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Alan Hemmings was sitting in the corner of the pub, staring into the open log fire and sipping an orange juice when Jonathan walked in. Alan was a tall man, with a lantern jaw; naturally slim, but even from the doorway Jonathan could see how much weight he’d lost, almost as much as Sam.
Alan looked up and smiled flatly. Jonathan held out his hand, which Alan shook in that fatigued way he recognised as a sign of depression or defeat. He thought of Michelle, of Rachel, and of Liam’s forlorn posture at the trial. The ramifications of the loss of a child travelled deep and, like a stubborn stain, would never leave. They might fade with time, but the damage from working to get rid of the mark would remain visible forever.
‘Hi Jonathan, nice to meet you again.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Can only stay an hour – Margaret doesn’t know I’ve nipped out.’
Jonathan studied Rachel’s dad, remembering his last meeting with him; on the day of the sentencing, with Margaret at Rachel’s house. Christ, that had been painful. Though enlightening. Now he knew a little about Margaret Hemmings, he was surprised she’d revealed her skeleton while he’d been in the room, and hadn’t insisted that he leave before talking. Margaret had been on a mission to get the visit out of the way, although he doubted she would have revealed about Hemmings without Alan’s pushing. He guessed it was rare for Alan to go against his wife’s wishes.
‘It’s good of you to meet me,’ Jonathan said.
Alan seemed to study Jonathan. ‘Rachel likes you.’ He paused. ‘A lot, I think.’
‘The feeling’s mutual. We go back a fair way.’
‘It’s nice to get out the house.’ Alan paused again. ‘If you know what I mean?’
‘You not working?’
‘Finally retired. Should have done years ago.’
‘Enjoying it?’ Jonathan thought not.
‘It’s a new thing, only decided just before Christmas.’
‘You need a hobby.’
‘I do.’ He rubbed thin, chiffony hands together as if he were attempting to get rid of something. ‘Get out from underneath Margaret’s feet.’ He put his juice on the table, his hand shaking a little, and the liquid flowed over the edge. ‘I didn’t tell Margaret I was meeting you. Are you here to ask about Michael? I know about the tribunal review, his whistleblowing. Rachel told me last time I saw her. Are you after a story? About us? Michael?’ He faltered. ‘Rachel said you wouldn’t bother us ... or her. But you’re here?’
‘Why did you agree to come if that’s what you thought?’
‘Because I know Rachel trusts you.’
‘When was the last time you saw her?’
‘Just before Christmas, after she resigned her job.’
‘Were you surprised she resigned?’
‘I was, yes. I knew she was enjoying being back.’ He paused, trying to stop rubbing his hands, and placed them underneath his thighs. ‘As much as she can enjoy anything.’
‘I guess she told you she was going away: no phone, no computer.’
‘Yes, she did tell me.’
‘She’s still away. It was seven weeks ago. Have you heard from her?’
‘No, I haven’t, but...’
‘What?’
Alan shuffled forwards in his chair, skinny knees falling outwards. ‘Unsure if she will call me ... to be honest.’
‘You two are close. Why wouldn’t she get in touch with you?’
‘We’ve drifted.’ He stopped talking, his eyes moving towards the flames of the fire.
Jonathan sensed the reason Alan had agreed to meet him was to talk. Even if it was to a journalist. He wondered if Alan Hemmings had any friends. He wondered what his life was like with Margaret. Jonathan didn’t like to imagine being married to Margaret. In fact, the thought even flashed through his mind that having no parents might be a good thing.
That wasn’t true, though. He had been only seven when his mum and dad had been killed, but still he softened into an unbearable melancholy at the smell of lily of the valley and the sound of Match of the Day, both reminding him of childhood, home and his parents. Their deaths had changed his destiny. He knew that as surely as he knew that Rachel was in trouble. Their sudden deaths had sensitised him to the world and to other people. It’s what set him apart from most journalists. Harry had told him that one night a few months after he’d joined the paper. Jonathan had a stronger than average sense of people’s lives, their motivations, and he was able to translate his understanding concisely and entertainingly into rounded articles.
