In Search of Hope (21 page)

He’d been trying to remember where the old grandmother lived, because the lawyer hadn’t mentioned any addresses in his letter. It seemed quite possible that Libby might have taken refuge in the old hag’s house.

No, with such a mean little legacy, the house must have been sold. He tried the online phone directories, but there was no Rose King listed there. He searched the electoral rolls online, but people could opt out of being listed and she must have done that. Damn her!

He even left a message on Libby’s stepfather’s phone, asking if he knew the old woman’s address, but Walter didn’t get back to him. Too busy drinking himself into an early grave.

No, it would be best to go up to Lancashire in person.

Steven set off soon after four o’clock on Tuesday morning, half-listening to the usual rubbish on the radio. He even hummed along with one or two favourite songs because he was feeling better for having some purpose to his day and there was no one there to hear him and criticise his singing. He stopped at a motorway services for some breakfast, enjoying a cup of surprisingly good coffee.

As he got closer to Rochdale, it began to rain and he cursed because he didn’t like getting wet. He kept an umbrella in the car, naturally, but if he walked round the streets, as he’d intended, his trouser legs would get soaked, umbrella or not. That wouldn’t make a good impression on people, and he hated to look anything less than immaculately turned out.

He parked in the town centre next to a shopping complex, scowling as the rain beat down against his windscreen. It wasn’t easing up at all, so he got out the umbrella and made a dash for the shops.

As he walked through the centre, he could see that the town was going through some hard times. Some shops were empty; most looked as if they needed sprucing up. The paintwork was faded, the floor scuffed and shabby, in need of a refit, and the goods mostly suitable for the cheaper end of the market.

He despised the northern accents of the passers-by. So crude. He hated their cheerfulness, too, and the way they smiled at people. What the hell had they to be cheerful about?

He threaded his way through the complex and peered out into the town centre. Thank goodness! It had stopped raining. He bought a coffee in a fast-food outlet and took the opportunity to pull up the street map of the town on his phone.

The app said it would take him ten minutes’ brisk walking to reach the building where the lawyer’s rooms were located, so he went back to get his car. Who knew where he’d want to go next?

He drove into the parking area of the building and stopped to study the brass nameplate which said simply ‘Greaves and Hallibourne’ in neatly incised letters. At least this place wasn’t unkempt or shabby.

The lawyer’s rooms were right next to the entrance.

A woman looked up from behind a large desk in the reception area, smiling. ‘May I help you?’

‘You may. I’d like to see Mr Greaves.’

‘And your name is …?’

He stared at her, the sort of stare he’d found to be intimidating when he used it on women, but this old bitch didn’t seem to be intimidated, so he said simply, ‘Pulford.’ Ah, that had got her!

Her smile vanished completely. When he took a step forward, she pressed a button and a siren began to sound.

He looked at her in shock as he heard running footsteps. A door at the rear of the reception area burst open. The man who rushed in was older, but very smartly dressed and he was followed by a younger man. They both stopped to stare suspiciously at Steven. Which one, he wondered, was Libby’s lawyer?

‘Trouble, Mrs Hockton?’

‘Could be, Mr Greaves. This is Mr Pulford. I wasn’t giving him a chance to hit
me
.’

‘I haven’t threatened you in any way,’ Steven pointed out, pleased that she’d just proved she’d actually met his wife.

The woman stared at him defiantly. ‘I didn’t say you had. But since I felt nervous, I called for backup.’

Steven made a scornful noise to show her what he thought of her, but didn’t allow himself to continue arguing the point. If he ever got the chance, he’d make her sorry she’d treated him like that. But at the moment his main need was to find out exactly where in this town Libby and Ned were hiding.

‘Pulford, I’ve already told you I will only deal with you in writing,’ Greaves said. ‘You are not one of my clients. Please leave the premises and do not come back.’

That made Steven even more angry. ‘Not very civil of you.’

‘I spoke very civilly … considering.’ He let that word hang in the air between them.

‘I’ll leave as soon as you tell me where to find my wife.’

‘She doesn’t wish to see you. She’s asked me to set matters in train for obtaining a divorce.’

