Page 22 of Don't Believe A Word

Sadie shook her head.

‘Did you call him anything? Such as Daddy?’

Sadie continued shaking her head. ‘I don’t think so. It’s not coming to me, anyway.’ Connor said, ‘Any chance it was Edwin, Mia’s husband?’

‘I’m not aware of ever meeting him,’ Sadie replied.

Wondering if they might end up putting her through some sort of regression session, Cristy said, ‘Anything else?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Sadie said defeatedly. ‘I realize it would all be a lot easier if I could remember more than I do, but I’m hopeful, as we continue going through Lottie’s things, that they’ll prompt more memories – or at least give us some better leads than we have right now.’

CHAPTER SIX

Much later, having spent most of the rest of the day googling the Winters sisters, something both she and Connor had been doing regularly this past week, Cristy was still mulling it all over as she joined a handful of fellow commuters in the early evening gloom to take the last cross-dock ferry to the opposite pier. Ordinarily she’d have walked along the harbourside to cross at Prince Street Bridge, but this evening she needed to call into Tesco to pick up a particular pizza for Aiden’s tea.

She’d already learned from David that the aunts’ wealth stemmed from their paternal grandfather, William Winters, and the expansion of his own father’s electronics business into a multi-million-pound, global enterprise by the time he was forty. Apparently William’s only son, Alfred Winters – Lottie and Mia’s father – had floated the company on the New York stock exchange back in the Sixties, increasing the family fortune to quite dizzying levels before he’d gone on to lose, some said half of it, through bad investments. The daughters had inherited what was left when Alfred and Martha, the girls’ mother, had been killed in a car accident at the end of the Eighties. Presumably this was what had inspired their story about losing a brother and his wife.

‘Their estimated worth at the time of inheriting,’ David had gone on to tell her, ‘was said to be in the region of forty million. I’ve no idea how it stands now, only that their affairs have long been handled by Crosswell Haigh, a risk-averse wealth management firm in the City of London.’

‘So it’s possible their fortune has increased over time rather than diminished?’ Cristy had asked.

‘I’d be amazed if it hadn’t, given who’s handling it, but thereare ways of finding these things out. If you think it’s important, I’ll look into it for you.’

Although its relevance wasn’t clear, Cristy had accepted the offer just in case something interesting came from his research. He hadn’t got back to her yet, and nor had she chased him for there really wasn’t any rush. At the moment, they considered Lottie’s and Mia’s lives prior to 2000, when Sadie was presumed to be two years old, to be far less significant than the years that had come after. The source and size of their wealth, as well as the kind of women they’d been in their younger years, were simply part of the due diligence she and Connor, as journalists, necessarily carried out at the start of a project.

Recalling how they’d once subjected David to similar scrutiny for a podcast, she huddled deeper into her padded coat and stepped ashore ready to fight the driving wind and rain. She wondered what he might be doing now, and immediately felt her knots of anxiety tightening. They weren’t only caused by him and the fact that they’d barely been in touch since she’d returned to Bristol over a week ago, although she had to admit that was bothering her a lot. She had no idea if Juliette was still in Guernsey with him, but imagined it was the reason he hadn’t rung. It was certainly why Cristy hadn’t called him. She was equally, if not more, concerned about her ex, Matthew, and the children. Not that there was any reason to be worried about Hayley and Aiden – Hayley had been perfectly fine when she’d flown off to Edinburgh yesterday, and Aiden, for once, hadn’t found an alternative plan to starting back to school today. She guessed worrying about them simply went with being a parent, although the fact that they were still concerned about their father’s state of mind wasn’t helping.

Matthew, for his part, was fretting about how much he must have upset them while they were in LA for them to have flown home so soon. This was when he wasn’t raging down the line to Cristy over Marley and the baby who, apparently, was going to be called Bear.

‘Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous?’ he’d shouted when he’d rung to tell her. ‘Why the hell would you call a childBear? And why don’t I get a say, is what I want to know?’

Seeing no point in getting into that, Cristy said, ‘At least she’sspeaking to you, finally, and the photo you sent of you holding him is lovely.’ She’d hated it, actually. Not the child, obviously, but the painful reminder that no one, least of all her, could ever have foreseen during the happy days of their marriage that this improbable, inescapable mess was in their future. They should still be together, going about their lives in the Leigh Woods house where both children had grown up and where they’d been so happy for so many years. Until apparently Matthew had decided he wasn’t any more.

Well, he certainly wasn’t now, and though the schadenfreude of his betrayal backfiring on him so spectacularly probably ought to be giving her some satisfaction, it wasn’t. For whatever reason it was bothering her a lot that he seemed to have no idea how he was going to be a father to his new son, never mind husband to his shockingly unpredictable child bride. Moreover, he was presumably due back at work and on air any day now at the TV station where he was a main news presenter so he’d have little choice but to leave them in LA and return home. What the heck was going to happen then?

Sighing at the thought of how it was all unravelling for him, Cristy lowered her hood and pushed into the welcome warmth and bright lights of the Tesco Express.

Minutes later she was outside again, complete with requisite pizza and bottle of wine and hurrying past crowded bars and cafés, across Millennium Square, and over Pero’s Bridge with its landmark horn-shaped sculptures towards Queen Square. She wished she was feeling more cheerful, but January really was the dreariest month and right now she couldn’t think of much to feel cheerful about.

Picture snowdrops and fat robins,she could hear her mother urging,bracing walks on cold sunny days, hot chocolate in front of the fire, cosy evenings and piping hot stews.

It had been her mother’s way to find something uplifting to think about in darker moments, something to help raise their spirits when they were slumped in the blues.First footprints in snow;icicles hanging from trees;starry skies;hot toddies;snuggling up with someone you love.

God, how she missed her mother, even after all these years.It probably didn’t help that Cynthia, David’s mother, was so like her with her abiding love of nature and the kindness that radiated from her so selflessly and reassuringly.

Finally crossing the puddled courtyard of her apartment complex she let herself in through the main door and heaved a sigh of relief to be out of the wind – and to see a light shining under her own front door. Unless she’d left it on this morning it must mean Aiden was home, as he’d promised he would be by the time she got back from work.

‘Hi! It’s only me,’ she called out, unzipping her coat and dropping her heavy bag on the hall table. ‘Something smells good,’ she added in surprise.

‘Hey!’ he called back. ‘Dad’s here and we’re making a spag bol.’

Cristy stopped. Had he really just said his father was here?

Oh God no.She desperately didn’t want to deal with Matthew tonight, or any night actually. However, it seemed she had no choice, because here he was, coming out of the kitchen, wearing one of her aprons – the cheek of him – and carrying a large glass of wine, presumably for her.

‘Hope you don’t mind,’ he said, attempting – and failing – to look sheepish. ‘I flew in this morning and I was really keen to see Aiden, so he said to come here …’

‘That was your suggestion,’ Aiden shouted from the kitchen, ‘so don’t blame me, you bellend.’

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