Tom was waiting for them in the lounge bar, Lindsey’s gin and Rona’s vodka on the table in front of him. He stood as they approached, smiling uncertainly, and Rona, with a tightening of the throat, went to him quickly and kissed him, feeling his hands grip her arms.
‘Hi, Pops,’ she said quietly. Lindsey said nothing, merely seated herself in front of her drink.
‘Thank you for coming,’ he said formally.
It was a fairly large room and theirs was a corner table, with no one within earshot. Half a dozen men on bar stools were discussing football, and a couple sat holding hands at a far table. Strangely, the three disparate groups seemed to emphasize the room’s essential emptiness.
As the awkward silence lengthened, Rona broke it by saying, ‘Mrs Bishop said you ran her to Stokely hospital.’
Tom nodded, raised his glass to them, and they all drank.
‘And I saw you with her in Barrington Road,’ Rona continued. Lindsey frowned and shook her head, but Tom answered steadily, ‘Yes, I thought you must have.’
Lindsey put her glass down. ‘So when did this affair start?’
Tom winced. ‘It’s not an affair in the accepted sense. I’d like to make that clear.’
‘Meaning you haven’t slept with her?’
Rona moved protestingly, but Tom answered, ‘Exactly.’
‘Well, I’m sure that’s very moralistic and all that, but it doesn’t help Mum, does it?’ Lindsey took a sip of her drink. ‘How did she take it?’
‘With dignity,’ Tom replied. ‘Look, I asked you both here so I could tell you as simply as possible how this came about and how we intend to deal with it. It would help, Lindsey, if you could keep any further comments until I’ve finished.’
So he told them, those two solemn-faced daughters of his, of his growing unhappiness in his marriage – which he’d felt to be mutual. ‘We loved each other very much at one time,’ he said sadly, ‘but somehow it got lost along the way and we finished by continually rubbing each other the wrong way.’ He was being generous there, Rona thought. ‘It reached the stage when I almost dreaded going home each evening, and with my retirement looming – well, frankly, I started to panic.’
‘And then you met Mrs Bishop.’
‘Yes, then I met Catherine, and – I don’t know – it was a tonic just to be with her. Her outlook was so positive, and I found I could relax with her when I couldn’t any longer with your mother. As you say, I ran her to the hospital, and that rather threw us together. Then, as a thank you, she invited me to an exhibition at the National Gallery – Pissarro in London.’
‘It didn’t occur to her to invite Mum too, I suppose?’ Lindsey’s voice dripped with sarcasm.
‘Actually, she did; she’d bought the tickets for her son and his wife, but in the circumstances they obviously couldn’t go. She offered them both to me, but God knows, your mother doesn’t make any secret of her opinion of art – that looking at dried paint is no more interesting than watching it dry.’ He smiled briefly. ‘I always marvel at Max’s restraint when she trots that one out. So, we went together, and our friendship just – went on from there. And it was friendship, for quite a while. When we realized how it was developing, each of us tried to draw back at different times, but—’
‘It was bigger than both of you.’
‘You’re not making this any easier, Lindsey.’
‘Why should I?’ Her voice shook. ‘Didn’t you even notice Mum’s efforts to make things right again? Her new clothes and make-up and hairstyle?’
‘Yes, love, I noticed,’ Tom said gently, ‘and I know you helped her in that. But sadly it was too late.’
Lindsey’s teeth fastened in her lip, and Rona said quickly, ‘So what’s going to happen?’
‘Well, this has all blown up sooner than we expected. What I had thought was that once I’d retired, I’d take a flat somewhere till the divorce went through.’
‘Why not save yourself the trouble and move in with your lady love? By that time, everyone will know about her.’
‘Because I respect her, and I want to do things properly,’ he said, and Lindsey was silenced.
‘And now?’ Rona prompted after a minute.
‘It depends on your mother. We haven’t discussed any details yet. If she wants me to move out at once, of course I shall. Look, twins, I really am sorry. Not for having met Catherine, but for the inevitable pain it will cause all round. When things have calmed down a little, you must meet her. I’m sure you’d find—’
‘No!’ Lindsey said violently.
‘Rona?’ There was pleading in his voice.
‘I have met her, Pops, as you know. I – liked her very much at first.’
‘And now?’
‘Give me time. I – don’t want to add to Mum’s hurt.’
