I was able to paint a picture of a strict but indulgent father, in deep mourning for my mother ever since we left Ireland. His distinct lack of interest in other children and his belief that the New Zealand education system was sub-par. I was able to produce his Irish dental qualification document on which the name Conor Geary had been expertly replaced with James Armstrong.
My father, I said, was an eccentric but a loving father and an excellent dentist as any of his patients might testify. I missed him every day. I teared up at the hypocrisy of my words. The detective apologized for the intrusion and said they would not bother me again. They implied they knew they were on a wild goose chase. The man they were looking for did not have a son.
I continued to monitor any news of my sister, Mary Norton, living as Sally Diamond in Carricksheedy, Co. Roscommon, Ireland. I felt some warmth towards her. All of the reports I had read described her as ‘a loner’ or ‘a misfit’ in school or her village. I couldn’t find any record of her having a job or a career. I felt for her. Was that kinship?
Her date of birth was recorded as 13th December 1974, but I knew it was earlier, the 15th September of that year. I remembered that date very clearly. As the New Zealand police had ruled my father out of their enquiries and had no link between either of us to Denise Norton, I risked sending my sister a birthday card in September. I thought she should know when her birthday was. She would never be able to guess who sent the card.
In early November, I received an email from a team of podcasters to my work email address.
Dear Mr Armstrong
We run a podcast company, Hoani Mata Productions, based in Christchurch, making documentaries about true crime cases in New Zealand.
I am trying to track down a Steven （Steve） Armstrong who lived in Rotorua between 1981 and 2013. Did you and your father live in Rotorua at the time that a child, Linda Weston, was abducted there in 1983? Was your father James Armstrong? We know he was recently ruled out of a case regarding an abduction in Ireland in 1966. We know that James Armstrong was not involved in either case, but we are looking for his son to appear as a ‘talking head’ in our series investigating the disappearance of Linda Weston and the subsequent recovery of her body as an adult woman in April 2012. Are you the Steve Armstrong who lived in Rotorua during this entire period?
We are aware that this James Armstrong died in a tragic car accident in 1985, but if you are his son, we would love to get your thoughts or memories of the time when Linda went missing and what it felt like to be a child in Rotorua and how your father came to be a suspect in the kidnapping of an Irish child. I understand the Steve we are looking for was homeschooled, and that is of interest too, as it was so unconventional. Also, if it is you, and it’s not too personal, we might talk briefly about the abduction in Ireland? You may not know anything about it, and I’m not sure if we will use the Irish angle in the final cut, but we are gathering as much data as we can.
It is not public knowledge yet but it has recently come to light that Linda Weston had a daughter who was abandoned at a church in 1996 as a newborn baby. Linda’s daughter, Amanda Heron, has agreed to present our podcast and I am hoping to develop it into a TV documentary at a later date. Please let me know your response at your earliest convenience, and of course, apologies if we have the wrong person. Alternatively, if you are that Steve Armstrong, we will fully understand if you do not wish to take part. The police are not co-operating with our investigation at this time, so our search for information has been frustrating to stay the least.
Ngā mihi from Christchurch
Kate Ngata
I took a deep breath and cancelled my schedule for the rest of the day. My daughter, Amanda Heron, was out there, looking for answers. I googled her and found a glut of information. Young people have no idea how available their data is. Within minutes, I had her address, her phone number, her school records, her Master of Arts in Music qualification from the University of Auckland, photographs of her with her adopted family going back to when she was a baby. Photos of her singing with a choir. Photos of her with two different boyfriends, Amanda on a motorcycle crossing the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco, Amanda in a camper van in Montana. And very recent photos: Amanda in an evening gown just last week at a New Zealand Symphony Orchestra performance.
Amanda was twenty-three and stunningly beautiful like her mother. I was startled by the sight of her lovely grinning face, with its intact teeth. Our daughter, Wanda. I stared at the photos, wondering how I would begin to have a conversation with her, before realizing that it would not be possible. I had to get away.
I sent a very polite reply to Kate Ngata, wishing the company well with their series, but ‘as head of Cyber Security with New Zealand’s premier bank, it would be entirely inappropriate for me to comment on any personal matter. I’m sure you understand.’
I knew this would merely add to her frustration, but I was grateful that the New Zealand police was not sharing information with amateurs.
I did not exist on the internet, except as an employee of the bank. There were no photographs or entries except for the ones from the Rotorua Daily Post in 1985, detailing my survival of the horror crash that killed my father and the subsequent fundraising on my behalf. Hoani Mata Productions must have sent the same email to every Steve Armstrong in the country.
I sent a note to the COO of the bank, saying that I had to take leave as a matter of urgency on a private medical matter. It would require three months, I said, but I would be contactable by email. I briefed my second-in-command on issues relating to the bank’s relationship to bitcoin and cryptocurrency, which was becoming a problem for us. I then left.
I went home and used my laptop to book flights to Ireland. I needed to go back. I needed to find my sister. She was the key to the connection I needed.
50
Sally
The results, when they came within twelve days, were unequivocal. Peter/Steve was my brother. Mark was our uncle, but there was something else that showed up in the results on the ancestry website. I had a niece called Amanda Heron and she was Peter’s daughter. He hadn’t mentioned a daughter or a wife or girlfriend. His letter had led me to believe that he was a loner, possibly like me. But he wasn’t asexual like me.
It was time to call him. I wanted to have this conversation on my own. The ancestry results had come to my home and Mark didn’t yet know.
Peter’s phone rang once before he picked up.
‘Mary?’ he said.
‘It’s Sally, it’s been Sally since I was adopted so I’d prefer if you called me Sally.’
‘Okay.’ There was a tremor in his voice.
‘Are you still in Dublin?’
‘Yeah, I’m in a park now beside a church in the city centre.’
‘Right. So, I got the DNA results.’
‘Yeah?’
‘You are my brother.’
‘I knew that. I’ve known about you all my life.’
‘So why did you never get in touch before?’
‘I explained it in the letter. I didn’t know where you were. You didn’t show up on any internet searches until Thomas Diamond’s death.’
‘Sorry, yes, you did explain. But if you knew about me and my mother and you knew what our birth father had done, why didn’t you ever go to the police?’