My Husband's Son: A dark and gripping psychological thriller (22 page)

Later that night I lay in bed, unable to sleep. Plagued by the stomach cramps that tend to precede my period, I cuddled a hot-water bottle to my abdomen and tried to process the evening’s events. The exhilaration I’d felt at figuring it all out had gradually given way to calm determination. I had a theory; now all I needed to do was prove it.

At the end of the fireworks display I’d given Tommy a chaste kiss on the cheek and, at his behest, promised to meet him for dinner a few days later (a promise, now I had a sample of the boy’s DNA, I had no intention of keeping).

Soon I would know for certain whether I was right or wrong. Soon I might be able to give Jason back his son.

I pretended to leave for work at the usual time. In my bag was the boy’s hair. After yanking it from his head last night I’d stored it in the only vaguely sterile place I had to hand: Lauren’s compass. This morning I planned to drive to the local shopping mall and buy one of those over-the-counter paternity kits.

Inside the car, I got out the silver disc and held it in my palm. A few minutes later, I watched as Jason left the house and locked the door. Oblivious to my presence on the other side of the street, he threw his work bag in the back of his car and drove away.

I watched him go, trying to imagine what life would be like if Barney were to be returned to Jason and Vicky. After last night’s revelation, that reunion now felt within touching distance. Vicky had kept his room in such pristine condition – the freshly made bed, the recently hoovered carpet – an act of defiance as much as hope. Now it seemed that hope was going to be rewarded.

Lauren’s room had always been such a mess. It didn’t matter how much I tidied it. Within hours it would be maelstrom of abandoned plastic ponies, scattered felt-tips and Lego. I’d pick her dirty clothes up off the floor and find myself showered with Moshi Monsters, their tiny plastic bodies hail-stoning off my hips and onto the carpet. I’d go in to wake her up for school and find myself waylaid by an assault course of loom bands, Mr Men books and tennis racquets. After one particularly nasty ankle-twist involving a forgotten game of Hungry Hungry Hippos left by her bedroom door, I’d tried to have a serious chat with her about the importance of putting things away once she’d finished with them. She’d been eating breakfast at the time, her face screwed up in concentration as she used her spoon to hunt down the bowl’s three remaining Cheerios. It was early summer and she was wearing her school uniform, a blue-and-white-checked gingham dress. I’d yet to braid her hair and it hung in loose curls around her shoulders, the brown lightening to downy blonde around her temples.

‘I’m sorry, Mummy,’ she’d said after dispensing with the Cheerios. She put down her spoon and used both hands to lift the bowl to her mouth. She drained the milk in two gulps and set the bowl back on the table. ‘I’ll try to remember.’ A white moustache now decorated her top lip. ‘It’s just so boring.’

At this I’d tried to remain stern, to expound on how some things in life were boring but necessary, but her honesty had disarmed me. She was right: tidying up was boring. I’d held it together for all of two seconds before I burst out laughing. And then she was laughing, too. Our giggles continuing all the way through the school run, right up until she kissed me and dashed in through the gates for registration.

I thought of Vicky going up to Barney’s room every week with her dusters and polish. The way Jason spent his time scouring the internet forums for potential sightings. I envied their defiance, their right to keep everything ready, just in case. I envied their right to hope.

I parked in the shopping mall’s multi-storey and made my way over to the lift. Three floors later the doors pinged open, and I headed right, towards the ground level concourse and the large Boots.

I crossed the shop’s brightly lit threshold and felt another menstrual cramp slice at the side of my belly. Trying not to wince, I asked a member of staff to point me in the right direction and made my way over to the aisle nearest the pharmacy counter. It didn’t take long to find what I was looking for. Nestled between the blood-glucose meters and allergy-testing kits was a row of large white boxes, each one decorated with a green double helix and the words Cellmark Labs. I picked up the box nearest the front and was surprised to discover something so important could weigh so little. I remembered the furore when they’d first announced they were going to start selling such things. The newspapers had claimed this new, easy access to paternity testing could tear certain families apart. It was strange, when you thought about it. This slavish obsession we had with DNA. Memories and experience seemed to me to shape our identity so much more than a series of cells and chromosomes.

Giving it a shake, I heard a paper-plastic rustle and, reassured, placed it in the basket. On the way to the till I felt another twinge, stronger this time, and decided to pick up some paracetamol and tampons while I was here, just in case.

Purchases made, I beelined for a nearby coffee shop. Ordering a black coffee, I settled myself at a secluded table and got out the Cellmark Labs box. Studying the instructions, I soon discovered that, although the kit itself had cost £15, there would be an additional lab processing fee of £129. I winced. I couldn’t have afforded this even when I had a job to speak of. I’d have to put it on my credit card.

I looked further down the page. Boxed off from the rest of the text in bold black capitals was a warning. Asking anyone considering a paternity test, or any type of DNA test, to think carefully about the potential repercussions, it urged me to properly consider and assess the impact the results would have on the child or children involved. Skimming over the subsequent list of counselling helplines and websites, I found the bit I needed: step-by-step directions for paternal sample collection.