‘Of course not.’ Suddenly, he could take no more. This meeting had used up all his reserves, and he desperately needed to see Catherine.
‘I have to go now,’ he said quickly, ‘but there’s no need for you to; I’ll order more drinks on the way out. Thank you for listening so patiently. I’ll keep you up to date with developments.’
He bent and kissed each of them on the cheek. They watched in silence as he paused at the bar, indicated their table to the barman, and handed over some cash. Then, with a lifted hand, he was gone.
‘I’ll ring Mum,’ Lindsey said, and took out her mobile. ‘It’s pretty obvious he’s not going home. We could call round and give her a bit of support.’
But Avril, sounding calm and philosophical, didn’t want company. ‘It’s sweet of you, darling,’ she said – a rare endearment – ‘but I’m not ready to talk about it yet. I’ll phone you when I am.’
Having been furnished with fresh drinks, Rona and Lindsey found little to say. They, too, needed space to come to terms with what they’d heard, and they left only minutes later, separating on the pavement with a quick hug and promising to contact each other the next day.
Rona went straight to Farthings, just round the corner from the hotel. But when she let herself in to the little house, it was to find it silent and empty, and she stood in the hallway feeling suddenly desolate. It was six forty-five, and Max’s class started at seven thirty. Where was he, when she really needed him – to discuss not only the sorry story of her parents’ marriage, but the threatening email that still lurked at the back of her mind? A dose of her husband’s common sense would have been a welcome antidote to the worries that tormented her.
Since there was no help for it, she scrawled a note and propped it on the kitchen counter before setting off through the misty darkness for home.
As it happened, though, both those topics, still exercising her when she took delivery of the take-away she’d ordered, had been superseded by the time she finished it.
Again, the news came via her mobile. She answered it with bad grace, regretting not having switched it off for the night, and a woman’s voice said without preamble, ‘Was it you asking about families from the Stokely area, who went to Australia?’
Instantly, lethargy vanished. ‘Yes, yes it was.’
‘I might be able to help you, then.’ A light laugh reached her. ‘It was pure chance I saw it – we don’t take the Gazette, but it was wrapped round some vegetables I bought at the market, and when I took them out for supper, it caught my eye.’
Rona wasn’t interested in vegetables. ‘Thank you so much for phoning, Mrs …?’
‘Powell,’ the woman supplied. ‘Yes, well, as I was saying, Dr Morris and his family emigrated in the spring of ’78, and they lived in Stokely.’
‘Morris?’ Rona interrupted sharply. ‘Not Morrison?’
Her caller sounded surprised. ‘No, it was Morris, all right. He was my friend’s GP.’
‘How old was he at the time?’
‘Goodness me – let me think, now. Late forties, I suppose. He had two grown lads, at any rate.’
Rona’s heart was racing. ‘And the whole family went? Do you know whereabouts in Australia?’
‘Can’t help you on that one, dear. Anyway, though the doctor and his wife stayed on – she has family out there – the boys came home about ten years ago. They’re both medics too, one’s a doctor and the other a dentist. Clever family.’
‘This is wonderful, Mrs Powell,’ Rona said sincerely. ‘Just what I was hoping for! I suppose you don’t know where they are now?’
‘As it happens, I do,’ the woman replied with satisfaction. ‘I thought you’d ask that, so I rang my friend – the one who was their father’s patient – to check. She says they’re both practising in Exeter. You’d find them in the telephone directory.’ She paused. ‘You think one of them might be that girl’s father?’
‘It’s possible,’ Rona answered guardedly. ‘At least you’ve given me a new line to follow, and I’m very grateful.’
When she rang off, Rona sat for some minutes staring into space. Then she rummaged in her bag, extracted her diary, and looked up Selina’s number.
‘Well, hello there!’ said the well-remembered voice, when she’d identified herself. ‘Did you collect the goodies?’
Rona’s eyes went to the shoe box, still on the far side of the table. ‘Yes, I did, thanks, but I’ve not had time to go through them properly. Selina – is there the slightest chance that Gemma’s lover’s name was Morris, not Morrison?’
‘Not the faintest,’ Selina replied promptly. ‘God, she spoke of him often enough.’ Pause, then: ‘Why?’
‘A woman’s just phoned with news that a family named Morris emigrated at precisely the crucial time.’
‘Well, sorry to put a damper on it, but you’re barking up the wrong tree.’
