Person or Persons Unknown (11 page)

She reached across for the certificates, picking up the one that lay on top. It was Zara's birth certificate – or rather, that of Amanda Grant.

‘That's interesting!' she commented. ‘Gemma's occupation is given as radio reporter. With luck, we'll be able to trace people who knew her.'

‘Where will you start?' Zara enquired, sipping her fruit juice.

‘First, I'd like to meet your adoptive parents. They do know now that you've approached me?'

‘Yes, but they won't be much help. They've told me all they know.'

‘Something might emerge. Could I have their name and address?'

‘Margot and Dennis Fairchild,' Zara said reluctantly. ‘The Gables, Swing Gate Lane, Cricklehurst.'

Rona's heart jerked. The last time she'd been in Cricklehurst, she'd come face to face with murder. ‘Phone number?' she asked, and Zara gave it, adding, ‘Let me know how you get on.'

‘Actually, Zara, that's something I need to explain: I know you instigated this search, but as I told you at the beginning, I'll be working as a journalist, not a professional people-finder. Which means, to put it bluntly, that I won't be under an obligation to keep reporting back to you. That might sound harsh, but it's in your interests too; suppose I had a lead, told you about it, and then it faded away, having raised your hopes for nothing?'

Zara looked mutinous. ‘You mean you're not going to tell me
anything
?'

‘Not unless it's definite. And, as I explained, I'm limiting the search to six weeks. If something arises in that time – which I very much hope – fine, I'll carry on working on it. But if, despite all the feelers I put out, we don't get anywhere, then that's it. OK?'

‘I've already said so,' she answered sulkily.

‘You do see my point, don't you? It could take years, and obviously I can't afford to spend an indefinite time on it. As I said at the beginning, you'd be much better advised—'

‘I want you to do it,' Zara broke in. ‘All right, I won't keep pestering you. I've waited this long, I can wait a little longer.' She glanced at her watch, then pushed her chair back. ‘I must be going; Tony'll be home by now.'

She stood up a little clumsily, one hand going to the small of her back.

‘OK?' Rona asked quickly.

Zara nodded. ‘It's just that I get tired by the end of the day, and my back starts to ache.'

Rona led the way up the stairs. ‘I'll do my very best to come up with something,' she promised as she opened the front door.

‘I know you will. Thanks for taking it on.'

Rona closed the door behind her, and wondered belatedly what to do about supper. Not Dino's, two nights running; in any case, she was impatient to read through the papers Zara had brought and make some initial notes. She'd ring for a take-away, she decided, and eat it at the kitchen table with the papers spread about her. Not for the first time, she reflected that there were advantages in spending some of her evenings alone. However, before phoning her order through, she'd ring the Fairchilds and try to make an appointment for the next day. Nothing like striking while the iron was hot.

With the tingle of anticipation any new project engendered, she ran back down the stairs to check their number.

S
wing Gate Lane led off the main road through the village, its detached houses standing in good-sized gardens. The Gables, about halfway down, was a long, low house approached by a curving drive. Since the gates stood open and the lane was fairly narrow, Rona drove inside.

The appointment was for eleven o'clock, and having assumed Mr Fairchild would be at work, she was surprised when he opened the door to her. Perhaps, she thought, he was needed for moral support. He was a tall, sandy-haired man with light-blue eyes, who shook her hand with a grave smile and shepherded her through the palely panelled hall to a conservatory built on the back of the house. His wife was standing nervously by a table bearing a silver coffee pot and cups and saucers. Like her husband, she appeared to be in her mid to late fifties. She was a small, plump woman, smartly dressed in a silk blouse and tailored skirt, and was regarding Rona with apprehension.

‘It's good of you to see me,' Rona said, taking her hand. ‘I know this must be hard for you.'

‘It's come as a shock,' Margot Fairchild admitted. ‘We didn't think Zara was interested in her birth parents.'

