Absent Light (21 page)

She'd always wanted a big brother, Helen thought grimly, working out Lee's age, someone to care for her, look out for her, to have a laugh with, maybe introduce her to his friends, act as a buffer between her and her mum. If her mother were fifteen when she had him, he'd be thirty-nine now and thirty-five when he first showed back up on the scene. She could just imagine his reaction to his parentage. What must he have thought to discover that his mother was living a life of comparative luxury while he'd been chucked on the scrapheap? Worse, that his mother had a child she'd decided to keep. It would seem like a perverse form of natural selection and would surely stir up a tidal wave of resentment, if not a desire to claw back what he felt belonged to him.

Helen spotted a speed camera and, slowing, immediately changed down a gear. She did the same with her mind, trying to apply some brakes to her thinking. Easy to run ahead of the evidence. Simple to add two and two and make five, she thought feverishly. Could the facts, as they stood, be described as purely circumstantial? Was it just coincidence that Lee started digging around four years before when her own life was breaking apart?

She tried to imagine what it was like to be given up and adopted by the state. If it were her, she'd be forever wondering who she was, who she looked like, why she was given away. The sense of rejection would be immense, she thought and, if your life was spent in the care of strangers, how on earth do you form relationships? As a rogue piece, how do you slot into society's great jigsaw? However much it's slagged off, however flawed it might be, family still counted, still mattered. She wondered what kind of a life Lee had led.

For some, she guessed that it was enough to know who they were, where they were born, what name they were given. For others it would be the start of an emotional and complex and, possibly, harrowing journey, culminating in bitter disappointment. It must be devastating to come face to face with your mother and run the risk of having all your dreams shattered, Helen thought. And how would her mother have felt? Disappointed? Guilty? Ashamed? Had she agonised about giving up her first-born child? Was this the reason that her mother was unable to form close attachments, not even with her own husband, not even with her own daughter? Maybe there was a love story behind it all. Perhaps her mother had always loved and missed the man who'd fathered her son, even after all those years. First love was often the deepest. It explained the haunted look in her mother's expression, her inexplicable despair, the depression. It also explained the reason she drank. Maybe it was the only way to blot out her loss. Helen really couldn't say for certain. All she could do was imagine. She was sailing through uncharted waters, questions breaking over in heavy, white-crested waves, pounding her brain to a hopeless mush.

She doubted whether her mother would have been prepared for the changes in the law enabling children to trace their parents. She might have been persuaded to give her son up precisely because she was promised confidentiality, a promise that was ultimately broken. The thought of such exposure must have truly terrified her. Unglued by her past coming back to haunt her, she would have deeply feared the stain it would leave on her neat and tidy life. What would the Rudges have said, the Mainwearings, her own flesh and blood? No wonder she'd come undone. No wonder she'd succumbed to blackmail, anything to protect her existence. And yet…

Although Helen felt shock, she was also left with a sour taste in her mouth. Being a pregnant teenager, albeit at a time when it was practically outlawed, was hardly the end of the world in today's more liberal climate. It wasn't the sort of thing you allowed yourself to be blackmailed for, your daughter threatened. Her mother had made an error of judgement that many others had made before her and would continue to make. That was all, Helen thought uneasily.

Her thoughts flipped back to Lee. As far as she knew, he'd never embarked on his personal journey of discovery. He'd been going to, or so he told the Wellings, but he hadn't.

And he was still out there.

Somewhere.

Rain sprayed over her face like blood from an open wound. Helen struggled with the cottage keys and let herself in. She phoned Jewel immediately.

“Is Ray about?”

“Yeah,” Jewel drawled, “do you want to speak to him?”

“No. I wondered if you could do something for me. I need you to be discreet.”

“Go on,” Jewel said, voice pricking with interest.

“Can you dig out the prints from the Freya Stephens file?”

“Thought the police had them.”

“I had another set made. I want you to see if she's wearing earrings.”

“You OK?” Jewel said sounding worried.

“I'm fine. Give me a call back when you've done it.”