‘Suppose they added the “son” to disguise his real name?’
‘Too close for comfort, surely?’
Rona thought for a minute. ‘I presume you told the police about Morrison, at the time?’
‘Naturally; they were convinced I knew more, but that was all I could give them.’
And, Rona concluded reluctantly, it seemed it was all she could give her, too.
She made two more phone calls before abandoning the search for the night – to the Fairchilds, who had never heard of the Morris family, and to Joyce Cowley, who had.
‘Of course I remember Dr Morris,’ she said. ‘He was our GP.’
‘Did you know his sons?’
‘Only by sight. Nice boys.’
Rona hesitated. ‘Might Gemma have known them?’
‘Miss Parish, I thought I’d explained how little I knew of my daughter’s friends.’ She paused, and her voice changed. ‘Or are you wondering if one of them could be Zara’s father?’
‘It had crossed my mind,’ Rona said drily.
‘Well, at least it ties in with Australia. Please let me know of any developments.’
Like hell I will! Rona thought, replacing the phone on its charger. It promptly rang again. Max, making his regular evening call. Rona glanced at the clock, saw it was after ten.
‘Sorry I wasn’t here when you called,’ he said at once, and some hesitancy in his voice drew her brows together.
‘Where were you?’
‘As it happens, I’d called round to see Adele. Why didn’t you tell me she’d been hurt? You must have known – Lindsey did.’
Rona ignored the question. ‘Why did you want to see her?’
‘She’d phoned to say she can’t come tomorrow, and was there anything she could be preparing for next week. So I took round the notes I’ll be handing out. Why didn’t you tell me, as if I didn’t know?’
‘It only happened last night, for pity’s sake, and there’s been so much going on I never got round to it.’ She forced herself to ask, ‘How is she?’
‘Putting a brave face on it. She seems accident-prone, wouldn’t you say? I wish to God there was something we could do about it. Anyway, enough of that. You say a lot’s been happening your end. What, exactly?’
‘That’s staggering news about Tom,’ he said when she’d told him. ‘I’d no idea things had gone that far. What’s going to happen now?’
‘God knows,’ Rona said wearily.
‘Poor love, no wonder you were in need of a hug. Sorry I wasn’t able to oblige.’ His voice sharpened. ‘As to that email, is there no way of tracing the sender?’
‘Not that I can see.’
‘Could it be the man who keeps phoning?’
‘I almost hope it is; it would halve my problems.’
‘Well, you mightn’t know who he is, but by the same token he doesn’t know who you are, either.’
‘I’m not so sure, since he has my email address.’
‘But didn’t you post it on the Internet in your initial search?’
Rona drew in her breath sharply. ‘I did, didn’t I? On the contact site! Nothing came of it, and I’d forgotten all about it.’
‘So your correspondent could be anywhere in the world.’
‘But to have found my address in the first place, he must have logged on to the site – perhaps after seeing the bit in the paper, which makes him local again.’
‘Whatever,’ Max said dispiritedly. ‘Oh my love, why do you get involved with these shady characters? It does nothing for my peace of mind.’
‘Sorry,’ she said.
When he’d rung off, Rona put her solitary plate and glass in the dishwasher, gave Gus his biscuits, and wearily went up to bed. It had been another long day.
And it wasn’t yet over. An hour or so later, she came up slowly from the depths of sleep to hear Gus barking hysterically in the hall. Half falling out of bed, she caught up her dressing gown and ran out on to the landing. He was jumping up at the front door, still barking, his claws clicking against the heavy wood.
‘Gus! Gus, quiet! What is it?’ Slowly, wrapping her dressing gown about her, Rona went barefoot down the stairs, heart clattering. Something – or someone – had woken this sleeping dog, she thought. Then she saw it, the little shower of broken glass on the carpet, glinting in the light coming through the fanlight – the broken fanlight; its lower pane, she now saw, had been shattered and the bar twisted out of shape. But – why? she thought in confusion.
Careful of her bare feet, Rona approached the dog, took hold of his collar, and led him to the bottom stair, where she sat down and examined each paw in turn, talking to him softly. Finding no trace of glass, she gave him a dismissive pat, but he promptly sat down at her feet, looking at her expectantly.
