pronounce it like that, do you?’
And she ushers me in. Is this woman mad? Why would she think ‘Rachel’ was pronounced ‘Rashelle’?
I can’t tell if this woman is in her forties or sixties. If she’s forties she’s looking a bit jaded. But if she’s sixties, she looks amazing. And I usually hate the word amazing. But it’s true. She does.
If she’s eighty she’s incredible.
If she’s thirty, she had a very long paper round.
My mind’s jumping. I must be nervous.
The smell of cats gets stronger as I enter her offices. She points to an empty desk in the first room she leads me into. It feels like an outer office, and it’s thick with dust and litter trays. She kicks one tray under the desk and some of the small white stones fly off it onto the thick, dark carpet.
I don’t see a cat. Maybe it’s in the other room.
‘I did have a secretary. But between me, you and the gatepost she was an utter bitch, luvvy.’
She sounds a bit like Kim Woodburn from that cleaning programme.
‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘Oh, yes please.’
‘Scotch?’
‘Erm . . .’
‘I’d say tea or coffee but I’ve run out. Or I’ve a tiny bit of Baileys left.’
‘Erm. I’m actually pregnant.’
It’s clear even to a blind person that I’m pregnant. But she looks surprised and her eyes dart to my stomach. She still looks unsure.
‘One won’t harm the baby, will it?’
‘I’d rather not. And I don’t need a drink, I’m fine. I had a coffee earlier.’
Politeness will be my downfall.
‘My kind of gal!’ she says, and she really jabs me hard in the upper arm. ‘All the more for yours truly!’
And she opens a cupboard and pulls out a half-drunk bottle of Scotch and pours two glasses out. She’s a bit haphazard with her pouring and some of it ends up on the abandoned desk, but it doesn’t seem to bother her. She passes me one.
Can she really be that scatty?
‘I’m pregnant.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘Thank you.’
Oh God. She’s pissed.
‘Who sent you, again?’
‘Oh, Tom. The vicar? Tom O’Neill.’
‘Bloody hell. Tom, eh?’
‘Yes. My mum died recently and . . . he took the funeral.’
‘Violent?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Was it a violent death?’ she asks, suspiciously.
‘No. Well, it was cancer.’
Her eyes narrow even more.
‘Assisted suicide? Or . . .’
‘No. Cancer.’
She nods to herself and looks out of the window as if she is in a scene in a TV crime series and she is weighing up the evidence. I wonder if she is showing off to me, whether she feels this is some sort of audition, to prove she can cut the mustard as a private dick.
‘Cancer, eh?’
‘Yes.’
She takes another hit of her drink.
‘And why did he send you to me?’
‘Well, he said you were good.’
She nods to herself again, not averting her eyes from the window.
‘Well, you know vicars, Tracy. They don’t fucking lie.’
‘It’s Rachel.’
‘What is?’
‘My name.’
‘I know that. We spoke on the phone.’
‘We did.’
‘Cancer, eh?’
‘Yes. And I need your help.’
She turns to me quickly. ‘Did he really say I was good?’
I nod. And think she is going to cry. But instead she moves to another room.
‘I need to make notes!’ she calls back to me. ‘Come through!’
I have a feeling this is a disastrous waste of my time. But I follow her through anyway, into her main office. I know this because in the glass on the door linking the two rooms it says in gold lettering: ‘MAIN OFFICE’.
A cat is sat on her desk, looking for all the world like a brown Bagpuss. It sees me and jumps, rather nimbly for a fat cat, onto the floor and hides under said desk.
‘Ignore Prudence.’
‘Okay.’
‘She’s a little shy.’
‘Okay.’
‘She’s a Norwegian Forest cat, don’t you know.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘They love the rain.’
‘Gosh. That’s . . .’
‘But she doesn’t go out.’
‘Oh. She’s a house cat.’
‘She sits on the windowsill. Staring at the rain. It’s almost moving.’
‘Right.’
Why is she telling me this?
I look about. Her office could do with a good dust and a good vacuum; no surprises there. It’s a larger room than I expected and the window looks out onto the busy high street. The lack of double-glazing on the sash window means I can hear very clearly every rev of an engine, every squawk of a pigeon. I can even hear the chatter of passers-by, despite the fact we’re on the first floor.
‘Cats are like detectives.’
‘Are they?’
‘Verrrrrry intuitive.’
‘I see. Well yes, I suppose they are. Though I imagine detectives get out more.’
I laugh, but she doesn’t join in. I realize she either hasn’t heard me or she just doesn’t think my jokes are very funny.
And who could blame her?
‘What’s your name again?’
‘Rachel.’
‘Friend of Tom’s.’
‘Kind of.’
Kelly plonks herself on a swivel chair and almost misses and the chair skids a bit and I think she’s about to hit the wall behind her, but she stops herself by braking with her feet.
‘Nearly,’ she says, with muted emotion. Then offers a smile. ‘Now. Notes.’
And she whips out a notebook from a drawer of the desk and clicks the top of a biro.
‘Take a seat.’
I sit the opposite side to her and pretend to take a sip of my drink. I don’t know why I’m doing this. I just feel like I’ve entered some mad alternative universe and am going along for the ride.
‘So,’ she says, scribbling something down. ‘You want to know why your mum died.’
‘No. I know why my mum died. I . . . I want to trace two people from my childhood.’
‘Who?’
‘Well. I don’t know how old you are.’
‘That’s no business of yours. I ask the questions.’
‘Sorry. Well it’s just I was at the centre of a big news story in nineteen eighty-one.’
‘You don’t look old enough. And I thought black didn’t crack.’
‘I was a baby. A newborn. And I was snatched from my mum’s back garden. Went missing for nearly a month before I was found.’
‘Are you shitting me?’
‘No.’
