Josie swallowed another mouthful of wine. “I wouldn’t say it’s selfish. But if you’re afraid of Aiden, you need to get some help. Jake might be right about it not being safe for your newborn with Aiden around. It isn’t Aiden’s fault and it isn’t your fault. It’s the bastard who took him’s fault.”
“Do you remember him having behavioural problems when he was little? I can only remember the good things, but maybe that’s because of what happened to him. I think I’m blanking on anything bad because I can’t stand to think about it.”
Josie sighed. “Honestly? Hugh had more patience with him than I did. Don’t get me wrong, he was a lot of fun, but he was a bit… tiring.”
“And?” I prompted, sensing that there was something she wasn’t saying.
“He was a bit moody, Em. He used to have tantrums quite a bit.”
I frowned. I remembered him throwing a wobbly in a supermarket once but he was never that bad. I was getting to the point where I couldn’t trust my own mind. Why did I keep pruning away the bad times?
An hour later I left Josie’s house and made my way down the gravel drive to my car. The wind had whipped up, and it howled through the Rough Valley Forest below. I turned my head towards the second hill overlooking Bishoptown. There it was: Wetherington House, standing tall and proud above the village. At one time the village was owned by the Duke of Hardwick, though the family had sold much of the land since those days. The house had been closed to the public since the police inquiry, but I knew there was a good entrance at the rear of the property because I’d once snuck in with Rob. It was a dare we’d had while drinking Lambrini on the grounds of the house.
I got in the car and started the ignition. Butterflies tickled at my stomach, but I knew I needed to get some answers. Though I was filled with nerves, I tried my best to back out of Josie’s drive carefully, and warned myself not to let my adrenaline take over like it had the day I went to the GP surgery. No, I needed to keep a cool head.
It was a short drive to Wetherington. The scene of Bishoptown spread beneath the hill in a patchwork of green fields and forest dotted with small cottages and local pubs. Who would think that a monster lived in this beautiful place? No one had suspected a thing, and that was the most dangerous aspect of this entire sorry story. No one had even an inkling until the day Aiden stumbled out of the woods. He had brought his own abuse to our attention, but he held the full story locked up tight inside.
If Aiden wouldn’t tell me what had happened, maybe someone else would.
I navigated the twists and turns down the driveway towards the stately home. In order for this to work, I needed to make sure I knocked on the door of the private wing of Wetherington. I had no idea if the duke and duchess were even living in the mansion at the moment. Perhaps they had nipped up to a private residence in the Highlands, or a summer cottage in Devon. DCI Stevenson hadn’t gone into much detail about the conditions of his bail.
I hesitated for a moment after lifting the handbrake. What was I doing? What if I was arrested? I scratched at the angry red rash between my thumb and forefinger as I worked up enough courage to open the door. This was for Aiden, but it was also for me. I needed to talk to someone who might have some answers.
Before I left the car, I pulled off my thick cardigan. I was already sweating. I didn’t need the extra layer, even with the winds. The gravel of the back drive was difficult to walk on, especially when carrying extra weight at the front of my body. I was completely off balance and forced to stumble my way to the back door. But I got there without anyone telling me to clear off and I knocked on the old oak wood. Three raps.
I’d expected Wetherington to be something like Downton Abbey, with a butler ready to answer the door. That wasn’t the case at all. A small, stooped woman with greying but neatly set hair opened the door. She looked me up and down, no doubt taking in my shocked expression, and her lips thinned to a tight line.
“Do you know who I am?” I asked. The words were strange coming from my mouth, especially given who I was facing, but then I wanted her know. I wanted her to know who she was looking at.
“I do,” she said. “You’d best come in.”
32
As I followed the back of her tasteful cream cashmere cardigan, it struck me that I had absolutely no idea what to call this woman. Would I call her Duchess? Or would I call her Mrs Graham-Lennox? Or what about Maeve, her actual name?
“He isn’t here,” she said. “In case you were wondering.”
The thought had entered my mind. As soon as I stepped foot over the threshold I’d wondered whether the man who took my son shared the same breathing space as I did. That was, if he had taken my son.