‘Honest to God,Morton,’ she continued, ‘it was all so relaxed and informal, like we’re oldfriends catching up in Starbucks. “Do you want a tea or coffee,Juliette? I can’t even think about functioning until I’ve got atleast a gallon of caffeine running through my veins!”’ Juliette did an exaggeratedimpression of a stereotypical toff in a fit of laughter. ‘She even hadthe nerve to say “I hear you’ve had a bit of a to-do with your house; you havehad a spell of bad luck.”’ Another bout of toff laughter followed by a swig ofthe beer.
A ‘to-do’ withthe house: that was one way of describing it. Morton wondered if now wasa good time to say, ‘Talking of the house, take a look in the Pampers box andsee what treats I’ve got for you!’ No, it wasn’t the time. But thenagain, there never would be a good time.
‘So, I’m backto work seven tomorrow morning, speed-trapping the Udimore Road as if nothinghad ever happened.’ He couldn’t tell from her impassive speech andbehaviour whether or not she was happy to have been reinstated, then she clarified. ‘Bastards.’
‘I thought youwanted to go back?’
‘I do, I lovemy job, but not like this. They’re playing me, Morton, surely you can seethat?’ He could see it, as clear as day.
‘Did she talkabout me or the Coldrick Case at all?’ Morton asked.
‘Not a singleword. Bizarre.’
Morton hadother questions to ask but at that moment Jeremy appeared in the kitchendoorway, his face puffed and red as though he’d been crying. Mortonstared at him. Was this it? Was it their father? Had hefinally succumbed?
‘What’s thematter?’ Juliette asked.
‘It’s Dad, he’sgot worse,’ Jeremy said, on the verge of tears. Morton could spot thesigns a mile off, having made his younger brother cry more times than he couldremember. ‘He had another heart attack and they’ve scheduled him for atriple heart bypass tomorrow evening. He’s in a terrible state.’ Morton could tell that Jeremy wanted to say more but he would burst into tearsif he did.
Juliette wentover to the doorway and hugged him. After several seconds she pulled backand looked him in the eyes. ‘The operation’s a good thing, Jeremy. At least it will help him.’
‘I know. Even Dad thinks this is the end for him now,’ Jeremy said. ‘He wants tosee you, Morton, before he goes down. He’s got something to tell you.’
Morton nodded,his stomach immediately turning itself in knots over whatever chastisement hisfather wanted to issue. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t be a treasureddeathbed declaration, that much was certain. Morton, you’ve alwaysmade me proud. Morton, you’ve always been a wonderful child. Morton, I’ve never seen you as anything other than my natural child, the sameas Jeremy.
Jeremy took abeer from the fridge and sat at the table with Morton, his face etched with grief.
Nobody spokebecause nobody had anything more to say.
An hour later Juliette called toMorton. ‘Morton? Why’s one of Mrs McPherson’s ornaments in aPampers box at the bottom of the stairs?’
A few secondsticked by whilst Morton braced himself for the penny to drop.
And it did.
‘Is thisit? Is this all that’s left? Oh my God.’
Chapter Sixteen
Monday
The lump on the side of his head hadthrobbed for the entire night, maintaining a regular musical beat. Whensleep had finally arrived for him, he was plagued by dreams of his father’sdeathbed confession, a revelation that a somnolent Morton knew was monumental;an utterance which would change everything. The dream started with himgetting out of the Mini in the car park of the Conquest Hospital and runningthrough the building at top speed, as concerned nurses wordlessly directed himthrough the labyrinth of identical wards until he eventually reached hisfather, just in time for his last moment on earth. But as Morton drew hisear close to his father’s mouth to catch those momentous words, the dreamrestarted and he was back in the car park.
The only answerwas to get up and, at precisely four twenty-two, Morton abandoned both sleepand any attempt at catching his father’s nocturnal message. If he wereremotely superstitious or religious then he would have made a mad dash to thehospital, believing the dream to have been some kind of prophecy, urging him tosee his father before it was all too late. But, since he was neither religiousnor superstitious he padded down to the kitchen to make a coffee.
He switched onhis laptop and sat in the nascent dawn light that filtered in through the patiodoor and kitchen windows. He had switched on the lights at first, butthey gave the room a strange street-lamp hue that was a stark reminder of theunearthly hour at which he had risen. He hoped to goodness that he wasn’tturning into his father. For as long as Morton had been aware, his fatherhad got up at five o’clock in the morning. Weekends, days off, holidays,they were all the same: five o’clock prompt. The strangest thing was thathe had never needed an alarm, which Morton had always found particularlybaffling when the clocks changed. Morton would willingly be placed infront of a firing squad rather than get up at five o’clock in the morningvoluntarily. Today was different, of course.
Morton openedthe online folder pertaining to the case, which he had saved to his cloudstorage, and clicked on the photograph of James’s mother holding him as ababy. He looked into the dark eyes that stared out from the grounds ofwartime Charingsby. Whoever she was, she looked genuinely happy. Seeing Lady Maria Charlotte Windsor-Sackville in the flesh at the Sedlescombevillage fete two days ago had done nothing to help Morton ascertain whether ornot she could have been James Coldrick’s elusive mother. Even his trustedfriend Google couldn’t help. Evidently she wasn’t high profile enough ora close enough relation to Princess Diana to warrant an archive of onlineimages. He had found, though, that her ancestral home of Mote Ridge,buried deep in the Kentish countryside, had been in the care of the NationalTrust since her father’s death in 1969 and was, five days per week, open
