The Secret Mother Page 11

  Twenty seconds.

  Ten.

  I turn the knob on the front door, tensing up as I ease it open a crack. I peer further up the road, but it’s empty. I’ll give it another ten seconds, just to be on the safe side. Then I spy the glint of her red car. It gives me the boost of confidence I need to yank open the door, step out into the lemony sunshine and stride down the frosty path towards the mob.

  ‘Tessa!’

  ‘Tessa, love!’

  ‘Are you going to work?’

  ‘Do you know James Fisher? Did he contact you after what happened? Is he pressing charges?’

  ‘Give us a couple of minutes of your time, Tessa!’

  I keep my head down, open the gate and barge through them, their collective breath hovering about me like a shroud in the icy air. I listen for the sound of the car engine coming closer. But there are so many journalists surrounding me, in my face, yelling, clamouring for me to look up, to speak, to give them what they want, that I can’t see or hear anything from the road behind them.

  A car horn honks, long and loud. The press turn as one for the briefest of moments, giving me time to slip between their warmly wrapped bodies, under arms and around cameras until I reach the bright red Fiat idling in the middle of the road. I dart around to the passenger side just as Carly flings open the door. I slide in, slam the door and tug down on the seat belt.

  Carly presses on the accelerator and floors it down the road. We’re both panting and, to my surprise, laughing.

  ‘That was insane,’ she cries, throwing the car into second as we screech round the corner. ‘Check behind us. Is anyone following? Any cars or motorbikes?’

  ‘Nothing yet,’ I say, still out of breath.

  ‘Ha!’ she crows. ‘That lot will hate me now.’

  ‘Because you’ve driven off with me?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah. Sorry, bit of professional rivalry there,’ she says.

  ‘That isn’t why you’re doing this, is it? You didn’t lie about—’

  ‘No, no. Don’t worry, their jealousy is just a bonus.’

  I shake my head. She really is something else. What must it be like to be that devoted to your career? To be so snarled up in it you don’t know where you end and it begins? I glance sideways at her. My strange neighbour. She’s humming something, but I can’t make out the tune. Such a striking face – high cheekbones, cat-like eyes – but somehow the whole effect is harsh, like a brittle veneer is covering her skin. I give my head a shake; it must be the lack of a proper night’s sleep making me have these odd thoughts.

  ‘Sorry I can’t drop you at her place,’ she says, ‘but I’ve got a meeting with an editor in an hour.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I say, wondering if her meeting is about me. ‘Now that I’m away from the rest of the press, I can relax a bit. Just drop me at the Tube station.’

  ‘Let me know how you get on,’ she says. ‘And Tessa, don’t be meek and mild. If that woman knows something, she should damn well give you answers. Guilt-trip her into it if you need to.’

  I raise my eyebrows. That’s easy for her to say – she asks questions for a living. ‘I’m not guilt-tripping anyone,’ I retort.

  ‘You’ve got an opportunity to get some answers,’ she says. ‘Don’t blow it.’

  ‘God, you’re relentless,’ I say.

  She grins. ‘Yep, you know me.’ She puts on her left blinker. ‘Okay, I’m not supposed to stop here, so jump out quickly. I don’t want a ticket.’

  I do as she asks, stepping out onto the busy pavement outside the Tube station. I bend down to push the door closed.

  ‘Be forceful, Tessa,’ she calls out. ‘And don’t forget to text me afterwards.’

  ‘Right.’ I slam the car door and watch her motor away, merging with the rolling traffic, the sunlight glinting off the cars, making me squint and turn away.

  * * *

  It’s already 10.15 as I alight from the Tube onto the platform at Turnpike Lane, clutching the folded piece of paper that Carly handed me earlier. On it is written an address and a name. Even Carly’s handwriting looks like a newspaper headline. Black ink. Thick block capitals. Definite. Unequivocal. No room for error. Exactly the sort of handwriting I’d expect from someone like Carly Dean. But maybe she’s furnished me with a lifeline here. Maybe this housekeeper woman will give me some answers about Harry and how he ended up at my house. Maybe she’ll tell me something that will remove all suspicion from my name. I can only hope.