Helen could almost hear Stratton say, so what? Even if the woman wasn't wearing them, it didn't prove that she was or wasn't driving the van. Neither did it mean that the wearer was connected to the crime. In isolation it was meaningless, but that's how it often was when you were gathering evidence, finding that particular fibre, linking it with that particular bloodstain, that foot or fingerprint.

Her cell phone rang.

“No earrings,” Jewel said.

“You sure?”

“Certain.”

“Thanks, Jewel. And could you be a darling and leave the prints over in the coach-house for me?”

“I suppose that's all right,” Jewel said, though she didn't sound as though it was.

“I can't thank you enough. And one more thing,” Helen said.

“Yes?”

“Be good.”

There was something else she should have done, she thought, punching in another number. It meant calling someone she hadn't spoken to in several years.

* * *

“So what are you saying exactly, Winston?” Helen said, imagining Winston's large, smiley face at the other end of the telephone. Winston Maddison was a Drugs Squad officer.

“There've been no reports of dodgy gear in our patch recently.”

“None at all?”

“Not here.”

“Where else then?”

“Worcester.”

She expressed surprise. Worcester was such a pleasant, leafy city. But then every city has a grim underbelly.

“The purity of heroin on sale at the moment is twice as high as cities like Manchester,” Winston told her. “It's to do with geography and the way it's imported. To travel to Manchester it's cut through other dealers so that the purity is around 20 to 30%. In Worcester it's between 50 to 60%. Coupled with this, it's become much cheaper. Does that help?”

Not really, she thought. “You've been great, thanks.”

“Keeping all right?” There was softness in Winston's voice.

“Fine. And you?”

Winston gave a big loud laugh. “Me? I'm
always
good.”

“Busy enough?” Helen grinned.

“Just holding back the tide, holding back the tide. Know how it is.”

She did. And she missed it.

That afternoon she went for a walk to clear her mind. She had two strands of a story, the Karen Lake side of it, and now the Lee element. It didn't necessarily mean that there was any connection, she thought.

When she got back she phoned her dad, but he was out. Then she tried the British Association for Fostering and Adoption and was given a number for the Midlands office. She rang it and listened to a recorded message telling her to phone between nine in the morning and one in the afternoon. She wondered whether to take a shot at phoning one of the care homes in the area but instead plumped for a call to social services where she had the unusual experience of talking to a social worker based in Birmingham who was neither suspicious nor strung out.

“It's different now,” he said.

“But?”

“Kids in care still suffer the same psychological problems.”

“Like?”

“While some come out well-adjusted and relatively unscathed, leading fruitful lives, there's a high proportion who experience significant problems with anger management and violence. It stems from a basic difficulty in trusting others, especially where there's been evidence of abuse. It's estimated that one in three of the prison population are from care homes.”

“I never trust statistics,” Helen said with a laugh.

“Me neither,” he said, “but the truth is youngsters need money when they come out of care. In a perfect world, they should receive counselling and follow-up, but you'd be surprised how many fall through the net. A fair number end up being homeless within a couple of years of leaving. For those lucky enough to get a job, they may have problems with being told what to do – they identify the individual responsible with authority and abuse, either real or imagined. Sometimes it's just easier to turn to crime.”

Pretty bleak, then, Helen thought, thanking him for his time. And which path had Lee chosen?

The wind had picked up, buffeting the tiny cottage. She lay in bed listening to it howling through the trees. Her mind was wandering again. She was thinking about Lee Painter. About Karen Lake. She was thinking about possible connections. No, she thought, ridiculous.

Her half-brother was entirely innocent. There was no evidence to suggest any link to Karen Lake. Like the guy at Social Services said, some kids leave care and go on to lead fruitful lives. She could think of a couple of well-known writers who'd done just that. Why shouldn't Lee be one of the lucky few? Why should he conform to some kind of stereotype? He was understandably curious about his past – at least it showed some spirit – but maybe he'd discovered enough and, after consideration, made the simple decision to walk away, take it no further. Or, fearing rejection, he might have bottled out, might have been wary of bringing the walls crashing down.

But if he'd been tempted by crime, she thought warily, could it indicate something more sinister?

