The Secret Mother Page 10

  The microwave pings. I pour myself a glass of water, dump the arrabiata into a bowl and grab a fork from the drawer. I could carry on sitting here in a simmering rage, or I could try to take my mind off her. I decide to go and watch some TV, though not the news.

  I head into the living room and turn on the side lights. I thought I was too angry to worry about the press, but there are slight gaps in the blinds that a long lens could see through, so I turn them off again, annoyed that I care. In the semi-darkness I place my water and pasta on the arm of the sofa, snatch up the remote and flick on the TV.

  Thursday night… I try to think what’s on the telly on Thursdays, what I could watch to distract me from my life. The screen lights up and I freeze. There, on the TV, is a picture of Harry. With trembling fingers, I press pause. A head-and-shoulders shot of him wearing his school uniform – a striped private-school-type blazer and tie. He’s smiling, his sweet face so open and happy, his brown curls gleaming.

  So they’ve discovered his identity.

  I gaze at the image for a moment, scared to unpause the television in case they say something bad. Something I won’t be able to handle.

  My thumb hovers over the play button. I press it. A news presenter is speaking:

  ‘The mystery child, whose name we now know is Harry Fisher, has finally been reunited with his father in Dorset. The boy first came to our attention earlier this week when he was discovered in the home of Tessa Markham, a gardener who lives and works in the London Borough of Barnet.’

  Harry’s picture is replaced by that awful image taken of me earlier in the week. I’m coming out of my house in my work clothes and I look grumpy, disorientated and pale – exactly how you’d imagine a mad child abductor to look.

  ‘Ms Markham has previously been under investigation for snatching a three-month-old infant, but no charges were ever brought.’

  I clench my jaw at their selective description of me. My photo disappears from the screen, thank goodness, and is replaced by footage of a news reporter speaking from outside what looks like a Georgian farmhouse set on a country road. Maybe that’s the house where Harry lives. Dorset, though – that’s miles away, isn’t it? I think I went there once on a family holiday when I was younger.

  ‘Harry’s family have declined to be interviewed at this stage, but in a statement to the press, his father, Dr James Fisher, commented: “As you can imagine, it’s been a very stressful time. I’m relieved and happy to have Harry safely back home where he belongs.”’

  A black-and-white newspaper cutting fills the screen. It shows a man in a dinner jacket at some kind of black-tie event. He looks as though he’s in his forties. He has a beard and is wearing glasses. I’m guessing this is Harry’s father. For a second or two I’m sure he looks familiar. But he’s Harry’s father, so there’s bound to be some resemblance.

  ‘Sadly, Harry’s mother died in October 2017 from an aggressive form of stomach cancer, which makes the five-year-old’s return home to his widowed father doubly special. It’s remarkable to have a happy ending to this mystery that has had the nation gripped for so many days.’

  The story ends and they move on to a piece about a local school closure. I know I said to myself that I didn’t want to watch the news, but I’m desperate to see if there’s any further information about Harry. I flip through the channels while absent-mindedly eating forkfuls of pasta, chewing without tasting. Finally, I reach another news channel, but they’re discussing politics. I keep going until I’ve checked out every station. There’s nothing more on the story, I’ll have to wait until the nine o’clock news. I turn off the television, knowing I’ll be unable to concentrate on watching anything else, and finish up my pasta.

  That news report was frustratingly low on facts. There’s so much that still doesn’t make sense. How did Fisher’s son end up here in London? How and why did he get to my house? Why did it take so long to reunite them?

  I jerk my head up as a car door slams out the front. Then another. Engines slow down and speed up again. The babble and chatter from the press seems to have grown in the last few minutes. I sidle over to the edge of the window and peer out: there are loads of them out there. Now that Harry is back with his father, I foolishly thought the media might leave me alone, but it looks like they’re more interested in me than ever.