‘Oh, has she? Well, she won’t be getting one. She’s my wife, the mother of my child and that’s how it’s staying. Which brings me to the other thing I came for: I want to see my son. I have a father’s right to access.’

‘So that you can hit him again? We have photographs of the results of your last encounter with Ned.’

The anger at being treated like this was burning so brightly now, Steven knew he had to leave. He might be tempted to punch this fool as he deserved. ‘I did
not
hit my son.’

‘Sorry, my mistake,
kick
was the word I should have used.’

Steven had to breathe deeply and wait a minute or two before he could speak calmly again. ‘Tell Libby I’m here. Tell her I insist on seeing her and my son to sort this ridiculous nonsense out. I won’t be leaving the district until I’ve done that. I’ll let you know where I’m staying when I find a hotel.’

‘You’re wasting your time. She still won’t wish to see you. And I definitely won’t be giving you her address.’

‘She can’t hide for ever.’ Again he took a step forward, smiling to see the way the old man took a hasty step backwards, thinking he was being threatened. Timid old fool! As if Steven was stupid enough to hit him in front of witnesses.

Tired of this useless confrontation, he turned round and strode across to the door, stopping to say loudly and slowly, ‘I
will
get Libby back, you know. And there will
not
be a divorce.’

He went out and used his phone to find a hotel, glad he’d had the forethought to pack an overnight bag. Now that he was here, he might as well stay until he’d sorted this mess out.

There was nothing to return home for, after all.

If he had to knock on every door in the town, he’d find her.

There were other ways of getting information besides the official directories.

That same day, Des Monahan also set off early to drive up to Lancashire. He reached Rochdale about eleven o’clock and let his satnav guide him through the town and up towards the moors.

Chadderley’s was just outside Littleborough, nestled in a hollow that looked as if it had been scooped out halfway up the moors to fit the former inn. Des drove into the car park and stood admiring the place, which had been tastefully renovated to keep its old-fashioned styling. It looked well cared for, the sort of place where you found quality antiques, not rubbish.

Inside he stopped yet again to study the displays in the area near the front door. A young woman was dusting the items, working slowly and carefully, with such concentration that she didn’t even turn to see who had come into the room.

He was wondering whether to interrupt her task when a woman came down the stairs at the side of the room.

She studied him for a moment or two, then moved towards him and asked, ‘Are you Des Monahan?’

‘Yes. You must be Emily Mattison.’

‘I am.’

She held out her hand and he shook it, amused by the careful, assessing look that accompanied the handshake, typical of strangers about to work together.

‘I’ll just ask my colleague Rachel to keep an eye on the showrooms and call me if anyone needs help. I doubt we’ll get many customers on a wet Tuesday afternoon, though.’

He watched her walk towards the rear. When she disappeared from sight, he turned to study the next exhibit. Beautiful glassware, sparkling in the overhead display lights. No prices, but he’d guess such delicate beauty was way beyond his purse.

Emily returned. ‘Shall we go upstairs, Mr Monahan?’

‘Just call me Des.’ He followed her into a flat with a luxurious living area. One or two beautiful pieces of glass or china were to be seen and there were a couple of paintings on the wall that he’d have loved to spend time examining. He guessed these were things they owned, rather than stock. Well, Chad had done well for himself in London, had a name for high-end stock and his ability to find exactly what a customer wanted. Such success couldn’t happen to a nicer man.

‘Chad?’ she called. ‘Have you a minute? Des is here.’

Chad came out of another room, more casually dressed than Des had ever seen him before and radiating happiness. After shaking hands, he gestured to a comfortable armchair upholstered in a subtle purple velvet.

‘Tell us again what you found out, Des,’ Emily prompted. ‘All the details you can remember this time.’

He described his visit to the street where her daughter had lived and his chat to her neighbour, then the photos.

Emily looked aghast. ‘She’d been badly beaten? By her husband?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘There’s too much of that sort of thing,’ Chad said. ‘Who the hell do fellows like him think they are?’

‘We contribute towards a women’s refuge,’ Emily put in quietly. ‘It’s always busy and they have to have a roster of people willing to give emergency accommodation for when their own rooms are all occupied.’