‘Since Joe, things have been difficult between you and Rachel?’ he said. ‘Why, Alan?’
‘You were there. The Michael thing. I wanted to tell Rachel years ago but Margaret didn’t want me to, so I didn’t.’
‘You didn’t want to upset Margaret?’
‘No.’ He watched Jonathan, the rims of his eyes red, his jaw hanging in desolation. ‘I never wanted to upset Margaret, at the expense of my daughter’s happiness, often. I regret that now, but it’s too late.’
‘It’s never too late.’
Alan seemed not to hear. ‘She didn’t want to marry me. No idea why she did. I was so grateful. I adored her. So clever. So together. Not like me.’ He took a sharp intake of breath. ‘I was child number one of the family. The first born...’
Jonathan shrugged a question.
‘Number three died in a river accident. Left Sam and I. Sam was the middle brother, and not the one who’d been at the river and failed to save our younger brother.’ He seemed to choke. ‘That was me.’
Jonathan was unsure how to answer and felt as if Alan didn’t need a response. He only needed to make a confession. ‘What do you mean, Alan?’ he said gently. “‘At the expense of my daughter’s happiness?’”
‘Margaret was never a great mother to Rachel. I knew she missed Michael. Truth was, we thought we couldn’t have a child, and by the time she got pregnant with Rachel, I don’t think she wanted one. I knew that she missed having an older boy around. I stuck up too much for Margaret, I did. With too many things, too many things I didn’t question. I didn’t want her to leave me. Did as much as I could to make Rachel’s life nice but she knew, Rachel knew. God knows what I’ve done.’
‘What did Rachel know?’
‘That Margaret sometimes did things in the heat of the moment.’
‘Like what?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I have to go.’
‘You haven’t finished your drink. Did Margaret ever hurt Rachel?’
Alan sank back into the chair, crossed his legs, his arms. Completely defensive body language. ‘Not purposely, never deliberately.’
‘Does Margaret have a temper?’
‘She does, always has.’
‘And what about Joe? How was she with Joe?’
‘Rachel would only allow Joe to stay if I was around and, as you picked up, I wasn’t around the day Michael came to visit.’ He looked at Jonathan. ‘I shouldn’t have gone into work that day. I let Rachel down.’
Many things were becoming clearer to Jonathan. ‘Rachel needs you more now than ever before.’
‘Do you know where she is?’ Alan asked.
‘No, that’s why I’m here. No one else seems to be worried about her.’ He paused. ‘Including you.’
‘I’d like to talk to her.’
‘I’d like to know where she is.’
Alan lumbered up. ‘Do you have any ideas about where she might be?’
‘A few.’
‘Call me when you know something.’ Alan Hemmings seemed sure that Jonathan would find her.
‘I will definitely do that, Alan.’ Jonathan looked up and met his eyes.
‘I do need to go. Margaret will be wondering where I am.’
Alan Hemmings looked completely defeated.
‘I’ll find her. And Alan, you and Rachel should try and talk. It’ll help both of you.’
‘Yes, I will, and it would.’ He hesitated and peered at Jonathan. ‘When you find her, tell her I’m sorry.’ And then the older man stumbled towards the door to return to his wife.
Jonathan stared at Alan’s half-empty glass. He took it to the bar and placed it on the counter, watching as the sediment of the drink finally settled.
‘Thanks, mate,’ the barman said. ‘Can I get you anything?’
‘A pint please,’ Jonathan said, ‘and a packet of cheese and onion if you have them.’
He sat down heavily on the barstool.
The barman put the pint and the crisps in front of him. ‘Looks like you could do with something stronger, mate.’
Jonathan smiled thinly. ‘Later, maybe.’
He thought about Margaret, Alan, Bridget and Sam. He needed to chase up the ferreting on Margaret Hemmings.
He also needed some time off work.