  I step out of the station onto a wide expanse of pavement that looks as though the planners started out with the grand idea of making it into a piazza, but gave up halfway through. A couple of leafless trees stand off to the side next to a lone bench, a black-and-gold bin, some electricity boxes and a few bike racks. I stand for a moment to get my bearings, unfolding the scrap of paper and checking the address again, even though I’ve already googled and memorised it. I stare around at the criss-crossing roads and pavements, at the sweep and rumble of four-lane Friday traffic, and set off across an impossibly wide road towards a parade of shops.

  A short while later, I’m standing in front of a peeling orange door set back between a sandwich bar and a betting shop. There are two buzzers – one with the name S. Lewis, the other with no name. I press the blank one and wait. Ten seconds later, a woman’s voice comes through the intercom.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Is that Merida Flores?’

  ‘Who is this?’ Her voice sounds faintly accented.

  ‘My name is Tessa Markham. I was wondering… can I have a quick word?’

  The static through the intercom disappears.

  ‘Hello?’ I say, knowing she’s taken her finger off the button and can’t hear me any longer. ‘Hello?’ I press the buzzer again and wait for a few moments. Then I step back and crane my neck to peer up at the bay window of the flat above the betting shop. I catch my breath as the curtain inches back and a woman stares down at me. Our eyes lock.

  My hand flies to my mouth as I realise I know her: it’s the same woman I’ve been seeing everywhere. She immediately twitches the curtain closed again. Why has Fisher’s ex-housekeeper been following me? There must be something she wants to talk about. Why else would she be interested in me? Maybe she’s scared. How can I get her to let me into her flat?

  I step back up to the door and press the buzzer once more. There’s no response. I think back to what Carly told me – to be forceful and not to blow it – but I can’t stand here harassing the woman. Having been subjected to that myself, I know how awful it feels. Still, I now get the feeling that Merida Flores knows what’s going on. That she wants to talk to me but something is preventing her. Only question is – what? Or who?

  An idea comes to me and I press the buzzer one more time.

  No response.

  I press it again.

  ‘Yes?’ It’s her.

  I catch my breath. ‘Hello. Look, I’m going to go to the café down the road. The Costa opposite the Tube station. I’ll wait there for one hour. Please come and meet me there. Please.’

  She doesn’t reply. The static over the intercom disappears. Did she hear what I said? Is she going to come and speak to me?

  Chapter Seventeen

  I make my way back along the pavement to the café, the chill December wind barrelling me down the street and sweeping me across the road. It’s liberating to walk without having to look over my shoulder, although I’m not quite confident enough to risk being out in public without my woolly hat pulled down low by way of disguise. If I can keep from being recognised, it will be a novelty to sit and relax in a place without feeling under siege from the media. Will Fisher’s ex-housekeeper come to meet me? I hope so. Maybe she’ll feel more comfortable on neutral ground.

  I push open the door to the coffee shop and step inside, enjoying the smells of cinnamon and coffee, the warmth from the hot air vents, the chatter of strangers. After queuing for a few minutes, I order an Americano, recklessly add
an almond croissant, and find a seat away from the window. The croissant is warm and sweet. I lick icing sugar off my lips and take a sip of the scalding coffee, allowing my mind to go blank for a few blissful minutes. Enjoying this moment of respite. Willing my thoughts to keep away. But I can’t stop myself from glancing up every time the door opens. From peering through the window to see if Merida Flores will walk past. With a jolt, I wonder if there’s another Costa on another road, opposite a different Tube exit. I quickly google my location, but this appears to be the only one in the vicinity.

  Half an hour goes by. I order another coffee. Too soon, an hour has passed. It’s clear she isn’t coming.

  My phone buzzes in my bag. I wipe my hands on a napkin and fish out my mobile. It’s a text from Carly.

  Well?

  I sigh and tap in a reply.

  No good. She wouldn’t talk to me.

  Go back and try again.

  There’s no point.

