How I Lost You (33 page)

‘Why not?’ I ask.

‘He didn’t want anything to do with us.’ She still looks hurt by the memory. I can feel my anger returning but I’m trying to rein it in. Despite what these people have done to me, my son’s safety is the only thing that matters now. The rest of the emotional shitstorm can be dealt with later. ‘It all started when Beth died.’

‘You know about Beth?’ It’s a stupid question, of course she does. This is Mark’s mother, the woman who brought him up, fed him, clothed him, sang him sweet lullabies to get him to sleep and comforted him when he brutally murdered his fiancée.

‘Beth was practically part of the family at one time.’ Ouch.

‘The night she died, Mark turned up here around two a.m. He was crying, absolutely hysterical and babbling something about the Brotherhood. Richard took him into the office where he thought I couldn’t hear them, but I could of course. Mark told Richard how he’d killed Beth, he hadn’t known, it was an accident. He just kept saying he hadn’t
known
. He wanted to go to the police, but Richard put a stop to that idea. He sent him straight back to Durham and promised it would be sorted. The next day, when Beth’s body was found, the police were everywhere; they wanted to talk to me, to Richard, to Mark. Then they were gone. Within three weeks the investigation was over and I was left to pick up the pieces.’

‘How could you just pretend you didn’t know?’

Margaret shrugs. ‘It was easier than you’d think. I had a choice. Either pretend I’d heard nothing, or tear my family apart, drag our name through the mud and send my only son to prison.’

Well, when you put it like
that
. . .

Margaret stands and walks to the window, her eyes searching for any sign of her husband and son.

‘Mark began to fall apart,’ she continues, her voice thick with emotion. ‘There was no way he was going to finish his degree, he was having a breakdown. As usual, Richard waded in and used his money to fix everything. Durham allowed him to finish his degree from home, and we got our son back. Except we didn’t, did we? The man we got back had changed and he was never the same. He hated Richard, hated everything about the way he’d taken over. It was clear he blamed his father for stopping him going to the police that night. He moved away and told everyone Richard was dead. I came out of it lightly, I just emigrated to Spain.’ She laughs, a humourless exhale. ‘Richard always hoped he’d come round; he kept sending his monthly allowance until Mark told him that if he didn’t stop, he’d tell the world what had happened to Beth.’

The money I’d seen in the savings account; that had been my husband’s
monthly
allowance? Holy shit, I’d known Mark’s parents were wealthy, but this was money on a scale I hadn’t even imagined.
Blood money
, I tell myself,
money that can make dead bodies disappear and steal sons from their mothers without question.

‘How does any of this matter to me and my son?’ I demand, feeling my anger rising again. Does this woman expect me to feel sorry for her? I’ve just found out that the last four years of my life were spent without my son
when he was alive all along
, and she’s complaining that her precious Durham scholar wouldn’t accept his pocket money?

‘We hadn’t seen Mark for fifteen years when he turned up on our doorstep four years ago to tell us what had happened to Dylan.
Fifteen whole years.
You think four is hard? Multiply that by four and that’s what I went through Susan. And then one day he’s back, clutching a picture of the most beautiful baby I’d ever seen. He practically stormed through the front door and barked at me that he needed to speak to his father. When they came back after an hour, Richard told me never to mention to anyone that he had been here. He said the baby’s mother had had a psychotic turn, she was suffering from post-natal depression and had killed her son.’

‘I would never threaten my son,’ I whisper fiercely. ‘I love my son.’

‘I suspected as much,’ she replies simply. She moves away from the window and comes to sit in front of me again. ‘Even after that day, Mark was still furious at his father for whatever had happened at university – more so now, it seemed. Then a week or so ago he turned up here again, shouting and yelling about you, about a photograph you’d been sent. That’s when the men started showing up. Private detectives, I’m sure of it. I didn’t know what was going on at first, but eventually I overheard enough to figure it out. They’ve been looking for Dylan.’

‘They said I killed him.’ Cold tears run down my cheeks, pooling on my collarbone. ‘How could they be looking for him?’

Margaret looks at me at last, her eyes full of pity. ‘They say money talks, but that’s not always true, Susan. Sometimes money buys silence.’

‘What does that mean? What kind of people are you? Why didn’t you say anything?’

