Silent Voices

Chapter Thirty-Eight

On the short drive from the business park to Barnard Bridge, Vera didn’t open her mouth except to take one phone call. Joe Ashworth thought it was the chap in social services because Vera called him Craig, but he couldn’t tell what it was about. It was all Craig talking and Vera listening, and it lasted the whole journey. They were still using Vera’s Land Rover, which was completely against all regulations because it was about a hundred years old and likely to clap out at any time, but she’d said if there was floodwater on the road, at least they’d get through. The windows didn’t close properly and the engine was so noisy it felt as if they were riding in a tank. There was a stink of diesel fumes.

They rolled onto the gravel drive at the White House and at last she did speak. ‘You keep your mouth shut here, OK? And you take notes. Detailed notes. We’re going to need this in court.’

Veronica opened the door to them on the first knock. She looked pale and tense, and Ashworth was reminded of the photo Christopher Eliot had shown them in his office. The hardness had gone and she was a vulnerable young woman again. She was dressed in a long waxed coat and wellingtons.

‘I’m sorry, Inspector, I was just on my way out.’

‘We need to talk.’ Vera walked straight in past her and into the kitchen as if it were her place, not Veronica’s. Ashworth followed. When Veronica hesitated, Vera barked at her, ‘Now! I’m in a hurry here.’

They sat at the kitchen table, Vera and the woman facing each other, Ashworth at the far end, his notebook discreetly on his knee. Veronica slipped her coat off her shoulders, but was still wearing the boots.

‘Where have you hidden Connie Masters?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Don’t piss me about, lady. Her car was found in your husband’s office car park. I need to know where they are. That lass of hers’ll be scared stiff by now.’

Veronica said nothing. She stared, haughty and impassive, into the garden.

‘I know it was you who left the Nissan, and if I need to I’ll prove it. A call to every minicab firm in the Tyne valley and we’ll find someone who picked you up there and brought you back to Barnard Bridge. Because you couldn’t ask your husband for a lift, could you? You couldn’t have him asking questions.’

Still the woman remained silent. But Ashworth saw that the white hand resting on the table was trembling. Soon she would crack, he thought.

Vera leaned forward and when she spoke her voice was quite different. So low that Ashworth at the other end of the table could hardly make out the words. ‘Tell me about your baby, Veronica. Your first baby. Tell me about Matilda.’

Veronica remained completely still, but her eyes were full of tears. She blinked and they ran down her cheeks. Ashworth realized she was wearing no makeup; perhaps that was why she looked so different.

‘How old were you when you had her, Veronica? It’s in the records. The social-work records. I’ll be able to check.’

Oh, she’s already checked, Ashworth thought. That’s what the phone call was all about.

‘Fifteen,’ Veronica said. ‘I was fifteen.’

‘Teenage pregnancy was a bit different then, wasn’t it? A stigma. Especially to a family like yours. Tell me about it.’

‘The baby’s father was older than me,’ she said. ‘A mechanic. He drove a big motorbike and wore leathers, and I thought he was the most glamorous man in the world. I’d told him I was seventeen and he was horrified when he found out how young I was.’ She gave a brittle little laugh that made Ashworth want to weep. ‘He offered to marry me as soon as I was old enough. But of course that would never do for my family. Think of the disgrace.’

‘Bad enough to lose all their money,’ Vera muttered. ‘They couldn’t lose their good name too.’

‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘it would never have lasted. They were right about that.’ They sat for a moment in silence and Ashworth could hear the swollen river churning over the boulders and under the bridge.

Veronica went on, her voice quite calm now. ‘By the time I realized what was going on and found the nerve to tell my parents, it was too late for an abortion. I had to have the baby. Everyone was perfectly kind about it. My parents blamed the man and would have got the police to prosecute, only then it would have become general knowledge and they couldn’t face that. They treated me as if I were an invalid, so ill that I couldn’t make decisions for myself.’

‘So you were sent away to friends up in the Borders.’

She looked up. ‘You know about that?’

‘Christopher told us you worked there as an au pair for a while.’

She looked horrified. ‘Christopher doesn’t know anything about this!’

‘Maybe you should have told him,’ Vera said. ‘Maybe he wouldn’t care.’

Veronica shook her head.

‘Anyway,’ Vera said. ‘The plan was that the baby would be adopted. Is that right?’

‘That was what everyone told me would be for the best.’

‘But it didn’t feel that way to you.’

‘I wouldn’t let them take her away straight after she was born.’ Veronica gave a flash of a smile. ‘I was bloody-minded even then. I kept her and I fed her. I didn’t make a bad job of looking after her.’

‘But eventually your parents talked you round?’

‘They said it would be better for the baby. There were lots of couples who would love to have a child of their own. Two parents to care for her properly. I’d have my life back.’

‘But she never was adopted, was she? She was taken into care, but never officially adopted. Why was that?’

‘There’s a process,’ Veronica said. ‘It’s done through the court. Somebody called a guardian ad litem is appointed to look after the interests of the child. A formality. Usually.’

‘But not in your case?’