Her eyes went back to the fanlight. Perhaps whoever it was had tried to break in elsewhere and, finding all ways barred, had smashed it in a fit of frustration. Fort Knox, Lindsey called the house. In the morning, she’d examine the outside for attempts to pick the lock. On the other hand, perhaps the vandal had never intended to break in, merely to issue another warning – that he knew who and where she was.
Rona shuddered. Come on! she told herself. She’d read only the other day that there’d been a burglary in the road. Why was she taking this personally? It happened all the time. She stood up, resolving to make herself some hot chocolate and take it back to bed, but had reached only the top of the basement stairs when she halted. She hadn’t pulled down the kitchen blinds – she never did – so once she put the light on, she’d be visible to anyone standing on the pavement.
‘Bed, Gus,’ she said, and waited until, disappointed, he had lolloped obediently down the stairs, before going up herself.
In the morning, Rona, sweeping up the broken glass, considered phoning Max, but decided against it. He would in any case be home that evening. The glass would need replacing, but it wasn’t a safety issue; not even a cat could gain access through the gap, even supposing it could reach it, and she’d been unable to detect any scratches round the lock. The breakage was probably, after all, an act of vandalism by mindless drunks on their way home.
It was with held breath that she checked her emails that morning, but there was nothing untoward. Was her unknown correspondent awaiting a reply? And who could it be? The man who had killed Gemma, panicking about those sleeping dogs? Or her lover? If he’d returned to this country – one of the Morris boys? – he might now be aware that she’d had his child. How was he likely to react? By coming forward to meet his daughter? Or, with a family of his own, by determining to stay firmly in the background? The latter option seemed much more likely, in which case he wouldn’t draw attention to himself by making contact. Nevertheless, reluctant or not, if this elusive father was indeed one of the Morrises, she had every intention of tracking him down.
Five minutes later, via the National Health Local Service Search, she had located both Dr David and Dr Peter Morris, ascertained the addresses of their respective surgeries, and printed out the maps of how to find them. Admittedly, once in Exeter, she could look up their private addresses, but it seemed wiser to tackle them at their surgeries; they’d be unlikely to speak freely at home.
Another five minutes, and she’d booked herself into an Exeter hotel for the following night. At last, it seemed as though she was getting somewhere.
How quiet it was, Avril thought; she’d never noticed before. Once the children had gone to school and people to work, the street seemed to sink into torpor. She’d been sitting here for ten minutes, and not a car or a solitary person had gone past. Normally she’d have been vacuuming the stairs by now, but she couldn’t summon up the energy. Why bother? Who would notice? For that matter, who had ever noticed?
She knew she would soon start crying again; she didn’t seem to have any control over it, which was one reason why she didn’t want to go out. What would people think, if she broke down in the supermarket?
The whole stupid, useless, incomprehensible point, she reflected bitterly, was that, deep down, she still loved Tom – though much good that would do her now. Impossible to remember when or why the nagging had started, but his lack of response had fuelled a growing resentment, spurring her on until she no longer took any interest in herself and evolved into the unprepossessing figure Lindsey had forced her to face. Little wonder Tom had had enough. But – another woman? Never in her wildest imaginings had she considered that possibility. Why had no warning bells sounded, that spring Sunday when Rona first mentioned Catherine Bishop?
Oddly, though, over the last twelve hours it had been the past that had occupied her mind. She thought back, for the first time in years, to her initial meeting with Tom, at the tennis-club hop. She and Kitty Little had been watching him ever since he’d arrived with a crowd of other boys, giggling over how handsome he was. She couldn’t believe it when he’d actually come over and asked her to dance. The memory, buried for so long, emerged sharp and clear, undulled by the patina of time. She remembered his shy smile, the blazer he wore with the gold buttons, even the tune they were dancing to – I don’t have a wooden heart. She’d been most impressed when he sang it in German, but he’d laughed and told her he had the Elvis record. She had been seventeen and he nineteen, and they’d married two years later. Babes in arms, she thought achingly, but they’d been so sure.
How bright the world had seemed then, how full of promise. She used to count the hours each day till they’d see each other, both of them hurrying home from work to be together. Numbly, she realized she couldn’t even remember when they had last made love.
The tears were coming, she realized, feeling quickly for a handkerchief. Thank God next week she’d at least have the library to occupy her.
