A Tangled Thread Read online

  The e-fit had been shown on TV as police widened their appeal, and several of her friends had commented on the likeness, sympathizing with her over the distress this must cause and commenting that everyone was supposed to have a double but you didn’t expect to come across him.

  Stories of doppelgängers and identical twins separated at birth, a favourite ploy in fiction, had fluttered briefly in her head and been impatiently dismissed. Greg had been an only child and she couldn’t count on any bizarre theories to provide a solution. A hitherto unknown cousin was the farthest she’d allow herself to consider.

  Should she, she wondered, mention this remote possibility to the Scottish police? They would already have been inundated with possible identities from the usual cranks and those craving attention; an unknown cousin would doubtless come into the same category.

  With a sigh she replaced the cutting, closed the drawer and went to make herself a cup of tea.

  Stonebridge

  ‘Charlotte and I decided it’s time for another girls’ night out,’ Alexa said brightly as they prepared to open the shop. ‘How are you fixed tomorrow, Jules?’

  ‘Oh … I don’t know,’ Julia procrastinated. ‘Things are a bit topsy-turvy at the moment.’

  ‘All the more reason to escape!’ Charlotte said. ‘Come on, Jules, it’s ages since we had one. You’ve got a live-in nanny so you’ve no excuse and there’s that new Thai restaurant I’ve been wanting to try out. Shall I book a table for about eight o’clock?’

  Julia smiled a little reluctantly. ‘OK, I suppose I could do with a break; things have been rather getting on top of me lately.’

  Her friends exchanged knowing glances and behind her back Alexa gave a thumbs up.

  ‘Consider it done,’ Charlotte said with satisfaction.

  The good food and wine combined with low lighting were conducive to relaxing, and this in turn led to an exchange of confidences. Charlotte started the ball rolling with the news that her ex, with whom she’d remained on good terms, was about to re-marry and she’d been surprised how much this had upset her.

  ‘It’s not as though we were ever going to get back together,’ she said, ‘but we still phoned each other if there was a film we wanted to see or a garden to visit. It feels like being single all over again.’

  ‘Have you met her?’ Alexa enquired.

  Charlotte pulled a face. ‘No, but I’ve seen her. She’s a good fifteen years younger than I am – heels like stilts and that casual, expensively coiffured hair.’ She smiled self-mockingly. ‘I took an instant dislike to her, but in all seriousness she’s not his type and I don’t see it working.’

  ‘I hope you didn’t tell him that!’ Julia said.

  ‘Not in so many words, but I made some throwaway comment about age differences. I must have sounded like a shrew.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Alexa remarked, refilling their glasses. ‘I felt like that after both my break-ups.’ She smiled. ‘This is where Jules looks superior!’

  Julia shook her head.

  ‘Oh, honey!’ Charlotte laid a quick hand on hers. ‘Is that what’s been upsetting you these last weeks – apart from your mother-in-law’s death, I mean?’

  But Julia was after all not ready to talk about David. ‘It’s not that,’ she said quickly, ‘but there’s been complete upheaval in the family; it turns out David and Will’s father didn’t die years ago as they thought. In fact, he was probably that man in Scotland whose stabbing has been in the news.’

  Her friends stared at her aghast. ‘How on earth could that happen?’

  Julia took a fortifying sip of wine. ‘When that e-fit or whatever it’s called was in the paper, we all thought he looked incredibly like the photo of Larry that had always stood by Sally’s bed. And when David mentioned it to his grandparents the whole story came out, about them being illegitimate and his mother changing their names and God knows what else.’

  ‘But … is there any way to prove this? I mean, have they told the police?’

  She nodded. ‘Two detectives came down yesterday to take their DNA for comparison with the dead man’s. We won’t get confirmation one way or the other for some time.’

  ‘But what was he doing in Scotland calling himself Johnnie whoever it was?’

  Julia shrugged. ‘I haven’t the faintest.’

  There was a pause while they all thought it over. Then Alexa said, ‘How are David and his brother taking it?’

