The Wrong Mother Read online

  All I care about is Lucy, that’s all? Couldn’t she have packed a few more declarations of exclusivity into that sentence?

  I was her daughter for more than thirty years before Lucy existed.

  I told her not to phone again.

  16

  8/10/07

  Sam Kombothekra realised he was going to have to watch his feet every time he moved in this strange, multi-level flat, or he would break his neck. There was a steep flight of stairs round every corner, and for added inconvenience the hall, landings and each individual step, it seemed, were littered with small, brightly coloured wooden balls. Sam had nearly been felled by a green one a few seconds ago.

  He stared at the envelope in his hand, wondered when to say something and to whom. To Esther alone, to Nick alone, or to the two of them together? Maybe it was nothing.

  He might not have looked at the Thornings’ mail at all if it hadn’t been scattered across the floor. He’d picked up the post and patted it into a tidy pile before going upstairs as a favour to Nick Thorning, who, if the state of his home was anything to judge by, was not coping well in his wife’s absence. The two children, Zoe and Jake, had been safely deposited with Nick’s mother. That had been Esther Taylor’s idea, one she’d voiced just as Sam had been on the point of suggesting the same thing.

  Simon Waterhouse had been right about Esther. Well, almost. Charlie Zailer had picked her up from reception at Rawndesley nick, where she’d been fuming because no one seemed to believe people were trying to kill her best friend. Sam had now heard her long story, which revolved around an allegedly sexually frustrated childminder who thought cosmetic breast surgery was more important than saving the eco-system of Venice ’s lagoon.

  Esther, despite being addicted to exaggeration, nosey and bossy, had proved helpful in many ways. Nick Thorning hadn’t been aware that his wife had given him a veiled message that she was in trouble. He hadn’t remembered where Owen Mellish worked, only that Sally thought he was a pain in the backside. It was Esther who, when she’d phoned and Nick had told her Sally had gone to Venice with Mellish, had known something was wrong. Mellish had no involvement in the Venice work. He worked with Sally at HS Silsford, a hydraulics consultancy firm. Sam had arranged to meet Mellish at Mellish’s girlfriend’s flat so that he could search it. He hadn’t found Sally Thorning, or any evidence to suggest Mellish had abducted her or killed anybody. All he’d turned up was several large Ziploc bags full of cocaine, which Mellish would do time for if Sam had his way.

  He climbed the stairs to the lounge. Nick Thorning was sitting on the sofa with Esther Taylor beside him, holding his hand. Whether he wants it to be held or not, thought Sam. Simon and Charlie sat in armchairs across the room.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Thorning’s eyes lit up when he saw Sam. ‘Is there any news?’

  ‘I phoned the credit card company and then the hotel.’ Sam tried to find a patch of carpet to stand on that wasn’t occupied by a newspaper, a crayon, a bib or a nappy. ‘Esther’s right: it was Seddon Hall in York. Sally stayed there between the second and the ninth of June last year.’ Sam nodded at Simon, who had raised an enquiring eyebrow. Yes: the second name he’d given the receptionist had also checked out, same dates. Simon looked relieved, then a little bit stunned. It was the way he always looked when he was proved right. Sam tried not to think about how often Simon turned out to be right. He might be tempted to resign if he allowed himself to dwell on it.

  ‘Don’t take it personally, Nick.’ Esther stroked his hand with a rhythmic ferocity that looked likely to remove layers of skin. ‘She needed a break, that’s all. When the work thing fell through, she… I mean, she did it more for you and the kids than for herself.’ Esther looked round the room, trying to garner support for her claim. ‘She’d reached her limit. She needed a break in order to carry on. Don’t any of your wives work?’ She stared defiantly at Sam and Simon.

  Kate, Sam’s wife, didn’t. And she was still more tired than Sam at the end of every day; he wasn’t entirely sure why.

  ‘DC Waterhouse’s wife works full-time,’ said Charlie. ‘But then, they haven’t got kids.’

  Sam couldn’t bring himself to give her the look he knew he ought to give her. He knew she was angry that she’d been sent to collect Esther Taylor from Rawndesley-like a skivvy, she probably thought-and angrier still that there hadn’t been time to bring her up to speed.