The train journey to Exeter passed pleasantly and, not knowing the city, Rona took a taxi to her hotel. It was mid-afternoon, and as soon as she reached her room, she phoned the number given on the website for David Morris. As she’d expected, she was greeted with a recorded message. ‘The surgery is now closed. Surgery hours are weekdays from eight thirty to twelve thirty, and from five to seven in the evening. In the case of emergencies, please ring …’
The dental practice, however, was open, and by posing as a prospective patient, Rona elicited the information that it operated between nine and five, with late evenings on Wednesdays and Fridays. Today being Thursday, that last item was of little interest.
In which case, Rona thought, staring down into the busy street, it seemed sensible to approach Peter the dentist first, then hurry to the surgery in time to catch David – who would by then have been apprised of her coming. Also, while she’d ascertained there were only two dentists at the practice, there were likely to be several doctors at the health centre. Better to start where she had less margin for error, since she’d no idea what either of the Morrises looked like.
It was already four o’clock; not knowing how long it would take her, Rona decided to set off at once, taking in some of the sights as she went. She’d promised herself a quick visit to the cathedral, and she would also stop for a cup of tea en route. Taking a pair of flat shoes from her bag and winding a long scarf round her neck against the chilly wind, she set off on her latest quest.
She reached the dental surgery with fifteen minutes to spare. Although it was in a largely residential area, several of the front doors had brass plates alongside. The practice itself occupied a corner site, and, with time in hand, Rona went to inspect the adjacent side street. As she’d hoped, there was a small car park behind the building, with a notice reading, ‘Dental staff only’ to fend off trespassers. Five cars were parked there; presumably the dental nurses and the receptionist also used the facility. The back door of the building gave on to the car park, so it would be from there that her quarry would emerge.
She regained the front entrance in time to see a woman coming down the path.
‘Is Dr Morris still there?’ she asked quickly.
The woman smiled at her. ‘Yes, he’s running a bit late; his last patient’s just gone in.’
‘Thank you; I was afraid I’d missed him.’
The woman laughed. ‘That would take a bit of doing!’ she said, and set off along the pavement.
Rona looked after her, puzzled. Then, feeling conspicuous, she began slowly walking up and down the pavement, hands in pockets against the cold and hoping fervently that the last patient had only a fifteen-minute appointment.
Her wish was granted; at five-fifteen precisely the front door opened and a man came hurrying down the path and anxiously peered at the nearest parking meter. Whatever it showed, there was no notice stuck on his windscreen, and he thankfully let himself into the car and drove away. Rona rounded the corner again and positioned herself by the gateway to the car park. Almost at once, two women came out together, talking and laughing. They got into separate cars and Rona strolled on to the next gateway as they emerged on to the road. She’d just regained her position when she saw him come hurrying out – and at once knew what his patient had meant. Peter Morris was, at a guess, six foot six in height, and would indeed be hard to miss.
‘Doctor Morris?’ she said hesitantly, walking forward. He had reached his car, and turned impatiently, his unfastened tweed coat flapping round his legs.
‘I wonder if I could have a word with you?’
‘I’m sorry, surgery’s over for today. If you’d like to make an appointment—’
‘It’s on a – personal matter.’
In the rapidly thickening dusk, she saw him frown and peer at her more closely. ‘I don’t know you, do I?’ He had a very faint Australian accent.
‘No, but I need to speak to you about someone you did know, some time ago.’
‘Need, Miss …?’
‘Parish,’ she supplied. ‘Yes, need, Dr Morris. I—’
‘Look,’ he broke in, ‘I’ve no wish to be rude, but I’m already late and I’m supposed to be meeting my brother. Couldn’t—’
‘Your brother?’ she broke in. ‘I was hoping to see him, too.’
‘Then I suggest you make some mutually convenient appointment—’
‘Dr Morris, I’m only here for the day. I’ve come specially to meet you both.’
He stared at her, his eyebrows raised in surprise. ‘You’ve—?’
‘Please, I really must speak to you. It’s important.’
A cold gust of wind swept into the car park, blowing Rona’s hair across her face, and she shivered.
He said brusquely, ‘Well, if it’s that important, and you want to see David too, you’d better come along. You can follow me; presumably your car’s at the front?’
‘No, I came by train. To Exeter, that is.’
He sighed resignedly and opened the passenger door. ‘Get in, then.’
Rona had a brief vision of Max’s reaction to her getting into a car with a man she’d just met, who might be harbouring any number of guilty secrets. But she wouldn’t get anywhere if she didn’t take risks, and this tall, abrupt dentist surely posed no threat.
