The view outside Nightingale’s window was obscured by sleet. Despite this, the pavement below was full of shoppers struggling through the weather to stock up on food ahead of a forecast blizzard. Christmas was just sixteen days away; the race was on.
Nightingale wasn’t looking forward to the festivities and had volunteered to work the unpopular holiday shift, earning her more credit than all her solid hours of detective work. Jimmy’s feedback about how she had handled the investigation into Flash Harry, particularly securing Jenni’s statement before Sussex Major Crimes had taken it over, had helped to start a subtle thaw of attitudes in the detective room, of which she was as yet unaware.
Quinlan had taken on the Flash Harry case when he arrived to stand in for Fenwick at MCS. Big Mac had been seconded as she had predicted. At least Nightingale was able to keep up to date with progress unofficially. It was bittersweet to her that there had been none.
Jenni still hadn’t talked about the rape but DNA results confirmed her case was linked to the other sexual assaults. She was now in a shelter being coaxed towards recovery by a psychologist. Nightingale’s heart went out to her; poor kid.
With free time on her hands she had promised to have supper with her brother, sister-in-law and baby nephew. It was three years since the car crash that had killed her parents and the feeling of loss was no longer as raw. She suspected that the softening of grief was due in large part to the arrival of her nephew, Barnabas James, now eighteen months; a bonny June baby who brought constant delight to the cluster of Nightingale survivors.
She remembered with a start that she hadn’t bought him a present. Auntie Louise never turned up empty-handed. Her gifts, though not extravagant, were always different and somehow right. She had also promised to drop in on Jenni to see how she was coping but when Nightingale called the shelter she was informed bluntly that Jenni was out.
Nightingale dressed as if for an Arctic expedition for her short visit to town. She was walking down a snow-thick causeway towards the shopping centre when her mobile rang. Assuming it was work she answered with irritation.
‘Nightingale.’
‘Is that you?’ A hushed voice asked.
Nightingale covered her other ear.
‘Yes; who is this? Jenni?’
‘No,’ the whisper insisted, ‘it’s Bess.’
‘Bess?’ Nightingale stopped abruptly, earning a curse from the man behind who skidded into her. There was only one Bess that Nightingale knew. ‘Bess Fenwick?’
‘Yes, who else?’ the child insisted.
‘Well, hi, Bess.’ She moved into the shelter of a wall.
Why on earth would Bess be calling? She hadn’t seen her for months.
‘Nightingale, I miss you.’
‘That’s nice, Bess; is that why you’re calling?’
‘I want to see you.’
‘Do you?’ Nightingale was flattered, though she struggled to know what to say. Fenwick wouldn’t like the idea of his daughter having formed any sort of emotional attachment beyond the
family. She asked the obvious question to stall for time. ‘Have you discussed the idea with your daddy?’
‘He’s not here but I know he wouldn’t mind.’
‘Even so, you should ask. How did you get my number?’
‘From his address book. I know your new address too. I could come and see you.’ Bess was not to be deflected; Nightingale suspected it was hereditary.
‘Whoa! You can’t come into Harlden on your own.’ She had an image of little Bess at the bus station and her blood chilled.
‘I’m twelve now,’ Bess said with a touch of belligerence that was new.
‘Twelve, mmm, well that does make you more grown up but still, you’re not old enough for that sort of travel in this weather.’ The Fenwick family home was miles outside Harlden.
‘Says who? Nobody’d even notice I was gone.’
Nightingale sighed. At one time Bess and her father had been soulmates, brought closer by the death of Bess’s mother after a long illness.
‘Look, why don’t I come and see you instead?’ Nightingale suggested, concerned by the loneliness she heard behind the girl’s plea.
‘Today?’ Bess’s voice was brighter already.
‘Well …’
‘Oh please! I could meet you in town.’
‘No, the snow is so bad, Bess, but I could come and visit if your daddy says yes.’
‘I want to meet you in town. I’m allowed to go on my own now and I’ve saved up my pocket money so we could go and buy a dress for the school disco.’
Nightingale calculated that she would just be able to buy the dress with Bess and the present for Barnabas and still be in time for dinner with her brother.
‘I could come and pick you up if Alice says yes.’
‘I’d rather meet you at the bus station.’ Bess sounded triumphant.