  Well, that was a giant waste of time.

  I don’t reply. What can I say? I hate to admit it, but Carly was right – there’s a lot more going on here than I first thought. I wonder why Fisher’s ex-housekeeper would follow me around but refuse to talk. Is she keeping an eye on me for some reason? Maybe she’s still secretly employed by him. But why? And where do I fit into all of this?

  What else can I do? I really don’t believe there’s any point in returning to the woman’s flat. The expression in her eyes was one of genuine fear – I don’t want to be the cause of that.

  I ponder it all for a few moments, reluctant to give up and go home. What would I do back there except mope around and worry? Much as I still dislike Carly, she has given me the kick up the backside I need to be proactive. To find out if there really is something else going on behind the scenes.

  I realise there is something I could do… but it’s so outrageous that even the thought of it gets my pulse racing and my fingers tingling. The sounds of the café swell and recede. Can I really be contemplating this?

  * * *

  I navigate my way along icy country lanes in a little Toyota, in what’s turning out to be a freaking blizzard. The weak afternoon light is a dim consolation. It’s been snowing since I hit Winchester. Perhaps I should’ve checked the forecast before I set off. Too late now. After I left the café, I dusted off mine and Scott’s joint credit card and used it to hire a car. Guilt needles me. I promised myself I would never use this card – I probably should have cut it up to avoid the temptation. But I tell myself it’s in a good cause. With hindsight, I probably should have started my journey a lot earlier in the day, but by the time I’d found a cheap hire-car place and filled out all the paperwork, it was past midday when I left London.

  After following diversion signs due to an accident, I reach the quaint town of Wimborne, the lights of its bay-windowed shops and cafés attempting to lure me from my car. But I ignore their call and drive straight through until I’m back out into the Dorset countryside, my fingers gripping the steering wheel, my eyes darting from the satnav screen to the road ahead, spinning snowflakes dive-bombing the windscreen.

  The road curves this way and that, with high snow-covered hedges on either side. Every time a car approaches from the opposite direction, I press the brakes, unfamiliar with the bends, paranoid about crashing. Road signs point down dark, narrow lanes to villages with strange names like Witchampton, Gussage All Saints, Monkton Up Wimborne and Sixpenny Handley.

  And then, suddenly, there it is – the sign telling me I’ve reached Cranborne. The dashboard clock shows 2.50 p.m. already. I’ve been driving for almost three hours, which may not sound a lot, but the last time I got behind the wheel of a car was over a year ago, when I drove Scott’s BMW back from a friend’s barbecue in Surrey. A day I’d rather forget. Scott and I argued terribly on the way home – I guess that day was the beginning of the end for us.

  I must be crazy for doing this; for going to Fisher’s house. But I really have nothing left to lose. Even if they lock me up, could it be any worse than the way I’m living now? A prisoner in my own home. A home I no longer love. I need to be brave. To demand answers. To confront this man and ask him if he has any clue why I’m embroiled in this drama. Plus, if I’m honest, Carly’s revelation about James Fisher taking four days to report Harry missing has made me worry about the boy. And I can’t help myself: I need to see that he’s okay.

  I pass a garden centre on my left and it reminds me of work. Of how I’ll have to drive back home this evening if I’m to make it in for tomorrow. Weekends are our busiest times. I wonder how Ben is doing; if his offer of a promotion still stands. If my job still even exists after all the hassle I’ve caused him this week.

  The hedgerows give way to a high red-brick wall. I briefly wonder what lies beyond, and then suddenly I’m in the heart of the village. I slow down, taking it all in. A couple of houses, a bookshop on the corner, an old inn, and now a row of terraced houses lines the street. A fire station, a thatched cottage, and here’s another long red-brick wall to my right. Everything is topped with snow – buildings, verges, trees – though the gritted road is thankfully clear.

  The satnav tells me to turn off down a narrow lane. All the houses down here are pretty cottages sitting close to the road. Halfway along, my stomach flips and my heart begins to race as the satnav tells me: ‘You have reached your destination.’

