From nowhere, Catherine had a pounding headache. She turned the car around and drove slowly and cautiously back to Longnor. There seemed only one explanation for what she had seen, and that was impossible.
Alison Carter was dead. Philip Hawkin had been hanged for her murder. But if Alison Carter was dead, who was Janis Wainwright? How could a woman who could have been Alison’s clone be living in Scardale Manor and not be connected to what happened in 1963? But if she were, how was it possible that her own sister knew nothing of it? Catherine parked the car and walked back to the newsagent’s. She bought twenty Marlboro Lights and a box of matches. Back in her cottage, she poured herself a glass of wine so cold it made her teeth hurt. That at least made sense. Then she lit her first cigarette for a dozen years. It made her head swim, but that was an improvement. The nicotine hit her bloodstream and it felt like the most normal thing in the world at that moment.
She smoked the cigarette with devoted attention then sat down with paper and pencil and made notes. After an hour, Catherine had two propositions: Proposition 1. If Alison Carter had not died she would look exactly like Janis Wainwright.
Proposition 2: Alison Carter is Janis Wainwright. She also had an action plan. If she was right, it was going to take more than a bit of tweaking and polishing to finish her book. But that was fine by her. If Alison Carter was still alive, A Place of Execution was going to be even more exciting than it was already. And somehow she would persuade George to see her point of view, once he was well enough to consider all the implications properly.
The first step was a phone call to her editorial assistant in London.
‘Beverley, it’s Catherine,’ she said, injecting energy she didn’t feel into her voice.
‘Hi! How’s life in the sticks?’
‘When the sun’s shining like it is today, I wouldn’t swap it for London.’
‘Well, I can’t wait for you to get back. It’s a madhouse here. You’ll never guess what Rupert wants to do with the Christmas issue ‘ ‘Not now, Bev,’ Catherine said firmly. ‘I’ve got an urgent bit of business for you. I need somebody who specializes in computer ageing of photographs. Preferably up in this neck of the woods.’
‘Sounds interesting.’
Twenty minutes later, her assistant had rung her back with the number of a man called Rob Kershaw at Manchester University. Catherine checked her watch. It was almost four. If Rob Kershaw wasn’t escaping the stresses of life in some foreign city, the chances were that he’d still be at work. It was worth a phone call, she reckoned. The phone was answered on the third ring. ‘Rob Kershaw’s phone,’ a woman’s voice said.
‘Is Rob there?’
‘Sorry, he’s on holiday. He’ll be back on the twenty-fourth.’
Catherine sighed.
‘Can I take a message?’ the woman asked.
‘Thanks, but there’s no point.’
‘Is it something I can help you with? I’m Rob’s research assistant, Tricia Harris.’
Catherine hesitated. Then she remembered she had nothing to lose.
‘Can you do computer ageing of photographs?’
‘Oh yes, it’s my speciality.’
Within minutes, they were in business. Tricia had nothing more pressing planned than a night in front of the TV, and she suffered from the perennial penury of all graduate students. Once Catherine had dangled the promise of a substantial fee in front of her, she was more than happy to hang on at work while Catherine drove over with her copies of Philip Hawkin’s photographs of his stepdaughter.
When she arrived, Tricia efficiently scanned in the two pictures, asked a few questions and then started serious work with keyboard and mouse.
Catherine left her to it, knowing how much she hated people peering over her shoulder when she was trying to work. She retreated to the far end of the room where there was an open window and lit her fifth Marlboro Light. She’d give up again tomorrow, she thought. Or whenever she found out what the hell was going on. Whichever was the sooner.
After about an hour and another three cigarettes, Tricia called her over. She picked three sheets ofA4 off the printer and spread them out before Catherine. ‘The one on the left is what I’d call the best-case scenario,’ she said. ‘Minimal stress, well nourished and well cared for, maybe about seven pounds over ideal weight. The one in the middle is more typical in some respects—more stress, not quite so much attention paid to looking good, right on the button weight wise. The third one is the one nobody wants to be. She’s the one who’s had the hard life, the crappy diet, smokes too much—very bad for your lines and wrinkles, you know,’ she added with a sly smile at Catherine. ‘She’s a bit underweight.’ Catherine stretched out a finger and pulled the middle of the three photographs towards her. Apart from the hair colour, it could have been a photograph of the woman who’d answered the door at Scardale Manor. Janis Wainwright’s hair had been silver with hints of blonde. Alison Carter, as aged by computer, was still golden, with only a few strands of grey at the temples. ‘Amazing,’ Catherine said softly.