Looking at the worst-case scenario, she guessed Lee would be operating in the place where he'd grown up, the place he knew best, where he had contacts, a base, some geographical knowledge: Birmingham, the obvious magnet.

Then again, perhaps he
had
talked to their mother and, because she was decent and kind, she'd given him some money, no threats, or coercion. That would explain why, if it was Lee, he'd shown up at the funeral. He'd come to pay his respects. But why hadn't he introduced himself, she mused? Because other, more base, more questionable motives were at play?

She considered the sunglasses. Violet Wellings said that Lee was the spitting image of his mother. Perhaps that's why he'd worn them: to deliberately conceal his identity and protect their mum's memory. Yes, Helen thought, drifting off to sleep. She liked that story better.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

T
HE NEXT MORNING
H
ELEN
received a call from Aunt Lily.

“How are you, dear?”

“I'm fine. Taking a bit of a break, actually.”

“Good for you. After all that hoo-ha with that wretched woman, you deserve it. I gather from your dad the police were unable to trace the money. Beats me why your mother let her get away with it.”

“Aunt, can we not talk about it any more? I'd rather forget it ever happened.”

“Of course, dear, sorry,” Aunt Lily said in a businesslike fashion. “Did you get my photographs?”

“I'm not at home. Ray's lent me one of his holiday cottages for a few days.”

“Oh well, they'll keep. You can look at them when you get back.”

Yes, Helen thought grimly, what a treat. Wait a minute, what if…

“Staying anywhere nice?” Aunt Lily punctured her thoughts.

“Deepest, darkest Worcestershire.”

Aunt Lily made some complimentary remarks about the county, and prattled on about Helen's father.

“How is he?” Helen said, feeling guilty for not being in touch.

“Not at all bad. He spent the weekend with the Rudges. I gather he goes out to lunch quite often. He's joined a bridge club on Thursday afternoons and a computing course at the local college. Would you believe, he's also enrolled in a ballroom dancing class.”

Helen smiled. So like her dad to chuck himself into activity, she thought. Despite retirement, he was still a workaholic. It might even be the saving of him.

“That's not to say he doesn't have his moments,” Aunt Lily said. “It's always the long evenings that are worst. He'll feel better in the summer.”

Helen wasn't so sure. The winter was made for sadness. Somehow it was more bearable because of it. The summer was definitely for lovers. At least that's how she felt. “Aunt Lily, you remember what you said about Mum, about her having no past.”

“Yes, dear?”

“Was that your own impression, or did you mean it in the literal sense?”

“Both, I suppose.”

“So Dad was as much in the dark as you?”

“I
think
so. We never really discussed it. Does it matter?”

“No,” Helen said. “Doesn't matter at all.”

She tried the Midlands office of the BAFA again and enquired whether she could trace her half-brother.

“Sorry. You can register your name and, if your half-brother contacts us, we can let him know.”

“But can't you put me in touch with him? Can't you alert him to my interest?”

“We're not allowed to do that, dear.”

“There's no other way?” Helen pleaded. “I can give you addresses and names, the area where he might have been placed.”

The woman was adamant. “As the law stands at the moment, it rests with the adopted person to make contact. There's a new law due to be passed whereby birth parents can trace children they gave up for adoption pre 1975, but that's not much help to you, I'm afraid.”

Damn, Helen thought. “Could you explain to me how tracing works then?”

“You mean when the adopted child wants to find his birth mother?”

“Yes.”

“All adopting parents are legally bound to tell a child that he or she is adopted. They're usually supplied with information about the natural mother, which they can pass on.”

“But what if the child grew up in care?”

“He or she should still have access to their file. If, for some reason, this isn't available, a birth certificate can always be applied for. This will include the mother's name.”

“What about the father?”

“Often that information's not available.”

“Are there any other details?”

“The certificate will also state the hospital in which the child was born.”

“So that might be a starting point for a search?”

“It might,” the woman said cagily. “However, some natural parents leave letters or register a means by which their children can contact them, if they wish.”

“Really?”

“It does happen.”

Helen doubted her mother would have done such a thing. Then again, she couldn't believe her being a pregnant, underage teenager. “What type of information is stored in the files?”