‘It was too late. I didn’t know the whole truth, certainly not enough to be sure that Dylan was alive and you were innocent. Once again the truth threatened to finish us, and to be entirely honest with you, I was being selfish. I had my son back in my life and he needed me. When your child needs you, Susan, you never give up on them.’

‘Who does Mark think has Dylan? Where has he gone?’

Margaret looks like she’d rather tear out her own tongue than carry on talking, but I couldn’t care less. So many questions are running through my mind, questions that this woman can’t answer. Why did that photo make Mark think Dylan was alive if he’d found him dead in our home? Who does he think took him, and how?
Why would anyone take my baby?

‘I don’t know. I’m so sorry. Mark came round here this morning shouting that you were going to find out the truth, that he knew where Dylan was and who had taken him. He got in the car before we could calm him down and sped off. Richard rang him right away but we could get nothing from his mobile. He’d totally disappeared.’

‘How did he know all of a sudden where Dylan was? For God’s sake, Margaret, who had he spoken to? What had he found out? Where the hell is he?’

Right on cue my mobile phone vibrates in my handbag. I make a grab for it and my blood runs cold at what I see. It’s a text from Rob: Found Mark and know where Dylan is. Come. There’s an address in Durham.

I jump to my feet and grab my bag.
He knows where
Dylan is.

‘What is it? Where are you going?’ Margaret demands, fear on her face.

‘I’m going to get my son back.’

57

The address Rob has given me is another hour and a half away and fear clutches at my heart the entire drive. Margaret wanted me to wait for Richard so that they could come with me, but I can’t imagine a scenario where those two people can make this any better. Without Cassie or Nick to fall back on, I’m alone. But that’s OK, I can do this alone. For a long time I doubted myself, my sanity, my strength of character. I doubted myself as a woman, a mother and a human being. What kind of person murders their own son and just . . . poof! . . . forgets? Now things are different. I’m no longer the woman who committed that senseless act; I’m a woman whose son was taken from her, a mother who will not give up until her baby is back in her arms. I’m not afraid for myself; I’m afraid I’ll be too late for my son.

Too many times on the journey I wonder what I’ll do if Mark has found Dylan, if he asks me to run away with him. After everything he’s put me through, I wonder if I could do it. Turn back the clock and become a family again, forget the last four years and start afresh with the man I loved. I’m ashamed to admit that I’m considering it. Just like that, he’s found our son and life is as it was.

Daylight has given way to a murky darkness by the time I pull up at the disused warehouse Rob has directed me to, and my first instinct is that I’ve made a big mistake. My sat nav’s red pin is flashing, indicating that I’ve reached my destination, but how can this be where I need to be? Surely Mark hasn’t brought our son here?

Moonlight picks out the huge crumbling building. Black squares on the face of the old grey brick hide where the windows once gaped and the door is big enough to get a truck through. Scanning the trees either side of the approach I can’t see any sign of anyone else here – no cars, and no lawyer or ex-husband waiting to greet me. Did Rob even say Mark would be here? I pull out my mobile. His text is still on the screen and the postcode is the same as the one I programmed in outside Margaret’s house. This is the right place. On impulse, I press ‘Forward’ and scroll down until I see Cassie’s number. She’s four hours away and can’t stand the sight of me, but something is very wrong about this and I don’t want to go in without telling someone. I’ve seen the movies.

But still, the decision is made. If there’s even the smallest chance I will find out what happened to Dylan in there, then there’s no way I’m turning back.

The gravel crunches under my feet and the slam of the car door doesn’t so much announce my presence as broadcast it to every soul in the area. So you know I’m here, Rob, now it’s your turn.

My breath rises like steam and I pull my arms around my chest, rubbing them to try and generate some heat. I wish now I’d given some more thought to what I’m wearing. My jumper is so thin I can see the hairs on my arms poking through.

The weathered sign above the door announces that the building once belonged to G. K. Sankey. I wonder if Mr Sankey believed in under-floor heating – somehow I don’t think so.

‘Hello? Rob? Mark?’ The place is so still, so silent that the sound of my voice seems wrong, like talking out loud in a library.

I lock the car door and move quickly over to the door of the building, not wanting to be out in the open more than I need to. Like I said, I’ve seen the movies. When I’m close enough to touch the heavy wooden door, I can see that it’s only attached to the frame by one of its hinges and is twisted slightly, leaving a gap big enough for a person to climb through. Hands wedged either side of the frame, I hoist my body up into the darkness and drop through.