‘Is that what you expected?’ Tricia said. Catherine had told her almost nothing, saying she was working on a story about a missing heir who’d turned up to claim a legacy.
‘It confirms what I was afraid of,’ Catherine said. ‘There’s somebody walking around who isn’t who she says she is.’
Tricia pulled a face. ‘Bad luck.’
‘Oh no,’ Catherine said, feeling excitement gripping her chest. ‘Not bad luck at all. Quite the opposite.’
August 1998
A
s she drove away from Manchester University, Catherine felt the hot buzz that burned in her veins whenever she knew she was on the verge of a major story. She was so thrilled she’d temporarily lost sight of the starting point for her exhilaration. That a man was lying on life-support machines in a hospital in Derby had become irrelevant for the moment. Too wound up to eat, she drove back to Longnor with the dizzying possibilities tumbling round in her head.
Catherine decided the first thing she had to do was to find out who Janis Wainwright was legally.
That Janis Wainwright had a legal existence she didn’t doubt. It would be difficult for her either to own property or to have any significant career without one. Finding it would mean a search through public records for births, marriages and deaths. It would take her days to do it herself, but there were agencies that did that sort of work routinely for journalists. She switched on the laptop and started to formulate an e–mail request to the Legal Search Agency, a company that specialized in tracing information relating both to individuals and to companies.
Catherine was reasonably sure Janis had never married. For one thing, Helen hadn’t mentioned a husband. Also, a quick check on the letter she’d had from Janis’s lawyer arranging the guided tour of the manor revealed that the lawyer referred to her as, ‘Miss Wainwright’. And of course, Helen herself had been married and divorced, which explained why her surname was different.
Somewhere, therefore, there had to be details of Janis Wainwright’s birth certificate. To be doubly sure, Catherine decided to ask for Helen’s details too. And because, like all good journalists, she had a healthy stock of suspicion, she requested a further check to see if there was a record 360 of Janis Wainwright’s death at any point between her birth and Alison’s disappearance in December 1963. From the details in the birth certificate, it would be possible to track down the marriage certificate of Janis’s parents, and from there, their birth certificates if that proved necessary. That would be the starting point to discover whether there was any real connection between Janis Wainwright and Alison Carter. Catherine sent off her request, making it clear that she wanted the express option, with results e–mailed to her as well as hard copies sent by post. Even so, she knew it would be late the following afternoon before she could reasonably hope for a reply. She had no idea how she was going to fill the time until then.
Then she remembered George. Feeling guilt at having wiped him from the front of her mind, Catherine phoned the hospital and inquired after him. The intensive care nurse told her there was no change. With mixed emotions, she hung up. She hated the thought of what had happened to George; but the moment of recognition that had triggered his heart attack also seemed to be leading to the biggest story of her life. She had sufficient self-knowledge to understand exactly how much that meant to her. Catherine had always been more committed to her job than she ever had been to another human being. She knew that the commonly held view was that that was sad; but Catherine thought it was sadder to put all your eggs in the basket of humanity when people invariably let you down somewhere along the line. People came and went, and there was a lot of enjoyment to be had from human relationships. She knew that, and she took what pleasure and satisfaction was to be had. But no one individual had ever been as constant as the rush of excitement that came from a well-crafted exclusive.
She poured herself another drink and debated her next move. By the time she’d reached the bottom of the glass, she knew there was only one possible destination.
Three hours later, Catherine was booking into a four-star hotel just outside Newcastle. One of the secrets of good journalism, she had learned, was knowing when to press ahead and when to possess her soul in patience. Her thirst for removing the wraps on this story was tempered by the wisdom of experience. Turning up unannounced on someone’s doorstep was always a bad idea late at night.
She knew they’d invariably associate it with bad news before she’d even opened her mouth.