“In the case of an adopted child, the original name, birth mother's name and name of the agency that carried out the placing. The records might contain an address where the mother was living at the time of the adoption.”

“Who compiles the records?”

“The social workers involved. Obviously, the more time has elapsed, the more likelihood that information might be mislaid or lost.”

“Right,” Helen said, wondering how Lee managed to track her mother down. “And when a child decides to find his birth mother, does he receive any form of preparation?”

“Absolutely. The law requires that people, who don't know their birth name and were adopted before November 1975, must be counselled before they're able to obtain the relevant information.”

“So there are definitely safeguards in place?”

“Yes.”

Helen thanked the woman for her time. Like rules, safeguards could always be broken, she thought.

Helen nipped back to the coach-house over the lunch hour. She was fairly certain she wouldn't be spotted. Ray usually went to the Plough and Harrow for a sandwich and a large gin. Jewel never missed the opportunity to go into town.

On the way in, she stopped off at a newsagent and, though she didn't smoke, bought a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches.

Along with the photographs of Karen Lake, there was a large hard-backed envelope on the kitchen table, with Aunt Lily's writing on it, presumably put there for her by Ray or Jewel. Helen picked it up, took it back to the sanctuary of the car and opened it.

She'd never been a fan of digital photography. Partly because digitals could never be used as evidence in court, mostly, though, because pixilated images lacked tone and definition. Although taken from the best of intentions, Aunt Lily's captured moments of family grief felt like an intrusion, a violation, a bit like the crime scene shot, she thought. As she stared at the sombre-looking faces, the black and grey clothing, the helplessness in her father's eyes, she found half of her brain tuning out, the other scanning, searching for the wraparounds, the white skin, the…

What was it about him, she thought? It wasn't a family likeness – she wasn't even sure if this was Lee – but more a triggering of a distant memory, the same kind of sensation she'd experienced when she saw him on the day of the funeral. She tried, instead, to look at his hands, which were crossed over in front of him, his stance, feet slightly apart, his jaw clenched. None of it looked natural. This was not a man at ease. Then again, few looked relaxed at funerals. And wait, she thought, staring at the left side of his face. Yes, she felt her heart flutter. The guy was wearing a single hoop ear-ring.

Spiriting the photographs away, she checked the road atlas, and looked for the best route to take to Albion Place.

It didn't look so bad by day. Sunshine painted the sky. The houses looked less threatening. There were no signs of disgruntled youth. Judging from the closed curtains at Albion Place, Helen guessed nobody was up yet.

Praying the car would be all right, she parked it outside and fought her way through a path overgrown by scrawny weeds, and tried the bell. It didn't work. She rapped at the door. When this failed to produce a response, she found a stone and chucked it up against the front bedroom window. Still nothing. She tried again. This time, the curtains were wrenched apart, the window flung open. A woman's face, etched with anger, darted above the window-ledge. She had long red hair of such a synthetic hue it had to be dyed.

“Fuck do you think you're doing?”

Helen blended a smile into her voice. “Sorry to disturb you, but I was wondering if I could talk to you about Karen.”

“You police?”

“No.”

“Then you can piss off.” The window shut with a resounding smack.

Helen exhaled heavily and resisted the urge to kick something. Picking up an empty can of lager smirking on the doorstep, she chucked it up against the window. It fell back down with a tremendous clatter.

“I can do this all day, if I have to,” she shouted at the top of her voice, eyes fixed on the closed curtains. “I just want to talk. I was Karen's friend. It won't take…”

The front door swung open, startling her. The woman, who was both smaller and younger than she'd appeared at the window, stared at her with a scathing expression. Her arms were folded in front of her. She was wearing a pale lilac housecoat, the sort Helen's gran used to wear.

Helen coughed, tried to recover her equilibrium. “As I was saying, I'm a friend…”

“And I'm the Prime Minister's wife.” The woman's blue eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. “You're no friend of Karen's. She wouldn't have mixed with your sort,” she said, sweeping Helen with a disparaging glance.