The car felt blessedly warm after her long wait on the street. ‘I thought he didn’t finish till seven,’ she said, as Morris switched on the engine. His head swivelled towards her. ‘My God, you have been doing your homework. As it happens, though, he’s not on duty this evening.’
So she’d have wasted her time in going there, Rona reflected.
They didn’t speak again as he drove competently down the darkening road towards the city centre. After a few minutes, he turned into the car park of a large hotel.
‘We’re meeting in the bar,’ he said briefly, and she followed him into the warm, lighted building. Barely waiting for her, he strode through the foyer, turned into the bar, and made for the table where his brother was waiting.
‘Sorry I’m late, Dave – I overran,’ he said tersely. ‘Then, in the car park, I came across this young lady, who tells me she’s travelled from God knows where especially to meet us.’
‘To meet us?’ David Morris repeated in bewilderment, staring uncomprehendingly at Rona.
‘We saved the explanations till we got here, to avoid going through them twice.’ Peter paused, also glancing at Rona. ‘I suppose I should introduce you, but I don’t know you either. Miss Parsons, did you say?’
‘Parish – Rona Parish. And I really am grateful for your time.’
His eyes flicked to her wedding ring. ‘What are you drinking, Mrs Parish?’
‘Vodka with Russchian if they have it. Otherwise, bitter lemon would be fine.’
He lifted an eyebrow and made his way to the bar. Rona turned to David Morris, who was staring at her appraisingly, and gave him a tentative smile. Her first impression was that both were older than she’d expected – foolish, now that she thought of it. But Mrs Powell had spoken of ‘the boys’, and that was how she’d continued to think of them, forgetting that they’d been boys – or young men – more than twenty years ago. The word ‘rugged’ applied to them both, she thought, and there was a decided family resemblance, both having thick fair hair and pale lashes over light-blue eyes. She guessed that David was the younger.
Peter reappeared, set glasses on the table, and seated himself. ‘You were in luck,’ he said shortly, ‘they had Russchian. Now, what the hell is this all about?’
Rona took a quick sip of her vodka, aware of two pairs of eyes intent on her face.
‘It’s about Gemma Grant,’ she said.
She looked quickly from one to the other, but if she’d been hoping for some reaction she was disappointed.
‘Who?’ they demanded in unison.
‘Gemma Grant,’ she repeated, less certainly. ‘From Stokely.’
‘Stokely?’ David exclaimed. ‘My God, you’re going back a bit, aren’t you? We left there twenty-five years ago.’
‘To go to Australia. Yes, I know.’
Peter’s eyes narrowed. ‘You seem to know a hell of a lot about us, young lady, without volunteering any information on yourself. And who the devil is Gemma Grant?’
Oh God, Rona thought. Right – they’d asked, so she’d give them a straight answer. ‘She was murdered,’ she said, adding above their involuntary exclamations, ‘twenty-five years ago.’
There was a pause. Then David said, ‘Let me get this clear: are you trying to imply there was some link between us?’
‘Surely you knew her?’ Rona asked with a touch of desperation. ‘At the tennis club, perhaps?’
‘Our game was cricket,’ Peter replied. ‘You say she was murdered: how, why, and by whom?’
‘I can only answer the first question: she was strangled in her bath.’ Rona braced herself, and added, ‘Her baby was in the next room.’
The baby’s existence wasn’t commented on. ‘You’re saying they never found who did it?’
‘No; she wasn’t married, and the baby’s father would have been the obvious suspect, except that—’
She broke off. This was harder than she’d anticipated.
‘Except?’ prompted David.
She took a deep breath. ‘Except that she said he’d emigrated to Australia without knowing she was pregnant.’
There was a deep, unfathomable silence, untouched by the noises of the room about them.
‘She told people it was one of us?’ Peter demanded incredulously.
‘No, she refused to name him.’
‘Well, it sure as hell wasn’t us,’ David said explosively. ‘We’ve never even heard of the girl. Anyway, this is ancient history. Why start digging it up now?’
‘Because her daughter – the baby who was in the flat at the time – is expecting her own baby, and wants to trace her father.’
‘Fair enough, but what in the name of charity put you on to us?’
‘I placed an ad in the local paper, asking about families who’d emigrated in ’78, and your name came up.’