  ‘They feel their whole life has been a lie, with both their mother and their grandparents keeping the truth from them. Apparently she made her parents promise not to tell them and didn’t see any reason for them ever to know. And they probably never would have, if this man hadn’t got himself stabbed.’

  ‘So all you can do now is wait for the results?’

  Julia nodded. ‘Though what good it will do I really don’t know; I doubt if there’s a family fortune waiting to be claimed.’

  ‘One can always hope!’ Charlotte said, and the subject was tactfully dropped.

  Foxclere

  Maria was absent the next day, and a casual enquiry elicited the information that she’d phoned in sick and Toby’s father had delivered him to school.

  After a third sleepless night and knowing he couldn’t afford a fourth, Richard checked the website to confirm her address, and when the bell for lunch sounded he quickly collected his car and drove to her home. Having delivered her there that first day he’d no trouble finding it and pulled in a few yards short of her house. His heart was crashing around his chest and his breathing laboured, but, he told himself, this situation had to be settled one way or the other, and screwing his courage to the sticking point, he got out, walked along the short stretch of pavement and turned in her gate.

  She opened the door almost at once, catching her breath at the sight of him.

  ‘Are you going to invite me in or do we have to sort this out on the step?’ he asked, and she stood silently to one side, closing the door behind him. They stood facing each other in the narrow hallway and since she made no attempt to speak, he said, ‘I hear you’re not well; what’s wrong?’

  ‘Do you really have to ask?’ He had to lean forward in order to hear her. ‘If you’ve come to demand an apology, you’re more than welcome to it.’

  ‘That isn’t why I’ve come.’

  She continued as though she hadn’t heard him. ‘I’m an idiot, I know that, and I’m truly, truly sorry I made such an exhibition of myself and put you in this embarrassing position. But unless you’re going to dismiss me – and I certainly couldn’t blame you if you do – I’ll be back in my classroom tomorrow, all calm and collected, and won’t trouble you again.’

  All the speeches he had so laboriously rehearsed deserted him and the best Richard could manage was ‘Maria …’

  A fleeting expression of what looked surprisingly like relief crossed her face but before he could analyse it she made an incoherent murmur and moved swiftly into his arms.

  They hadn’t had long; after a frenzied coming together Richard had dressed hurriedly and left with no further caress.

  Maria lay where he’d left her on the guest room bed, reflecting on the past twenty minutes. Cold fish Richard Lawrence most definitely was not – at least not in the physical sense. Emotionally he was still a closed book to her. There had been no words of endearment – barely any words at all – but she had the impression that she’d been as necessary to him as he was to her, and on that basis she was certain their unbalanced relationship would continue.

  But she’d had a bad fright when he had challenged her in the car, sure she’d misinterpreted his feelings and fearful he would report her and she’d have to explain to Mike why she’d been so ignominiously dismissed. The relief of seeing him on her doorstep had been overwhelming but she was still far from sure of his opinion of her. One thing at least she could count on; he would not be reporting her to the Head. He had too much to lose himself.

  NINE

  The fol
lowing Tuesday a reconstruction of ‘Johnnie’s’ last evening was aired nationwide on Crimewatch, and throughout the UK viewers watched the reconstruction as a middle-aged, dark-haired man in jeans and a blue T-shirt left Beth’s house at eight fifteen p.m. and made his way to the Stag and Thistle, where he was known to have spent the evening of Thursday 5 June. At just after eleven he was shown leaving the pub and turning into the narrow street where, shortly after midnight, his body had been found.

  His landlady, a Mrs Monroe who knew him as Johnnie Stewart, had reported he’d seemed the same as usual, an opinion echoed on screen by people from the pub who had spoken to him that evening. No one could recall any disagreement or whether anyone had left at the same time as he did or soon afterwards.