‘The guardian came to my parents’ house. Matilda was nearly eighteen months by then. Because I wouldn’t give the baby up immediately, things were more complicated and the process had taken longer. It was all very messy. Matilda was in care with a foster family, who’d asked if they could adopt her. She wasn’t what I’d expected – the guardian, I mean. I’d thought she’d be old and stern. “Guardian” made me think of a workhouse. But she was young. Nearer to my age than my parents’. She wore the sort of clothes I wore. She was the first person I could really talk to about the baby.’

Ashworth caught Vera looking surreptitiously at the kitchen clock. She was thinking of Connie Masters and her child, of time moving on. But hearing his boss speak to Veronica, you’d have thought she had all the time in the world.

‘The guardian woman encouraged you to think you could look after the baby yourself?’

‘Not even that. She asked if I was ready to sign the form. The form consenting to the adoption. When I hesitated, she talked through the options. If Matilda were fostered rather than adopted, she said there was a chance I could stay in touch with her, maintain contact. And maybe I could have her back one day.’

‘So you refused to sign the form. Bet your parents were delighted. Not!’

‘They were horrified and said it was the most selfish thing I’d ever done in my life.’ Veronica looked straight at Vera. ‘And they were right, of course. The family who were looking after Matilda couldn’t face the uncertainty of knowing whether or not they’d be able to adopt her. She was moved. When she was three and a half I signed the consent form, but by then it was too late. Adoption never happened for her. There was no stability throughout her childhood. That was all my fault.’

‘More likely the fault of that soft bloody social worker who talked you out of signing the consent form!’

Ashworth thought his boss was going to give them her usual rant about social workers, but she managed to restrain herself.

‘Matilda came on visits,’ Vera said. ‘During that time when you were making up your mind. She remembers.’

‘Does she?’ Veronica said, and Ashworth couldn’t tell if she was terrified or delighted by the information. ‘She was so young that I didn’t think she would. I remember every detail, of course. What she was wearing, what she said. She was so small. Very pretty. And good. An obedient little girl.’

Ashworth thought: So obedient that she went on to do whatever men told her to.

‘She told Jenny Lister about the visits to you,’ Vera went on. ‘But Jenny would have had access to the records anyway. She must have known you were Mattie’s natural mother.’

‘I hated thinking about that,’ Veronica said. ‘I kept expecting Jenny to say something. I thought she might tell Simon. He never knew he had a sister.’

‘Why would she have done that? Confidentiality was important to her.’ Vera paused for a moment, looking at the woman, seemed to give the question more significance than it deserved. ‘Did she tell you she planned to write a book?’

There was a silence. ‘Simon mentioned it one day,’ Veronica said at last. ‘Hannah had told him of her mother’s dream to tell her clients’ stories. As if that were a noble thing to do.’

‘She would have changed names, of course, if a book did get written, but people close to you might have guessed.’ Vera looked directly at the woman opposite. ‘Is that why you were so against the relationship between Hannah and Simon? You thought Jenny might share your secret if she got too close to him.’

‘Elias Jones was my grandson,’ Veronica said. ‘Those women let him die.’

‘You let Patrick die,’ Vera said, her voice quiet and matter-of-fact.

There was a shocked silence; again the sound of the river running high intruded into the house. Ashworth imagined a young child being swept away by it, rolled by the current until his face was under the water, being carried all the way to the sea.

‘That was an accident!’ Veronica cried at last. ‘Not the same at all.’

‘One child given away,’ Vera said, as if Veronica hadn’t spoken, ‘and one child lost. And the child that was left fell for your enemy’s daughter. Is that how you saw it?’

‘Simon could have done better for himself,’ Veronica said. But the reply was automatic and meant nothing.

‘Where did you take Connie Masters?’ Vera demanded.

Veronica ignored the question. It was as if each woman was hardly aware of the other’s words: each was pursuing her own line of thought, a monologue occasionally interrupted. It seemed to Ashworth that it was like watching one of those odd modern plays his wife took him to see at the Live Theatre sometimes. Two characters rambling on without making any connection.

‘Did Matilda really remember those visits?’ Veronica’s question came suddenly from nowhere.

This time Vera did answer. ‘Aye, she talked about them. To Jenny and to Michael Morgan. I went to see him this morning to check I had it right. They meant a lot to her.’

‘How much can she remember?’

‘The social worker bringing her in the car. She talked about a house with its legs in the water. That must be the boathouse by the lake? The place in the picture in your hall? The one at Greenhough.’

‘I always met her there,’ Veronica said. ‘My parents wouldn’t have her in our house. It was still a shameful secret.’ She looked up and asked the most important question. ‘Did Matilda remember me?’

But Vera had already leaped to her feet, almost tripping in her haste. ‘And that’s where you took Connie and the child. God, I have been such a fool! But why? Couldn’t you stand seeing them happy together?’ Then she fell silent and was still, her body twisted towards the woman, like a massive granite sculpture, and when she did speak it was quietly and to herself. ‘No, of course that wasn’t it at all.’

Ashworth was standing too. He wasn’t sure what Vera expected from him. To follow her? To arrest Veronica Eliot? After her final words the inspector had moved surprisingly quickly. She was already in the hall close to the front door, the keys to the Land Rover in her hand.

‘I would never hurt them,’ Veronica called after her. ‘I would never hurt a child.’ But her voice was thin and unconvincing.

Ashworth left her sitting where she was.