‘That’s what I’ve come to find out.’
Richard Glasper introduced himself and explained how French police had informed his family of Darren’s untimely death from a weak heart five months after Bradley and I discovered his body. We’d confirmed to them his nationality, but Bradley was ignorant of his surname and I’d kept it quiet to buy myself time.
An impression of Darren’s teeth was sent across the English Channel, and only after his family reported him missing were both sets of dental records cross-checked and matched.
But it was already too late to bring his body home. A clerical error meant Darren had been logged as a vagrant, and cremated as such. His family was presented with a plastic tub of ashes and nothing else.
‘It broke my mam’s heart,’ Richard continued. ‘Months later we started getting these weird cheques from some French book publisher, and then the police told us my brother’s name had been flagged up in New York for overstaying his American visa. The address he gave of where he was staying was a youth hostel. The manager checked his photocopied records, and someone using Darren’s passport had been staying there.’
I nodded along as he spoke, but inside I was furious with myself for not having the foresight to cover my tracks. What the hell had I been thinking in donating the book royalties to his family? I might as well have left them a trail of breadcrumbs to follow, right to my front door. Not for a second had I ever considered my deception would come back to haunt me like this – I’d been too busy congratulating myself on my philanthropy.
I moved my hands under the table so Richard wouldn’t notice them shake.
‘My mam was convinced there’d been a mistake and Darren was alive,’ he continued. ‘But the police investigated and were adamant he wasn’t. She didn’t believe them. We contacted the Youth Hostel Association, and city by city found out this fella had been travelling and using my brother’s name for the best part of three years. And the manager of the Seattle hostel reckons he speaks to Darren regularly here. They have some kind of recommendation deal between them.’
I cleared my dry throat. ‘What are you going to say if you find him?’
‘It’s not what I’m going to say, it’s what I’m going to do,’ replied Richard, his eyes narrowing. ‘That bastard destroyed me mam. She went to her grave with a broken heart believing her youngest didn’t want anything to do with us. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll put an end to this.’
‘Well, the best of luck,’ I replied as I rose. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but I have an excursion to organise.’
‘No worries mate, nice to meet you. If you hear anything, you’ll let me know, yeah? I’m in room 401.’
‘Of course.’
I left my half-eaten breakfast where it lay, and forced myself not to run to reach my bedroom. I crammed my meagre belongings into my rucksack and headed to the ladies bathroom, and then to Richard’s room to ensure he would never bother me again.
3 December
As the Purple Turtle trundled down the Pacific Coast Highway, I knew that living vicariously through a person who no longer existed had left me exposed. I’d thought I had created a new life for myself by erasing my identity. But it wasn’t my life to build upon; it had belonged to somebody else.
And there was another person’s life I’d changed too. As we’d made our first stop in Santa Cruz, I’d phoned the San Francisco Police Department and informed them of a British man who was working his way around the country’s hostels dealing drugs. His name was Richard Glasper and they’d find him in room 401 of the Haight-Ashbury Hostel with a dozen cocaine-filled tampon applicators hidden in his suitcase pockets.
It was in Richard’s best interests for it to happen this way. I wasn’t alarmed by his threats of what he’d do to the person posing as his brother. I was afraid of what I might do to him if he confronted me. And it would certainly have happened if I’d stayed.
I had sucked so much marrow out of America that there was no bone left to feast on. The halfway mark of our trip was almost complete, and I knew I couldn’t show my face in San Francisco again without being unmasked.
Tijuana, Mexico
4 December
I had no qualms about leaving my party of hostellers to fend for themselves without a driver or navigator once we reached Tijuana. If I’d taught them anything in my workshops, it was that the most successful travellers were the most resourceful ones.
With my dollars converted to pesos, my rucksack strapped to my back and my passengers distracted in a tequila bar, I slipped away to Highway 1D in search of the Baja coast.
Within minutes, I’d resuscitated Simon Nicholson and he was sharing the back of a pickup truck with a dozen wooden crates of watermelons.
Northampton, today
4.15 p.m.
He wasn’t stupid. He’d presumed, if not expected, her to have found love at some point. In fact, it would’ve been peculiar if she hadn’t.
But now his replacement had an identity and it didn’t sit comfortably with him. To hear her talk of this ‘Tom’ with such fondness; for him to have slipped so easily into his shoes, his house and his bed . . . He couldn’t help but resent the man. He’d stopped loving her long before he left, so he was surprised by how it made him feel. Almost jealous, he conceded. His temples began to throb.
He knew he had no right to judge what she did with her life or who with. But allowing a stranger to play father to his children irritated him.
‘Would you have preferred it if I’d stayed alone forever?’ she asked suddenly, as his expression betrayed his thoughts.
‘No, no,’ he stuttered, ‘of course not.’
The aching in his head grew more impatient and demanded attention. But her unrelenting stare that analysed his every gesture meant he couldn’t check his watch to see how late he was in taking his tablets, not without her asking why.
She’d taken discreet pleasure in watching him recoil as she’d spoken of Tom. Even adulterous, gutless murderers can feel envy when hearing how replaceable they are, she’d learned, and she smiled to herself.
However, she remained alert to the potential danger of the man in front of her, even if she was no longer as scared as she had been. Though she did feel a slight sense of relief when he admitted how Paula’s death had eventually plagued his conscience. Maybe there was a smattering of hope for him yet. She understood why he’d used drugs to deal with his conscience; she’d used alcohol to cope with his loss.
‘Are you and – I forget his name – still together?’ he asked.
‘No, Tom and I are not. Although we’re still good friends,’ she replied, proud of that rare feat.
‘What did you mean when you said I destroyed it all?’
She glared at him. ‘Things began to break down between Tom and me when I discovered you were still alive.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CATHERINE
Northampton, twenty-one years earlier
16 February