March 2018
The police officer behind the front desk – a tall chap with frizzy fair hair and a sharp nose – was approachable. He took down my details, and I explained how Inspector Smyth of the Hertfordshire Constabulary suggested I come.
‘Take a seat,’ he said. ‘Someone will be with you shortly, Miss Hogan.’
I perched on the edge of the chair. Waiting. Practising what I wanted to say in my head, fiddling with my fingers. Taking my phone out of my bag. Turning it over and over in my hands. Putting it back.
I’ve received strange friend requests on Facebook, and two of those people are dead. In fact, Henry Derby called me before he died.
I took the journal from my bag, flicked through the pages, barely taking in the words.
And someone’s been following me – watching me. They ran me off the road when I was in Ireland.
I shoved the journal back in my bag, catching sight of the plastic bag with the cigarette butt inside that I’d found at Mum’s house. Why had I brought it with me? Why had I picked it up in the first place? Would they be able to find DNA on it to match a criminal?
There are two Mr Snookums. A gnome. A strange painting. Odd calls.
And something terrible happened at Evermore Farmhouse.
I know it did. I know it did.
It’s all connected. It’s all connected.
Anxiety consumed me, and a tremble spread through my body. The waiting area seemed to shrink, closing me in. The cop was busy talking on the phone. He smiled my way, his features blurring. Jeez, I’m losing it big time.
I looked at the door to the offices. Police officers had come through it since I’d been sitting there, but none looked my way.
They think I’m wasting their time.
They think I’m crazy.
I knew by the up-scaling of my heartbeat, and the way words jumped about my head making no sense at all, that I would come across delusional at best.
I rose, trying to control my erratic breathing, and pounded my way to the door, stealing a glance over my shoulder just once. The police officer now had his back to me.
Outside, I took a long deep breath. I needed clarity in the chaos and confusion. Something I could find an answer to.
I found a bench and sat with my head in my hands for ten minutes, before deciding to call Jude Henshaw. A DNA test would at least resolve that mystery. And if he turns out to be my father, he may support me through this awful time.
He sounded happy to hear from me, and I wondered, just for a moment, what it would be like if he was my father. I’d never had a paternal figure in my life, and often, especially around the age of eight or nine, I’d imagined him turning up, and my mum falling into his arms, and saying she loved him. And he would say he’d never stopped loving her. He would ruffle my hair, and hug me so close I would almost burst. And then he would bring an Ipswich Town Football Club signed football from behind his broad back, and suggest we go outside and have a kick about – somehow, in my fantasy, he’d known I was a tomboy.
‘Love you, kiddo,’ he would say.
‘Love you more, Dad.’
And then he would vanish – never there at all, and, once more, it would be Mum and me against the world.
***
I met Jude at 11 a.m. at King’s Cross Station. He’d booked an appointment, and insisted on paying.
‘Dresden Clinic has fitted us in,’ he explained as we forced our way through the London crowds. ‘They’ve said we’ll get the results quite quickly. I don’t know about you,’ he went on with a smile that reached his grey eyes. ‘But I’m positive it will be a match.’
Why did he want me to be his daughter so much? Guilt? The fact he’d never had children? Loneliness? I smiled back, unsure what to say or how to feel.
From there our conversation was limited to films we’d both seen, music we liked, and I was relieved when he stopped at the foot of six white steps leading to a Georgian building, with a gold sign on the wall.
‘Well, here we are,’ he said, throwing me a warm smile.
Inside was elegant and minimalistic, and we sat in a small, brightly lit room. I took out my Kindle, reluctant to talk, but we were called within minutes. It didn’t take long for a woman to take a swab from inside my mouth – a tiny sample that would tell me if Jude Henshaw was my father; a swab that could change our lives.
Outside again, we stood at the foot of the white steps, and Jude pulled out an e-cigarette and began puffing on it, the aroma of strawberries reaching my nostrils. ‘Fancy a coffee?’ he asked. ‘Something to eat?’
I shook my head. I was beginning to like him, and the thought of getting to know him better, only to be told he wasn’t my father, wasn’t an option.
‘Let’s wait for the results first, shall we?’ I said, turning to walk away.
‘Yes, you’re probably right.’ His voice was low and sad, but I kept walking, heading towards the tube.
‘I’ll call you,’ I said, but I didn’t look back.
Could he be my father? I was annoyed that my pulse fluttered at the thought, as though I was the child I once was. But I knew it would be a mistake to let him in too soon.
The train thundered along the Northern Line, the carriage crowded with nameless people. My head felt heavy and woozy, but I didn’t want to go home. I wanted to wander around London – a stranger in a city full of strangers. I needed to lose myself.
Lawrence had called the night before, saying he would keep Grace for another day, adding I sounded weepy and fragile. He was right, of course, but I had so wanted her back, to hold her in my arms and never let go. I missed her so much. But he’d convinced me it was better that way. ‘Just until you get your act together, Rach,’ he’d added.
As I left the underground at Angel, I pulled out my phone and called Zoe, hoping she might meet me for lunch, but it went straight to voicemail. I didn’t leave a message. Instead I made my way along Upper Street, where she’d told me her salon was. I wanted to surprise her, and felt sure she wouldn’t mind if I popped in unannounced. I trudged the length of the busy street, but when I reached the number she’d given me a while back, it was a café.
I spun on the spot, as though I expected the salon to be there once I’d turned full circle on the pavement. Maybe I’d jotted it down wrong. Feeling bewildered, I ventured into the caféand grabbed a coffee, before heading for a table in the corner. I tried Zoe’s number once more. Again, it went to voicemail.
‘Hey, it’s me,’ I said. ‘I’m in Café Nero. I may be being a bit of a doughnut, but I can’t find your salon. You did say 75 Upper Street, didn’t you? Anyway, if you’re free for lunch, I’m your gal. Call me!’ I ended the call, and sipped my drink, lost in thought as sirens wailed and shoppers scurried by. Yes, London was the perfect place to get lost.
Later, as I made my way back along Upper Street towards the underground, I remembered Marcus McCutcheon telling me his daughter had a shop in Islington. I stopped and scanned the row of shops opposite, but I couldn’t see anywhere called ‘Yolanda’s Heaven’. I carried on walking, keeping alert in case I saw it.
It was a few minutes later I spotted it on the other side of the road. ‘Yes!’ I muttered, as though I’d found lost treasure. I pressed the button on the first set of traffic lights I came to, curious to meet Yolanda McCutcheon.