Dennis Fairchild said gruffly, ‘We took our time telling her she was adopted. She was a happy, secure child and there seemed no point in unsettling her, especially when her mother was dead and her father unknown; it wasn't as though they might try to contact her at some stage. Whether we did right, I don't know; nowadays, received wisdom says they should be told from the word go.'

‘In any case, it didn't seem to make much impression.' Mrs Fairchild waved Rona towards the wickerwork sofa, and, when she'd seated herself, handed her a cup of coffee. ‘She never referred to it again. In fact, we congratulated ourselves on how smoothly it had gone.'

‘Would you have any objection to my recording this?' Rona asked tentatively. ‘It's hard to remember, later, exactly what was said, and it would save me having to take notes.'

‘Go ahead,' Fairchild said, and Margot, after a quick glance at him, nodded.

Rona extracted the recorder from her handbag and switched it on. ‘So what was the first indication you had that she
did
want to find her father?'

Margot passed round a plate of shortbread – home-made, by the look of it. ‘When she and Tony came to tell us she was pregnant. She was obviously delighted, but there was an underlying tension that I picked up at once. And then she came out with it: now she was having her own baby, she needed to know where she had come from. That's how she put it. It – was like a physical blow.'

Dennis put his hand briefly over hers. ‘We'd assumed we were all the family she needed. Wrongly, as it turned out.'

‘How old was she when you adopted her?'

‘Well, she had to live with us for three months before we could start proceedings,' Margot replied, surreptitiously wiping her eyes, ‘so she'd have been about six months when it became official; but we've had her since she was ten weeks old.'

‘I don't know much about the procedure,' Rona confessed. ‘You'd been on a waiting list, had you?'

‘Yes, for some time. But to give these people their due, they do try to match you up if possible. In those days, Dennis's hair was more auburn than it is now, and so, of course, is Zara's. It's surprising how often people say she looks like him.'

Personally, Rona couldn't see it, but she smiled and nodded. ‘And you knew about her parents?'

‘Yes. Naturally, we'd heard about the case at the time, that poor girl found dead in the bath and the baby crying in the next room.' Her eyes filled again. ‘It made us want her all the more, so we could make up for what had happened. We changed her name too, partly to give her a fresh start, and partly because it made her more ours.'

‘Did you ever meet her grandparents?'

It was Dennis Fairchild who answered. ‘No; initially, we were afraid they might want the child, but we learned from the newspapers that Gemma's father had died when she was sixteen, and her mother later moved to South Africa.' This would be in the photocopies, Rona reflected; she'd only had time to flick through them.

‘She flew back for the funeral,' Fairchild added, ‘but that was it.' He met Rona's eyes. ‘Forgive me, but I don't see what you can possibly hope to achieve. Even if Zara's father didn't know of the pregnancy, it could never have been serious. Not if he was prepared to up stakes and emigrate, leaving his girlfriend behind. Furthermore,' he went on before Rona could speak, ‘you haven't even got a name for him, have you? How can you even
start
looking, without that?'

‘It's a challenge, I grant you, but I can't believe absolutely
no one
knew his identity. So my first step is to advertise – on the Web and in local papers – for anyone who knew Gemma. She worked in radio, apparently, so plenty of people must have done.'

‘But she wouldn't have been anyone
important
!' Dennis protested. ‘Not at twenty years old! She was probably the gofer or tea girl, and put “radio reporter” on the birth certificate because she thought it would look better.'

‘Well,' Rona said stubbornly, ‘it's my best lead, so that's what I'll start with. I particularly want to trace her flatmate, which will mean a trawl through the electoral registers.
She
must
have known more than she admitted.'

There was a brief silence. Then Margot said in a low voice, ‘Zara's also got a bee in her bonnet about her mother's murder. Did she tell you?'

‘Yes, but that's hardly my remit. If the police couldn't solve it at the time, how can I, twenty-five years later? He's probably dead himself by now.'

I sincerely hope so
, Dinah had said. Again the unsettling frisson.

Dennis Fairchild pursed his lips. ‘I can't help feeling it would be better to let sleeping dogs lie,' he said. ‘Still, once Zara's set her mind on something, it would take more than us to dissuade her. That's something we learned very early on.'

