Sister Sister Page 21

  I take a few minutes to let my mind free itself from the tangle of thoughts. I need to stop thinking, just for a while. I breathe in deeply, enjoying the fresh air that fills my lungs. It’s certainly a beautiful place and the rhythmic crash and rumble of the waves have a calming effect.

  The sound of a little girl laughing brings me back from my empty thoughts. I turn and watch her run along the beach, chasing the family pet, her parents walking hand in hand behind her. It makes me think of Hannah and Chloe and I have a sudden pang of homesickness, coupled with a yearning to get back to not just the UK but to how we were as a family before Alice came home. Somehow, I fear that will never be the same, regardless of what I find out here.

  I feel tired and all I want to do is get back to my motel room and get some sleep. Reluctantly, I turn and head back towards my car, leaving the sanctuary of the beach behind me.

  Despite my body telling me how tired I am, my brain doesn’t want to co-operate. I manage just a couple of hours at a time before I wake and when I try to go back to sleep, thoughts of how my meeting with Roma might go fill my mind.

  When morning finally breaks I’m relieved the night is over.

  Arriving in Jacksonville, I find the coffee shop in the parade of retail outlets and park outside under a tree.

  I realise that I don’t actually know what Roma looks like. I stand in the doorway checking the tables for a woman on her own. A tall, well-dressed woman in a blue blouse and white trousers stands up and makes eye contact. She waves me over and I thread my way through the tables.

  ‘Roma Kendrick?’ I ask, as I reach the table.

  She holds out her hand. ‘Clare, I presume.’ I shake her hand and she smiles warmly at me. ‘Please, Clare, do sit down. Tea or coffee?’

  ‘Coffee, please.’

  Roma signals to the waitress, who arrives in a matter of seconds with a coffee pot. Once she’s filled my cup and I’ve added some warm milk from the table, I take a sip and then sit back and look at Roma.

  ‘Thank you for meeting me,’ I say.

  ‘I’m not entirely comfortable with us meeting, I must admit. I feel, somehow, I’m going behind Alice’s back. I wish she were here too.’

  ‘Yes, so do I,’ I say. ‘When did you last see her?’

  ‘Quite a few months ago now. We had coffee here, actually. I gave her the address for her mother in England.’

  ‘And she seemed fine then?’

  ‘Yes. She was so happy to have that address. I hadn’t been able to give it to her before, not with her father alive. He wouldn’t have liked it. Don’t get me wrong. Patrick was a good man and loved Alice dearly but he refused to talk about England and Alice’s mother. Who I assume is your mother too.’

  ‘Marion. Yes, that’s right.’

  Roma looks thoughtful as she stirs her coffee with the small silver teaspoon. ‘Tell me, why did your mother never contact Alice?’ she asks. ‘I’ve always wondered why. I can’t imagine a mother just cutting herself off from her own child like that.’

  ‘She tried. She didn’t have an address for my father. He would never give it to her. He used to phone from time to time, but those phone calls got less and less frequent. My mother thought for a long time that they would come back. She really believed it was a holiday which just became extended.’

  Roma looks thoughtful again. ‘So, how do you think I can help? You know I haven’t heard from Alice in a while now.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ I ask, inwardly acknowledging that my questioning is on the pushy side and normally I would tread with greater care, but I am trying to tackle this as I would a legal case. Sometimes that requires a certain amount of direct talking.

  ‘Soon after Patrick died, my mother got ill. I had to move back to Jacksonville to care for her.’

  ‘Alice didn’t mind staying behind?’

  ‘No. It was her home; she wanted to stay. I must admit, I wasn’t sure about leaving her. It didn’t seem right. We used to be very close,’ continues Roma as she fiddles with the edge of her napkin. ‘I can remember the first time I saw Alice. She was only young and like a little mouse, so quiet and so timid. Those big blue eyes of hers, staring up at me. She looked so sad and so lost, my heart just melted. I knew there would be a whole lot of healing to be done, a heart to mend, and I did manage that to a certain extent, but Alice was such a quiet thing, you never really knew what she was thinking. She had this aura of deep sadness. She never had many friends growing up, until she was older and she became friends with Martha.’ The tone in Roma’s voice hardens.

