The Detective Samantha Freeman Cases Books One to Three: The Dead Husband, The Charcoal House, and The Shape of Truth

By Gillian Jackson

Three heart-pounding crime thrillers in one volume from the author of The Accident.

The Shape of Truth
When Anna learns that her biological father is a member of Parliament who assaulted her mother—and was never held accountable—she’s devastated. She’s determined to bring him to justice. But exposing the truth may bring tragic results . . .

The Charcoal House
Emma’s new husband is isolating her from her friends and parents. He takes her paycheck, gaslights her, and forbids her to paint. She manages to complete one picture—of a depressing charcoal house. As shocking revelations about his past emerge, the police and Emma’s loved ones try to free her from a monster’s clutches—but is it already too late to save her?

The Dead Husband
At the police station, a woman reports that her husband has disappeared, and soon afterward a body is found. It looks like a hit-and-run case, an accident. But the body is not the missing man’s—and the death was not an accident. Now DI Samantha Freeman must figure out what happened—and to whom . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Apr 5, 2024
• ISBN: 9781504094351

Gillian Jackson

Gillian Jackson is the author of several psychological thrillers, including Abducted and The Accident. She initially pursued a career in childcare before moving on to train as a therapeutic counselor and eventually to a role in the voluntary sector with Victim Support. Her five years with the organization provided a wealth of experience and insight into the criminal-justice system, which has enriched her understanding of human nature and her writing.

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The Detective Samantha Freeman Cases

THE DETECTIVE SAMANTHA FREEMAN CASES

BOOKS ONE TO THREE

GILLIAN JACKSON

Bloodhound Books

CONTENTS

The Shape of Truth

1. Anna

2. Anna

3. Caroline

4. Anna

5. Anna

6. Caroline

7. Anna

8. Caroline

9. Samantha

10. Anna

11. Samantha

12. Samantha

13. Samantha

14. Mark

15. Caroline

16. Anna

17. Jenny

18. Mark

19. Georgia

20. Anna

21. Mark

22. Samantha

23. Samantha

24. Caroline

25. Caroline

26. Anna

27. Jenny

28. Samantha

29. Samantha

30. Paul

31. Georgia

32. Tim

33. Samantha

34. Mark

35. Mark

36. Tim

37. Anna

38. Samantha

39. Arthur

40. Arthur

41. Mark

42. Anna

43. Anna

44. Anna

45. Samantha

46. Georgia

Epilogue

Also by Gillian Jackson

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Author’s notes

Acknowledgements

The Charcoal House

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Epilogue

Also by Gillian Jackson

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A note from the author

Acknowledgements

The Dead Husband

Prologue

Part I

1. A Week Earlier

2. Wednesday 7th December

3. Wednesday 7th December

4. Wednesday 7th December

5. Wednesday 7th December

6. Wednesday 7th December

7. Thursday 8th December

8. Thursday 8th December

9. Thursday 8th December

10. Friday 9th December

11. Friday 9th December

12. Friday 9th December

13. Saturday 10th December

14. Monday 12th December

15. Tuesday 13th December

16. Tuesday 13th December

17. Wednesday 14th December

18. Wednesday 14th December

19. Thursday 15th December

20. Thursday 15th December

21. Thursday 15th December

22. Thursday 15th December

23. Thursday 15th December

Part II

24. Friday 2nd December

25. Friday 2nd December

26. Saturday 3rd December

27. Saturday 3rd December

28. Sunday 4th December

29. Monday 5th December

Chapter 30

31. Monday 5th December

32. Tuesday 6th December

33. Tuesday 6th December

34. Tuesday 6th December

35. Tuesday 6th December

36. Wednesday 7th December

Part III

37. Friday 16th December

38. Saturday 17th December

39. Monday 19th December

40. Monday 19th December

41. Monday 19th December

42. Tuesday 20th December

43. Tuesday 20th December

44. Tuesday 20th December

45. Tuesday 20th December

46. Tuesday 20th December

47. Wednesday 21st December

48. Wednesday 21st December

49. Wednesday 21st December

50. Wednesday 21st December

51. Wednesday 21st December

52. Wednesday 21st December

53. Thursday 22nd December

54. Thursday 22nd December

55. Thursday 22nd December

56. Thursday 22nd December

57. Thursday 22nd December

58. Friday 23rd December

59. Friday 23rd December

60. Friday 23rd December

61. Friday 23rd December

62. Friday 23rd December

63. Friday 23rd December

64. Saturday 24th December

65. Saturday 24th December

66. Saturday 24th December

67. Saturday 24th December

68. Sunday, Christmas Day

69. Tuesday 27th December

70. Wednesday 28th December

Epilogue

Also by Gillian Jackson

Author’s notes

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A note from the publisher

The Shape of Truth

The truth is rarely pure and never simple

– Oscar Wilde

ONE

ANNA

2015

The polished oak coffin draped with a Union Jack was carried by six of the tallest Royal Marine Cadets from the local corps, youngsters nervous with the responsibility and weight of a man’s body and more comfortable in baseball caps and trainers than their cadet’s ceremonial uniform. It was the end of January, the most depressing month for a funeral, and an icy north wind chafed at the cadets’ faces and whistled around the mourners’ legs.

