Roz Watkins - Cut to the Bone

We showed the man our ID and he nodded calmly, confirmed he was Tony Nightingale, and ushered us inside. The door led into an unmodernised farmhouse kitchen, complete with Aga, non-fitted wooden units, and pungent, aged black Labrador. We sat at a Formica table while Tony Nightingale made tea. The Labrador lay on its side, only raising an eyebrow in greeting.

‘Violet Armstrong came here last night?’ I said.

‘Yes.’ Tony placed a teapot, cups, and a milk jug in front of us, and lowered himself into a chair. ‘I’m sorry. It’s all such a shock. She said some rather strange things.’

‘What did she say?’ I asked.

Jai fished out a notebook and pen.

‘I didn’t know who she was. I don’t know about blogging and videos or whatever it is she does. But she told me not to tell anyone she’d come because she didn’t want any publicity. And then …’ He put his cup down with a trembling hand. ‘Sorry. She said she was my granddaughter. She said her mother was dead and she wanted to find her relatives. And to find out who her father was.’

‘Did you get to the bottom of it?’

He folded his arms. ‘She’d been told that her mother was called Rebecca Smith. My daughter is Rebecca and she took my sister’s name, Smith, when she went to live with her. But my daughter, Bex, isn’t dead.’

‘Did your daughter have a baby?’

Tony looked out into the garden. The evening sun was glistening on a climbing rose. A flash of anguish passed across his face. ‘If she did, she never told me.’

‘How old would Bex have been eighteen years ago?’

‘Only sixteen.’

‘Was she living with you at that time?’

Tony looked down. ‘She lived with her aunt. My sister, Janet.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so. It was … hard. My other daughter, Kirsty, lived with me.’

‘What was the reason for Rebecca – Bex – living with her aunt and not with you?’

Tony jumped up. ‘I forgot the biscuits.’ He opened a wall-mounted cupboard and fished out a biscuit tin which he placed on the table with a flourish. ‘Only Rich Tea, I’m afraid.’

‘Thanks.’ Jai was straight in there, as was the aged Labrador, who’d done a Lazarus-like manoeuvre and was now sitting staring dolefully at Jai while he rummaged in the tin.

‘Ignore him,’ Tony said. ‘Burglars could maraud through the house unimpeded as far as he’s concerned, as long as they didn’t open any food containers.’

‘Aw,’ Jai said. ‘He’s hard to resist.’

I smiled. He was indeed hard to resist. I blamed those hypnotic eyes. ‘So, Bex went to live with your sister?’ I said.

‘Yes. My wife, Nina, and I split up. Nina was from the Ukraine and she returned there when Bex was only three. I found it difficult to cope with two children.’

‘Nina left the children with you?’

He nodded. ‘I suppose she thought they’d have a better life here. I was terribly upset with her at the time, but now I think she was suffering from depression. I should have given her more support.’

I spoke gently. ‘If Bex didn’t live with you, is there a chance she could have had a baby eighteen years ago?’

‘She was only sixteen. And Violet was sure her mother was dead. I tried to call Bex, but she hasn’t got back to me. Then I phoned Kirsty, to see if she knew anything about it, but she didn’t. I can’t ask my sister – she died of breast cancer two years ago.’

‘I’m sorry about that. We will need to speak to Bex. You say she took your sister’s surname when she went to live with her?’

‘Yes. Smith. For all intents and purposes, my sister adopted her. It was much easier with schools and things if she took her name.’

‘Okay. We’ll take her contact details from you.’

‘Oh Lord.’

‘Before we go, we’d like to clarify – the missing girl, Violet, was born in May 2000. When did you last see your daughter before and after that date?’

A look of shame crossed his face. ‘She stayed here for a month the summer before that. I haven’t seen her since 1999.’

‘Is there a reason you haven’t seen her?’

He swallowed. ‘She doesn’t like coming to Gritton, and it’s hard for me to get away, what with the animals.’

‘Why doesn’t she like coming to Gritton?’

He looked out of the window at the old rose garden. ‘I think she just has a very busy life. She’s a dog trainer.’

I knew all about fathers who didn’t see their daughters, but a ‘busy life’ didn’t explain what was going on here. I was very keen to meet Bex.

‘I love my daughter,’ Tony said. ‘It’s just … shocking the way the years slip by.’ He pointed to a framed photograph on an old dresser. ‘That’s her. That’s my Bex.’

The photo was small and I had to stand and take a step closer to see it clearly. A slim, dark-haired girl of about sixteen stood next to a huge, spotty pig, smiling with exactly the same radiance as Violet.

‘Do you think this Violet might be my granddaughter?’ Tony said.

Looking at the photograph, he must have suspected as much. ‘We’re investigating that possibility.’

Tony nodded slowly. ‘Right.’

‘What time did Violet leave your house last night?’ I asked.

‘About nine thirty. She said she had a job at the abattoir. She had white overalls on, so I suppose she planned to go straight there. But she was agitated when she left.’

‘Violet didn’t react well to your conversation?’

‘She was upset. Kept asking me who her father might be. I said I had no idea and she didn’t like that at all. I’m afraid she left here in a terrible state.’

Bex – August 1999

Bex sat in the back of the taxi twisting her fingers and praying the driver wouldn’t start talking again. The closer they got to Gritton, the more her stomach climbed towards her mouth. It took all her energy to clamp her lips shut instead of shouting to the driver, No! Turn round! Take me back to the station so I can go home!

The driver lifted his chin. ‘Visiting relatives?’

She didn’t want to talk. She had no idea what might spew out. His previous comments had required no answer. Everyone thinks taxi drivers are racist, don’t they, love? But I don’t mind immigrants. We had a Polish bloke do our bathroom . She’d been able to sit and smile and nod, while her own private mental battle raged on.

If she tried to speak, would her insides erupt? She risked it. ‘I’m visiting my dad.’

‘Do you live with your mum then, love?’

‘My mum’s dead.’ The casual lie slipped out. Easier to say than, My mum left when I was three, and went back to the Ukraine. Because what kind of mother would do that?

‘Oh, darling, I’m sorry. When did she die?’

‘Thirteen years ago.’ Bex touched the pelican brooch she wore on a chain around her neck. ‘It’s okay. I live with Aunt Janet in Southampton. She’s nice.’

That seemed to satisfy him. He didn’t ask the obvious question. Why don’t you live with your dad? She didn’t want to answer that one, even in her own mind. There was only one possible answer: Because he blames me for what happened. And she couldn’t handle that.

She needed the driver to shut up so she could prepare herself. She knew her dad didn’t want her to visit him at all, never mind for a month. Why on earth had she forced herself on him? Her aunt had been against it too – begging Bex not to go to Gritton. But Bex felt a sick desperation to be closer to her dad and Kirsty. A hollowness inside her that she was sure would go away if only she knew them properly. When you’ve already lost your mum, you need to hang on to the rest of your family. When they’d done The Importance of Being Earnest at school, she’d been the only one in her class not to laugh at the joke about losing both parents.