‘No; I don’t care if you’re allowed out on your own, the weather is terrible and I don’t want you to.’
‘But …’ Bess sounded awkward.
‘You’re already there, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, Bess. I’ll be there in ten minutes.’
Bess was shivering under a bus shelter when Nightingale found her.
‘Bess; this is not good.’
‘I was here already when I rang. I told you I could do it!’
‘That’s not the point; I’m disappointed in you. Behaving as you’ve done is almost like lying to me. I’m inclined to find a taxi and take you straight back home.’
Bess burst into noisy tears.
‘Oh, come on, this is silly. Don’t get upset just because you know you’re in the wrong.’
The crying continued so Nightingale took her into a nearby café where she ordered two hot chocolates with whipped cream. Bess stopped crying and started to lick the cream.
‘Why did you come out on your own? You always used to be such a good girl.’
‘I still am,’ Bess contended, then looked at Nightingale’s sceptical face, ‘sort of.’
‘Hmm, I’m not impressed. If I can’t trust you I won’t be able to agree to see you again. You do realise that, don’t you.’
‘I just wanted to show you I could do it.’
‘That’s not the point. Will you promise that you’ll always tell me the truth in future and that if we agree to something you’ll stick to it?’
Bess nodded.
‘Say it out loud, please.’
‘I promise, always.’
‘Good girl, now wipe your face and tell me what you’ve been up to.’
Bess chattered away, pleased to have an attentive audience. As Nightingale listened she studied the girl, noting a small pimple by the side of her nose, two others on her chin. Beneath a thick pullover Bess was no longer flat-chested. She was leaving her infancy and
Nightingale was sadder than she knew was logical. How would Fenwick be coping with the changes in his little girl? She didn’t think he’d be doing that well.
‘How are Chris, Daddy and Alice?’
‘Chris and Alice are always grumpy. And Daddy … well, I don’t know … we don’t talk much … he doesn’t understand me any more.’
‘He’s a hard man to judge.’ Nightingale couldn’t suppress a wry grin at her understatement. ‘Sometimes he can be surprisingly understanding. I’d talk to him if I were you. Tell him how you feel.’
‘I never see him.’
‘Is he really not home much, Bess?’
Bess drank her chocolate. Nightingale asked again but received a shrug in reply. Demonstrating yet again that she was her father’s daughter, Bess avoided the emotional topic and changed the subject.
‘Would you come and help me find a dress for the school Christmas party?’
‘Why not go with Alice?’
‘She hasn’t got any dress sense.’
‘That’s unkind.’
‘Well it’s what my friend Lucy and her mum say. Alice is just the housekeeper. They told me I shouldn’t start treating her like a relative, it wouldn’t be right.’
‘I think that’s cruel. Alice is a lot more than a hired hand. She’s done a wonderful job of looking after you and Chris – the
fancy-dress
costumes she makes for you each year; and she’s always helping with cakes for the fête – that’s not the behaviour of someone who thinks of themselves as an employee, is it?’
‘S’pose not. But why does Lucy’s mum say so if it’s not true?’
‘I don’t know but it’s time you formed your own opinions, don’t just copy someone else’s. Kind thoughts are a lot nicer to have than cruel ones.’
‘Will you come shopping with me?’
Nightingale was saved from answering by the shrill sound of a cat mewing a popular song. It was Bess’s phone.
‘Answer it, then.’ Bess coloured and Nightingale guessed the reason with a detective’s intuition. ‘Oh no; you didn’t go off without telling Alice, did you?’ The silence spoke volumes. ‘If you don’t answer it I will.’
Bess flicked the phone open.
‘Yes … I’m in town … With a friend … No, not with Lucy … I didn’t say I would be with her … No I didn’t! … But …’ Nightingale glared and Bess subsided into a mutinous silence at the end of which she said, ‘Oh, if I
must
,’ and hung up, mouthing something unpleasant at the offending handset.
Nightingale ignored her theatrics and picked up their coats.
‘Time to go. Come on, I’ll find you a taxi.’
‘When can I see you again? How about next Saturday; we could look for the dress?’
Nightingale was about to say no, that she wasn’t available, but decided that wouldn’t be the right answer, given Bess’s frustration with her father.