‘There's nothing else you can remember that might help in the search?'

They both shook their heads.

‘And you never heard any more of the grandmother?'

‘No reason why we should. We certainly didn't try to contact her; we were just relieved she wasn't making a claim.'

Rona reflected on the conversation as she ate a solitary pub lunch on the outskirts of Cricklehurst. Gemma's birth certificate had named her parents as Joyce and Harold Grant. She'd now learned that Harold had died some thirty years ago – had his widow remarried? It would be worth checking for a marriage certificate in the name of Joyce Grant, though if she was still in South Africa, it might not be recorded here.

Back home at the computer, she discovered to her frustration that Stokely Town Hall held only the current electoral registers. Out-of-date ones could be viewed at the Family History and Archive Centre in Buckford, and a phone number was given to enable would-be searchers to book a reading machine.

Damn! Rona thought. She'd hoped to follow her search at Stokely with visits to both the local paper and radio station. Now, a return journey to Buckford would also be necessary. Still, the registers were her first priority, so there was nothing for it but to phone through and book a machine for eleven a.m. on Monday.

‘How's the project going?' Max asked later that evening, as they were sitting over dinner.

‘Early days,' Rona replied. ‘As I expected, the adoptive parents weren't much help. What I need now is publicity, so I'm going to contact Tess Chadwick at the
Stokely Gazette
and arrange to see her on Tuesday. I'm sure she'll give me a plug. With luck, she might even be able to put me on to someone at County Radio.'

‘With what end in view?'

‘Tracking down people who knew Gemma, of course. Stokely is where she lived and worked – and died, for that matter.'

‘But surely it's the father you're after?'

‘I've already put a message on a contact site. The trouble is, as I told Zara, if he doesn't know she exists, he won't be looking for her. What I need is a name, which is why I'm concentrating on her friends here. I can't believe a pregnant twenty-year-old, with no parents to hand, wouldn't confide in
someone
. And the most likely someone is her flatmate, which is why I have to trail up to Buckford yet again, to check the electoral register.'

Max topped up their glasses. ‘You've not forgotten there's a murderer lurking in the background?'

‘No, I haven't.'

‘Suppose all this attracts his attention?'

‘I doubt if it'd worry him; he must think he's safe after all this time.'

‘But God, Rona, the girl probably knew him! He might
be
one of these friends you're happily looking for! There's no evidence she was killed by a burglar, is there? Nothing was stolen?'

‘No, but if he'd just strangled her in the bath, he'd hardly waste time opening drawers on the off-chance of something to hock, especially if the baby was screaming blue murder. Anyway,' she added a little sulkily, ‘all known friends and acquaintances were interviewed at the time.'

Max looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Obviously, you won't be mentioning Zara?'

‘Obviously not by name. She assures me only her family and the adoption agency know her history, so it would be impossible for anyone to identify her.'

‘But not so hard to identify you, if someone put his mind to it. So no names, OK? Leave a contact number, nothing else. Your mobile, or even your email address, since it doesn't include your name.'

Rona gave an exasperated sigh. Then, seeing the concern in his eyes, her expression softened and she reached for his hand. ‘Don't worry, Guardian Angel; I'll be careful, I promise.'

He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. ‘Just mind that you are,' he said.

As Lindsey turned into Maple Drive, her father's car was just approaching the corner. They both wound down their windows.

‘An unscheduled visit, love? I wasn't expecting you.'

‘Mum should be; I'm taking her shopping.'

Tom looked surprised. ‘Oh? She didn't mention it.'

‘Lunch included,' Lindsey added. ‘Hope that's OK?'

‘Of course – no problem. I'm off to the garden centre to look for a new shed. Enjoy yourselves.'

As she drove the few yards to the house, Lindsey wondered if she'd unwittingly given him carte blanche to visit Catherine Bishop, but there was little she could do about it. She tried the front door, found it unlocked, and let herself in.