Forgotten Graves: Whitby's Forgotten Victims Book 4, page 24
He rubbed his eyes. ‘We were all in floods of tears. This eighteen-year-old in awe of us for how we’d helped her… but then, it faded… I guess that happens to us all when the children leave home, and who were we kidding – I’d only really known her for four years. It was all very inevitable. In the first year, she visited on her holidays. About three times in total. That was okay. We were proud and let her know we were.’
He looked up at Donna. ‘And imagine if I’d have had her arrested that day? That third offence. What a waste. Look what we were part of. She was going to be a paediatric nurse – like Donna!’
‘Still, visits became less and less; then, after she finished university, she came a few times, but she’d grown into a woman now. She had her own plans and dreams. She was doing well in her job. I think we saw her a few times in that final year, but the reality was she’d completely changed – as people do. We were content that she was happy. Until… well, until we just stopped hearing from her.’ He took a deep breath, forcing back more tears.
‘When we hadn’t heard from her in a good while, I went to see Dr Hannah Wright, hoping to catch Sarah at work. But she wasn’t there any more. Hannah had asked her to leave because she’d got back with that absolute knacker, Tommy Reid. Tommy Reid! Of course, we knew the story from when she was thirteen. She’d told us all about that; how could she have done something that stupid? He sounded like a complete idiot… and his mother… well, she sounded bloody loopy, too.’
Sharon exchanged a glance with Reggie. His eyes echoed her thoughts. You can say that again!
‘I was devastated! Can you imagine? Throwing away everything she’d worked for! But Hannah insisted this was the right move. Let her realise and she’ll come back. She asked me to stay out of it, and I did. I knew she’d feel ashamed of what she’d done, and that’s why she couldn’t face me, so it was a struggle not to see her.’ He nodded at Donna’s photograph. ‘She agreed with Hannah though… so, I let it ride, we let it ride, hoping that she’d see sense.’ His sigh seemed to carry decades of regret. ‘And then she was gone… just like that. Awful, awful time.’ He stroked the eagle on the card. ‘I know she gave me this long before, but I believed there was a message in this image. She’d always wanted to fly away – to Australia. So when they never found her, I assumed – hoped – she’d finally spread her wings and gone on an adventure. Then, that postcard showed up, and I thought my prayers had been answered.’
‘You didn’t think of bringing this to us?’ Reggie asked.
‘Of course not, man. What are you? Soft in the head? Ha. Lock me up now, but she wanted away, and she got away – I wasn’t about to be the one responsible for dragging her back to where she didn’t want to be!’
His eyes brimmed with fresh tears. He stood, groaning. ‘You’ll have to excuse me.’ Peter pushed himself up with painful slowness. ‘Need to use the facilities.’
After Peter’s shuffling footsteps faded, Sharon caught Reggie staring at her. ‘I can see your heart bleeding,’ he said.
‘Jesus, really, sir… and yours isn’t?’
‘When you get to my age, Sharon, you lose count of how many times you’ve been lied to – as effectively as that, by the way.’
‘But that postcard?’
‘He may have done it himself,’ Reggie said. ‘I’ve seen it before. A woman was in denial over killing her husband, so she wrote herself a valentine’s card from him. Tricked herself. Denial and grief can do funny things. Well, I mean, she obviously didn’t write it, did she?’
Sharon shook her head. Surely, that level of anguish couldn’t be faked. His phone beeped. ‘Look at that.’
He turned his phone. It was a message from Sean.
Records show Peter Watson owned a red Ford Fiesta between 1985 and 1990.
Her eyes widened. She gripped the edges of the plastic chair. Surely not?
She expected him to say something smug, but his face remained blank. Perhaps he’d been hoping as much as she had that Peter’s grief was genuine.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Lewis's fingers ached. He'd spent the night clutching both his mobile and the mysterious photograph, unable to let either go. He must have tried the number dozens of times overnight, but every time, he’d received the same engaged tone.
He wasn’t sure if he’d slept – maybe he had dozed off intermittently.
He needed some fresh air.