  I creep back to the sofa and sit in the unlit room, sipping from my glass of water. There’s something still nagging at me about the boy’s father, but I can’t think what. That picture of him… He really did look familiar. How can that be? I don’t know anyone in Dorset, do I? I do a mental scroll-through of everyone I know – friends, work colleagues, family – but I can’t think of any ties to the county.

  A chill sweeps across my shoulders and down my spine as another unwelcome thought comes to me. One I’ve been trying to push away all week. But it keeps coming back, tapping on my forehead and pushing at my chest. Because there really is only one explanation that makes any sense, even if I don’t want to acknowledge it.

  What if the reason I recognise Fisher is because I’ve seen him before? What if I’m actually losing my mind? What if I did abduct Harry?

  Chapter Fifteen

  I dismiss the thought almost as soon as I think it. I couldn’t have taken Harry – I don’t have a car, I haven’t been to Dorset in years. I was working last Saturday and I visited the cemetery on Sunday. If I had somehow subconsciously snatched a child, why would I go all the way to Dorset to do it? And Harry himself said that ‘the angel’ had brought him here. Whoever the angel was, he certainly didn’t think it was me.

  None of it makes any sense.

  My whole body is suddenly heavy with exhaustion. I wasn’t looking forward to my day off tomorrow, but right now I think I’m going to need it. After my earlier shopping trip, I now have everything I need for a day at home. I’m going to get an early night and lie in until midday. I’ll make myself breakfast and take it back to bed with a book.

  And then I remember that the window in my bedroom is boarded up. That there’s still a draught whistling through it. That it feels damp and strange and unwelcome up there. I could sleep in Sam’s room again, I suppose, but the bed is too small, the memories too raw. The sofa in here is pretty comfy, but how could I sleep so close to the rabble outside? I wouldn’t be able to relax. I have this house to myself, but nowhere in it feels like home, apart from maybe the kitchen, but I can hardly sleep in there. I tug my boots off, pull my legs up under myself and close my eyes.

  Next thing I know, I’m woken by the doorbell. I force my eyes open. Light streams in through the slats in the blinds. The sun is shining out there. How long have I been asleep? I uncurl and stretch. The doorbell chimes again. I could ignore it, but what if it’s Scott, or someone else I know? My mouth tastes stale. I run my tongue over my teeth and drain last night’s glass of icy water.

  Rubbing my scratchy eyes, I get to my feet and inch over to the window, peering through to the front doorstep. My hackles rise when I see who it is. Ugh. She’s the last person I feel like talking to. Maybe if I ignore her, she’ll go away.

  The bell rings again and there’s a sharp rapping on the door. This is harassment. I would call the police, but I’ve seen enough of them lately. I stride into the hall, crouch down and open the letter box.

  ‘Piss off, Carly,’ I call out as the sharp morning air flows inwards, making me shiver.

  ‘Tessa, can you open the door?’

  Too late, I realise I should have pretended not to be in. Now she and the rest of them will know I’m holed up in here. ‘Go away,’ I cry. Aside from anything else, I must look and smell a total fright. I fell asleep in my work clothes last night. I need a shower. I can’t let the immaculate Carly see me looking like this.

  She bends down to the letter box so that we’re now eye to eye. ‘Tessa, I know I overstepped the mark, but I’ve got some information. Something that could clear your name once and for all.’

  Overstepped the mark? That�
�s an understatement. I snort. It has to be a trick, a ruse to get my attention.

  ‘Look,’ she says. ‘I get it, you’re annoyed with me. That’s fine. But this time, I really think you need to hear me out.’

  ‘I don’t need to do anything, Carly. It’s my day off, I just want to be left alone.’

  ‘I’ve got something to tell you… about the case.’

  I weaken. If she’s telling the truth, I’d be stupid not to hear her out. ‘This had better not be some trick to worm your way inside and harass me. I’m not giving you a story so you can twist it.’

  ‘I promise you, Tessa. You’ll want to hear what I’ve got to say.’

  I hesitate. Can I trust her? Probably not. But if the worst comes to the worst, I can always kick her out.

  ‘Look,’ she says, ‘do you want to find out what’s really going on? Do you want to clear your name with the public?’