But in the morning, people were more optimistic. Long before the invention of the postman with his prospect of good news, everybody knew that. So when she had still been a news reporter, wherever possible she had avoided the late-night knock and gone for the early-morning arrival.
Catherine finally fell asleep to the movie channel, and it was after nine when she woke, grateful that she’d managed a decent night’s sleep, given what she had on her mind. The first thing she did was call the hospital. There was, they said, little change, though there were some grounds for optimism. She tried the Bennetts’ home number, but only the answering machine responded. She left her best wishes and hung up. An hour later, she was heading up the Ai. She was halfway up the path to the cottage when the door opened. ‘Catherine,’ Tommy said, his broad face crinkled in a smile. ‘You’re an unexpected treat. Come through, we’ll sit out the back.’
She followed him through the spotless living room and kitchen into his back garden, a paradise of fragrant flowers and shrubs, all chosen, so he’d told her on her earlier visit, to attract birds and butterflies. Today, it was humming softly with bees, and the flutter of multicoloured wings continually snagged the corner of her eye as they spoke. Tommy pulled up a wooden chair for Catherine then sat on the bench that looked down the garden to the sea beyond. ‘So, what brings you up here?’ he asked once they were settled.
She sighed. ‘I don’t know where to start, Tommy. However I say this, it’s going to sound like I’ve finally lost it.’ She looked down at the ground. ‘Have you heard about George?’
‘What’s happened?’ he asked, alarm in his voice. Catherine met his stare. ‘He’s had a heart attack.
A bad one, by all accounts. He’s in Derby Royal, in the intensive care ward. He’s been unconscious since the early hours of yesterday, as far as I’m aware. According to Paul, his heart stopped in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.’
‘And you came up all this way to tell me? Catherine, that’s really good of you.’ Tommy patted her hand. ‘I appreciate it.’
‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings.’ For the moment, she was content to occupy the role of concerned friend. He shrugged. ‘At my age, you come to expect it. How’s Anne taking it? She must be devastated.’
‘She’s not left his bedside. Paul’s home just now, with his fiancée, and they’re with her.’
‘Poor Anne. She’s lived her life for George. And with her arthritis, she’s not fit for heavy nursing, if it comes down to that.’ Tommy sighed and shook his head. He gazed out across the garden to the blue sparkle of the North Sea.
Catherine took out her fresh pack of Marlboros. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ she asked.
His bushy eyebrows rose. ‘I didn’t think you did. But be my guest.’ He rose and crossed to the shed in the corner of the garden. He returned with a terracotta plant saucer. ‘You can use that as an ashtray. Take your time.’ Tommy leaned back, crossing his legs at the ankle and stuffing his hands in the pockets of his baggy corduroy trousers. ‘On Monday, George went to Scardale. And on Monday night, he had his heart attack,’ she said baldly.
‘You got George to go to Scardale?’ Tommy’s eyes widened in surprise.
‘I didn’t. I could never manage to persuade him. But Paul did. He’s over on a visit with Helen, his fiancée. They’re planning on getting married later this year. Anyway, it turns out that Helen’s sister Janis moved to Scardale Manor a couple of years back. And they’d arranged to take George and Anne over there for lunch on Monday. I knew George was uncomfortable about going to Scardale, but once he got there, according to Paul, his behaviour became quite odd.’
‘Odd how?’
‘Paul said he seemed very tense. He had no appetite. Apart from taking a turn round the village green, he just sat in the garden, not talking to anyone. Paul said he was very distracted and wound up for the rest of the day and the evening.’ Catherine paused to collect her thoughts. She needed to be careful how she expressed herself to Tommy. He was very quick at picking, up nuances of what he wasn’t being told. ‘Before he was taken ill, he’d written to me, asking me to put a stop on the book. No reason, except that he’d come across some new information that meant the book must be suppressed. Of course, I told Paul about the letter when I saw him at the hospital. I was already convinced that George must have seen something in Scardale that had—I don’t know given him fresh insight into some aspect of the case, or set him worrying about something we’d included in the book. And Paul had come to the same conclusion. He’s racked with guilt. He thinks he’s responsible for George’s heart attack because he persuaded him to go back to Scardale. And he’s asked me if I can try to find out what lay behind George’s letter to me. So…’ She shrugged. ‘I have to get the answers.’