Before he left the house, he stared down at his frail father. ‘One last sick joke, eh? Got your pathetic son chasing shadows?’
Without really thinking about it, he walked to White Hart, not for a drink – though God knew he needed one – but because this was the place that had destroyed his life. His mind was already tortured, why not torture it some more?
Lewis first recalled Gregg Ince’s bones cracking against porcelain, and then the police rightfully dragging him out of society.
Three years ago.
Why had he done it?
Good question.
The memories of that evening were fragmented, distorted by alcohol and fury. Isobelle had demanded he leave, declaring the end of their marriage. In the pub, his anger and frustration were too volatile to contain. In the toilets, a pissed Gregg Ince had eyed him up and down, asking him what the fuck he was looking at.
Gregg became a convenient way to vent.
Then it was a blur, and all he could hear now, in his memory, was the sickening crack of a skull against the urinal.
Next, he wandered across town until he was opposite the home he’d shared with Isobelle. Morning sunlight caught the kitchen window like a spotlight on a stage he’d abandoned years ago.
His son sat at the breakfast table, spoon halfway to his mouth.
Ten years old now, though Lewis hadn’t seen him since he was seven. His feet carried him forward before his brain could object, hand twitching at his side. The urge to tap on the glass, to call out to his son, was overwhelming.
He stopped at the gate, reality crashing back. What would his son see if he knocked?
A stranger? Or worse…
Would he look at me the way I look at John?
But didn’t he have to try?
The opportunity might never come again.
Heart hammering, he opened the gate.
Through the window, Lewis saw a tall man appear behind his son, ruffling the boy’s hair with casual affection. His son looked up with a smile that pierced Lewis’s heart – pure, unguarded love for the man who’d replaced him.
Lewis stumbled backward, the gate clanging shut. Father and son looked toward the sound, but Lewis was already turning away, bile rising in his throat as he ran.
What right did he have to shatter their world? To drag his boy into the same cycle of abandonment and return that had poisoned his own life?
Lewis ran all the way back to his father’s home, each footfall echoing with shame. Out of breath, he looked up at the bedroom window, wondering if his father was still alive.
Are we really so different, John? The thought followed him up the driveway like an accusing shadow.
Maybe that’s why you kept that mysterious woman’s picture hidden – another reminder of choices made, lives abandoned. We both escaped from responsibility. You watched us grow from a distance, and now I’m doing the same.
After all my condemnation, I’ve become you. Like father, like son.
The house felt emptier than ever as he let himself in, Jamie’s smile searing in his memory alongside the face of the man who’d taken his place – all those moments he’d never share with his son burning holes in his heart.
Mark nodded as Lewis passed. His father was still alive then.
He wiped sweat from his brow as he headed up to see the old bastard.
Is this my destiny, too? To die alone, surrounded by photographs of moments I missed, until the grim reaper comes?
Chapter Fifty-Four
‘Mr Watson.’ Sharon chose her words carefully. ‘On the night that Sarah disappeared, she was seen outside Bridge Inn climbing into the passenger seat of a red Fiesta. This was the last time she was seen.’
Peter nodded absently, his face blank – he clearly hadn’t grasped the significance.
‘You were the owner of a red Fiesta between 1985 and 1990,’ Reggie added.
He nodded. ‘Yes.’ His brow furrowed as understanding dawned. ‘But… so? What are you saying?’
‘We’re just establishing facts,’ Reggie said. ‘An eyewitness said—’
Peter’s voice sharpened. ‘Yes, I heard you the first time. But there were a lot of red Fiestas in 1989. It’s nothing more than a coincidence.’
Sharon glanced at Reggie. Without registration numbers, CCTV footage, or a living witness, the red Fiesta connection felt paper thin ‘Where were you on October 12, 1989?’ Reggie asked.
‘Are you serious?’ Peter snapped.
Reggie nodded.
Peter ran a hand over his face. ‘Bloody hell. How do you expect me to remember? All I can tell you is that when I heard about Sarah going missing, I was usually working evening shifts at the Royal Oak in Whitby.’ He squeezed his eyes. ‘Monday through Wednesday, Saturday and Sunday. Would that cover the date?’
