The Secret Mother(45)

She rolls her eyes and turns to leave.

But even as I’m clinging to my anger and indignation, I remember something else. Something I really should share with Carly. ‘Hang on a minute, hang on. There’s something I forgot to tell you.’

She turns back to face me, her face resigned to the possibility that what I’m about to say will prove equally disappointing.

‘I didn’t mention it before,’ I begin, ‘but… well… someone has been following me.’

Carly’s eyes narrow and she takes out her notebook once more.

‘Not a journalist or anything like that,’ I add. ‘A woman. I spotted her a few times watching me in the street while I was out shopping or walking. I didn’t know who she was, and every time I tried to confront her, she gave me the slip. She looked like she was scared of me. Anyway, when I went to see Fisher’s housekeeper this morning, I caught her looking down at me from the window of her flat. And, well, it’s her.’

‘Fisher’s housekeeper has been following you?’

I nod.

‘Okay, this is more like it, Tess. Tell me when and where you’ve seen her before.’

I detail the times and places I’ve seen the woman. ‘She could have been following me on other occasions, too, but those were the only times I actually saw her. Do you have any theories why?’

‘No.’ Carly chews the end of her pencil. ‘Maybe we need to ask him – Fisher.’

‘Already tried that,’ I say. ‘It didn’t work out too well.’

She doesn’t reply.

‘So what happens next?’ I ask, nervous about what her response might be.

‘I’m tied up this weekend, which is bloody annoying,’ she says, ‘but first thing Monday morning, I’m going to confront Flores, see if I can get her to talk. I seriously doubt she will. Sounds like she’s scared of something. If I don’t have any luck there, I’ll head to Cranborne to confront Fisher. My gut is telling me the housekeeper’s scared of him. I’m going to be asking him some serious questions.’

‘You’ll be lucky,’ I say. ‘He’s not answering the door to journalists.’

‘Don’t worry about that, I’ll get him to talk to me.’

‘How?’

‘I’ll work out the details,’ she says, her mouth set in a determined line.





Chapter Twenty-Two





It’s 10.30 by the time Carly and her brother leave. I offer Vince a cheque for twenty pounds, feeling guilty that his sister has roped him into helping me out. But Carly tells me to keep it. Cynically, I guess that’s because she’s hoping I’ll make her a nice chunk of cash from my car-crash life. I still don’t trust her, but at least she’s signed a document saying she won’t print anything without my permission. Actually, I’m exhausted by the whole thing, and despite being bone-weary, I’m looking forward to going to work tomorrow, back to a bit of normality. Some respite from this crazy alternate universe I’m inhabiting. My day off was hardly the break I was hoping for. Maybe a good night’s sleep will sort me out.

As I get changed into a pair of fleecy pink pyjamas, I’m cheered by the fact that my room feels so much nicer now. Warmer, and less like the boarded-up student squat of a few hours ago. I crawl under the covers, set my alarm and switch off my bedside lamp. Lying on my side, I close my eyes.

It’s quiet. Just the beating of my heart in my ears, and my uneven breath. In. Out. In. Out. An occasional hiss and gurgle from the radiator. A distant car engine. I will myself to fall asleep, but my brain is like chewing gum, a sticky mess. Too many thoughts racing around with nowhere to go: the housekeeper, Carly, the police… But the one battling for supremacy in my mind is the question of Dr Fisher and where I recognise him from. Do I know him? Or is it just that I’ve seen his picture so many times in the paper and on the news that I merely think I know him?

I’m never going to fall asleep, am I? I push the covers away and fumble for the lamp switch, clicking it on and screwing my face up against the sudden brightness. Scrabbling about for my phone, I plump up the pillows behind my head and open up Google. I tap in the name Dr James Fisher and then Cranborne.

The results begin filling up the screen. All the posts are from this week. And all are regarding his son’s recent disappearance. My name is mentioned in most of the pieces – most of them uncomplimentary. I grit my teeth and keep scrolling through, knowing it isn’t good for me to be reading such awful things: child snatcher… abductor… mental health issues… two dead children. I take a breath and look away from the screen for a moment. These lurid stories aren’t the type of thing I’m looking for, I’m interested in Fisher’s past. Where he used to live and work.

I delete the word Cranborne and try the search again. Once more I’m forced to scroll down past all the current stories. Eventually I come to a newspaper article from 2012. James Fisher is one of several doctors to be quoted – but is it my James Fisher? There’s no photo. The piece is about the rising cost of insurance for private obstetricians. I skim the article until I reach the bit about him:

Dr James Fisher, one of the most experienced obstetricians in the country, said the rise in insurance premiums had forced him to almost double his charges to ￡7,000 over the past three years.