  ‘Is Sally’s life so terrible?’ Nick asked quietly. ‘I thought she was happy with me and the kids.’

  ‘She is,’ Esther insisted.

  ‘If she needed a break, why didn’t she say so?’

  Simon cleared his throat. ‘Miss Taylor, what exactly did Sally say about meeting this man at Seddon Hall?’

  ‘I told you. One night in the bar, they got talking. He pretended to be Mark Bretherick, who also lives in Spilling, so they had that in common-or Sally thought they had, rather-so they chatted for a while about… you know, local landmarks.’

  ‘Local landmarks?’ This sounded odd to Sam. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Um… well, I don’t know exactly. I live in Rawndesley, and I’m from Manchester originally, but-’

  ‘The memorial cross?’ Simon suggested. ‘The old stocks?’

  ‘I don’t mean landmarks exactly. They just talked about… local stuff.’

  ‘Just the once, did they talk?’

  ‘No.’ Esther seemed more confident now. ‘He was there all week. Sally kept bumping into him: in the bar, the spa… I think they chatted a few times.’

  Sam was growing increasingly certain that Sally Thorning had done more than bump into the man they now believed had murdered four people. If some sort of sexual liaison had taken place, chances were Esther knew about it and Nick Thorning didn’t. And Esther was determined to protect her friend’s secret. It doesn’t matter, thought Sam. What mattered was finding Sally, making an arrest before anyone else got hurt. Sellers and Gibbs might already have done both; Sam hoped to God they had.

  ‘Sally didn’t tell me either,’ Esther was assuring Nick. ‘Not for ages. Only when all this stuff about the Brethericks was on the news.’

  ‘Yeah, and then she told you! She should have told me. I’m her husband.’ Nick Thorning looked around the room as if hoping for confirmation from somebody.

  ‘She didn’t want to worry you.’

  ‘She’ll be okay, won’t she?’

  ‘Have you seen this?’ Sam held the envelope in front of Nick’s face.

  ‘Yeah, this morning. What about it?’

  So it meant nothing to him. Was that a good sign? ‘It’s addressed to Esther,’ said Sam.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Esther doesn’t live here.’

  ‘What?’ Esther craned her neck to see the writing on the envelope. ‘It’s addressed to me?’

  ‘I know Esther doesn’t live here,’ said Nick angrily. ‘I’m not stupid. I assumed Sally would know what it was and sort it out when she got back. I just want her to come back. She will, won’t she?’

  ‘We’re doing everything we can to find her and bring her safely home,’ Sam told him. ‘Esther, would you mind opening this?’

  She tore open the envelope and pulled out a small green book, A6 size, and a postcard. ‘I’ve no idea…’ She looked up at Sam, frustration all over her face. ‘It’s addressed to me, but I haven’t got a clue what it is or what it means.’

  Sam was afraid he’d be equally at a loss, and was pleased to find he understood straight away. He recognised the name Sian Toms-she was a teaching assistant at St Swithun’s. Sally Thorning had called herself Esther Taylor when she’d visited the school, but she must have given Sian Toms her real address.

  ‘Dear Esther,’ the postcard said. ‘Here is Amy Oliva’s news book, the one I mentioned when we spoke. Please don’t tell anyone I sent it to you-it would go down very badly at work. Also, please can you send it back to me when you’ve read it so that I can put it back? Thanks. Send it to my home address: Flat 3
3, Syree Court, 27 Lady Road, Spilling. Best wishes, Sian Toms.’

  Sam opened the news book. The first entry was dated 15 September 2005, close to the beginning of the school year that was to be Amy’s last at St Swithun’s. The handwriting was Amy’s, or rather, it was clearly a child’s: large and unwieldy. When Sam began to read the words, a shiver rippled through him.

  This weekend, Mum, Dad and I went to Alton Towers. After hours of queuing, we went on the Log Flume, which was mediocre. There was a ride called the Black Hole that I was keen to go on, but Mum said I was too young and it was only for grown-ups. I asked her if she and Dad wanted to go on it and she said, ‘We don’t need to. Dad and I are already in a black hole. It’s called parenthood.’

  Sam turned to the next entry. The handwriting was the same but it was much longer.