I walked beside my mother, Caroline Greenwood, who leaned on me for support as we followed the procession into the church, her face pale and eyes red from crying. The vicar led the mourners, reciting the words of Psalm 23.

‘The Lord is my Shepherd I shall not want…’

Reaching for my mother’s hand, her fingers were stiff with cold.

‘He makes me lie down in green pastures…’

The cavernous church echoed with organ music as the vicar raised his voice to be heard.

‘He leads me in the paths of righteousness…’

The solemn undertaker ushered us into the front pew and my mother sighed heavily, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. Neither of us actually believing that my father, Ronald Greenwood, was gone, his lifeless body prone in the coffin before us.

At only fifty-six, his death was sudden and entirely unexpected. A massive heart attack claimed the life of a man who we thought to be fit and strong, a man who rarely ailed anything, not even a common cold. I squeezed Mum’s hand gently, my heart heavy for her. She would feel his loss more than anyone. Most of her adult life had been spent at Dad’s side, caring for him and me to exclude any needs or desires of her own.

The church was packed, mainly with Dad’s former colleagues from the Royal Navy, the Royal British Legion members who had arranged the pallbearers and guard of honour. Ronald would be sorely missed at the Legion; he was a popular figure, a stalwart, ever willing to help out when needed. In his time, he’d served as Legion secretary and treasurer, meticulously keeping books and willingly taking on the roles others avoided. So many of those in attendance were strangers to me and I’m not sure Mum knew all of them either, but we would mingle afterwards at the Legion and listen to their memories, some would be familiar, others not.

The eulogy paid fitting tribute to Dad’s service in the Royal Navy, his bravery during the Falklands conflict and unwavering support of the Royal British Legion since. The vicar’s kind words elevated Ronald Greenwood to an exemplary human being and I wondered if everyone attained such high stature after death. Do we all become saints when we’re gone? It appears we do. When the service concluded, we made our way to the crematorium to say our final goodbye, solemnly walking behind the coffin, strangely distant from the proceedings.

The final drawing of the curtain was an emotional moment for Mum. I longed for the ordeal to be over, for her sake as much as mine. Yet a room was booked in the Legion as was expected. There was more to endure before the day would be over.

‘So sorry for your loss, Mrs Greenwood.’

‘Your dad was a wonderful man; he’ll be a great loss, Anna.’

The word loss was repeated in various phrases by strangers and acquaintances – a typically sanitised way to talk about death as if Dad was simply lost in the supermarket and we might find him in the frozen food aisle.

‘Ronald was such a lovely man,’ one well-wisher told me afterwards when we were safely ensconced in a booth at the Legion. ‘Do anything for anyone, would Ronald. He’ll be greatly missed.’ I nodded, smiling my thanks for his kind words, taking on the role of hostess for my mother, who was with us in body but not in spirit, and I invited him to partake of the buffet.

I could hardly reply truthfully to the man – to tell him his opinion of my father was poles apart from my own – that I’d spent the last ten years of my life trying to avoid Ronald Greenwood – and that my feelings for him at times bordered on hatred. Such mean-spirited thoughts were not like me and totally inappropriate for the occasion. Berating myself, I determined to concentrate on Mum for the rest of the day. Her grief, unlike my own, was genuine.

The afternoon dragged on until, eventually, we could leave with our duty done. Dad had been given the send-off he would have wanted and expected.

Sleet accompanied us as we made our way home, falling gently into the silent dark streets, a fitting backdrop for our sombre mood. Unlocking the front door, a palpable sense of emptiness drew us inside but at least the house was warm and I was grateful Mum had the forethought to turn up the central heating before we left.

‘Why don’t you have a lie-down?’ I suggested. Mum’s face revealed signs of tiredness with dark patches below her eyes and lines around her mouth which I’d never noticed before, dragging her lips downwards in a sad grimace.

‘Yes, Anna, I think I will.’ She forced a smile and trudged upstairs to her room – the room she’d shared with Dad for nearly thirty-four years.

