Jeffrey’s suicide note was typed. Why would a man who loved to write type out his suicide note when he was surrounded by opulent, leather-bound books and reams of thick paper? It seemed odd, but delving into the nuances of Jeffrey’s suicide with his wife wasn’t appropriate.
Absently, I plucked a photograph from one of the boxes. It was of Jack and Charlie when they were kids, standing outside Wisteria Cottage in wetsuits, each holding a huge ice cream. ‘Mum mentioned you sold Wisteria. Do you regret it?’ I asked, remembering how Kathryn had agonised over the decision for years.
‘No, darling, I found the right buyer in the end.’
‘Oh?’
‘Well, he wanted to keep it quiet. You see, I think he’s planning to have us all come and spend a summer there when he’s put his own stamp on it.’
‘Who?’
‘Jack.’
I almost choked on my tea. ‘Jack bought Wisteria?’
‘Charlie didn’t want it and Jack was so passionate. I thought—’
Just then, Kathryn’s phone rang, and she excused herself.
If Jack bought Wisteria and wanted to keep it a secret, he could have you there. I was desperate to tell Christopher, but I knew there was more to discover. I got to work quickly, riffling through the box of paperwork Jack had left with his mother to shred. It was mostly old records and junk mail, then I found the jackpot: bank statements. I ran my eyes down the list of transactions a couple of times before I noticed large sums of cash being withdrawn sporadically but always the same amount: ￡250. I’d put my life on it that the sum of money David was paid in exchange for following you was that exact amount. I stuffed the statements into my bag.
Determined to find a photograph of Jack and David together, I continued searching, sorting through grainy pictures of Jack and Charlie during their childhood in America; I flipped through the photographs, watching them grow. Just as I was about to give up, I came across a collection of photographs from Jack’s rugby-playing days.
My heart leapt – this was it!
It wasn’t the professional photograph which had hung in Jack’s office, but one taken on a disposable camera at a slightly different angle, presumably by Kathryn, and in it, David is completely visible, strolling across the lawn behind the team with his toolbox. The relief was dizzying and so complete, I wanted to jump up in the air and click my heels like they do in the movies. Carefully, I placed the evidence in my handbag beside the bank statements.
Having more than what I came for, I quickly turned to leave. In my haste, I swept the box of photo albums I’d liberated from Jeffrey’s cupboard off the desk and onto the floor. Hurriedly, I scooped them up. But my attention was caught by a little cream album that had fallen open. Inside were photographs of Dad. Ones I’d never seen before. He was in his early thirties, maybe a couple of years after I was born. He was handsome with his dimples and thick hair and I could see why he’d caught Mum’s eye. As the pages turned by on my lap, trepidation crept over me; the entire album was dedicated to our dad with a woman who wasn’t our mum. Snapshots of them on a ferry, smiling at the camera, arms looped around each other’s waist; the two of them enjoying drinks on a veranda in the sunshine, Dad staring into her eyes in a way I thought he only ever looked at Mum. The last photograph made my chest ache: them kissing outside the Arc de Triomphe.
Dad and Kathryn kissing in Paris.
‘Right-o,’ said Kathryn, bustling back into the study. ‘All sorted on the phone. Did you get what you were after?’
I stared at her, unable to speak. Dad and Kathryn had an affair and took a romantic trip to France. Perhaps this is why Kathryn and Jeffrey moved to America. Knowing about the affair might’ve been enough reason for him to relocate them if it kept his wife away from our dad. Then pieces started slotting together, forming a picture too painful to look at: Jeffrey’s hatred of Jack, his insistence in his journal that Jack wasn’t his son, his extreme reaction to finding you two kissing when you were teenagers because he knew something we didn’t: Jack could be our half-brother.
Chapter Forty-Nine
160 Days Missing
Adaline Archer
Making excuses about an appointment I’d forgotten, I left Kathryn’s house, but not before I swiped the spare key for Wisteria Cottage from the grey key box. I had no intention of using it, sure the police could secure a warrant after I handed everything I’d found over to them, but picked it up just in case. Eventually, I’d return it without her knowledge, just as I did with the spare key to Jack’s.
I drove around the corner and pulled over, sending Christopher a message to ask if he’d meet me in half an hour. Then I called Dad because I couldn’t talk to him about this face-to-face. If I did, I wouldn’t get to Christopher in time. I was right about the affair, I knew I was, but the very second it was confirmed, nothing would be the same again.
‘Alright, Ada?’ said Dad. ‘This is a nice—’
‘Did you have an affair with Kathryn Westwood?’ I blurted before I could change my mind.
Silence stretched down the line like a violin string being pulled too tight. He cleared his throat. ‘Where’s this come from?’
My heart sank – he hadn’t denied it. Surely if you’d been accused of an affair that had never happened, you’d be indignant, horrified you’d ever been asked. ‘You went to France with her.’
He sighed. ‘She told you that, did she?’
‘I saw the photos.’ I paused, letting him digest what I knew.
‘It’s not how you think, Ada.’
‘So what is it?’
‘Your mum and I took a little break. It’s not that I didn’t love her; I’d lost my job, we were stressed, it caused a lot of arguments. I moved out.’
‘I don’t remember that.’
‘You wouldn’t, you were still in nappies at the time. Kathryn was there for me, for us both, and one night …’
The child in me wanted to stick my fingers in my ears and sing ‘Lalalalala …’
‘Anyway, I’m not proud of it,’ he said gruffly. ‘Not proud of sneaking behind Jeffrey’s back the way we did. I told Kathryn to tell him the truth, but she didn’t want that, thought he’d leave her with nothing. Things between us came to an end after a few months, and when my head was clear, I knew I wanted to fix things with your mum.’
I remembered the stories of Jeffrey and Dad brawling in the Westwoods’ front garden. ‘You never fought with Jeffrey over money owed on a horse race, did you?’
‘No.’ He sounded resigned. ‘It was never about money.’
‘It was about you and her?’
‘Jeffrey accused Kathryn of an affair. I’m not sure he knew who with. She denied it. He was angry. Hurt her. She rang me and I went over to help.’
‘And Mum? Does she know what you did?’ I said this with more scorn than intended. Even though Mum and Dad had separated at the time, it still felt wrong.
He cleared his throat. ‘I told her eventually.’
I winced, imagining Mum finding out her husband had been sleeping with her best friend. ‘When?’
‘When they came back from America, after the first trip to their fancy cottage.’
My mouth fell open. ‘Nine years? You waited nearly a decade to tell her?’