The Secret Mother(38)

I pause. What the hell am I doing? My conscience nags me. I’m about to trespass on private property, to break the law. What if the press snap me climbing over the wall? Imagine. They’d have an absolute field day. Brand me a stalker as well as a suspected child abductor. But my desire for answers overwhelms my fears.

I roll my shoulders back and forth and take a breath. Then I press my right toe against the wall, grab on with both hands and heave myself up so that I’m draped inelegantly across the top. I slide my legs down the other side and drop to the ground with a dull thud, remembering to bend my knees so I don’t jar my joints.

My heart pounds. I’m now on private property. Don’t think about it. Through the bare-limbed fruit trees, I stare down the long garden, clenching and unclenching my fists, trying not to dwell on the fact that I now need to pee. Somehow I move my legs, propel myself towards the house, across the white lawn, my footprints stark and incriminating.

Reaching a slightly raised patio, I slow my pace and come to a standstill, wondering what to do. Can I really be about to rap on this stranger’s back door? I creep up to the right-hand window and peer into a dark room, creating blinkers with my hands to block out next door’s security light, which has suddenly clicked on, making me even more nervous. I’m looking into the kitchen. The decor is dated, with a battered-looking Aga and 1960s units. The room is an absolute tip, with dirty plates piled high at the sink, old boots and shoes strewn around the floor and all kinds of unidentifiable paraphernalia covering the worktops and the table at the far end.

I cross the terrace to the other window. The curtains are drawn, but there’s a gap where they don’t quite meet in the middle, enabling me to see in. A massive oval table dominates what I assume to be the dining room. On it sits an ancient computer, stacks of lever-arch files and piles of paperwork. I wonder if Fisher and Harry are even at home. Just as I’m pondering this, the door to the dining room swings open and the overhead chandelier floods the room with light. It’s Fisher, tall and very real.

I freeze as he stops and stares right at me. Holy hell. My insides turn to water as he takes a step in my direction. How am I not yelping in shock right now? I shrink back from the gap in the curtains, heart hammering, sweat breaking out under my hat and scarf. Did he see me? How could he not have?

With jelly legs and trembling hands, I step forward once more and peer around the curtains, see him take a seat at the computer, not casting a single glance my way. I exhale a long, relieved breath. Seeing him like this, up close, bearded and bespectacled, so stern and serious, I wonder how I’ll find the courage to confront him. But if I don’t, what then? Turn around and go home, this whole expedition a complete waste of time, money and energy? No. And annoyingly, a part of me wants to tell Carly: look, I’m not a complete wimp. I can do this stuff, I can clear my name myself. I don’t need to resort to your underhand methods. I push away the fact that technically I’m breaking the law right now.

I watch Fisher for a moment, getting my breathing back under control, calming my mind, trying to figure out exactly what I want to say to this man. How I’m going to persuade him to talk to me. But my brain won’t behave the way I want it to. It’s a jumbled mess. Either I stay here rooted to the spot, or I take the few steps required to carry me to the back door and get this over with.

After a few more moments’ dithering, I find myself standing at the kitchen door, my raised fist ready to rap on the glass. I bring it down three times. Knock, knock, knock. Dull thuds on the thick pane, rattling its wooden frame. To my ears, the sound is obscenely loud, but will Fisher be able to hear it in the dining room next door?

‘Daddy!’

It’s him. Harry. He’s here. His small blurred shape crosses the hall.

‘Daddy! Did you hear that?’ he cries, his thin, high voice excited. ‘Someone’s at the door!’

What will Harry do when he sees me? Will he call me his mummy again? Will he be the open, friendly boy from my kitchen? Or will he freeze up and act like I’m a stranger?

I hear the low rumble of Fisher’s voice, but I can’t tell what he’s saying. Harry appears in the hall once more. This time he moves more slowly, his head down. He disappears back the way he originally came. I move to the edge of the door to get a better view, and catch sight of his hand on the banister. He’s going upstairs. Maybe Fisher sent him up there, out of the way. I realise – with a thud of disappointment – that I probably won’t get to speak to him after all.

Then Fisher walks into the hall, his back to me, filling the space with his large frame. He opens the front door a crack. Peeks through. He doesn’t realise that the knocking came from the back door. He’s probably worried it’s someone from the press. I know the drill.

Once he’s closed the front door, I rap again on the glass. Harder this time. Fisher’s head snaps up and he squints in my direction. It’s dark out here now, so I’m not sure he can even see me. ‘You’re on private property!’ he calls out, striding through to the kitchen. ‘Get out of my garden! If you’re another damn reporter, you’d better bugger off before I call the police. I’ve told you, I’ve nothing to say to you lot.’

‘Dr Fisher?’ I call out. ‘My name’s Tessa Markham… You’ve probably heard of me.’

Silence. He reaches out and clicks on a switch, flooding me with light. He stays rooted to the spot, and for a long moment we stare at one another through the glass.