Cath Staincliffe - Crying Out Loud

His withdrawal from me, his retreat into dealing with this on his own rather than us tackling it together filled me with resentment. What prospect was there for us as a couple if when the going got tough he shut me out? Yes, it was his bombshell; he’d suddenly acquired a child he never knew about. It was huge news to try and absorb but it affected me, too. I wanted us to share the shock and upheaval, support each other in coping with it. And there was the other big issue to address: if Jamie was not Laura’s child, then who was she?

Online, I began to search for Nick Dryden, setting off several search engines and trying variations like Nicholas, too. I concentrated on any hits that linked to business. I felt sure he’d keep operating in the field he knew. In his comfort zone. A Nick Dryden came up twice in the north east, once linked to an insolvency hearing ten years ago. Before he’d conned the Carters. The same old scams. Spain had been mentioned so I tried that and found a link to a newspaper report from Benidorm in the Costa Blanca. Nicholas Dryden was wanted by the Spanish authorities for fraud: selling non-existent land plots and bogus timeshares. It was believed he had left Spain and may have returned to the UK. That was last summer. I couldn’t find any more recent reference to him online.

Was it likely, really, that after seven years Dryden would seek out Charlie in his weekend cottage, stab him and slip away? Revenge is best eaten cold but assuming it was Dryden something must have been a catalyst for him to act then. Had his misfortunes in Spain triggered fresh antagonism against the Carters? His abusive calls had stopped around the time of Charlie’s murder. Was there a connection?

There was no listing on Yell.com or similar sites, and nothing on People Finder. I tried another tack: his ex-wife. A recorded announcement told me Darville’s dentist surgery in Whitby was closed at weekends but there were three Darvilles listed in the local phone directory. I hit the jackpot first time.

Selina Darville was reluctant to talk to me and I had to push hard and think fast to stop her hanging up. Just the mention of Nick Dryden was obviously an unwelcome intrusion for her.

‘I’m trying to trace him,’ I hadn’t gone into any details why, ‘and all I need to know is if he’s any family he would keep in touch with.’

She sighed. ‘Only when he was after something.’

‘Who?’

‘His mother. If she’s still there.’

‘Where does she live?’

‘I don’t know if I should give out the details. It’s not like you’re the police or anything.’

I pleaded my case, gave her assurances and got an address. When I found a phone number to match and rang it, I learnt Mrs Kemp (she’d remarried later in life) had moved to sheltered accommodation in South Shields. The number there was busy but on my third try I got some sort of switchboard: they took my details and put me through.

I apologized to Mrs Kemp for ringing her out of the blue, and told her I wanted to get in touch with Nick Dryden. She hung up on me. Some people just don’t want to help.

Frustrated, I switched my attention to the other details of the case: rereading my notes on Damien’s story and attempting to draw a sketch of events. How far was it from the bus stop to the cottage? Although I’d seen pictures of the house and the village on news coverage I’d no accurate grasp of the location and the geography. Now, it seemed vital that I understood it. I should visit.

My phone went. ‘Sal Kilkenny,’ I answered.

There was a crackle of static, silence then faint breath sounds on the end of the line.

‘Hello?’ I said. ‘Can you hear me?’ Was it someone in trouble?

The breath came louder, not hurried – measured, ominous. The silence was deliberate. My heartbeat picked up. I held my own breath, straining to listen to see if I could discern anything about the person on the other end. It was impossible. Just the steady intake and exhalation of air. So close, so intimate it made my flesh crawl. Slamming down the receiver, I got to my feet. Paced up and down, trying to shake off the shiver of fear that had spread down my back and tugged at my guts. I dialled 1471 but of course they’d withheld the number. Was it coincidence that the call had come so soon after my attempts to track down Nick Dryden?

Ray stuck his head round the door. ‘We’re off to my mum’s,’ he said. ‘Probably stay over.’

And leave me in the dark? My chest ached, I wanted him to stay. When I spoke, I tried to modulate my voice. ‘And when can we talk?’

A flicker of irritation pinched at his mouth. ‘Soon. Maybe tomorrow.’

‘This is really hard, Ray, you shutting me out.’

‘It’s not like that,’ he said.

‘It is.’

‘I need a bit of time.’

Stalemate. What was I now? The enemy? No longer the lover? Not even a friend? ‘Hold me.’ I hated the neediness but I wanted to be honest about my own feelings.

He hesitated. If he leaves now, I thought, without touching me, that’s it. It’s over. Whatever else, if he can’t give me that basic reassurance then why would I want him any more?

I met his eyes, tried to brighten my face a fraction, show a glimmer of hope in the misery. He came towards me. In silence we embraced. I drank in the smell of him, salt and musk, felt the soft, brushed cotton of his shirt collar, the breadth of his chest, the way the bones in his shoulder blades fit beneath my hands.

I could have slept there.

Then he left.

Diane came over, bringing food: a Moroccan stew. Chickpeas, turnips and dates in a glossy marinade full of garlic and spices.

Diane listened out for Jamie while I got Maddie ready for bed. I have to hang on to this, I told myself. Whatever happens with Ray, I still have Maddie and Diane. Count my blessings. I imagined Chloe Beswick putting her kids to bed, numb and trying to make sense of her brother’s death. And Libby, who had never been able to watch Charlie bathe Rowena, never seen him cradle his daughter or gaze at her. What of Laura, who had denied Ray the knowledge of his second son? Did she hate him? Had he broken her heart when he got entangled with me? And now that he’d found out about the child, what would she do? What would he do?

Diane was as frustrated as I was that Ray hadn’t gone into the details of his meeting with Laura. ‘And now he’s gone running home to mummy,’ she said, scathingly, ‘to avoid talking.’

‘To be fair,’ I pointed my wine glass at her, ‘that had been arranged for a while.’

‘If you have to be fair…’ she complained.

‘Well, I am,’ I insisted. ‘Renowned for it.’ The wine was talking. I’d already had several glasses and if social services had descended on me then I might well have been regarded as unfit to be in charge of a strange infant.

‘She’ll do her nut – Nana Tello,’ I said. ‘Frogmarch them down the aisle. Whisk the baby off for baptism.’

‘Will he tell her?’ Diane asked.

‘Maybe not yet.’ The more I considered it the more it rankled. ‘If he has – before even talking to me properly, well…’

Diane’s look was knowing. ‘You’ll do what exactly?’

I sighed. ‘I don’t know.’

‘And what about Jamie?’

‘Ditto. As far as the kids are concerned, she’s overstayed her welcome. I do realize I can’t let it drift on indefinitely – it’ll make it impossible for me to work apart from anything else – but I’m not prepared to pick up the phone just yet.’ Day six now. I tried to imagine making that call, some child protection worker on the phone listening to me try to justify why I had waited so long to report an abandoned infant. A social worker turning up in a car, taking Jamie. And perhaps the mystery of who that little girl was never answered.