her.
‘He’s a great kid, your Jack,’ Paul said later, as they stopped at a service station just south of Birmingham, for a drink and a loo break.
After leaving Miranda’s, they’d driven straight on up the country towards Staffordshire, heading for the village near Stafford where Leonard Bainbridge’s widow lived. Finding her address had not been difficult – the article they’d read in Starbucks, about Leonard’s death, had mentioned that the couple retired to Penkridge. She was ex-directory, but Paul found her on a website that allowed users to check the electoral roll for a small fee. There was only one Bainbridge listed in Penkridge, and it was a small place, so they were fairly confident they had the correct details – even without a telephone number to be able to double check.
‘I know,’ Kate replied wistfully, dunking a large cookie into a mug of coffee. ‘I can’t believe he was so good about me leaving him there. I thought he was going to make a massive fuss, but he didn’t. I think it was far harder for me to say goodbye than it was for him!’
Paul gave her hand a squeeze, and she nearly dropped the cookie in. ‘You’ve been really quiet since we left your sister’s place. Are you worried about him?’
Kate bit her lip, and laid the soggy cookie back on the plate.
‘No, not worried, not exactly. He’ll have a wonderful time with his cousins, and Miranda will really look after him – it’s not that. It’s just . . . I suppose I feel guilty, that’s all. Dragging him away from his dad, and now dumping him on my sister . . .’
‘Hey, come on,’ Paul said, leaning over the table and rubbing the side of her arm. ‘You’re a great mother, and you’ve done absolutely the right thing. You couldn’t stay with Vernon just for Jack’s sake, you know.’
‘Yeah. I know all that. But still . . .’
‘But nothing. And as for coming with me, well, you are doing me the most enormous favour, and I’m extremely grateful. This is really, really important to me and my family, and I couldn’t do it without you. So – thank you.’
‘I’m not only doing it for you,’ she said.
‘I know. But . . .’
He stood up and kissed her forehead, and Kate felt tears prickle. ‘I’m probably just tired,’ she said, managing a smile. ‘We had such an early start this morning, and I don’t think I’m even properly over the jetlag. This has all happened so fast. Plus, I keep waiting for Vernon to somehow turn up, shouting the odds. I’m sure he won’t be able to track down Miranda’s new address easily – I don’t think he even knows her married name – but I don’t even dare switch on my mobile in case there are dozens of furious messages from him. I’ll have to now, though, won’t I? I told Miranda to let Jack call me whenever he wanted.’
‘Well, that’s easily fixed. Just call her now and give her my mobile number instead. Jack can reach you on that.’
Kate looked grateful. ‘OK. Good idea. We should get to Mrs Bainbridge’s by noon – time to have a chat to her, if she’s in, and then go and get some lunch afterwards. Then . . . um . . . where do we go next? Will we be staying up here?’
Paul blushed, very slightly, and Kate realised his train of thought was along the same line as hers: two rooms, or one?
‘I suppose it depends on what leads we get out of Mrs B, if any. And maybe we should stay for a night anyway, to give ourselves a break. We could ask Mrs B if she knows any cheap and cheerful B&Bs nearby. If the worst comes to the worst, we’ll have to sleep in the car.’
‘Great,’ said Kate, rolling her eyes. ‘You certainly know how to show a girl a good time.’
‘You bet I do, honey,’ Paul replied, winking at her, and Kate felt herself growing hot in all kinds of places.
‘Come on,’ she said briskly, ‘let’s hit the road.’ Otherwise, she thought, I’m going to march over to the motel next door to this service station and book us into a room right now, and forget Mrs Bainbridge . . .
Two hours later, Kate and Paul had parked the car in the car park of a small tennis club, across the road from a pretty thatched cottage which – hopefully – belonged to Leonard’s widow. On the courts next to them some elderly people were playing doubles in a fairly desultory fashion, and Kate inspected their faces carefully, in case she recognised Mrs Bainbridge. She had wracked her brains, but couldn’t remember anything about her, although she’d met her once or twice as a kid.
‘I wonder if she’ll remember me?’ she said aloud.
‘I’m sure she will, if they were such good friends of your parents,’ Paul replied, switching off the engine and unfastening his seatbelt.
‘It’s quite weird, seeing someone who knew my folks so well. I suppose it’ll be for me a bit like it was for Sarah’s mother when we turned up at her place. I hope she’s there.’
‘Only one way to find out,’ said Paul, climbing out of the car. ‘Let’s go.’
They crossed the road and walked up to the front door; Kate nervously, Paul more assertively. He seemed full of energy, raring to go.
Kate rang the bell. ‘What are we going to ask her?’ she whispered. ‘Where do we start?’
‘Leave it to me,’ said Paul confidently. ‘It’ll be fine.’
There was no answer. Paul pushed open the letterbox and peered inside. ‘No sign of anyone in there.’
‘There’s a car on the drive at the side,’ said Kate. ‘Maybe she’s in the garden.’
‘I’ll go round the back and have a look. She might not have heard the doorbell. You stay here and ring again, in case she was in the loo or something.’
Paul vanished down the path at the side of the house, past garishly flowering purple-and-pink fuchsia bushes, as Kate pressed the bell again. The house was neatly kept, with shiny brass furniture on the door, and even the glossy painted panels looking as though they were regularly wiped clean. Kate idly inspected her distorted reflection in the flap of the letterbox, wondering again if Mrs Bainbridge would recognise Kate as the skinny little girl she’d been back then. She tried to remember if Mrs Bainbridge had been around during those hazy weeks when she was in hospital after the fire. She didn’t think so – although everything was such a blur from that time.
Still no answer from inside. Kate stood back and looked up at the upstairs windows, but the net curtains were white and fresh and undisturbed. What an anti-climax, if they’d come all this way and Mrs B was on holiday. Or had moved abroad . . .
Kate thought she heard raised voices coming from the back of the house. She cocked her head and listened harder. She could make out the sound of Paul’s voice – not what he was saying, but the tone of it: pleading, almost outraged; and shrill, almost hysterical replies. Uh-oh, she thought. Guess he found her, then.
She was just tentatively making her way past the fuchsia bushes when Paul appeared, red in the face with anger, stalking down the path towards her.
‘Come