Shadows dance across the walls of the warehouse, the cavernous space lit only by the orange flame of a fire in a black metal bin in the middle of the floor. Someone’s here.

‘Rob? Mark?’

My words reverberate against the steel joists in the rafters, against the dusty concrete floors and the darkness beyond the flames.

‘Susan.’ My heart flies into my throat and I take a step backwards, my heel connecting with the broken door. ‘Susan, I’m here.’ My ex-husband hurries forward from the darkness. In the flickering light of the flames and smoke he seems thinner, more drawn even than he did just a few days ago.

‘Where’s Dylan?’ I ask. It’s hard to reconcile in my mind that Dylan is four years old now. In my head I’m still half expecting Mark to thrust a three-month-old baby into my arms. Will I ever get over that lost time? ‘Where is Rob?’

My back is pressed against the damp twisted door. For the first time since I arrived my heart is thumping murderously and my breath has caught on a hard lump in my throat. Smoke from the fire stings my eyes. Oh shit, please don’t let this be a panic attack. Not now, not when I’m so close, not when my little boy needs me maybe more now than ever.

‘Who’s Rob?’

‘Rob Howe, Rachael’s boss? From ZBH Solicitors. He said you’d found Dylan.’

‘Rob Howe?’ Mark’s face creases into a frown. ‘What does he look like?’

‘Floppy brown hair, blue eyes, scar on his neck?’

‘Fuck.’ Mark swears quietly.

‘What? What?’

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck. That’s not Rob Howe, Susan, it’s . . . Oh God, no. He said he had Dylan?’

‘No, not exactly. If he isn’t Rob Howe, then who is he?’ Faced with a choice between panic and anger, my brain has chosen anger. Just this once, my faulty wiring has decided to work in my favour. ‘Who the fuck is he and what has he done with my son?’

My legs step forward automatically, fuelled by fury, until I’m inches from the man I pledged my life to. ‘I swear to God, Mark, you tell me what’s going on or I’ll—’

‘Jack.’

I’ve never met a Jack. I don’t know any Jack.

His eyes drop to the floor, studiously investigating the dusty concrete.

‘There are things you don’t know, Susan, about me, and Jack, and—’

‘I know all about Beth.’ He cringes at the sound of her name. ‘I know what happened to her.’

‘You hear that, Mark? She knows.’ The voice is calm and familiar, and my eyes search the room for its owner. Beyond the smoke and flames I can’t see a thing. The fire crackles and spits sparks and ash on to the floor.

Mark’s eyes mirror my own, scanning the darkness for our host.

‘Looks a bit different in here without the tables and chairs, doesn’t it? Sorry I couldn’t recreate the scene exactly, Shakes. I considered it, but the whole thing felt a bit melodramatic.’

There’s movement in the corner of the room, and she steps out of the shadows into the firelight.

‘Jennifer?’ The word catches in Mark’s throat and I struggle to remember where I’ve seen this woman before. Then I remember. Jennifer . . . the library . . . Bethany’s best friend . . .

It’s like I’m seeing her for the first time, and like I’ve known her for years. Her long dishwater hair has been dyed a deep red, and a shaky hand has applied eyeliner in thick black lines around her eyes. But I’m not seeing her standing in the light of the fire, surrounded by smoke and fluttering ash. I’m seeing her in the doorway of the house Mark and I shared, silhouetted against the bright sunshine of the day, hearing her voice say ‘Mrs Webster?’ on the day my life ended.

‘You were in my house. That day, you came to my house.’

A thin-lipped smile. ‘Bit late to start jogging down memory lane now.’

‘What were you doing there? What are you doing
here
? Where’s Rob? Where is my son?’

‘Rob wasn’t Rob. Maybe nothing is as it seems, Susan, did you ever think that? Maybe black is white and down is up. Maybe ZBH stands for Zara, Bratbury and Howe, and maybe the man you met is the puppeteer. Maybe you don’t have a son. Maybe you killed him.’ Jennifer speaks offhandedly, as though it means nothing to her. She’s crazy. Does she have Dylan? She steps closer and I smell a sharp, fresh paint smell. She’s holding a small silver object in her fingers. A lighter.