  ‘You don’t sound like you approve too much of Martha,’ I want to keep Roma talking. I still need to find things out.

  Roma purses her lips. ‘She came with a lot of baggage. And I don’t mean the Gucci kind.’

  ‘In what way?’ I say.

  ‘She had a tough upbringing, which I know is not that unusual. Lots of kids have it tough. It’s just that some come out of it good and some not so good. Martha being the latter. I could see it a mile off and I tried to warn Patrick about her,’ explains Roma. ‘I didn’t like the way Martha ingratiated herself into the family so quickly and so easily. I tried to say something to Alice as well but neither she nor her father could see it. Martha was a very manipulative person. Dangerous, even. She practically imprinted herself on Alice. Almost became her doppelgänger. It was creepy.’ She stops and gives a shake of her head.

  ‘You have a son, Nathaniel,’ I say.

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘From Alice’s letter to my mum. Has he not heard from Alice at all?’ I may be stepping on dangerous ground here, but I have to ask the question.

  ‘No. He tried to contact her on social media but she’s closed her accounts.’

  ‘She had social media? Like Facebook and Twitter?’

  ‘Well, yeah, I’m pretty sure she did have Facebook. In fact, I’m certain. I remember Nathaniel showing me some pictures of her on it.’

  ‘Has she had Facebook a long time?’

  Roma shrugs. ‘I don’t know. Probably about four years, when she went to college. I don’t think she had it before. Like I said, she’s a quiet thing, especially when she was younger and didn’t have that many friends.’

  ‘It wasn’t because she was banned from using it, I mean, her father never said she couldn’t have Facebook? You know what some parents are like,’ I add, to make light of the question so as not to arouse Roma’s suspicion.

  ‘No. It was never banned,’ says Roma. ‘As I say, Nathaniel had it and Patrick and I treated the children equally. We were, in our eyes, one family, not two blended together.’ She reaches over and squeezes my hand. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you when I said that. I know Alice is your family too.’

  ‘It’s okay.’ I smile away the comment, to hide the small pang of hurt. I cannot understand why my father was happy to split the family up in such a divisive way. ‘Did Patrick ever talk about me?’ It’s such a difficult question to ask, but somehow I feel I need to know. I need to know if my feelings, or non-feelings, towards him are justified.

  I can tell by the look on Roma’s face what the answer is. She doesn’t need to say a word. Her face is etched with embarrassment and sympathy. She’s still holding my hand and when she speaks her voice is gentle. ‘He never spoke about England much. When I first met him, he said he had split up from his wife.’

  ‘He didn’t say he’d left his other daughter behind?’

  Roma looks uncomfortable and averts her gaze. She looks out of the window, her lips pushed together. She takes a deep breath and looks back at me, placing her other hand on top of mine.

  ‘Please tell me,’ I say. ‘I need to know.’

  ‘I don’t wanna upset you, Clare, you seem like a nice young woman.’

  ‘It’s okay. I’m pretty tough. I can handle it, whatever it is.’ God, I hope I can.

  Roma hesitates some more but then gives a slight nod, as if she’s come to a decision. ‘Okay. Patrick said he left his wife and h
er child.’

  I pick over the words. ‘Her child?’ Roma nods. ‘He didn’t acknowledge that I was his child also?’

  ‘You’re his child too?’ Roma frowns.

  ‘Yes. Patrick Kendrick was my father. My biological father.’

  ‘Oh, honey, I didn’t know that. I assumed from what he said, you were his stepdaughter.’ Roma sits back and there is a genuine look of shock on her face. ‘I thought that was how he came to bring Alice on his own. I mean, why would you bring one daughter and not the other?’

  We both look at each other. I have no doubt we are both thinking the same thing. It takes a moment for me to conjure up the words. ‘Maybe I’m not really his daughter after all,’ I say. It’s my turn to slump back in my seat. I don’t know how I feel. ‘I’ve always wondered why he never took me. How he could choose between his own flesh and blood, but now it all seems so obvious. It makes sense now. I’m not his child.’ I drag my hands down my face, my fingertips cover my mouth as I take in this realisation. It also means that Alice is not my full sister as I had always thought. She is, in fact, my half-sister. I examine this notion. It’s easier than thinking about Patrick. I don’t feel any differently about Alice, not one bit. She’s my sister, full or half. She’s always been my little sister.

