Page 37 of Vengeance is Mine

‘Please, Robyn. It could be important.’

‘If you think so, then I guess I could. I’d rather not though. Is there something you’re not telling me?’ she asked, a look of suspicion on her face.

‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Positive.’

I don’t think I convinced her.

‘Hmm. Well, anyway, I’d better be going. I’ve got some trousers to take up.’ She stood up to leave.

‘Robyn, this man you saw with Stephanie on the day she disappeared, was it Dominic Griffiths? I mean, was he the same height and build?’

She paused for a moment in contemplation. ‘Looking at that photo of him on the front of the paper and the picture I have in my head of the bloke talking to Stephanie, I’d say it was the same person. I’ll see you later.’

Robyn left the flat, closing the door firmly behind her.

I looked back to the newspaper. So, an eyewitness saw a man matching Dominic’s description at the scene. My theory that the wrong man had been convicted seemed to be going up in flames.

The only defence left for Dominic seemed to be that the balance of his mind was disturbed from taking a high dose of a now banned drug. However, that left me with a moral dilemma. Should someone be released from prison, for a crime they committed, just on a technicality?

I knew my answer. I just didn’t want to admit it.

Chapter Fifteen

It didn’t take long to hear back from Joby Turnbull. There was a message waiting for me the next morning when I checked LinkedIn. He was indeed the person who knew Dominic Griffiths as a child, and although his message was brief, he said he had information that would give me an insight into Dominic’s personality as a young man. However, he warned, ‘What I tell you may not be what you want to hear.’

That was enough to pique my interest. I fired off a reply, including my mobile number, and asked him to call to arrange a meeting.

I had a strong sense of foreboding. Every time I uncovered something new, I ended up with more contradictions to add to the pile, and still no closer to discovering if my father was a killer or not. Robyn had seen a man talking to Stephanie on the day she disappeared, and she thought he had looked like Dominic. That was a massive tick in the guilty column. If Joby gave me further evidence that pointed towards my father being a killer, I wasn’t sure how I was going to react.

I showered and spent time styling my hair and putting on thick eyeliner. It felt strange not going into work, but I was grateful for the time off. I needed to gather my thoughts and feelings towards my father and find a way to understand who he really was.

By the time I returned to the living room, my mobile showed I had a voicemail from Joby Turnbull. He was free at lunchtime if I was able to meet. I gave him a quick call back, and we arranged to meet in a coffee shop close to where he worked, just outside the centre of Newcastle. He had a soft Geordie accent which I really liked the sound of. When I ended the call, I found I was smiling. He’d put me at ease with his smooth tone and confident attitude.

I wanted time to work on some questions to ask him and knew I’d be distracted in the flat, so I decided to head into town and find a quiet café. As I was leaving, I looked at myself in the mirror. Maybe dressing all in black was a bit too severe. Did it put people on their guard when talking to me? I needed Joby to open up, and if he was intimidated by a plump goth sitting opposite him, he might be reticent. I threw off my coat and stormed back into the bedroom.

Half an hour later, I was ready. The black sweater had been replaced by a white shirt, open at the neck. My hair was no longer whipped up into a small beehive but tied loosely in a ponytail which softened my features. I’d made the eye make-up more subtle, and the harsh red lipstick had been toned down with a lighter shade. I changed the black choker around my neck for a delicate cameo Mum had given me for my eighteenth birthday. As I studied my reflection once again, I had to admit that I liked this new, softer image.

Joby was a social worker at Children’s Social Care at Barras Bridge. The civic centre was a massive concrete eyesore of a building just outside the centre of Newcastle. I arrived at Nero’s early and sat near the entrance with a latte. I felt slightly conspicuous in my new softer style. I was rarely given a second glance in my usual clothes, which was how I liked it. However, I’d already had a couple of blokes look over and smile. One wasn’t bad looking, the other was old enough to be, well, I’ll not say my dad. I was on my second latte by the time a tall, slim man approached me.

‘Are you Dawn Shepherd?’

I looked up from my notebook where I’d been writing down more questions to ask. ‘Joby Turnbull?’

‘Yes.’ He smiled.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said, proffering my hand for him to shake, which he did.

Joby towered over me, standing at about six foot four inches tall. He was slim with fluffy blond hair and bright blue eyes. His suit was designer, as were his shoes, and his fingernails showed signs of a regular manicure. He asked if I wanted a drink, but it was a while before I answered, thanks to me being bewitched by his gorgeous eyes. I told him to sit down while I bought him a coffee. It was good of him to give up his lunch-hour for me, and it was the least I could do.

‘I wasn’t expecting anyone to get in touch with me about Dominic Griffiths. Your message came quite out of the blue. He’s not someone I like to think about, if I’m honest,’ he said. There was no hint of nerves; he sat tall in the high-backed chair and, although his tone was serious, he had a twinkle in his smiling eyes.

‘I’m afraid I wasn’t totally honest in my message.’ I leaned forwards and lowered my voice. ‘I am a paralegal, but I have nothing to do with the case surrounding Dominic being released.’ I took a deep breath. ‘I’m his daughter.’

‘His daughter?’ he asked, clearly taken aback, the smile dropping from his face. ‘I didn’t realise he had one.’

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