  This weekend was excellent. I ate nothing but chocolate-buttons, Minstrels, Milky Ways. For breakfast, lunch and supper. I was sick on Sunday afternoon, but on balance I think it was worth it. On Friday evening I was feeling more contrary than usual (those who know me well will scarcely be able to imagine such a thing) so I asked Mum if I could throw the horrid, healthy part of my tea-the part she had carefully home-cooked then saved and frozen in a small, purple plastic bowl-in the bin and instead go straight to the reward I normally only get if I eat lots of vile green things. To my surprise and delight, she said, ‘You know what, Amy? You can do exactly what you like this weekend, all weekend, as long as I can too. Do we have a deal?’ Of course I said yes, so she pulled all the chocolate out of the treat cupboard and threw it into my lap, and then she went and found a book she wanted to read. I asked her to put on my ‘Annie’ DVD for me, but she reminded me that we were both doing exactly what we wanted, and getting out of her chair to fiddle with the DVD player was not something she wanted to do. She also didn’t want to do any drawing, baking, jigsaws, hair-styling, or have her house littered with squealing, pink-clad Barbie-obsessed munchkins like Oonagh and Lucy. Fair enough! Actually, her quite reasonable refusal led to a valuable insight on my part. Sometimes, I ask Mum to do things-for example to get me drinks I then don’t drink, and toys and games I have no real desire to play with-not because I actually want whatever it is I’m asking for, but simply for the sake of making her do something, because I believe her role in life is to attend to my wishes. If she isn’t waiting on me like a maid, something seems amiss. All Western children are the same, Mum says, because society overprotects and over-indulges them. That’s why she makes a point of buying the produce, whatever it might be, of any company she hears has been using child labour. I have to admit, she’s got a point. If I swept chimneys or sewed clothes in a factory from dawn until dusk, I would certainly understand that after a hard day’s work, the last thing a person wants is to be given more work at home.

  Under this tirade someone had written in red pen: ‘No more in this vein please, Mummy. Amy gets upset when yet again she can’t read her weekend news out in class or enter it in the Busy Book. Please could you allow Amy to write her news book entries herself like all the other children instead of dictating your own words for her to write down? Thank you.’

  ‘Are you going to tell us what it is?’ asked Nick Thorning.

  ‘It’s just some child’s school book,’ said Esther.

  Sam wanted to hit her. He looked at the next and final entry in the book. Unlike the other two, it contained some spelling mistakes.

  This weekend I played with my friends and went to see Mungos Magic Show at the theata. It was great.

  Under Amy’s handwriting there was a big, red tick. A teacher had written, ‘Sounds lovely, Amy!’

  Whoever that teacher was, Sam wanted to hit her too.

  You learn something new every day, thought Gibbs as he waited in Cordy O’Hara’s lounge for her to fetch Oonagh. Fine Art Banking. He’d spent half an hour on the phone to Leyland Carver before coming here, and found out that Encarna Oliva had been one of two people at the bank who had specialised in advising clients on which paintings, sculptures, installations and ‘conceptual pieces’ they ought to invest in. Gibbs hoped he’d done a good enough job of concealing his disgust. Couldn’t rich wankers choose their own pictures? What was the point in being alive if you hired someone to make every little decision for you?

  Gibbs liked the idea that being rich made a person stupid. He also liked feeling aggrieved. He didn’t understand why-it was simply something he quite enjoyed. When he’d heard the salary Encarna Oliva had been paid to do her entirely unnecessary job, and that was before bonuses… Gibbs hoped Lionel Burroway of Leyland Carver wouldn’t ring and complain to anyone at the nick about Gibbs’ response when he’d been told the figure. ‘Ms Oliva worked extremely hard, and often long hours,’ Burroway had said defensively. ‘Most of the private views she had to attend were in the evening, and she often had to go abroad. Her work for us brought in ten, twenty times what we paid her in new business. She was excellent at her job.’

  ‘Right,’ Gibbs had grunted. That was a new one, the idea that a person’s work might actually bring in money. I’m in the wrong profession, he thought. All his work brought in was deviant scrotes that no one was pleased to see.

