Finding Grace(77)

I shiver. Grace must be terrified.

Yet I can’t tell another soul about his email.

Don’t breathe a word, or I tell them everything.

He means business; he’s already approached Bev to show me how easy it would be for him to ruin all our lives.

If I tell the police, I’ll have to explain our whole history together. I’ll have to convey just how dangerous he is and the extreme lengths he’d be willing to go to.

I can just imagine the protracted questioning, the investigation boxes that would need to be ticked… the valuable time that will be wasted.

If I meet with Stefan myself, I can make him see sense. I know I can.

The joy of knowing my daughter is alive is almost enough to override everything else. It gives me hope, a determination to succeed.

He holds a final secret so powerful, he could wreck my life in moments.

I have no choice but to meet him alone.





Fifty-Five





‘Are you OK, Luce?’ Blake steps away so he can give me a long look of consideration. ‘You’re so quiet and… Is anything wrong?’

‘Nothing’s wrong,’ I say. ‘Apart from my whole world falling to pieces.’

‘I know, stupid question.’ This man, who has so much energy and is usually so full of life, looks tired. Beaten. It’s in my power to help him deal with what’s happened, but I can only do that by destroying him.

I feel an utter fraud. I know our daughter is with the most loathsome man I have ever met, but she is alive. I believe she is alive. And if I play along with Stefan’s sick little game, I can get her back.

I know I can.

I wish I could speak to Blake. I wish I could tell him everything I know.

But it is best for everyone concerned – especially Grace - that I say nothing.



I tell Blake I’m going to sleep in Oscar’s room.

‘It makes no sense for both of us to be exhausted if he wakes,’ I tell him. ‘I won’t sleep anyway, so I might as well volunteer.’

He nods without comment. Perhaps part of him senses I need some space. Perhaps he, too, is glad of the time alone with his thoughts.

I slide into the cool sheets of the little-used spare single bed and listen to my son’s regular, light breathing pattern.

Getting through the television appeal and yet another day without Grace; there were times today I didn’t think I’d make it. I’ve had to block thoughts from my mind – particularly the revelations of my visit to Barbara Charterhouse. But now I can revisit what happened, digest her words and absorb what it means to me. To my life…



‘I’ve known your hidden past for a long time, my dear.’ The sound of the tea pouring from the teapot spout echoed in my ears. ‘I’ve marvelled how you’ve managed to keep it all inside.’

I stared blankly at the cup and saucer she places in front of me, then I looked up into the face of Barbara Charterhouse. I thought about the times she’s nodded to me at some community even, her cryptic comments at the café…

I found I couldn’t actually say anything in response. I couldn’t ask her what she meant by what she just said; I couldn’t object, stand up or leave. I was simply struck by a mute fear of what she might know.

Surely it couldn’t be anything to do with my past life in Newcastle. It couldn’t be.

‘I haven’t a clue what you mean.’ Somehow, I managed to keep my voice level and meet her eyes.

She smiled, nodded and ran a finger along the lip of her cup.

‘You know, many moons ago, I owned my own bed and breakfast business. It was quite successful, but after a couple of years I hit a sort of ceiling. I’d grown the business as much as I was able, which was fine. I was happy there.’ She paused and smiled to herself. ‘And then I met Harold.’

I breathed a small sigh of relief. It sounded as though she knew nothing of my past after all, thank goodness, and I now doubted her comment at the café, about Blake’s facade, could be anything more than a spiteful slur with no substance.

‘Harold, believe it or not, was hotly ambitious in those days, and he saw great opportunity in a certain area of Newcastle, where the student population was experiencing exponential growth.’

Freezing cold fingers unfurled at the bottom of my spine and commenced a slow crawl up each and every vertebra.

She watched my face carefully as she continued.

‘Harold had some money, compensation for a car accident he’d been involved in. I had a bit put aside too, so we sold the B&B and bought a splendid but faded Victorian villa on the outskirts of Newcastle.’

Goose bumps clustered on my forearms as Barbara smiled and nodded slowly, as if she could sense everything that was happening inside me. The sick feeling, the panic, the rush of blood to my head. I was trying so hard to remain poker-faced.

‘The house needed renovating top to bottom, but we did virtually nothing because the place filled with student tenants within a month. These were young people who expected very little and were perfectly happy if you let them alone.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’ I managed, but she continued as if I hadn’t spoken a word.

‘Harold and I didn’t interfere so long as they paid their rent and took out their rubbish regularly. We didn’t live on site, you see, and so we found it fairly easy to turn a blind eye to everything else. And I can tell you, even though I’m ashamed of our lax morals back then, that made our accommodation very popular indeed.’