Apportionment of Blame (24 page)

“Didn't you tell me he was a fisherman?”

“He was, till he went to work in Aberdeen docks so he could be around the family more. Then, in Montrose, he went back to fishing. It was what he preferred.”

“Do you know exactly where it was you were born?”

“Only that it was in Aberdeen.”

I fumbled in my inside pocket and produced the picture of the stone, city building.

“Is it possible that this is the place?”

“I don't know. When I lived in Aberdeen I didn't know I was adopted. I never went back. There never seemed any reason to. There were so many bad memories there.”

That comment gave me pause. What bad memories? The implication was that her childhood had not been happy. But that was not something I needed to explore, so I let that rest.

“I have a difficult question for you now.”

I saw her fists clench again as she tensed to hear what I might say.

“The Hetheringtons will ask me if I have found you, or at least found the person who inherited. Can I say I have, without telling them who you are? If I'm able to tell them you are Annie's daughter, they will at least know there was a good reason for what she wrote in her will.”

“I told you. I don't want that money.”

“But you are entitled to it. She was your birth mother.”

“I know, but still. I've got an income. I'm still working for Doug. He's been bringing work out for me to do since I moved.”

“Do you still share the same house?”

“No.” She smiled. “I couldn't live with him, he's so unpredictable. But he's a good businessman. I live in one of his flats, so that doesn't cost me anything.”

“Look. Think about what I asked. Let's meet again soon. Would you like to go somewhere to eat, perhaps? I would like to show my gratitude. You have been very helpful and this has all been very difficult for you.”

“I don't know if I should.”

“I'll phone you in a couple of days. See how you feel then. OK?” and I moved to get up.

“All right,” she said.

“Good.”

We walked together down the hall, and this time she didn't close the front door right behind me, but waited a while.

Chapter 13

I
came
downstairs the following morning to find nothing for breakfast. No eggs, no bacon, no cereals, no milk. Somehow during the past week I had turned into Old Mother Hubbard. My cupboard was bare except, I was relieved to discover, for coffee. So I made some.

Counting the days since this whole business started and Joyce had been grabbed, I realised I had done no shopping in that time. So today would have to be the day.

It was not something I enjoyed, but it would be a change from twisting my brain around seemingly insuperable problems, trying to estimate someone's honesty from their expression, and trying even harder to elicit information from someone without them realising it.

I sat on the sofa with my coffee in one hand and my notebook in the other.

So, what did I know? Ilse was Annie's daughter. Her father was a German airman, in Britain for some sort of secret mission. He was killed and buried at Brocton. The reason for the inheritance was now clear. All that was left was how Helen died. Did Ilse know anything about that, or not? I thought that was the one thing I still had to discover. I was wrong. Something much more extraordinary was waiting round the corner.

Finishing the coffee, I put the cup down, turned the notebook upside down and began to compile a shopping list, trying to push other things to the back of my mind.

In the car I chose a CD that would take my mind off Helen and Ilse, and Eric Clapton soon began to fill the car with Border Song, track one from the Two Rooms compilation of Elton John songs. The bouncy blues rhythm soon had my left foot tapping as I immersed myself in the music.

By the time I reached the supermarket, all I could think of was my groceries and whether or not I preferred the Phil Collins version of Burn Down the Mission.

Half an hour later, when I realised how full my trolley had become, I decided it was time to join the check out queue. But this was fatal to someone trying not to think. There was nothing else to do while standing and edging forwards gradually towards the cashier.

It occurred to me that I should not leave any loose ends to my investigation. That meant checking up some more on Gemma to see if it was possible she was involved in Helen's death. I thought long and hard about the possibility of being wrong about Stuart, but he had cleared himself in London, as well as helping save my life. Gemma did not fit in with the fact that Helen died near Ilse's cottage, but perhaps there were things still to discover.

But if Ilse was to be believed, and she was not involved in Helen's death, why was her brother going to so much trouble to protect her in his own bizarre way? Perhaps he was more deeply involved himself, and perhaps Ilse suspected this herself. That would explain her unwillingness to talk when I first met her.

I found myself hoping it was an accidental cause of death. That would be easier all round.

The only other loose ends involved Joyce's family, telling them about Ilse and, eventually I hoped, how Helen had died. They would have to wait till I had spent more time with Ilse, and eventually persuaded her to let them into Annie's family secret.

I drove home, unpacked the car and made myself a late breakfast. Then I picked up the phone.

“Ilse? It's Greg.”

“Oh hello.” Not a great deal of enthusiasm there.

“Would you like to go out for lunch? I know a nice quiet place where we could chat and have a good meal. What do you think?”

“I don't know. I'm old enough to be your mother.”

“Oh Ilse, it isn't that kind of taking out. It's a favour for helping me.”

“But what will people think?”

“Who cares what people think? Perhaps they'll think you are my aunt and it's your birthday treat. That really doesn't matter.”

“I don't know,” she said again.

“How often do you go out? It will be a real treat for you. Come on. It's on me.”

There was a pause.

“My brother won't like it.”

“Does that matter? And anyway how will he know? I certainly won't tell him.”