  ‘Are you okay?’ asks Roma. ‘Would you like something stronger to drink?’

  ‘No. I’m fine. It’s okay. Patrick not being my father makes a lot of sense. It answers a lot of questions. I’m okay with it. Honestly. Although, it does mean I don’t actually know who my real father is. I don’t know why Mum has never told me. Do I want to know who he is? Wow, it’s answered one lot of questions, but has thrown up a load more.’

  ‘It’s a shock nevertheless,’ says Roma. ‘Take your time to get used to the idea. I’m sorry if I’ve upset you. I may have just gotten hold of the wrong end of the stick … Maybe I should go now.’ She takes a couple of notes from her purse and leaves them on the table. ‘My treat.’

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ I say. ‘Oh, wait … how did you come to have the address for my mother? The one you gave to Alice after my father died?’

  ‘It was by chance, really. A letter came one day when he was away on business, it was postmarked London, England. It sat on his desk for three days before curiosity got the better of me. I steamed open the envelope and it was a letter from a tracing agent asking him if he was Patrick Kennedy of such and such address. I remember thinking that they must have got him muddled up with someone else because, of course, he was Patrick Kendrick to me. But, for some reason I made a note of that address – don’t ask me why but I did. Anyway, Patrick came home and just told me it was a spelling error and not to worry about it, that it was all sorted out now.’

  ‘And you kept the address all that time?’

  ‘Yes. Maybe because Patrick’s life in the UK had always been a bit of a mystery and this was the only connection. I don’t know why, but it felt important to keep it. To be honest, I forgot about it and then, after Patrick died and I was sorting out our things, I found it. That’s when I gave it to Alice. I did say to her I wasn’t sure whether it was a wild-goose chase I was sending her on, but it seemed wrong not to give it to her.’ Roma stands. ‘I really need to go. Please take care of yourself. And if you do get in touch with Alice, tell her I was asking about her and I’d love to hear from her.’ Her smile is laced with sadness and I believe her sentiments are genuine. I get to see a lot of liars in my line of work and maybe it’s just a gut feeling, but I believe Roma cares about Alice. Roma pauses. ‘Oh, one more thing.’ She delves into her handbag and produces a brown envelope. ‘There are some photos of Alice in there. I thought you might like them.’ She places the envelope on the table in front of me. ‘Goodbye, Clare.’

  ‘Before you go, can I ask just one more question?’

  Roma is standing now but she pauses and nods. ‘Do you have any other children? A daughter, perhaps?’

  ‘A daughter? Not if you discount Alice. I just have a son, Nathaniel. Why?’

  ‘I just wondered,’ I say.

  ‘Okay, well, goodbye, again.’

  I watch the elegant woman leave the coffee shop. She stops at the window and looks in at me for a brief second, before putting on her sunglasses and walking away.

  I pick up the envelope and am just psyching myself up to open it when my mobile rings. I flick it on to silent as I look at the screen. It’s Luke. Twice in one morning. Now, that is unusual. I can’t ignore it – the little voice in the back of my head that warns me it could be an emergency at home with Mum or the girls won’t let me.

  ‘Hi,’ is all I say.

  ‘Clare. Where the fuck are you?’

  ‘Er … just out having a coffee. What’s up?’

  ‘Where – having a coffee? Where exactly are you?’ I can hear the anger in voice, although he’s practically hissing the words. ‘And don’t say at Nadine’s.’

  ‘What?’ Oh, God, he’s found out.

  ‘I know you’re not at Nadine’s. I’ve got the fucking police here. They want you to go in for further questioning. I found your address book and looked up Nadine because that’s where you told me you were. And, guess what? You’re not actually there! She’s even more surprised than I am. She hasn’t heard from you in months!’ The hiss has gone and Luke is in full rage mode. This never happens. The last time he flipped like this was when … ah yes … was when his portrait of Alice was slashed. ‘Clare? Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes. I’m here.’