  He had asked Burroway if Encarna Oliva had had a colleague called Patrick, perhaps a close friend. Burroway said he couldn’t recall there ever having been a Patrick at Leyland Carver. When Gibbs had mentioned that Encarna might have eloped with him to Spain, Burroway’s voice had cooled considerably. ‘The manner in which she left us was very odd,’ he said. ‘I would have preferred to be informed in person rather than by e-mail with no notice, but… well, I suppose if she’s…’

  If she was murdered, you can’t hold a grudge against her for rudeness, Gibbs had thought, grinning. Even knowing Encarna was dead, Burroway had resented having to let her off the hook.

  The music Cordy O’Hara had left playing was doing Gibbs’ head in. He got up, walked over to the small silver ghetto-blaster on the floor and turned down the volume ever so slightly. He examined the CD case that was balanced on top of the machine: The Trials of Van Occupanther by Midlake. Gibbs had never heard of it.

  Large floor cushions, upholstered in bright, flowery materials that ought to have clashed but in fact looked all right, were strewn everywhere. They looked more expensive than Gibbs’ three-piece suite. Amid the cushions were pottery cups that also looked pricey and were probably hand-made, some with cigarette butts in them and ash streaks down the sides. A few screwed-up Rizlas and some empty takeaway cartons lay under the green glass table that stood in one corner. It was as if a group of homeless people had broken in and had a party in the home of an interior designer.

  Cordy O’Hara had her hands on Oonagh’s shoulders as they came into the room, and a baby in a sling round her neck. Like a broken arm. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Ianthe needed changing. And sorry about the mess. Since having baby number two, I’ve been forced to embrace squalor, I’m afraid-too knackered to clean the flat. Oonagh, this is Chris. He’s a policeman. Do you remember the other policeman, Sam? Chris works with Sam.’

  Gibbs didn’t like the first-names thing-he hadn’t said Cordy O’Hara could call him Chris-but he said nothing. He did what Sellers would have done if he were here, and started by assuring Oonagh that there was nothing to worry about. She was only six, so he avoided referring to her having lied when Kombothekra interviewed her, and simply said, ‘Oonagh, you and Amy have been exchanging e-mails ever since she went to Spain, haven’t you?’ He shot Cordy O’Hara a warning look. She knew Amy was dead; Oonagh didn’t, and he didn’t want her to find out now. The girl tried to shrink into her mother’s skirt. Her round, wide-open eyes stared at the carpet. She was the image of her mother: thin, freckled face, carrot-coloured hair.

  ‘Her dad helped her type the messages,’ said Cordy. ‘When Oonagh said she hadn’t been in touch with Amy since Amy left school, I had no idea she was fibbing. Not until I spoke to Dermot.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Gibb
s. He hated situations that required him to be sensitive. ‘Oonagh, nobody’s angry with you. But I do need to ask you some questions. Do you remember, in one of your messages, asking if everything was all right between Amy and her mum?’

  Oonagh nodded.

  ‘Did you have any reason to think things might not be okay between them?’

  ‘No.’ Her voice was almost inaudible.

  ‘Did you think it was strange that Amy never answered your questions about her mother?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oonagh, sweetie, you must tell Chris the truth.’

  Gibbs was instantly suspicious. Cordy O’Hara shrugged an apology at him. ‘I’ve been trying to get it out of her. Amy used to ask her to keep lots of secrets. Didn’t she, sweetie?’ Oonagh wriggled, hopping from one foot to the other.

  ‘Oonagh, you’ll be helping Amy if you tell us,’ said Gibbs. ‘Whatever it is.’

  ‘Please may can I go to the toilet?’ the girl asked her mother.

  Cordy nodded and Oonagh fled. ‘Come straight back, please, sweetie,’ Cordy called after her. ‘They taught her at school to say, “Please may…”, but I can’t seem to drum it into her that you don’t need to say “can” as well.’

  ‘If she won’t talk to me, see what you can do once I’ve gone,’ said Gibbs.

  ‘I’ve tried endlessly.’ Cordy tucked her hair behind her multiply pierced ears. ‘She thinks something dreadful happens to people who tell secrets; it’s infuriating. If I force the issue, she’ll make something up. Once, ages ago, I found her crying in bed in the middle of the night. She was distraught. Lucy Bretherick-she could be a bit of a madam, Lucy-she’d browbeaten Oonagh into telling her one of Amy’s secrets. Poor Oonagh was terrified Amy would find out, that she’d send a monster to attack her in the night.’