Page 14 of Vengeance is Mine

‘Maybe.’

It was only as I headed for my car that I realised I hadn’t kissed my mum goodbye. I think that’s the first time I’d ever done that.

I think the purpose of going to see Mum was to gauge how she would react to finding out I was researching Dominic to find out more about him and discover how much this Fenadine had played a part in him committing murder. I think I had wanted Mum’s approval, but now I knew she wouldn’t have given it – the way she kicked off about me potentially visiting Mrs White was testament to that.

As I drove back to work, I started thinking about Mrs White. She was my favourite teacher at school. She never let her grief show, and she must have felt it occasionally during lessons surrounded by young teenagers, all of them reminders of what her own daughter could have become. I remember her always being approachable, kind, and smiling. She never once raised her voice to any kid, even Kevin Sampson, and he was a right little bastard at times.

Mrs White ran an after-school reading club which I joined because I genuinely liked her and thought she might help me with my English. She introduced me to the classics – Wuthering Heights is my favourite novel thanks to her. Surely she would welcome a visit from a former pupil.

Chapter Six

I parked at the bottom of the cul-de-sac and turned off the engine. It was only half-past five, but it was dark, and according to the weather app on my phone, it was minus one outside. It felt colder in the car.

It hadn’t been difficult to find out where Mrs White and her husband lived, from the many news stories online. A number of photographs of Harry and Barbara entering or leaving their house had been taken at the time Stephanie disappeared. I recognised the street, and I spotted the house as soon as I turned in. It hadn’t changed much. I hoped they still lived there. The only way to find out was to get out of the car and knock on the door. I was slightly nervous. Actually, that’s a lie – I was shitting bricks. If I was simply paying a visit to my old English teacher to reminisce about our school days together, Mrs White would probably welcome me with open arms, but the dark memories of Stephanie’s death were unlikely to be something you’d willingly invite into your home.

‘Come on, Dawn, you silly cow.’ I often insulted myself. I deserved it for the way I dithered over things. ‘You’ve come this far, just go and knock on the door.’ I took a deep breath and shivered. I opened the car door and stepped out into the freezing cold air.

I could hear my heels clacking on the pavement as I headed up the incline. The noise resounded around the empty neighbourhood. It was only early, but there was nobody around. It felt much later than half-past five.

On the doorstep, I hesitated. This really was the point of no return. I badly needed a wee.

I knocked.

It seemed to take an age for the door to open. When it did, I was bathed in a soothing warm glow, and I could feel the heat from indoors.

‘Mrs White?’ I’m not sure why I asked as I recognised her straightaway. She hadn’t changed much. A few more wrinkles, greyer hair, and she may have shrunk slightly, or I’d grown, but she still had a kind face and a sweet smile.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m not sure if you remember me. I’m Dawn Shepherd. You taught me English at Benfield School. It must have been about six or seven years ago.’ My voice was shaking. Was it nerves or the cold? It was hard to tell.

Mrs White glared at me as she seemed to be searching her memory. I wasn’t sure if I’d changed much since my school days. I’d put on weight, and my hair was now black rather than brown. Also, she only ever saw me in school uniform – green sweater and a grey skirt – yet I stood on her doorstep wearing black trousers and a black knee-length coat. All I needed was a scythe, and I could stand in for the Grim Reaper on his days off.

‘You used to run a reading club after school. I fell in love with Wuthering Heights straightaway, and you organised a trip to go and see it when it came to the Royal,’ I added, to prompt her memory.

Suddenly, her face lit up.

‘Oh, my goodness,’ she said, slapping a hand to her chest. ‘Dawn Shepherd. Yes, I remember you now. How could I forget? Your essay on Little Women had me in tears.’

‘Really?’

‘Absolutely. Come in, come in.’ She beckoned, stepping back from the doorway.

‘I’m not interrupting anything, am I? You’re not about to sit down to your tea or anything?’

‘No. We don’t eat until much later.’

She closed the door behind me. There was definitely no backing out now.

‘Harry, I have a visitor.’ She entered the living room, and I followed. It was warm and homely but slightly dated in its decoration.

On the sofa, staring at the TV, was a man of around seventy. He had thinning grey hair, a lined face and sad-looking eyes. He wore grey trousers and a beige sweater, and looked every inch the elderly man, whereas Mrs White was dressed in a bright coloured top and white trousers. She made the introductions and told me to sit down while she made a pot of tea. On her way to the kitchen, she prodded her husband and made him turn off the game show he was watching.

I took off my coat and sat down. The heat from the radiators was beginning to thaw me out. I looked around the living room, and my eyes immediately fell on a framed photograph of Stephanie on the mantelpiece. She was wearing a hooded sweater and a Father Christmas hat, sat in front of a huge Christmas tree, surrounded by presents. As she looked into the camera, she had an enormous grin on her face. I found myself smiling back. She was a pretty girl with dark blonde hair, a smattering of freckles beneath her eyes that danced across the bridge of her nose. Her eyes sparkled.

There were other photographs of Stephanie dotted around the room. Some on the walls, others on shelves and bookcases, all showing Stephanie with a smile on her face, enjoying life.

I swallowed hard. I felt sick. Suddenly, it felt wrong to be there. Maybe Mum was right. I heard Grandad in my head telling me to let sleeping dogs lie. My goodness, he was right.

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