I’d taken Jason’s hairbrush from the dressing table before I left the house. Removing it from its sealed plastic bag, I selected four strands with the white root plug still intact and placed them in the long blue envelope provided. Once it was labelled, I was ready to repeat the process.

I got Lauren’s compass out of my bag and held the silver disc flat in my palm. Careful not to disturb the treasure inside, I gently popped the pull-fit catch. There, curled round the cover’s inside diameter were three strands of blond hair. Only one of the strands had a viable root plug still attached. Hopefully it would be enough. Placing all three hairs in the long yellow envelope, I forged Jason’s signature on the consent form, filled out the credit-card details and sealed them both into the pre-addressed Jiffy bag. A couple of first-class stamps and I was good to go.

I knew I had some in my purse but, after mooching through it for a few minutes, I lost patience and tipped the entire contents onto the table. Bingo. There amidst the jumble of old till receipts and loyalty cards was a book of twelve. Attaching three to the envelope, I was putting everything back in my purse when I came across Mark’s business card. The journalist. The name of the newspaper he worked for was in its upper-right corner, garish and red. He hadn’t bothered us since that day I’d caught him hanging around outside the college. Still, who knew when he might decide to show his face again? I decided that, for the time being, it would do to keep hold of his details, just in case.

While I’d been sitting down, my tummy cramps had seemed to subside but now I felt my belly spasm: a short, sharp pain that left me fighting for breath. Searching for the paracetamol I’d bought, I washed down the tablets with the last of my coffee and hoped it wouldn’t be too long before they took effect.

Leaving the café, I put the Jiffy envelope into my bag. I’d pop it into the first postbox I saw. I checked the time. It was barely 10 a.m. I still had an entire day to kill. I decided to try and find an internet café. I could start trawling for a new job. If I got a couple of applications in today, then maybe by this time next week I’d be going for interviews.

I hadn’t gone far when the cramps at the side of my abdomen took a turn for the worse. I took a seat on one of the benches in the middle of the concourse. A few minutes later and a couple wheeling a pram sat down next to me. Lifting the baby out, the woman cradled the child in her arms and offered it a bottle. The baby was hungry and, before long, the formula was gone. The woman took the bottle away and the baby’s mouth went slack. As its eyes flickered towards sleep, she placed her hand on its chest and reaching down, gave it a kiss on the forehead. I remembered how it used to feel when I held Lauren like that. Her tiny ribcage and her heartbeat inside, fast and frantic, like a bee caught in a glass.

That had been at the beginning of her life. The end had been quite different.

Lauren had spent her last few hours in the boot of a Ford Mondeo. While she was in there she had wet herself, soaking the pink summer shorts she was wearing. The police knew this – that she had wet herself in there and not at one of the other locations she had been taken to – because the amount of urine that had seeped into the fabric lining underneath her was ‘too much to suggest simple transfer’.

She’d been found wearing a white sandal on her right foot. When questioned in court, her murderer had explained that the other shoe had fallen off in his struggle to get the boot closed without trapping her fingers. This had confused me. Still did. I couldn’t understand why, when he was about to do to her what he did, he had worried himself about that.

The throbbing in my stomach was getting stronger. I felt like I was going to be sick. Gingerly, I got to my feet. Hit by another jolt of pain, I doubled over. Breathing through the nausea, I staggered back towards the automatic doors, clutching my side. Outside, I made it as far as the grassy picnic area. I cried out and a few people looked in my direction, concerned. I gave them a wave, trying to let them know I was OK but then the pain ripped through me again and I slumped to my knees. I felt the thick, telltale wet between my legs that usually signified the start of my period and then someone was at my side, lifting me up.

‘Are you OK? Are you hurt?’ they asked, taking my hand.

But I couldn’t speak. I was falling, everything going dark.

One week later and Mum had put me up in my old bedroom for the duration of my convalescence.

Turns out I was pregnant. Only five or six weeks along, but still, pregnant all the same. Problem was, the baby hadn’t taken root in the right place. The surgeon had had to remove one of my fallopian tubes, although the other remained intact.

When I came round the doctor explained what had happened. I hadn’t taken the news well. After that it had been decided it was probably better for me not to be left alone, at least until I’d recovered. At first, Jason had stayed home, but we couldn’t afford for him to miss too many classes, and so, after a few days, he drove me to Kent to be looked after by Mum and Dad.

My room was painted pink and grey and one wall was entirely taken up by mirrored wardrobes. I got out of bed and went over to the wardrobe nearest the window. In the week since I’d been out of hospital, pale blue, almost purple, shadows had appeared under my eyes. I moved closer. There was now such a thick, uniform line of grey rooting out from the top of my fringe it looked like I’d had it dip-dyed that way on purpose.

I turned away from the mirror, towards the window. White plastic pots filled with geraniums dotted the patio. The tiny flecks of mica in the patio concrete were winking in the sun. I’d been cooped up for days. I wanted to go for a walk.