  A continuously moving tape along the bottom of the screen gave the Crimewatch studio phone and text numbers together with the date of the incident being covered and the reminder that officers wanted to hear from anyone who might have been in the area at the crucial time and seen anything suspicious. Numbers were also given for those who wished to remain anonymous. It was in the lap of the gods as to whether any useful information would result.

  Blaircomrie

  The next morning the detectives on the case met for a briefing.

  ‘So let’s recap on what we have,’ DI Mackay began. ‘Sandy, you go first. What do we know for definite about this slippery character?’

  ‘Still precious little, boss. Admittedly this Yorkshire lot came forward but frankly I shouldn’t pin your hopes on them. The whole story sounded concocted to me and the ID was far from conclusive. Neither man had ever seen their father and the photos they produced bore only a passing resemblance. We can probably write them off when the DNA results come through.

  ‘For the rest, according to Johnnie-boy’s landlady he was allegedly born in Dorset and grew up in Australia. He allegedly went to uni somewhere in the UK. He doesn’t appear in any records and paid for his lodgings in cash, though the digital shop he worked for, who came forward after the e-fit, say they made out their cheques to J Farthing, and he was known to his colleagues as “J”. I don’t have to tell you he doesn’t officially exist either.

  ‘His landlady says he went out every night, and we’ve established he regularly played poker in the upper room of the Stag and Thistle in Forfar Street. He usually left with the night’s winnings and it seems a fair bet someone followed him, attempted a mugging and it went wrong. But the crowd at the pub are a taciturn lot and getting anything out of them is like the proverbial.’

  Mackay nodded and the discussion turned to the replies already streaming in from the television programme. Surely, they told themselves, something would break soon.

  Thursday had come round again, and Beth was meeting Moira for lunch. It was now three weeks since they’d gone together to the police station and identified Johnnie’s body, and the police seemed no nearer learning his real name.

  ‘How did it feel, being mentioned on telly?’ Moira enquired.

  ‘It was weird, especially seeing that man walk out of my gateway and next door’s cat sitting on the fence watching him.’

  ‘Did he look like Johnnie?’ Moira asked.

  ‘A bit, but it could have been half the population of Blaircomrie.’

  ‘No doubt there’ll be the usual flood of phone calls claiming to identify him,’ Moira remarked, ‘but the programme does have a high success rate. In the meantime, the press are having a field day with two big local stories to work on – Johnnie’s identity, of course, and the mall disaster. I read yesterday that relatives of the victims are demanding more action to identify those to blame for the collapse – it’s been over six months now and compensation still hasn’t been agreed. Some of the families are on the bread line.’

  ‘Poor souls.’ Beth poured water into their glasses. ‘Talking of the press, I’ve got a reporter coming to interview me this evening; I tried to dissuade him but he talked me round and I obviously won’t get any peace till I see him.’

  ‘Be careful what you say,’ Moira warned. ‘They have a way of twisting your words.’

  ‘I haven’t any to twist,’ Beth pointed out.

  ‘I meant about your relationship. You don’t want it noised abroad.’

  Beth flushed. ‘I was very foolish over that – lost my head completely. I’m hardly likely to mention it.’

  Several hours later, as he perched on a chair in her living room, she regretted her capitulation. There was something about the man, with his slicked-back hair and the sweat marks under his arms, that she instinctively distrusted.

  ‘You must have known him better than most, Mrs Monroe,’ he wheedled. ‘After all, he’d been living here for – what – two months?’

  ‘I maintain a business relationship with my lodgers,’ Beth said stiffly and untruthfully. ‘He was always pleasant and polite and paid his rent on time, which was all that concerned me.’

  He was watching her closely and she had the absurd notion that he could see through her. To interrupt his train of thought she said quickly, ‘The police don’t seem any nearer finding out who he was.’

  ‘Ah, well now.’ Jim Scott, as he’d introduced himself, leant back in his chair and crossed his legs. ‘That might not be quite accurate; there’s a story going round, unconfirmed, mind, that they’ve managed to trace his family – they’re just waiting for DNA results before announcing it.’