  Immediately up ahead stands an impressive double-fronted Georgian house, set back from the pavement, with a snow-covered front garden and a cherry-red front door. I worked out Fisher’s address before I left, using a combination of Google Maps and the news-report footage taken outside his home. Now that I’m here in person, I recognise the house instantly. And, even better, the lights are on: he must be home.

  Just as I’m about to pull up outside, I’m devastated to see a small crowd huddled together on the opposite side of the road. Not any old crowd – the press. My gut reaction is to slam on the brakes, do a seven-point turn and get out of here. But that would alert them to my presence. Instead, I wind my scarf around my mouth, sink down into my seat and drive past them as fast as I dare without arousing suspicion.

  Damn. I should have known they’d still be here, still staking out his place. Their presence has scuppered my unsophisticated plan to go up to Fisher’s front door and ring the bell. The media would love it if they found out I was in Cranborne. Goodness knows what tomorrow’s headlines would be: ‘Child Abductor Back to Try Again!’

  This is possibly the worst idea I’ve ever had. What am I doing here? I’m not a reporter or an investigator, I’m a gardener. I don’t do this kind of stuff. Whatever possessed me to think I could do it on my own?

  After speeding on down the road, I find myself back out in open countryside once again. I park in a shallow lay-by, turn off the engine and kill the lights. Silence. Flakes of snow melt against the windscreen as the inky dusk gathers outside. What now? Daylight will have disappeared within an hour, tops. I don’t fancy wandering around these empty lanes in the dark. If I’m going to do anything, I’ll have to do it now, before the light goes.

  I adjust my scarf until it completely covers the lower part of my face, and pull on my woollen hat so only my eyes and the bridge of my nose are showing. If I can’t go up to the front door and ring the bell, I’ll simply have to find a way around the back.

  Before I have the chance to think myself out of it, I get out of the car and begin marching up the road, my feet leaving light prints in the snow. I have to press myself into the hedgerow every time a car whizzes past, spraying grit and slush. The only other person mad enough to be out here walking in this weather is an old boy with a grizzled sheepdog at his side. He says good evening and touches his cap as he passes by. I nod and murmur something that isn’t even a word before continuing on my way back towards the village.

  Just before I reach the first house on Fisher’s side of the road, I notice an almost-concealed path winding off to my right. I can’t see where it lead
s, as it bends around the corner. There are no ‘Private Property’ or ‘Keep Out’ signs. Okay, nothing to lose.

  With a brick wall on my left and overhanging trees to my right, I trudge along the narrow path, the soles of my boots squeaking against the snow. I’m reassured to notice other recent footprints, so hopefully I’m on a public right of way and won’t meet an angry farmer brandishing a shotgun.

  After a couple of minutes, I reach the end of the boundary wall. The pathway opens up into lush countryside. I stand there for a moment, taken aback by the glorious winter scene – a rolling snow-covered meadow bisected by an avenue of trees. In the far distance, at the end of the trees, sits a huge stately home, like a mirage in the pale light. Ordinarily, I’d love to explore further, but my attention is taken elsewhere, for to my left is exactly what I was hoping to see – a neat row of back gardens. And one of them belongs to James Fisher.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I quicken my pace and jog down the sloping meadow, past all the other gardens, until I reach the one I want. The largest of the lot. It’s hidden from view by a high wall, but a wrought-iron gate set into it enables me to see through to shivering fruit trees, their branches creaking in the wintry breeze. Beyond that, a snow-covered expanse of garden stretches away up to the house itself. I press the gate latch and push, then pull, but of course it’s locked. The windows at the rear of the house are dark, but through the back door I spy an open interior door leading through to a brightly lit hallway. From this distance, it’s like looking at a perfectly proportioned doll’s house.

  I’m confident I can scale this wall. It’s almost shoulder height, and if my arms are strong enough, I might just manage it. I glance around, but can’t see a soul. If I wasn’t so focused on doing this, I’d be completely creeped out being here all alone in the thickening gloom. As it is, I don’t have the luxury of feeling scared. I’ve got to get over this wall.