Reggie nodded. ‘Yes, but I thought you ran a security business?’
‘Aye, but they were some tough years. Mortgage payments eating us alive. You could maybe confirm that with whoever runs it now… they might have kept a record of staff.’
Unlikely, Sharon thought, but we’ll check it out, anyway.
‘Did Donna drive the car too?’ Sharon asked.
‘Aye… but I’m telling you, that wasn’t our red Fiesta. Like I said, how many red Fiestas do you think were around then!’
‘Can you remember where Donna was that night?’
‘Ha! Are you serious? Here, resting probably! She was a bloody nurse for God’s sake!’
His voice cracked with sudden emotion. ‘I mean, what are you even suggesting?’ He pressed a hand to his chest. ‘My Donna! Bloody hell! She wouldn’t harm a hair on anyone’s head. She was a kids’ nurse. Desperate for Sarah to continue being a nurse. And that becomes grounds for what? Putting her in a fucking silo and…’ He choked on the words, unable to finish.
‘It’s okay,’ Sharon said. ‘We just have to cover everything. I’d struggle to believe that too.’
‘Good!’ Peter’s hand shook as he gestured at Donna’s photograph. ‘All we ever wanted to do was help her. Our mistake was not going to see her after she went back to that dickhead, and Hannah warned us off! Sarah had spent her whole life being written off! I should have been first to that sodding door at the Reids’, pulling her out!’
They tried asking more questions, but the suggestion about Donna had broken something in him. His responses dulled to single words, his eyes fixed on Donna's photograph as if he'd forgotten they were there.
Finally, they thanked him for his time.
At the door, Peter’s fingers closed gently around Sharon’s arm. His eyes met hers, deliberately excluding Reggie. ‘I loved Sarah like she was my own.’ The words carried the weight of a confession.
Sharon nodded, letting her expression convey her belief in his sincerity.
They were halfway down the path when Reggie cursed under his breath. ‘Shit… the man with Hannah! The boss will have me…’ He jogged back as Peter was closing the door. ‘Sorry, sir, one more thing – do you recognise this man?’ He thrust forward the photograph of the unknown figure at the horse riding competition with Hannah Wright.
Peter took the photograph and studied it carefully, his eyes moving methodically across the image.
For a moment, Reggie thought he might just recognise him.
But he shook his head and handed it back.
Then, with one last sad look at Sharon, Peter closed the door with a quiet finality.
Chapter Fifty-Five
It was afternoon, and Christie’s head throbbed from last night’s overindulgence. No doubt, her bruised temple, caused by her mother, was also playing its large part. She’d called in sick, on this, only her second day!
She’d taken the job after the last English teacher had unexpectedly quit because of ill health, hence the strange start date. It had felt like an opportunity for Christie to impress them. To ride to the rescue, like a real Walker would! Show them she was just like her father – an excellent teacher and leader. Yet, here she was, off sick already; ironically, because of the bloody man that had inspired her. Plus, it was only two days until they broke for Christmas – this wouldn’t be what the current head and the governors had been hoping for. Not at all.
Her life felt in fucking tatters.
But she hadn’t got time to dwell on this now. What she needed was answers, and fast, in order to make sense of everything. So, if Georgina Prince wouldn’t give them willingly, Christie knew someone who would.
Nancy Keegan was one of three governors from her interview panel, and the only one remaining from her father’s era as headteacher. At seventy-eight, she should have retired years ago, but widowhood, and having no children, had left her clinging to the role like a lifeline. Nancy had always adored Christie’s father, constantly praising his service to the children of Whitby and Ruswarp.
Looking back, Christie realised her own appointment had been inevitable with Nancy on the panel.
If anyone knew anything, then Nancy would.
Christie freshened up as much as was possible and headed to Nancy’s home.
Nancy still possessed a youthful energy, which made her seem decades younger than she was. ‘Christie? Shouldn’t you be at work?’ She pointed at her bruised and grazed temple. ‘What happened, dear? Are you okay?’