  Beth gave in to her curiosity. ‘Really? Who are they, do you know?’

  ‘The word is they live in Yorkshire, but that’s as far as it goes. Yorkshire accent, had he?’ he asked hopefully.

  ‘I wouldn’t have said so, but I’m not good at placing English accents.’

  He looked disappointed. ‘I was hoping the police might have updated you, but perhaps they’re waiting till it’s for definite.’

  ‘There’s no reason why they should tell me; I’m not a relative.’

  Since there was patently no more she could – or was willing to – tell him, he got to his feet, stretching. ‘Well, I won’t keep you any longer, Mrs M.’ He handed her a card. ‘But if you do hear anything, I’d be grateful if you’d tip me the wink.’

  Foxclere

  The Crimewatch programme had been replaying itself in Jill’s head ever since she’d seen it on Tuesday evening. The man acting the part of ‘Johnnie Stewart’ hadn’t borne much resemblance to Greg, but there was no comfort in that – he was, after all, just an actor playing a part. Yet the man in the paper had looked frighteningly like him, and she was beginning to accept that she wouldn’t rest until she could satisfy herself that the likeness was pure coincidence.

  An idea began to form in her head; the landlady’s name had been mentioned, a Mrs Monroe. With luck there wouldn’t be too many with that name in Blaircomrie. Quickly, before her courage could fail her, she reached for her phone.

  Blaircomrie

  In view of public interest and the stalemate they’d encountered so far, permission had been granted to speed up the Gregory brothers’ DNA results, so when DS Grant knocked at his door DI Mackay was hopeful that the case was about to take a giant leap forward. There had been the usual calls from folk whose relatives had disappeared years ago and who were clutching at straws, and these had doubled since the Crimewatch programme. They all had to be looked into but so far none had held water; despite Sandy’s reservations, this latest ID sounded more hopeful, and with luck the DNA results might clinch it and restore his rightful name to their presently anonymous body.

  However, Grant’s face as he entered showed no sign of elation. ‘Well, Sandy? What news?’

  ‘Good and bad, boss, the good being that the Gregory brothers are definitely related to the deceased.’

  ‘Excellent! But if he’s Laurence Gregory, what possible bad news can there be?’

  ‘Except that he isn’t, boss,’ Grant said flatly. ‘He bloody didn’t exist either!’

  Mackay leant back, his eyes narrowing. ‘What the hell do you mean?’
/>   ‘Just that, same as Johnnie Stewart. We trailed through all the channels again, and none of the Laurence Gregorys we came up with fitted the bill.’

  He ran a hand through his sparse hair. ‘It’s a bummer, boss. If you’re as confused as I am, let me recap. When his landlady ID’d our body as Johnnie Stewart we thought we were home and dry, but by God we soon learned different. There are lots of Johnnie Stewarts, but all alive and kicking and scattered all over the British Isles.

  ‘So then the e-fit goes public and the shop who employed him comes forward saying they made out his cheques to J Farthing, but that was no help because he also proved to be non-existent, though Johnnie must have banked his cheques somewhere. Then, to crown it all, we’re presented with Laurence Gregory, who turns out to be as insubstantial as the rest. How many more phantoms are going to materialize? Hell’s teeth, boss, we assumed he was the usual drunk stabbed in a back alley, but he’s turned out to be the mystery man of the century!’

  ‘Let me get this straight,’ Mackay said slowly. ‘You’re saying there’s no trace of Laurence Gregory either? But there has to be, man! For God’s sake, he’s got two sons!’

  ‘The guy in the morgue has,’ Grant said heavily, ‘but he’s not Laurence Gregory.’

  Foxclere

  Jill was holding her breath as she punched out the number she’d looked up on the Internet, and as soon as a voice answered she rushed into her prepared speech.

  ‘You don’t know me, Mrs Monroe, but my name is Jill Lawrence,’ she began. ‘Please forgive me contacting you, but the sketch of your lodger in the paper looks very like my husband, who died overseas last year.’