‘Found what you were looking for?’ she asked.
‘No, not yet. I’ll be a while longer if you don’t mind?’
‘Not at all, Ada. I’m expecting a call any minute though – you don’t mind if I leave you to it?’
I tried not to look too pleased. ‘That’s fine.’ I laid my hand on the cardboard box which sat on the desk. ‘Is this for me too?’
‘Oh, no, that’s Jack’s. His shredder broke so he asked me to run some bits through mine.’
I felt colour creep into my cheeks as I recalled kicking his shredder the day Christopher and I snuck into his house.
‘These days, you can’t just toss client information into the bin, can you?’ she remarked.
Heart racing with anticipation, I nodded and sipped my too-hot tea. I couldn’t stop thinking about what Jeffrey had written. ‘I found some journals. Were they Jeffrey’s?’
‘Yes. I could never bring myself to read them. He loved to write. Loved his luxury stationery. Pens, expensive paper. I bought him a new journal every year.’
Jeffrey’s suicide note was typed. Why would a man who loved to write type out his suicide note when he was surrounded by opulent, leather-bound books and reams of thick paper? It seemed odd, but delving into the nuances of Jeffrey’s suicide with his wife wasn’t appropriate.
Absently, I plucked a photograph from one of the boxes. It was of Jack and Charlie when they were kids, standing outside Wisteria Cottage in wetsuits, each holding a huge ice cream. ‘Mum mentioned you sold Wisteria. Do you regret it?’ I asked, remembering how Kathryn had agonised over the decision for years.
‘No, darling, I found the right buyer in the end.’
‘Oh?’
‘Well, he wanted to keep it quiet. You see, I think he’s planning to have us all come and spend a summer there when he’s put his own stamp on it.’
‘Who?’
‘Jack.’
I almost choked on my tea. ‘Jack bought Wisteria?’
‘Charlie didn’t want it and Jack was so passionate. I thought—’
Just then, Kathryn’s phone rang, and she excused herself.
If Jack bought Wisteria and wanted to keep it a secret, he could have you there. I was desperate to tell Christopher, but I knew there was more to discover. I got to work quickly, riffling through the box of paperwork Jack had left with his mother to shred. It was mostly old records and junk mail, then I found the jackpot: bank statements. I ran my eyes down the list of transactions a couple of times before I noticed large sums of cash being withdrawn sporadically but always the same amount: ￡250. I’d put my life on it that the sum of money David was paid in exchange for following you was that exact amount. I stuffed the statements into my bag.
Determined to find a photograph of Jack and David together, I continued searching, sorting through grainy pictures of Jack and Charlie during their childhood in America; I flipped through the photographs, watching them grow. Just as I was about to give up, I came across a collection of photographs from Jack’s rugby-playing days.
My heart leapt – this was it!
It wasn’t the professional photograph which had hung in Jack’s office, but one taken on a disposable camera at a slightly different angle, presumably by Kathryn, and in it, David is completely visible, strolling across the lawn behind the team with his toolbox. The relief was dizzying and so complete, I wanted to jump up in the air and click my heels like they do in the movies. Carefully, I placed the evidence in my handbag beside the bank statements.
Having more than what I came for, I quickly turned to leave. In my haste, I swept the box of photo albums I’d liberated from Jeffrey’s cupboard off the desk and onto the floor. Hurriedly, I scooped them up. But my attention was caught by a little cream album that had fallen open. Inside were photographs of Dad. Ones I’d never seen before. He was in his early thirties, maybe a couple of years after I was born. He was handsome with his dimples and thick hair and I could see why he’d caught Mum’s eye. As the pages turned by on my lap, trepidation crept over me; the entire album was dedicated to our dad with a woman who wasn’t our mum. Snapshots of them on a ferry, smiling at the camera, arms looped around each other’s waist; the two of them enjoying drinks on a veranda in the sunshine, Dad staring into her eyes in a way I thought he only ever looked at Mum. The last photograph made my chest ache: them kissing outside the Arc de Triomphe.
Dad and Kathryn kissing in Paris.
‘Right-o,’ said Kathryn, bustling back into the study. ‘All sorted on the phone. Did you get what you were after?’