  ‘Care to share where the fuck here is?’

  I ignore his question. I don’t really want to have to explain myself. Not yet. Not until I know for certain what happened over here. ‘What do the police want to question me about?’

  ‘Vandalising Pippa’s car.’

  ‘Not that again.’

  ‘They’ve looked at the CCTV and have you on film going into the garage and coming out a few minutes later with the aerosol can in your hand.’

  ‘That’s impossible. I’ve told you before, I didn’t do it.’

  ‘They have evidence, Clare. Didn’t you hear me? CCTV evidence.’ His tone conveys a mix of anger and exasperation. ‘Get your arse back here now.’ I can hear voices in the background. Luke speaks again. ‘The police want to know where you are and how long you’ll be.’

  I drum my fingers anxiously on the table. ‘I’ll be back Wednesday.’

  ‘I don’t think they want to wait until then. How about you make it this afternoon.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  Then I hear the phone being passed over to someone else.

  ‘Mrs Tennison?’ says a female voice I recognise as the police officer from the other day. ‘This is Police Constable Evans here. We spoke about the damage to Pippa Stent’s vehicle.’

  ‘Yes. Hello.’

  ‘As your husband has just explained, we have further evidence to support the accusation that you vandalised Mrs Stent’s car and we would like you to come in for further questioning. You may remember, we did say that you should make yourself available for further questioning and someone in your line of work shouldn’t really need this spelled out.’

  ‘I know, but I can’t come in before Wednesday.’ Time to come clean. I can’t put it off any longer. ‘I’m not in the country and I haven’t got a return flight until Tuesday night. I could be with you by mid-morning Wednesday.’

  ‘Mrs Tennison, flying out of the country isn’t really acceptable.’

  I cut in. ‘It’s perfectly acceptable. I am not under arrest. I haven’t been charged with anything. I haven’t been cautioned. You never told me not to leave the country. Technically, I have not done anything wrong.’

  ‘I can’t say I’m very happy.’

  ‘That’s as may be, but as soon as I’m in the UK, I’ll let you know. Now, please hand me back to my husband.’

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ It’s Luke. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m in America,’ I say. I carry on
talking despite his spluttering disbelief. ‘I’ll be back Wednesday. We’ll talk then.’ I end the call. What a nightmare. I think about the new evidence and wonder how the hell they have me on CCTV going into the garage.

  I look at the envelope that Roma left still on the table. I’ll worry about CCTV later, for now I’m dying to see the photographs. I empty the contents in front of me. Half a dozen photographs spill out. I spread them out with my fingertips.

  At first I don’t understand what I’m looking at. It takes a moment for me to process the information.

  These are all pictures of Martha Munroe. Alice’s friend. The same girl in the picture with her that she first sent Mum.

  It seems as though my brain is taking forever to rationalise and order these thoughts but, in reality, it’s only a second.

  The truth hits me. What I had suspected somewhere in the back of my mind is no longer a nagging doubt. It has morphed into a real-life threat. I feel physically sick and for a moment I can feel my cool legal head melt into a morass of panic and fear.

  Chapter 22

  I don’t know how I make it back to my motel room. I guess I’m on autopilot. I can’t think straight; all I can think about is the mess everything seems to be over here. It’s hard to take in what I’ve found out.

  I throw my bag onto the bed and sink into the overly soft mattress. I tip the contents out and examine them again.

  Photographs from Roma

  Copy photo of Alice and Martha together

  Travel list

  Pay slip

  Business card

  Contact lens box

  I fan the photographs out before me.

  I single out a portrait shot of her. She’s looking at the camera and smiling. I take the photograph of Alice and Martha together.

  They look very similar and, if you didn’t know them, it would be easy to muddle them up. Their hair is similar and nothing that a bottle of hair colour or a trip to the hairdressers couldn’t sort out. They both have high cheekbones and, from what I can tell, from the photographs Roma has given me, they are of similar build and height. The only giveaway is their eyes.