Opening the bedroom door a touch, I heard Mum and Dad in the kitchen down the hall, preparing lunch. A thick fug of carrot, potato, cabbage and roast pork filled the air and I could hear the clinking of cutlery being set on the table. It would be easier if I left without telling them.

Closing the front gate behind me, I decided to do a lap round the lane that connected our row of houses with the main road. It should take about half an hour.

Glad to be outside, I set off at a pace. To my right were the houses of Mum and Dad’s neighbours. Identical seventies bungalows, each of their front gardens was perfectly manicured and littered with tasteful stone birdbaths. Before long, these began to peter out and the land opened up, revealing the fields and orchards beyond. A mile or so later I reached the stables where I used to go riding as a little girl. The horses were out in the pasture, tartan coats tied around their steaming bodies. I walked up to the fence and, after a short while, a brown mare came over to where I stood. She nodded her head and whinnied, wanting to be stroked. While I obliged, my palm smoothing down the soft white hair on her forehead, I watched one of the other horses eating apples that had fallen from a tree, his munching like that thuddy, dense sound boots make in fresh snow.

Still stroking the mare, I reached my other hand down towards my stomach and traced a finger across the new constellation of scars on my abdomen. Three small red dots. If you were to join them together with a pen they would form a kind of obtuse triangle.

I’d been out of surgery a few hours when Jason called Bullingdon’s to tell them I wouldn’t be in work for a while. During the course of the conversation it came to light I’d been fired. He waited till we got home from hospital to ask me about it. I’d apologised for keeping it from him. Told him I was embarrassed, that I’d planned on telling him once I had another job to go to and offered stories of unrealistic sales targets in explanation for my termination. My invalidity allowed me to hide behind a vague set of reasons and excuses I might not otherwise have got away with. It was clear Jason suspected there was more to it, but he didn’t push – for now, anyway.

It was dark when I headed back up the drive, to the bungalow.

‘There you are,’ said Mum before I was even through the door. ‘You’ve been gone ages. Are you sure you should be up and about?’

Her mouth dropped open.

‘Did you go out like that? In your nightie and dressing-gown? You must be freezing.’ Her gaze found its way to my feet. ‘But you haven’t got any shoes on either.’ I also looked down. She was right. My toes were covered in dirt.

‘I needed some fresh air.’

‘You must be starving,’ she said, hustling me into the kitchen. ‘I’ll warm up some leftovers.’

As I sat down, Dad looked up from his paper, his half-moon glasses low on his nose.

‘Hello darling.’ He looked at my muddy feet. ‘Go out for a little stroll, did we?’

My dad. Lauren had adored him. She loved nothing more than climbing up onto the round of his belly and tickling him under the arms with her tiny hands. When she was kidnapped he went for three days without sleep – mobilising local search parties, liaising with the police and going door to door with her photo – before finally collapsing with exhaustion. He’d been a civil engineer at a good firm in town. But, after the court case, he’d taken early retirement and now he spent his days pernicketing with his lawn, in constant battle with the slugs that plagued his vegetable patch.

The man who murdered my daughter, my father’s granddaughter, was called Gavin Nunn. The day he took Lauren he already had three previous sex offences to his name. Lauren was his fourth. We don’t know how he persuaded her to leave the front of our caravan. He might have promised her something; he might have grabbed her against her will. We do know that he took her to his car and that he then drove her to a number of different places where he raped her and then strangled her to death.

Ten days later a couple walking their dog discovered her corpse in a wood.

Mum put some reheated roast dinner on the table but I wasn’t hungry and, after a few mouthfuls, I couldn’t eat any more. While Dad cleared my plate, Mum came and sat next to me. I realised that she was balancing something on the flat of her hand.

‘I was having a clear-out earlier. You’ll never guess what I found.’

‘What?’

She proffered it up near my face.

‘Your cradle cap.’

I looked down at her palm but all I could see was a white envelope.

‘Cradle cap?’

She tutted at my ignorance and began to shuffle whatever was inside the envelope onto the table.

‘I kept it all these years. It came off in one piece, perfectly intact. It’s meant to be lucky when it does that and so we kept it.’

Finally, a round patch of thin skin with a smattering of fine blonde hairs still attached emerged from the envelope.

I thought of the package at the bottom of my handbag. The hair samples still inside. Sending it off had seemed important. Critical. Now, I wasn’t so sure.

‘Do you want it?’ she asked, picking the edge of it up between her forefinger and thumb. I moved back in my chair.

‘Why would I want that thing?’

‘I just thought …’

‘Throw it away.’

‘It’s meant to be lucky, that’s the only reason I kept it,’ she said, putting it back in its envelope. ‘It’s meant to be lucky.’

We were sitting watching the
Six O’Clock News
when I decided to go home. Jason was due to come and collect me at the weekend, but there was no way I could last till then. I brought up the train times on my phone. If I was quick, I could make the express. Slipping out unnoticed to my bedroom, I used one hand to start throwing clothes into my suitcase and the other to dial for a taxi.