I’ve brought some papers with me. Everything I’ve found on the internet, printed off. I take them out of my bag and hand them to her. She takes them but doesn’t look at them.
‘What are these?’ she says, as if I’m trying to wrong-foot her.
‘Newspaper reports. Stuff like that. About the incident.’
‘Who do you want to trace?’
‘My dad.’
She writes something in her book. I look. She has written ‘DAD’. And then drawn a massive question mark.
‘You said two people,’ she says, like she’s trying to catch me out.
‘And the woman who abducted me.’
Now she writes ‘WOMAN’. And an even bigger question mark. And then for good measure she adds a massive exclamation mark. Blimey. She’ll be doing emojis next.
I’m getting cold feet. Any sensible person would have run a mile when they smelt the cats and the alcohol. This woman probably can’t even find her handbag, never mind Shirley Burke or my dad.
‘Look. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.’
‘What wasn’t?’
‘Me coming to see you.’
‘I’m cheap.’
‘I’m sure, but . . .’
‘I’m good.’
‘I’m sure you are, but . . .’
‘Tom recommended me. A man of the cloth.’
‘I’ve just got a funny feeling about it.’
Then she leans across the desk, and suddenly she seems to sober up and mean business.
‘I’ll find them. I give you my word.’
‘But . . .’
‘I know what you think when you look at me.’
‘I’m not forming any judgement.’
‘Washed up. Washed out. Has been. Oh, I’m all of those things.’
‘Well . . .’
‘But I’ll prove to you I can do this. Give me two weeks.’
‘It’s okay.’
‘It’s not okay, you stupid bitch. You were kidnapped. I’ll find her. I’ll find the woman who did this.’
And now she looks at the printouts for the first time. She studies them and I don’t know what to do. She looks up.
‘I remember this.’
I nod.
‘Baby Diana. Named after Princess Di. Stolen the day she got married. I remember this.’
She flicks through the papers. Then takes a sharp hit of her whisky.
‘So,’ I say, ‘I need to find my dad. And I need to find the woman who took me.’
‘Why do you need to find her?’
And now I falter.
The real answer is I don’t actually know. I have no idea why, really, I have this overwhelming desire to find Shirley Burke. What will I say to her when I find her? If she’s even still alive.
‘I was with her for weeks. I want to know what I was like.’
‘You were probably some mewling puking little brat. Box ticked. Why do you really want to meet her?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Do you want to kill her?’
God, that hadn’t even crossed my mind.
‘No. NO!’
‘Wreak some sort of revenge?’
‘No. I don’t know.’
‘She was one of the most hated women in Britain. I’d want to hurt her. Like she hurt your mum.’
‘I don’t think I want to hurt her.’
‘Even if you do. I’ll still find her for you.’
‘How? How will you find her? This is the bit I don’t understand.’
‘I could tell you. But then I’d have to kill you.’
And now she’s scaring me. But then she emits a throaty chuckle.
‘God, it’s just a joke, luvvie. Get over it.’
She stands and starts walking round the room, a bit like I’d imagine Columbo would have done.
‘This job,’ she says, ‘is an unusual beast. It’s ninety-five per cent boredom, five per cent fear.’
‘Fear?’
‘Big dogs, mostly. But they don’t scare me. I was brought up with dogs. I get them. They get me. If I’m going to recover a debt they always set the dogs onto me. And they always. ALWAYS end up licking me.’
I smile awkwardly. It feels like she’s showing off.
‘I wanna track someone down? I go to ex-employers. They love to spill the beans. “Oh, she’s a hairdresser now”; “Oh, is she?” Then I speak to all the bloody hairdressers in the world till I find who I’m looking for.’
‘But Shirley went to prison.’
‘I’m an attractive woman, Philippa.’
‘I’m Rachel.’
‘And I’ve got a copper so bent he’s practically convex.’
I roll my eyes. She sees. I didn’t mean her to see.
‘He’ll give me any info I want about people who’ve been in trouble with the law.’
‘Even if it was thirty-odd years ago?’
‘He wants me.’
‘She might have changed her name.’
‘The police know everything. They are big brother. And they are watching you. He came round to check me out.’
‘Who?’
‘My source. Let’s call him Billy.’
‘But . . .’
‘I was operating from a bedsit. Put up a website. He came sniffing.’
‘Right. Well . . .’ I think it’s probably time to go now.
‘Probably because “enquiry agents”, as I called myself back then. Enquiry agents were mostly ex-cons. Like Tom.’
I feel my eyes widen.
‘Tom’s an ex-con?’
‘He wants to check me out.’
‘Tom’s an . . .’
‘You heard. Other enquiry agents tended to be ex-cops. So he wanted to know which I was.’
‘And what were you?’
‘Neither. Just naive. Few too many Miss Marples in the school library. That kind of thing.’ She smiles. ‘So he wanted to check I was kosher. Which I was. Which I am. Now he’s putty in my hands. Philippa? I will speak to him.’
‘Rachel.’
‘And he will unlock the secrets. And we will find whoever you want.’
‘Okay.’ It feels best just to go along with this. ‘And how much will it cost?’
‘You don’t trust me.’
‘I do. Well, I don’t know you, but . . .’
‘How about this. No win, no fee.’
‘And if you win?’
‘Five hundred.’
Blimey. That’s a lot.
‘Each.’
‘Each?’
‘A grand if I find your dad and your abductor.’
I can just about afford that, I guess. And if this is just pissing in the wind, which it certainly feels like, then I’ve lost the grand sum of precisely nothing.
I stand, wanting this over.
‘Deal.’
I hold out my hand. She shakes it.
‘Deal. Now sit back down. I need to know EVERYTHING.’
Oh God. I’m beginning to feel like I’m not going to get out of here alive.