37
First thing on Tuesday morning the forensics lab phoned Jenny. When she’d hung up she hurried into Nightingale’s office. ‘The lab came back with the results,’ she said. ‘Rebecca Keeley’s your mother.’
‘There’s no doubt?’ said Nightingale.
‘Only that one in six billion nonsense,’ said Jenny. ‘She’s your birth-mother, no question of it. They’re sending me a fax to confirm it and their bill.’
‘Will petty cash cover it?’ asked Nightingale, hopefully.
‘It might if we had any,’ said Jenny. ‘We’ll need a cheque.’
Jenny’s computer beeped to tell her that she had received an email. She went over to her desk while Nightingale phoned Hillingdon Home and spoke to Mrs Fraser, who told him that Miss Keeley had slept through the night and now seemed much calmer. Nightingale explained that, following a DNA test, he was now sure that Rebecca Keeley was his mother, but thought better of mentioning that he’d stolen the hairbrush. Mrs Fraser said she had no objections to Nightingale visiting again. This time he didn’t take flowers, but he had with him an old photograph album.
The male nurse met him in Reception and explained that his mother was sitting in the garden. It wasn’t so much a garden as a patch of grass with a couple of wooden benches, a rockery filled with heathers of various hues, and a stone birdbath covered with sparrow droppings. Nightingale’s mother was on one of the benches, wearing a tweed coat and a purple headscarf. She was staring at the birdbath and stroking the crucifix around her neck.
‘I like her to get some fresh air now and again,’ said the nurse. ‘I’ll take her back inside in half an hour.’ He pointed at a large picture window overlooking the garden. Three old women were sitting in armchairs, staring blankly through the glass. ‘I’ll be in the residents’ lounge,’ he said. ‘If she starts getting agitated again, I’ll have to end the visit.’
‘I understand,’ said Nightingale.
He went over to the bench and sat down next to her, unbuttoning his raincoat. He had the photograph album on his lap and said hello, but she ignored him.
‘It’s me, Jack,’ he said. ‘I’ve come back to see you.’
There was no sign that she was aware he was there. He opened the album. The first picture was of himself at only a few days old, wrapped in a white cloth, his eyes wide open. ‘This is me, not long after I was born,’ he said. He pushed the album towards her. ‘Do you remember me as a baby? Did you see me when I was born or did he take me away from you straight away? I know you’re my mother, Rebecca. I checked. There’s no doubt. I’m your son.’
The woman looked down at the picture, still rubbing the crucifix between her thumb and first finger.
‘Do you recognise me, Rebecca? Do you recognise the baby in this picture?’
‘Edward?’ she whispered.
‘Edward? Is that the name you gave me? Is that what you called me? My name’s Jack now, Jack Nightingale.’ He turned the page. There were six photographs across the spread, different views of his parents holding him. ‘These are the people who took care of me, Rebecca. Bill and Irene Nightingale, my parents.’
She reached out and gently touched the pictures one by one with her left hand, holding the crucifix tightly in the right.
‘Do you remember, Rebecca?’ asked Nightingale, in a soft whisper. ‘Do you remember holding me when I was born? Did you kiss me?’
He turned the page. The next set of photographs was of himself at two weeks old, tiny and defenceless. He flicked through the pages and showed her one of him smiling. He’d always been a happy baby, according to his mother. Happy and smiling and as good as gold.
A single tear trickled down Rebecca Keeley’s cheek.
Nightingale reached across and held her left hand. ‘Why did you give me away?’ he asked.
She shook her head slowly. Nightingale wasn’t sure if she hadn’t understood his question or was denying what he’d said.
‘What was the money for? The twenty thousand pounds?’
‘Are you a ghost?’ she whispered.
‘A ghost?’ repeated Nightingale. ‘Why would you think I’m a ghost?’
‘You died,’ she whispered. ‘You died when you were born.’
Nightingale froze. ‘Is that what he told you? Is that what Ainsley Gosling told you?’
‘You were stillborn, he said. The doctor wouldn’t even let me see you. They took you away and said they’d bury you but I never saw a grave.’ She stared at him with tear-filled eyes. ‘Why have you come back?’
‘I didn’t die,’ said Nightingale. ‘I didn’t know about you. I didn’t even know you existed. Gosling gave me to the Nightingales and they brought me up.’
The woman’s brow furrowed even more. ‘You’re not a ghost?’
Nightingale stroked her wrinkled hand. ‘No, I’m flesh and blood.’
‘And Ainsley?’
‘He died,’ said Nightingale.
‘What happened?’
‘He got sick and died,’ said Nightingale. He had no compunction about lying to the woman. He didn’t think she’d react well to the news that Gosling had blown his head off with a shotgun.
‘Is he a ghost now? Will he come to see me?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Nightingale.
‘I loved him,’ said the woman, her hands trembling.
‘What was the money for?’ asked Nightingale. ‘The twenty thousand pounds he paid you?’
‘He said I needed a holiday. He said he’d join me and he gave me the money and a train ticket to Blackpool and I never saw him again. I always wanted to see Blackpool. I wanted to climb the tower and walk on the pier.’ She blinked. ‘What’s your name again?’ she asked.
‘Jack.’
‘That’s nice. I was going to call you Edward.’
‘That’s a good name,’ said Nightingale. He smiled. ‘You know, I never really felt like a Jack. But Edward? Eddie? Ed?’
‘Never Eddie,’ she said primly. ‘Edward.’
‘You can call me Edward, if you like,’ said Nightingale. ‘Rebecca, do you know if he had any other children? A daughter, maybe?’
‘I stayed in the hospital for two days afterwards and then I went to Blackpool and the last time I saw him was at the station. He said he’d come to see me in Blackpool. But he never did.’ A tear rolled down her left cheek. ‘Why did he tell me that you’d died?’
‘I don’t know. I’m sorry.’
She sniffed. ‘I’m sorry too,’ she said. ‘How old are you?’ she asked.
‘Thirty-three next week,’ he said. ‘On Friday the twenty-seventh.’
She gasped and clutched at the crucifix. ‘My God,’ she said.
‘What?’
She avoided his gaze and stared at the birdbath. ‘Nothing,’ she whispered, rubbing the crucifix between her finger and thumb. ‘Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing.’ She repeated the word like a mantra.
Nightingale narrowed his eyes, ‘You know, don’t you?’
She shook her head.
‘You do. You know what he did, why he took me away from you when I was born.’
‘I don’t, I don’t, I don’t,’ she murmured. She kissed the crucifix with her thin, bloodless lips and carried on rubbing it. ‘I don’t, I don’t, I don’t.’
‘You know what’s going to happen on my thirty-third birthday, don’t you? On Friday next week.’
The woman didn’t answer but she squeezed the crucifix harder.
‘You know, don’t you? You have to tell me. You owe me that much.’
Tears rolled down both her cheeks. ‘He told me you died,’ she muttered. ‘That’s what he told me.’