‘I think it would be nicer if you asked Alice. Buying a new dress is fun and she deserves to share some of that with you.’
‘But she won’t know what to buy like you will.’
‘Oh, I think Alice could surprise you.’
Nightingale found a female taxi driver on the rank and waited until her car was at the head of the queue. Then she bundled Bess into the cab, gave the driver the address and enough money to cover the fare. As the car was about to pull away Bess gesticulated and the taxi pulled to a halt. Nightingale bent down as the passenger window opened.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, huddling under her umbrella from the pattering sleet.
Bess hesitated, her face flushed, eyes uncertain.
‘Are you … are you, like, that is … areyoustillseeingmydad?’ The question came out in a rush of embarrassment. Before Nightingale could think of an answer Bess continued, ‘Only if you are, well, Chris and me, well, we think that’s OK; we’d sort of like that.’
She leant out and kissed Nightingale’s cheek, her lips warm against ice-cold skin. Nightingale kissed her back, the gesture badly aimed because her sight was blurred.
Nightingale was at her brother’s house by six, having bought Barnabas a bright-green caterpillar that waggled a long cuddly body in ecstatic reaction to being hit between the eyes. Not a politically correct present maybe, but it made her laugh. The door was opened by Simon, looking happy and in need of losing fifteen pounds.
‘Sis! Come in. Naomi’s just changing Barnabas. Let me get you a drink. You won’t believe how he’s grown since you last saw him. And he can talk!’
‘Was it Mama or Dada first?’
‘Mama, of course, but he can do more than that … you just wait.’
He poured her a glass of white wine and started chatting about work. He was an orthopaedic specialist and had just been accepted to work with a consultant surgeon. Nightingale was pleased for him and was about to tell him so when there was an excited shriek and Barnabas tumbled into the room on unsteady legs.
‘Lou-Lou!’ he shrieked, to his parents’ obvious delight.
They smiled at their young Einstein and beamed proudly at Nightingale, who was struggling to cope with her reaction.
‘What … what did he say?’
‘Your name, of course,’ Naomi laughed delightedly and hugged her sister-in-law with real affection. ‘He recognises you from your picture. You were his sixth word, after Mama, Dada, Dog, Nana, Baa, in that order. We thought you’d be pleased.’
Nightingale gathered up her nephew and lifted him high in the air, swinging him around to his delight. Her action diverted his parents from her overbright eyes. It wasn’t just the fact that he could say her name that had moved her; it was also what he had called her. How could they know its significance? She hadn’t yet told them what she had discovered during her stay at the derelict family farm three summers before. How could she tell the brother she adored that she wasn’t his twin sister, just a half-blood cuckoo
slipped into the nest at a day old when his real twin sister died?
During that long, hot, terrifying summer at Mill Farm, she had finally unravelled her dead aunt’s cryptic clues to reveal a truth that was shocking yet somehow reassuring: she wasn’t her mother’s daughter, but a bastard (‘love child’ part of her mind insisted) sired by her father with his long-time lover Lulu. It had all made sense suddenly; her resemblance to the woman increased as she grew up and her mother had pushed her away. She had felt lost, unloved, unconnected in a way that had driven her away from home. The discovery of who she really was had provided a missing piece of the jigsaw that was her life, though she had never revealed it to anyone and still hadn’t worked out what to do with the knowledge. She didn’t even know whether her real mother was alive; she hadn’t even googled her! What sort of denial was that?
Nightingale hugged Barnabas and breathed in the unique clean baby smell of him that made her heart lurch, before placing him on his play rug to unwrap the caterpillar. It was, as anticipated, an immediate hit. When she looked up her eyes were dry.
Supper was typically delicious. Naomi and Simon had gained pounds since they married but at least now they could no longer criticise her for being skinny. She was a healthy weight again thanks to a sensible diet and rigorous exercise regime. Although her appetite still vanished when she was stressed, she now forced herself to eat.
She was sipping claret and nibbling crumbly white Wensleydale while Naomi put the finishing touches to dessert, when Simon started the conversation she had been dreading.
‘So who’s the lucky man in your life?’
‘There isn’t one, Simon, as well you know.’
‘No I don’t. And anyway, I can’t believe it; you’re just too attractive to be single.’
‘I don’t need a man to define who I am.’