‘My mother… she pushed me.’ Christie had intended to make up some lie, but it just slipped out. ‘She didn’t even recognise me.’ Her voice cracked.
Nancy shook her head. ‘Oh, you poor thing. Come in.’
The kitchen was warm and inviting. Nancy busied herself with making tea. When they were both settled with steaming cups, she reached across and patted Christie’s hand. ‘I’m so sorry about your mother. Caroline is an admirable woman. What a wonderful teacher she was, and what a great service she did to Ruswarp. It is such an awful disease.’
Christie smiled with gratitude. She nudged a tear away, took a sip, steeled herself, and then regarded Nancy with a more serious expression. ‘Do you know what happened yesterday at Riverside?’
‘Sorry… no. They treat me with bloody kid gloves these days. What happened? Nothing serious, I hope.’
‘I don’t know, Nancy. It felt serious. It felt fucking horrible.’ She broke off. ‘Sorry for my language.’
She winked. ‘I may look like a sweet old lady, but I’ve been around a fair old while, dear. Lay it out. Fucking warts and all.’
Christie smiled, but as she spoke, her face dropped again. ‘A woman called Georgina Prince came to see me.’
Nancy’s face also dropped.
It was sudden, too, and the colour left her face immediately. Her teacup clattered against its saucer.
Christie reached for her hand. ‘Nancy, are you okay?’
‘Georgina? Really? And they didn’t let me know? Imbeciles.’
‘So, you know her?’
She nodded, slipped her hand free of Christie’s, and turned to one side. Christie detected shame. ‘Of course. I knew her son was at the college… but I never expected her to approach you. Now why would she do a bloody thing like that?’
Good question. I was hoping you could tell me!
Nancy was wringing her hands together now, and Christie really hoped she didn’t clam up and start keeping secrets from her – rather like her father had done. ‘She was furious, Nancy. Saying all sorts of strange things. She suggested my father had been up to no good in some way, and that made me, in some way, a risk for her son—’
Nancy cut her off sharply by suddenly turning and glaring. ‘Listen to me, Christie – that girl has never been well.’ She tapped her temple. ‘Not one bit. You need to understand that. Jesus… that puddled little bitch!’ She stood abruptly, turning away.
Hearing a woman in her mid-fifties being referred to as a ‘girl’ and ‘a little bitch’ was peculiar, but seeing Nancy losing control was far more disconcerting.
‘We tried to do right by her, you know… and now…’ She spun back to face Christie. ‘What did she say exactly?’
Christie recounted everything – the classroom confrontation, the ‘reach for the stars’ bracelet, the reference to ‘poison apples.’ Then, she described her mother’s words: ‘vicious, vicious girl’.
With each detail, Nancy’s expression grew more strained. ‘Well, Georgina was the vicious girl all right! She almost ruined everything! Caroline, in her confusion, must have seen her in your place – I’m so sorry, Christie… so sorry your mother did that to you… but it wasn’t aimed at you, you must understand that.’
Christie nodded. It made her feel slightly better. Why couldn’t her father have said that to her though? Settled her anxiety with the truth?
‘Excuse me a moment – I need a drink.’ Nancy left the room. A moment later, she returned with two glasses of amber liquid over ice. ‘Southern Comfort. I apologise, but I need this. Would you like…’
Christie’s stomach lurched at the thought, memories of last night’s wine still too fresh. She shook her head.
Nancy sat back down, taking a long pull from her glass like a woman seeking courage.
‘Firstly, both you and your father are wonderful. “Poison apples”? Jesus wept!’ She screwed up her face in disgust. ‘Absolute balderdash.’ Nancy sighed deeply, the sound carrying the weight of buried secrets. ‘I’ll tell you dear because it won’t do for you to continue poking around in this. But after, you must let it go, okay? She almost destroyed your father’s career once – if we breathe life into this drivel again, then, well, I dread to think what she’ll destroy. His legacy, even! It was the poetry club. Your father mentioned it at some point to you, I’m sure?’