Another pause. I was getting quite used to them.

“Oh, all right then.”

“Good. I'll pick you up at twelve thirty, shall I?”

“If you like.”

“Excellent. I'll see you then.”

I breathed a deep sigh. I'd never really expected her to agree, but I was glad. At least it probably meant she was beginning to trust me.

My car pulled up outside her house at twelve thirty on the dot. When she opened the door I hardly recognised her. She had done something entirely different with her hair, and her clothes didn't look as if they had been found at a jumble sale.

“You look nice.”

Again, she almost smiled.

“The neighbours will be watching.”

“Good. It will do them good to see you looking so smart and attractive.”

“I'm not attractive.”

“It's all in the eye of the beholder,” I said, for want of any better response. “What's that you're carrying?”

“This is my mother's journal. She gave it to me shortly before she died. Look.”

She handed me a hard backed note book. It was nearly an inch thick and so old and frail that the spine had broken and pages were loose.

“Be careful with it,” she said.

I smiled.

“You'd better look after it while I drive.”

We went to a pub I knew in Suffolk, far enough away from Monks Colne to put her mind at rest about neighbours.

It was clear and fresh and we were both well wrapped up, so it took a few minutes to unravel scarves and hang up coats and hats before we settled at our table.

I could tell this was an unfamiliar experience for her. She looked rather uncomfortable and didn't seem sure what to do. It was also clear that she was hanging on to her mother's journal as if her life depended on it.

“Now,” I said as I settled into the deep cushion on my chair, “would you like a drink?”

“Oh. Perhaps I could have some fruit juice?”

“Certainly. What would you prefer, orange, grapefruit, pineapple?” “Ooh pineapple. That would be lovely.”

She sounded like a little girl at her first party. The change in her was so great that I began to feel a little more confident about getting all my remaining questions answered.

I bought our drinks and we spent some time studying the blackboard suspended over the bar. There were so many specials that day, it was hard to choose, but eventually we placed our orders and settled back to wait.

She saw my eyes settle on the journal.

“Would you like to see it?”

“I don't want to pry, but I'm certainly interested.”

“It tells how my mother met my father. Look.”

She opened the notebook very carefully, found a page near the beginning and passed it for me to read. It was in a very firm, but clear script, with rounded letters which made it easy to read.

“There, look, on the left hand page.”

I read:

12 August 1935:

Travelled to Luxembourg with my parents. The channel crossing was rough, but the train was comfortable.

We are staying in a hotel in Echternach. It is by a river and there are wooded hills nearby for walking. They call it the Petit Suisse as it is supposed to be like a miniature Switzerland.

14 August 1935:

Went walking with my parents. Fell over a tree root and twisted my ankle. A young German man came to help, but my father sent him away.

15 August 1935:

Met the young German in the town. His name is Hans Jurgen. He is very kind and would like to meet me again. We must be very careful in case my father finds out.

16 August 1935:

Walked with Hans by the river. He speaks good English. He is fun and I like him.

17 August 1935:

Met Hans secretly again. We walked through the trees and he kissed me. My first real kiss.

19 August 1935:

Took a bus to Luxembourg City and caught the train for Calais. This time the channel was calm. The train to Scotland was slow. It is good to be home but I miss Hans already.

“So Hans was your father.”

“Yes,” she said and her face lit up. “My mother said he was the love of her life. He was tall and handsome and had dark blue eyes.”

“I can tell he made an impression on her,” I said as I passed the notebook back.

“The next pages are about her life in Scotland and the man she was going to marry. His name was Alan.”

“I'm told they were almost childhood sweethearts.”

“Yes, their parents' farms were close together and they had known each other since they were children.”

“So how did she meet Hans again? You said he landed in her back yard.”

“Yes. One night during the war. Look”

She very carefully turned more pages in the note book and then handed it back to me.

“Look at 10th May.”

10 May 1941:

The most wonderful and horrible things have happened. Hans came, but then he was killed. Can't write anymore now. Too upset.

13 May 1941:

I can't believe what happened. I heard a noise and went outside with the shotgun. There was Hans lying on the ground with a twisted ankle and a parachute drifting all over the place.

We just stared at each other. Then he said it was my turn to help his twisted ankle, and I remembered Luxembourg and we laughed.

He told me he was on a secret mission and had only jumped from his plane as it was going to crash. I had heard the crash and everyone was talking about it the next day.

It was incredible because he did not know where he was going to land, and he had no idea that I live here.

I thought again of coincidences and how many there had been in this case. Are things meant to happen, I wondered, or do they just happen by chance? And how often do those chance happenings mean something?

I read on as Ilse watched.

I took him into the house and made some soup. He said he must get back to Germany. He was convinced Germany will win the war and knew that if he was found, and he had disobeyed orders, they might shoot him.

He agreed it would be easiest to get to Northern Ireland, then try to cross to the south. I had just enough petrol to get the car to Kilmarnock and back. From there he could catch a train to Stranraer for the ferry.

On the way we stopped for a rest and fell asleep in a barn. It was wonderful. He was so gentle and kept telling me how much he loved me.