‘And that’s all you’ve got to go on? On the strength of that, you come charging down here, accusing us of God knows what—’
‘I’m not accusing you of anything, Dr Morris. I just wanted to know what you remembered of Gemma, that’s all.’
‘And for that you came all the way from Stokely?’
‘Marsborough, actually, but yes.’
‘So what are you, a professional people-finder?’
‘No, I’m a writer. And don’t ask me why I got involved; I’ve been asking myself that, but it was through the offices of a mutual friend.’ Thanks again, Magda.
There was another silence, while the brothers exchanged glances and David helplessly lifted his shoulders. Then he said, ‘So tell us about this Gemma. What did she do, apart from play tennis?’
‘Actually, she didn’t even do that. She worked for local radio – a junior reporter. She was only twenty.’
‘Just a minute,’ Peter interrupted, putting a hand to his head. ‘Something’s beginning to come back to me.’ He turned to his brother. ‘Didn’t we give an interview to some reporter or other who came to the house? About why we were emigrating and what we were proposing to do in Oz?’
‘God, yes,’ David said slowly. ‘She turned out to be a patient of the old man’s. Rather pretty, as I recall.’
Rona’s mouth was dry. ‘That sounds like Gemma.’
‘Well, I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted journey. If that was her, we met her for an hour at most, and by “we” I mean the whole family. There was neither time nor opportunity, even if we’d had the inclination, for either of us to impregnate the girl.’
Another blind alley. Ridiculously, Rona felt close to tears. ‘Then I’m sorry to have troubled you.’ She started to rise, but Peter reached out and gently pushed her back on her chair. ‘Finish your drink, then I’ll run you back to where you’re staying.’
‘Really, there’s no need; I’ve already taken up too much of your time.’
‘No argument.’ He grinned, looking suddenly younger. ‘Wait till I tell Chrissie I was suspected of fathering a love child!’
Rona felt herself flush. ‘I do apologize, but by this stage I’m clutching at straws.’
She hastily finished her drink, and despite her protestations Peter Morris, telling his brother he’d be back in five minutes, drove her to her hotel – as it happened, only a couple of streets away.
‘I’m so sorry to have caused this upset,’ she said again, as he dropped her off. ‘Thanks for being so understanding.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be dining off this for years!’ He sobered. ‘Which doesn’t mean I’m not sorry about the girl; of course I am. It’s a ghastly thing to have happened. Good luck in your hunt.’
Back in her room, Rona phoned Max, who was preparing for his class. ‘It was a fiasco,’ she ended flatly. ‘Still, I suppose it’s another possibility ticked off.’
‘A long way to go for a tick!’ Max responded. ‘You sound tired, love. Just relax now, have a good night’s sleep, and I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Yes, Rona thought, kicking off her shoes, she was tired. She could not, she realized, be bothered to wash and change and go down to sit in solitary state in the restaurant. Instead, she’d order room service, and unwind with television.
First, though, for the record, she wrote up the interview with the Morrises while it was fresh in her mind. She hadn’t dared suggest recording it.
The evening passed lazily. She enjoyed her meal, and a little later had a leisurely bath. She’d left the television on, and came back into the bedroom as the ten o’clock news was starting. She decided to watch it, and then go to bed.
Half-listening to reports from around the world, she stacked her supper things on the tray and put it, as requested, outside her door. As she closed and locked it behind her, there was a subtle change in the announcer’s voice.
‘The television interviewer Selina O’Toole is fighting for her life tonight after falling under a bus in Oxford Circus during the rush hour. The kerb was crowded with commuters at the time, and witnesses say she appeared to stumble and fall forward as the bus approached. There has been no official bulletin, but we understand her condition is critical.
‘Selina O’Toole began her career—’
Rona heard no more. Stumbling across the room, she half fell on to the bed and stared disbelievingly at the photograph filling the screen, of a Selina vividly, vibrantly, alive. No, she thought, unconsciously shaking her head from side to side, no – there must be some mistake. She hadn’t caught the name of the hospital, but it would in any case be useless to phone. For one thing it was too soon, and for another, information is never passed to outsiders.
Carefully, as though it were she herself who’d been injured, Rona lay back against the pillows and pulled the turned-down sheet over her. She lay unmoving until the news finished, but although the incident was repeated in the closing headlines, there was no further information. Automatically, she reached first for the remote control and then for the light switch. If only, she thought as the room plunged into darkness, she could switch off her thoughts as easily.