“Did Charlie visit Sofia last week?”
“Sofia? Sorry. No one calls her that. She’s been known as Birdie since she was born—she was always shouting for food like a baby bird. We only use “Sofia” for official forms. I expect Charlie went—he rarely misses. He’s devoted to her. He goes on Wednesdays and I go Saturdays. You could ask the staff. They record visits in Birdie’s diary.”
“Okay, but would it be possible to talk to your daughter? To see if her dad has been in touch since then?”
“You could try but, honestly, it’s unlikely she’ll be able to help. Birdie struggles with her memory, you see.”
“I’m sorry,” Elise said. “Charlie told me a little bit about her but I don’t really know the extent of her disabilities. Or what happened to her. Was it a car accident?”
Lila closed her eyes tight. “No, she and her boyfriend were the victim of a brutal attack,” she said as if reciting a script, “during a break-in. Adam was killed and she was tortured by a drug addict—we think to make her tell him where the valuables were. An animal called Stuart Bennett put a plastic bag over her head and she stopped breathing. It caused brain damage. She’s blind and has seizures and cannot care for herself.”
Ronnie and Elise looked at each other in the silence that followed.
“Oh, God, I am so sorry—I had no idea,” Elise said. “When was this?”
“When she was eighteen—in 1999.”
“You must have been devastated,” Ronnie said.
Lila took out a small white hankie tucked in her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes, smudging her makeup. “I’m sorry for crying. She is alive and I should be grateful for that—and I am—but I still miss the girl she was.”
“Of course you do,” Ronnie said, and reached for Lila’s hand as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
Elise shifted in her seat and pretended to look at the cat. She’d never been great at that sort of thing. And even if she had been, it didn’t do to show it. As a young cop, Elise had been told it pigeonholed you among the blokes and you ended up with all the domestic shouts.
The two older women sat holding hands until Lila tucked her hankie away.
“Shall I make you a cup of tea?” Ronnie said, and got up. “Point me in the right direction.”
“How did you and Charlie meet?” Elise nudged Lila back on course.
And Lila unfurled her memories in the afternoon sun. “We were on the same table at a gala evening. I’d bought a new dress and had my hair done specially and the man I was with was too busy drinking himself stupid with his friends to notice. But Charlie noticed. He said he saw me and it was like a spotlight had been switched on.”
“He was quite a charmer, then?”
Lila frowned. “He could turn it on when he wanted to. Charlie could always do that. And he was fun—and generous. He bought me lovely things, but when I think about it now, he spent money like it was an illness, really. He had to have more and more things. To prove he was a success, I suppose. But I caught him out lying a couple of times—little lies but I was beginning to have doubts. Then, of course, I got pregnant and the die was cast. It was an accident but Charlie was so happy and I thought I could be too.”
Ronnie came out with a tray. She’d got a teapot and all the doings. “Hope it’s okay,” she said. “I helped myself to your lovely china.”
“Of course.” Lila smiled warmly at her.
“So you got married?” Elise said as she popped a sweetener in her cup.
“Yes. Charlie insisted. He was adamant no child of his would be without a father’s name on its birth certificate. It was only afterward that I discovered why. When I found out who he really was.”
Seventeen
SUNDAY, AUGUST 25, 2019
Elise
Charlie Perry wasn’t his first reincarnation, then, according to Lila. He’d done it before.
He’d presented himself as Charles when she’d met him—“never Charlie, that was too common”—an ex–public school boy in an old-school tie who spoke posher than the Queen and had top-drawer connections.
“Then his mother turned up,” Lila said, pouring a second cup for them.
“Maureen?” Elise dredged up the name from her research.
“He’d told me she was dead when I asked who was coming to the wedding,” Lila said. “Told me his mother was a diplomat’s daughter who’d lived in Southeast Asia for most of her life and run off with his father, an artist. Charles had been their adored only child.”