‘It was Lorraine Johnson pretending to be Saskia.’
‘But this means they don’t have our address, just our phone numbers and email?’
‘Yes. I guess she rightly figured that I’d smell a rat if “Saskia” asked for your names or your address. Pretending she’d got an out-of-date phone number, on the other hand, reeling it off for me to confirm it was right – that didn’t ring any alarm bells. And it was an emergency, or so I thought, there was a time pressure… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’
‘Deirdre, it’s okay. We’re really careful about not putting our phone numbers or email addresses online. There’s no way they can find us from those. Our email addresses don’t have our names in them either. We can just change our phone numbers and dump that email address, whichever one it is you have.’
‘No one’s called you trying to get your name or address out of you?’
‘No.’
‘Can you phone Alec straight away and alert him? I couldn’t get through to him on the number I have.’
‘Yes. Right. I’ll do that now, but I’m sure he wouldn’t give out that kind of information over the phone.’
She couldn’t get through to Alec either – he was probably giving a lecture or in a practical – so she left a message saying to call her back urgently, the Johnsons might have their phone numbers and an email address, and if someone contacted him trying to find out his name and address, for God’s sake don’t tell them.
She went over to the car and opened Beckie’s door. ‘I’m sorry, darling, that was a bit weird, wasn’t it?’
‘There is something wrong, isn’t there?’
‘That was Deirdre.’
They had been more or less honest with Beckie about her adoption and her birth mother, telling her that Shannon-Rose had something wrong in her brain and had done bad things and was now in prison – although they hadn’t told her yet what Shannon-Rose had done, and she hadn’t asked.
Beckie looked up at her with that guarded expression she hated. No seven-year-old should ever look at anyone like that, least of all her own mother.
Ruth gently stroked back the strands of hair falling over her face.
‘It’s nothing to worry about. Deirdre has made a mistake and your birth family, the Johnsons, have found out our phone numbers. But it’s okay because we can easily change the numbers right away, and they won’t be able to phone us.’
‘I don’t want them to phone us.’
‘No, darling, they won’t. You don’t need to worry about that.’
‘I don’t want to see them.’
They had told her that the Johnsons were bad people and that was why Beckie wasn’t ever going to see them again. They didn’t know where Beckie was and never would. She could just forget that they existed.
Did she remember them?
Did Beckie remember what they had done to her?
Memories weren’t laid down at that age, of course. But subconsciously – yes. Beckie knew what had happened to her. Ruth had no doubt about that.
‘They might hurt us.’
‘Oh darling, no!’ She scrabbled with the belt, lifted Beckie out and pulled her into a hug. Oh my darling girl, don’t be frightened, don’t be frightened. ‘Daddy and I will never let them hurt you. Never.’
‘They might – h-hurt – you.’
Ruth hugged her close. ‘No. They’re not going to hurt any of us.’
How typical of their sweet, loving girl that her main concern should be for them and not herself. How could that family possibly have produced a child like Beckie? It was as if they had nothing to do with Beckie at all, as if by some accident she’d found herself living amongst them, a changeling in a fairy tale, until Saskia Mair had come along and rescued her.
She made her voice light and bright. ‘Let’s go for a walk, shall we?’
‘Can I take Fat Bear and Hildebrand?’
‘Of course you can.’
‘Can we play Wanderers?’
‘Yes, let’s!’
‘Fiona’s being chased by a Viking.’
As Beckie ran ahead on the path and Ruth juggled Fat Bear, Hildebrand and her phone, she reflected that she should have known Saskia wouldn’t make that kind of mistake. She should have known it would have been Deirdre’s cock-up.
At long last she got through to Alec.
‘Did you get my message?’
‘Um? No. What’s up?’
‘Nothing to panic about, but Deirdre’s cocked up and given the Johnsons our phone numbers and an email address – the Gmail one. So we’re going to have to change them. You haven’t had any dodgy calls or emails, have you, trying to get your name and address out of you?’
Long, terrible silence.
She stopped walking. She dropped the animals. ‘Alec?’
Alec reached for her – then hesitated, his fingertips just touching the denim of her jeans. She smiled at him and took his hand. What was the point in wasting anger and energy on recriminations? The important thing was what happened next.
They were sitting at Saskia Mair’s kitchen table. Beckie was in the sitting room, watching TV with Saskia’s partner and kids, two sweet little boys with big brown eyes. Beckie had shown polite enthusiasm when offered a pot of yoghurt and the opportunity to catch up on the latest doings of Shaun the Sheep, but she hadn’t seemed too sure about Saskia’s partner, a tall, lean Scandinavian type who had obviously been about to head out on a bike ride and was rather sinister in neck-to-knee black Lycra and those weird little cyclist’s shoes.
But he was obviously as lovely as Saskia. When he’d whisked the kids away to the other room, Ruth had protested weakly, ‘Oh, but you’re obviously just heading out…’ and he had assured her, ‘No no, just back actually,’ hustling the two boys away as one of them had started: ‘But Dad, you’re not –’
Thank goodness for people like him and Saskia.
Deirdre had been useless.
Kevin Patterson, the director of the Linkwood Adoption Agency, had been useless.
The police had been useless.
The only person in the world Ruth trusted right now was Saskia Mair.
‘I’m sorry,’ Alec whispered.
She shook her head. ‘It’s okay.’
Although, of course, it wasn’t. It wasn’t okay that he’d blurted out his name and address to Lorraine Johnson when she’d called him pretending to be someone from Argyll and Bute Council chasing unpaid council tax. It wasn’t okay that he’d practically foisted the information on her.
He’d related the conversation to her word for word, as she stood with her eyes open on the picture-perfect view across Loch Lomond, seeing none of it.
It had been a woman’s voice.
‘Mr McAllister? This is Ann Thomson from Argyll and Bute Council. I’m calling about your council tax account. We’ve sent out three reminders, but your account is still in arrears to the sum of –’
‘No no,’ Alec had protested. ‘I’m not McAllister.’
‘This is the mobile number in the database for Mr David McAllister.’
‘My name’s Alec Morrison.’
‘This is the contact number associated with the account. If you’re having difficulty paying, we can arrange for you to pay in –’
‘But it’s not my account! I don’t owe any council tax, we pay by direct debit. My name is Alec Morrison. My address is Backhill Croft, Arden…’
Candy from a baby.
‘Okay,’ said Saskia. ‘I know they’ve given you a load of crap about balancing your need to know with the rights of the biological family. But I’m guessing you’ve Googled them. You’ll have found out a bunch of stuff about Jed and Ryan and Travis?’