She held the photo up to the light. The medallion worn by the tall blonde woman was slightly out of focus, but the sunburst shape was just about discernible. The diamond-patterned dress, orange and white, showed off the woman’s tan. Her teased hair, with ends that flipped up on her shoulders, was held in place by a white headband.
Erin propped the photo on the bookshelf and backed away. If she unfocused her eyes, the configuration of the foursome swam across her vision. She’d seen this photo before. But where? In a magazine, a newspaper? Or someplace closer to home? The man on the far right was clearly Stern. But the man next to him, the one with his right arm slung around Stern’s neck in a gesture of camaraderie, and the left hand holding a cocktail glass… With little to go on but a gut feeling, she was sure this was her father.
She leaned in to focus on the sunburst medallion. It could be a coincidence. But Vivien had worn a necklace like that.
Erin closed her eyes and tried to summon up a cohesive picture of her fractured past. An image wavered into focus. The gold rays of the medallion, glinting in the sun, the freckled chest, the smell of cigarette smoke and drugstore perfume. The smirk, the sneer. Stop stuffing your fat face.
But the photo was merely a distraction. It had nothing to do with Tim. His court date was coming up fast, and she was running out of time. But she still had one ace up her sleeve. Tim’s school chum, Jeremiah Sowka. The one with the acne and frizzy hair. He might have a story to tell.
31
Hartford, Connecticut
June, Present Day
At a corner table in a Dunkin’ Donuts, on the outskirts of the city, a balding man in a tan windbreaker blinked under the fluorescent lights. Next to him, a skinny kid with a mop of straight black hair and wearing football kit fiddled with a computer game. Erin squeezed past the scrum of customers, fidgeting like addicts as they queued for their morning fix of sugar and caffeine.
‘Mr Sowka?’
‘Yep, that’s me.’ He gave a mock salute. ‘Jeremy.’
Powdered sugar dusted his lip. ‘And this is my kid, Kyle. Sorry I had to bring him along, but his mom’s not home yet. He won’t get in the way though, will you, Ky?’ He cuffed the child playfully on the shoulder, but the boy, intent on his game, didn’t bother to look up.
The air was thick with the smell of burnt sugar and cooking oil from the deep-fat fryers. She removed her jacket and fanned her face.
‘If you want a jelly doughnut, you’d better get in line,’ he said, scratching a patch of eczema on his neck. ‘They sell out fast on Saturdays. And while you’re up there, would you mind getting me one of those Belgian cruller things and some doughnut holes for Kyle?’
From the back of the queue, she scanned the trays of glistening doughnuts, spackled with pink glaze, or spiky with sprinkles. The binge food of choice for some of her patients. But the thought of all that sugar made her teeth hurt. How she longed for the little tearoom near the Thornbury Clinic in London, with its assortment of colourful teapots and perfectly brewed tea, the fresh-baked lemon tarts and scones. She settled for a poppy seed bagel and a large coffee.
‘So, Timmy Stern, huh?’ Jeremy plucked the cruller and doughnut holes from the plastic tray. ‘Are you a relative or something?’ He tore open two packets of sugar and dumped them into his coffee. ‘My doc said I should stay away from this place, but we all gotta die from something, right?’ He made quick work of the cruller. In a minute it was gone. On his cheeks and jaw, tiny depressions on his skin were all that remained of his teenage acne.
‘I’m not a relative,’ she said, adopting a serious air. ‘I’m researching a book on family murders.’ She clicked her pen and wrote Jeremy’s name and date in her notebook. ‘The Stern case is of particular interest.’
‘Whatever floats your boat.’ He drained his coffee and stared at the empty cup. ‘I sure could use another one of these. Flew in from Chicago last night and didn’t get much sleep.’ He ruffled his son’s hair. ‘How ya doing there, buddy, want something else to drink?’
Kyle twitched away from his father’s hand, his eyes fixed on the screen.
Erin scraped back her chair. ‘I’ll get it.’ Annoyed at his impertinence, she gritted her teeth and re-joined the queue. But it was simply a matter of singing for her supper. When she returned to the table with a large coffee and two crullers for good measure, she sank into the chair, beset with fatigue. How long would she have to ply him with doughnuts before he said anything useful? This little excursion to Hartford was looking like a massive waste of time.
‘Shall we start with your first memory of meeting Tim?’
He blinked rapidly, as if there was something in his eye. ‘Sure, that’s easy. Timmy and I met in the sixth grade. I was the new kid that year. On the first day, the teacher tells everyone to give me a big welcome. But they kept their distance. Typical kid behaviour, you know? Curious, but cautious, trying to see how I’d fit in. We sat in alphabetical order, so I was put next to Tim. Sowka, Stern. Destined to be friends.’ He shrugged. ‘Or sworn enemies. It could’ve gone either way, but it turned out that Timmy had this thing for birds, and guess what? Sowka in Polish means owl. Go figure.’
Owl. She wrote that down. Almost as an afterthought, she scrawled the name of the strange bird Tim had drawn during their last session. Scopus… something. She would look it up when she returned