Des waited for a moment to continue. ‘So. Do you still want me to see the lawyer for you?’

‘Yes. You can tell him what you’ve found.’ Her voice wobbled. ‘I don’t think I’d be calm enough.’

Chad took hold of her hand and patted it.

Des wished suddenly that he had someone to comfort him when things went wrong. ‘I’m happy to do that for you, Emily. Is it all right if I tell the lawyer who you are?’

‘Yes. Actually, we know him slightly and he came here for the opening. It’s a small world. I didn’t realise he was representing my daughter.’

‘I’ll phone him for an appointment now.’ Des frowned. ‘No, it’d be better to go and see him, I think. Even if I can’t talk to him today, I can present my credentials and suggest he contacts you for verification that I really am representing you. Would that be all right?’

‘Do you want me to give you a letter on headed notepaper saying you’re representing me?’ she asked.

‘Good idea.’

‘I’ll write it now.’ She went into the next room.

He heard the sound of her blowing her nose several times during the next few minutes and guessed she was still crying.

He looked at Chad. ‘These cases can be very upsetting. Let’s hope we get a good result this time.’

‘I think Emily’s been hiding her grief about her daughter for years, and now that it’s all out in the open, she’s finding it hard to cope with her emotions.’

A few minutes later Emily came back with a letter on exquisite headed notepaper, and a matching envelope. ‘Would you check this, see if it’s all right?’

Des read it quickly and nodded. ‘Excellent. But I have to say, if he has anything about him, her lawyer won’t take my word for it, or even trust a piece of headed notepaper.’

‘We’ll be in all day, if Mr Greaves wishes to phone us.’

Des arrived at the lawyer’s rooms just as a man was coming out, a furiously angry man, by the looks of him. He opened his umbrella, even for the short walk across the car park, so his face was hidden. When he bumped into Des, he hurried on without a word of apology. He got into a large silver Mercedes, slamming the door on the world.

What a boor! Des stood watching the car drive away. That Mercedes must have cost a fortune, which only went to prove that having a lot of money didn’t necessarily make you happy. Or polite.

It was only as the car passed him, narrowly missing the gatepost, that Des realised who the man was: Steven Pulford. What was he doing here? Chasing after his wife, presumably.

Des hoped the poor woman was well hidden, or well protected. Or both. She didn’t need another beating.

A cool, damp breeze made him shiver and reminded him that he was standing out in the rain, so he went inside the building and turned into the rooms of Greaves and Hallibourne.

The woman behind the big desk was looking angry, so he guessed Pulford had not made a good impression.

She pulled herself together with a visible effort and forced out a smile. ‘How may I help you, sir?’

‘I’d like to see Mr Greaves on behalf of a client of mine. I realise it’s probably too late to get an appointment today, but I’ve come from near London, so I’d be grateful if you could fit me in by tomorrow at the latest.’

She frowned at him as if he’d said something that made her suspicious. ‘Could I ask your business, sir? And your name?’

‘Certainly. I’m Des Monahan and I’m an inquiry agent.’ He took out his card. ‘Please keep this confidential, but obviously you and your employer will need to know. I’m working on behalf of Emily Mattison, who is one of the owners of Chadderley Antiques.’

‘The new centre on the edge of the moors? Mr Greaves said they had some beautiful pieces for sale.’

‘That’s the one.’

He took out the unsealed envelope Emily had given him. ‘I’m sure Mr Greaves will wish to verify that I’m telling the truth. Ms Mattison said she’d be happy for him to phone her. She’s at home today.’

The woman scanned the letter quickly. ‘I wonder if you could come back in an hour, Mr Monahan? Mr Greaves is with a client at the moment, but he should be finished in half an hour, then he can phone Ms Mattison.’

She was giving Greaves time to check up on him and he didn’t mind that at all. ‘That’s fine by me. Is there a café nearby? I didn’t get time for lunch.’

‘Go to the end of the street in that direction.’ She pointed. ‘Turn left there, then right at the traffic lights and you’ll find a row of shops. One of them is a café. It’s not fancy but they do a nice cup of tea. The coffee is good, too.’

‘Thank you. I’ll come back in an hour.’