The Secret Mother(35)

‘Because you’ve driven off with me?’ I ask.

‘Yeah. Sorry, bit of professional rivalry there,’ she says.

‘That isn’t why you’re doing this, is it? You didn’t lie about—’

‘No, no. Don’t worry, their jealousy is just a bonus.’

I shake my head. She really is something else. What must it be like to be that devoted to your career? To be so snarled up in it you don’t know where you end and it begins? I glance sideways at her. My strange neighbour. She’s humming something, but I can’t make out the tune. Such a striking face – high cheekbones, cat-like eyes – but somehow the whole effect is harsh, like a brittle veneer is covering her skin. I give my head a shake; it must be the lack of a proper night’s sleep making me have these odd thoughts.

‘Sorry I can’t drop you at her place,’ she says, ‘but I’ve got a meeting with an editor in an hour.’

‘It’s fine,’ I say, wondering if her meeting is about me. ‘Now that I’m away from the rest of the press, I can relax a bit. Just drop me at the Tube station.’

‘Let me know how you get on,’ she says. ‘And Tessa, don’t be meek and mild. If that woman knows something, she should damn well give you answers. Guilt-trip her into it if you need to.’

I raise my eyebrows. That’s easy for her to say – she asks questions for a living. ‘I’m not guilt-tripping anyone,’ I retort.

‘You’ve got an opportunity to get some answers,’ she says. ‘Don’t blow it.’

‘God, you’re relentless,’ I say.

She grins. ‘Yep, you know me.’ She puts on her left blinker. ‘Okay, I’m not supposed to stop here, so jump out quickly. I don’t want a ticket.’

I do as she asks, stepping out onto the busy pavement outside the Tube station. I bend down to push the door closed.

‘Be forceful, Tessa,’ she calls out. ‘And don’t forget to text me afterwards.’

‘Right.’ I slam the car door and watch her motor away, merging with the rolling traffic, the sunlight glinting off the cars, making me squint and turn away.



* * *



It’s already 10.15 as I alight from the Tube onto the platform at Turnpike Lane, clutching the folded piece of paper that Carly handed me earlier. On it is written an address and a name. Even Carly’s handwriting looks like a newspaper headline. Black ink. Thick block capitals. Definite. Unequivocal. No room for error. Exactly the sort of handwriting I’d expect from someone like Carly Dean. But maybe she’s furnished me with a lifeline here. Maybe this housekeeper woman will give me some answers about Harry and how he ended up at my house. Maybe she’ll tell me something that will remove all suspicion from my name. I can only hope.

I step out of the station onto a wide expanse of pavement that looks as though the planners started out with the grand idea of making it into a piazza, but gave up halfway through. A couple of leafless trees stand off to the side next to a lone bench, a black-and-gold bin, some electricity boxes and a few bike racks. I stand for a moment to get my bearings, unfolding the scrap of paper and checking the address again, even though I’ve already googled and memorised it. I stare around at the criss-crossing roads and pavements, at the sweep and rumble of four-lane Friday traffic, and set off across an impossibly wide road towards a parade of shops.

A short while later, I’m standing in front of a peeling orange door set back between a sandwich bar and a betting shop. There are two buzzers – one with the name S. Lewis, the other with no name. I press the blank one and wait. Ten seconds later, a woman’s voice comes through the intercom.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Is that Merida Flores?’

‘Who is this?’ Her voice sounds faintly accented.

‘My name is Tessa Markham. I was wondering… can I have a quick word?’

The static through the intercom disappears.

‘Hello?’ I say, knowing she’s taken her finger off the button and can’t hear me any longer. ‘Hello?’ I press the buzzer again and wait for a few moments. Then I step back and crane my neck to peer up at the bay window of the flat above the betting shop. I catch my breath as the curtain inches back and a woman stares down at me. Our eyes lock.

My hand flies to my mouth as I realise I know her: it’s the same woman I’ve been seeing everywhere. She immediately twitches the curtain closed again. Why has Fisher’s ex-housekeeper been following me? There must be something she wants to talk about. Why else would she be interested in me? Maybe she’s scared. How can I get her to let me into her flat?

I step back up to the door and press the buzzer once more. There’s no response. I think back to what Carly told me – to be forceful and not to blow it – but I can’t stand here harassing the woman. Having been subjected to that myself, I know how awful it feels. Still, I now get the feeling that Merida Flores knows what’s going on. That she wants to talk to me but something is preventing her. Only question is – what? Or who?

An idea comes to me and I press the buzzer one more time.

No response.

I press it again.

‘Yes?’ It’s her.

I catch my breath. ‘Hello. Look, I’m going to go to the café down the road. The Costa opposite the Tube station. I’ll wait there for one hour. Please come and meet me there. Please.’