  I straighten up, wipe the sleep from my eyes and run my fingers through my tangled hair. Positioning myself behind the door so the rest of the press can’t see me, I open it a crack, shivering as a chilly breeze gusts into the hall. ‘Come in quickly, then.’

  The whirr of cameras goes off behind her as they catch sight of me letting her in. She squeezes through the gap in the door and I slam it closed behind her, muffling the shouts from outside. Carly glances around before landing her gaze on me. I see her take in my dishevelled appearance, but to her credit she doesn’t pass comment. She’s beautifully turned out, as usual, in a navy wool dress, knee-length boots and a smart brown leather jacket.

  ‘I need coffee,’ I say. ‘We’ll go in the kitchen.’

  She follows me down the hall and takes a seat at the kitchen table without being asked.

  My one luxury is our Nespresso machine. I suppose I’d better offer her a drink, too, but it irks me to do so. She definitely doesn’t deserve one. ‘Coffee? Tea?’

  ‘A black coffee would be great,’ she says, rubbing her hands together to warm them.

  I turn my back to her and make our drinks; the noise of the machine is too loud for us to have a conversation without raising our voices, so we wait. Once the coffees are ready, I turn back around and join her at the table.

  ‘This is like old times,’ she says. ‘Haven’t been over here in ages.’

  ‘So?’ I say, plonking her drink in front of her and taking a sip from mine. ‘What’s this information you’ve got?’

  ‘Well,’ she says, tilting her head and eyeing me over the top of her cup. ‘The thing is, there’s more to this story than I originally thought.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Carly, it’s not a “story”. It’s people’s lives, my life.’

  ‘Sure. Yeah, of course.’

  I glare at her, trying to suppress the quivering anger suffusing my body. This self-important cow has contributed to one of the most terrifying and stressful weeks of my life, and she has the nerve to sit at my kitchen table all calm and composed like I’m making a big deal over nothing.

  ‘You know what I mean,’ she adds.

  ‘But do you know what I mean, Carly?’ I say, banging my mug down on the table, slopping hot coffee over my hand. ‘You obviously sold a story to the press that had nothing to do with facts, and everything to do with making a name for yourself. You implied that I was guilty of taking Harry purely because I was accused of doing a similar thing after my son died. But the thing is, I’m not guilty of anything. The police didn’t charge me. And yet you, in your ambitious, tawdry little world, you thought it was perfectly okay to sling mud, knowing it would stick and stink. Knowing my life would be made unbearable. But you didn’t care, you didn’t give a damn. You still don’t.’ My voice is quivering with anger.

  Carly sips her coffee, unruffled, waiting for me to finish. This makes me want to yell at her even more, to elicit an apology, or even an acknowledgement, but she’s not biting.

  ‘Well?’ I say.

  ‘Look,’ she replies. ‘It’s just my job, Tessa. It’s not personal.’

  ‘That’s not an excuse! You’re a human being, aren’t you? You live across the road from me. You can see what your “job” has resulted in. Me being persecuted. Me almost losing my job. Not to mention the fact that Scott’s life is also being turned upside down by the press.’

  ‘He’s with someone else now, isn’t he?’ she says.

  An image of Ellie’s doll-like face flashes up in my mind. In my head I’m screaming, but in reality I simply sigh, too exhausted to shout any more. ‘Just tell me what it is you want to say, and then I’d like you to leave.’

  ‘Okay.’ Carly steeples her fingers together, and I notice she’s wearing some really nice silver stacking rings. They look like the kind of jewellery I’d have worn if my life had turned out differently. ‘Like I said,’ she continues, ‘I think there’s more to this… situation than I thought.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I’m not exactly sure what’s going on yet, but I don’t trust James Fisher.’

  ‘Harry’s father? Why not?’

  ‘I’ve got a friend who works on the local police switchboard,’ she says, ‘and he heard from someone on the Dorset switchboard that Fisher took four days to report his son’s disappearance. Four days. Don’t you think that’s odd?’