Time to produce the fags, Helen thought, offering the pack to the woman. “You're right there,” she gave a dry laugh, “but could we talk inside?”

The woman regarded her for a moment then eyed the cigarettes. Helen produced a light. The woman snatched at the pack, opened it, shook out a cigarette, and took the light, exhaling deeply. “What's wrong with here?” she said, flicking a flake of tobacco from her tongue.

“For one, it's freezing,” Helen said, making a pantomime of stamping her feet. “And two, what I have to say is private.”

The woman gave another bloodless stare.

“Aren't you cold?” Helen persisted.

In answer, the woman took another drag of her cigarette. This was going nowhere fast, Helen thought. She could stand there all day with the woman bumming cigarettes off her. Desperate measures then.

“You know Adam Roscoe?”

“Roscoe?” the woman said, recognition lighting her eyes. “Haven't heard his name in years.” Her voice seemed softer. There was almost a fondness in it. Oh God, Helen thought. “Bit of a sharp bugger. Got slung out, didn't he? And you knew him?”

“I was his friend.”

The woman let her eyes travel over Helen's face and body. Yes, she seemed to say, I could imagine you were. “Best come in then.”

The darkened hall was illuminated by a single low-voltage light bulb. A steep flight of stairs went straight up from an entrance reminiscent of Thirties-style architecture. The floor beneath their feet was covered in lino the colour of dried-up ketchup. Helen could feel the soles of her shoes sticking to its filthy surface. Looking down the length of the corridor, she saw that the walls were painted in an unflattering shade of green. There was no skirting board and, where the walls met the floor, the paint bubbled. Two closed doors, also painted green, led off to the left. The woman walked down the corridor into a small kitchen, the heels of her mules clicking on the floor. Helen followed, surveying the same toilet-green, the same squalor. Glancing out of the window on to a yard, she observed that it was piled high with rubbish and the remnants of what was once a washing-line.

Inside, four high stools were set against something that pretended to be a breakfast bar. So, minus Karen, three occupants, Helen surmised.

There was one wall cupboard and it was clear, both from the shade of paint and the holes in the wall, that two others had been ripped off. The cooker sat inches deep in grease and spilt food. Strangely, the refrigerator looked quite new and clean. There were two photographs taped to it, one of a young girl, maybe two or three years of age. She looked sickly. Wearing a pale blue sweater, she had the name
Kelly
embroidered onto it. The other snap was of an older woman with the young girl, this time with tubes attached to her nose, sitting on her lap. Next to it was an appointment card for the Birmingham Children's Hospital.

“How's Roscoe then?” The woman parked her rear against the edge of the grimy sink.

Helen slid the cigarettes over to her. “Haven't seen him for a while.” That much, at least, was true. And now she never would.

“Good bloke, he was. Fair. Didn't believe in pulling you in, making a bloody song and dance, not like some of the bastards you come across nowadays. And you could trust him,” the woman said, “wouldn't get you into any trouble or nothin'.”

“About Karen,” Helen said anxiously. She didn't want to get into talking about Adam. She didn't want to discover something else she didn't want to hear. Not that it mattered now.

“Didn't catch your name,” the woman said.

“Helen. And yours?”

“Stacey.” She took another drag. “Didn't know her well, to tell the truth. She hadn't been here that long, really.”

“But you got on?”

“Well enough,” Stacey shrugged.

“She have many friends?”

“Depends what you mean.” There was a salacious note in her voice.

“Any particular clients, any blokes she saw more than others?”

Stacey's eyes flickered with distrust. She took a snatch of her cigarette. Helen could feel the conversation slipping through her fingers again. “What's it to you?”

“We had a mutual friend.”

Stacey gave a derisive smile. “Been on the game long, have you? Come to think of it, you never said how you and Karen met?”

“We met professionally.”

Stacey rolled her eyes. “This is a wind-up.”

“Karen wanted some photographs done.”

“What sort of photographs?”

“Portraits.”

“That what they call them?” Stacey leered.

“Straight up, nothing dirty about them.”

“You're a photographer?”

“Yes.”

“Got the snaps with you?” Again the same distrustful look.

“They're in the car.”