The shrilling phone made me jump. It was Natalie Mitchell. Her mother had agreed to talk to me. She passed on the phone number. I didn’t recognise the code. Where was it? Lancaster, she said. I groaned inwardly. An hour and a half up the motorway, an hour and a half back. A tankful of petrol. C’est la vie. I could hardly conduct the interview over the phone. After all, it wasn’t market research. I was going to talk to a woman whose daughter had been beaten to death a few hours after I’d spoken to her. Lancaster it would be.
In the early morning post was a card from the local Victim Support scheme, offering a sympathetic ear should I wish to talk to anyone about my recent experience. I didn’t take them up on it, but I liked the thought that there was someone out there for those of us on the receiving end.
Ray set off for school with the kids and I cycled round to the one-hour photo-processing shop. Back home, I rang Mrs Williams. Having seen her at the inquest, I’d formed an image of a frail, elderly woman but the voice on the other end of the line was firm and clear, edged with a twangy Liverpool accent. Mrs Williams made it clear that she was as eager to talk to me as I was to talk to her.
‘I want to know what happened to Janice,’ she said.
I hoped she wouldn’t expect me to have all the answers. I told her I was free to travel up then and there, if she’d no other arrangements. That suited her. She gave me the address.
‘Don’t ask me for directions,’ she said. ‘I don’t drive. But once you get into town, I’m near the hospital – it’s the road at the back.’
Before leaving home, I gathered together my library books. I would dutifully call and return them and report the loss of my ticket.
I collected the incriminating photos, woman with white Fiesta, and delivered them to my client. He paid in cash.
The library was shut. A notice informed me that, due to cut-backs, it would be closed every Wednesday. Wonderful. I was tempted to leave the books in the doorway with a note attached: ‘Sorry, can’t look after them any longer, besides the fine’s mounting up.’ I didn’t.
Preston’s about halfway to Lancaster and, beyond Preston, I got the impression of leaving behind all the great northern cities: Leeds, Liverpool, Manchester. This was the rural north. All signs led to Carlisle, The Lakes and The North.
Lancaster, with its wide river, castle and creamy stone buildings, had all the neat bustle of a market town. No dusty red-brick backstreets here. I missed all the signs for the hospital, asked directions several times and eventually drew up outside the house, an Edwardian terrace. Mrs Williams had the ground floor flat.
‘I’m Sal Kilkenny.’
‘Eleanor Williams.’ She shook my hand. Up close, she was attractive, broad cheekbones, a generous mouth. Her white hair was thick, styled simply like Doris Day, no perm. There wasn’t much resemblance to Janice except for the eyes, large and brown. Mrs Williams wore spectacles on a chain round her neck, a navy leisure suit. When she smiled, she had dimples in her cheeks. ‘Tea?’
‘Yes, please. No sugar. Could I use the toilet?’
‘Through there.’ She pointed with the teaspoon. ‘Second right.’
The bathroom had a simple feel to it. Plain, painted walls, pink and green mats and towels, a huge loofah, an ancient set of scales, no frills. I washed my hands and examined myself in the mirror. I realised I was holding my breath. My shoulder ached and a taste of acetate rose in my mouth. I took a couple of deep breaths and went back.
We sat on the cottage suite in the living room. Tea in mugs. Framed photographs covered the top of a small sideboard. Three oil paintings hung on the cream walls. A ship, a dockside scene, a woman holding an umbrella. Mrs Williams saw me looking at them.
‘Martin did them, my second husband. He loved to paint.’
‘That was Natalie’s father?’
‘Yes,’ she nodded. Leant forward and removed her glasses, placed them and her mug on the coffee table. I followed suit. It was time to talk.
‘I’m sorry about Janice,’ I began. ‘As I said on the phone, I was working for her, that’s how I met her. She asked me to trace a teenager, a boy who’d run away from home.’ I looked across at her. Did this sound bizarre? How much had Natalie told her? I couldn’t read anything in her face.
‘He was called Martin Hobbs,’ I said. ‘The strange thing is, Janice claimed to be his mother – I knew her as Mrs Hobbs. I thought I was looking for her son. I did trace him eventually. He didn’t want anything to do with his family; he claimed his father had abused him.’ Mrs Williams regarded me steadily; only a slight nod indicated that I should continue.
‘Well, I told Janice, Mrs Hobbs as I thought she was, what I’d found out. End of case. She was very upset.’ I sighed. ‘That was the Saturday. On the Sunday she rang me. She was very distressed, not making sense really, except it was clear she wanted to see Martin.’ My chest tightened as I remembered the phone call. When I spoke again, I couldn’t keep the tremor from my voice. ‘I didn’t know the address. I knew which street Martin was staying in and I knew what sort of car to look out for. That came out during the phone call. I shouldn’t have said anything, but I gave enough away. I didn’t think she should pursue him. She said she’d write, and would I deliver a letter? I agreed to that, mainly to keep her away…’ But it hadn’t worked. I swallowed saliva. Mrs Williams still said nothing.
I spoke again. ‘The place where they found her, it’s not far from where Martin was staying. I think she went there. I don’t know if that’s why she was killed, or whether that was some awful coincidence. And I still don’t know why she wanted to find Martin, how she knew him, why she pretended that he was her son.’
‘He was.’
I only just caught the words. ‘But he can’t be. I’ve met his real mother and…’
‘Janice was his real mother. She gave him up for adoption when he was born. He was her son.’
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
‘I even offered to raise the child myself, but Janice wasn’t having it. Social worker didn’t like the idea either…’ She stopped, caught by a memory, then just as suddenly resumed her story. ‘I never knew whether she made the right choice. All I could do was stand by her. It wasn’t easy for her, but it was the child she was thinking of. She said it wouldn’t be fair on the baby if she got ill again. And she couldn’t bear the thought of growing close and then losing the child.’
‘But surely with treatment, with support…’ I protested.
‘I don’t know.’ She ran her hands through the thick white hair. ‘Janice had plenty of treatment. Never seemed to make much difference. She was in hospital again within the year. That was her third time. Who can say whether it would have been the same if she’d kept him? I really don’t know. She was hurt, over the adoption.’ She sighed. ‘There’s no easy way to lose a child.’ Her mouth pulled and I remembered her own loss. She rummaged in her pocket and drew out a large white hanky. Wiped her eyes and blew her nose.
‘I still keep forgetting,’ she said, smiling gently, ‘that she’s gone. You’d think it would have sunk in by now.’
‘When did she first trace Martin?’
‘Way back. He was five. She’d thought about it a lot. Reckoned it’d be easier to trace him once he was registered at school. She used a private investigator then. Didn’t let on to me till it was all done.’
‘Did she think you’d disapprove?’
She nodded. ‘Raking up the past. I thought it’d hurt her even more. She’d given up all claim on him. That’s what adoption is. Was then, anyway. He had a new family, a new name. Anyway, this bloke knew what he was doing; followed up birth certificates and this and that and came back to Janice with two possibilities. He’d got photos. One of them was Martin.’