  A friend on the inside? So that’s how Harry’s story was leaked. I should bloody well report Carly to someone.

  Her face becomes more animated now. ‘Fisher’s reasons for not coming forward sooner are really shaky. I went down to Cranborne yesterday – that place is in the back of beyond. I thought I’d been teleported back in time fifty years.’

  ‘Cranborne?’ I interrupt. ‘Is that in Dorset?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s where Fisher and his son live,’ she says.

  ‘You went there? Why?’

  ‘I tried to talk to him, but he wouldn’t speak to me. Wouldn’t even open the door. He won’t talk to any of the papers. He’s locked himself up in his house with Harry.’

  ‘Well,’ I say. ‘You can’t really blame him for that. It’s pretty intimidating having a load of press camped out on your doorstep.’

  ‘Point taken. But it still doesn’t explain why he left it so long to go to the police. I mean, think about it – your five-year-old son goes missing. You can’t find him. You search for maybe twenty minutes and then you start really freaking out and so you call the police. At a stretch, maybe it takes you an hour or two to call them. It certainly doesn’t take four days.’

  I find myself nodding. ‘That is strange.’

  ‘I know, right? So, I managed to track down his old housekeeper. She lives here in London. But she wouldn’t speak to me either.’

  ‘What’s she got to do with anything?’

  ‘Well, for one thing, she worked for the Fishers for years, so she knows them. She might be able to give me the low-down. And also, Fisher sacked her after his wife died. Maybe she has a grudge against the family. Maybe she knows something interesting. It would be worth talking to her, don’t you think?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘No suppose about it. I think the woman’s hiding something.’

  ‘But if she won’t talk to you, how are you going to find out?’ I ask.

  ‘We-ell…’ Carly drums her navy-painted nails on the tabletop. ‘She won’t speak to me, but maybe she’ll speak to you.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘Me?’ I say. ‘What makes you think she’ll talk to me? My face is plastered all over the papers. If Fisher’s ex-housekeeper believes half of what’s been written, she probably thinks I’m the devil.’

  ‘I disagree,’ Carly says.

  ‘Of course you do.’

  ‘No, I just mean she might know what’s really going on here.’

  ‘So you admit that your story is a complete fabrication,’ I say.

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ Carly replies, sitting up straighter in her seat. ‘I meant that if she knows what’s going on, she won’t be worried about what’s in the paper
s.’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ I say, crossing my arms grumpily. ‘And anyway, I thought you said she’d left her job. She’ll be out of the loop, won’t she?’

  ‘Well, we won’t know unless we ask,’ Carly says. ‘Nothing to lose, and all that.’

  She’s got a point, but I’m reluctant to be guided by my sneaky neighbour. Not after what she’s just put me through.

  ‘Look, what’s the worst that can happen?’ Carly adds airily. ‘She sends you away, refuses to talk to you. You’ve wasted a couple of hours. What else have you got going on in your life?’

  ‘Cheers,’ I say.

  To her credit, her face colours. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant—’

  ‘Relax, it’s fine. I know my life is a pathetic void.’

  ‘Now you’re just feeling sorry for yourself.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘So, are you going to go and see her?’ Carly asks, draining her coffee and putting her cup back down with a clunk on the table.

  ‘Not sure. How would I get past that lot out there? They’d follow me.’

  ‘Leave that to me,’ she says with a half-smile.

  * * *

  One hour later, I’m washed, dressed and breakfasted, and feel almost like a new person. Or if not new, then at least not like the unsavoury hobo I was impersonating earlier. I have my phone, my keys and my handbag. I’m loitering in the hallway, pretty much ready to go. A quick glance at my wristwatch tells me Carly should be ready by now. I send her a text to say I’ll be walking out the front door in exactly sixty seconds.

  My heart clatters against my ribcage. Why am I doing this? I tell myself not to be a wimp. Those journalists out there are just people. They won’t hurt me, will they? I check my watch – thirty seconds to go. Carly had better not let me down.