I shivered despite the warmth. Being only thirty-two, relatively independent and with no intention of marrying, I could barely comprehend my mother’s emotional state. Her earlier description was of a sense of being brutally and unexpectedly ripped in two and functioning now as one half of a whole.

Dad was away with the Royal Navy for long periods in the early days of their courtship and marriage, and I know Mum missed him terribly. Latterly, since I left home ten years ago, it’s been just the two of them, twenty-four-seven, and they were happy to be together. Mum now faced so many adjustments and I wondered fleetingly if our relationship would change now Dad was gone.

My emotions after we’d laid Dad to rest were somewhat ambiguous. I disliked the man intensely and couldn’t grieve for his passing, but the strength of my animosity towards my own flesh and blood shamed and appalled me – it was a trait I abhorred yet seemed unable to alter. I’d never considered myself a heartless person, but my reaction to Dad’s death made me wonder. Shouldn’t I feel something other than this sense of relief?

From the day I left home, Mum was always the connection and one I had no desire to sever. Maintaining a relationship with her meant that Dad and I would occasionally cross paths. Okay, I must sound like a heartless bitch, but in my defence I could argue that my feelings for my father were matched equally by his for me – it was a mutual dislike and had defined our relationship for as long as I could remember.

Looking around the house where I grew up, my head swam with thoughts and memories – not all of them good. Dad’s winter coat hung in the hall, his slippers on the rack beneath. I wondered how long it would take for Mum to summon enough courage to sort through his belongings.

Moving into the kitchen, I decided to make something to eat for later, although neither of us had much of an appetite. The room had barely changed since I lived there and more memories popped unbidden into my head, triggering a rush of anger and frustration. I turned at a sudden noise – a shiver ran down my spine and I fully expected Dad to be standing behind me, waiting for my next mistake, a reason for yet another snide remark – but it was only the wind.

So many incidents, mostly trivial ones, had been enacted in this room. Then there were the more relentless rows we frequently engaged in, arguments which left me feeling very alone and often afraid of the man who should have been my protector.

As a young child, I don’t think I hated Dad quite so much. I remember occasions of actively seeking his approval, as little girls do. I coloured endless pictures for him and made plasticine figures which I convinced myself he’d love. When Mum was baking, I begged to be allowed to make ‘special’ cakes for Daddy which she encouraged wholeheartedly, but my efforts were met with little more than a grunt or even complete disinterest. Mum made a fuss on his behalf and whispered how much he appreciated my gifts, but I knew otherwise, and as time passed, I stopped trying, taking my lead from him, the very man who should have loved and encouraged me.

Many of my friends didn’t get along with their parents either, particularly during those difficult teenage years. Yet still, I always felt the poor relationship with my father was more than simply the normal growing up parent-child squabbles. His dislike of me was so apparent at times that it felt like something about my very existence displeased him. Dad was even reluctant to be in the same room as me, leaving the distinct impression that I’d done something wrong and the fault was mine.

Why else would a father struggle to be civil to his own child? Perhaps he was jealous of Mum’s love for me and our close bond, but wasn’t he the adult? Shouldn’t he have been above such feelings? It was easy to eventually give up on my father and even begin to dislike him for what amounted to an almost hostile attitude towards me. So much for happy memories – was it any wonder I can’t grieve for the man.

An hour later, Mum came down the stairs looking hardly any better than when she ascended them.

‘Did you get any sleep?’ I asked.

‘Not really, there’s too much to think about and my head’s throbbing.’ She went to the kitchen cupboard to get some aspirin, her movements sluggish.

‘I was just about to boil some pasta. Do you think you could eat something?’

‘Sorry, love, but I don’t think I could manage anything. You have some though.’ Mum tried to smile yet it didn’t cover her sadness.

‘Not for me either. I’m not hungry. We’ll have a cup of tea, shall we?’

We took our tea into the lounge. Mum gazed around the spacious room and sighed. Like the rest of the house, the décor was dated but held the potential to be a comfortable home. Perhaps Mum would fill her time busying herself with new projects to update it. She was always keener than Dad to make changes in the house.

‘You know you could move back home now if you wanted to?’ Mum’s eyes rested on me, a hopeful expression taking me completely by surprise. ‘There’s more than enough room here and it seems silly paying rent on your place when you have other options.’

Entirely taken aback at the sudden suggestion, my mouth opened, yet no words came out. The thought hadn’t occurred to me. Having paid rent since leaving home over a decade ago, Mum was right, it left me with very little money to save for a deposit on a house but it didn’t worry me. Getting away from home and from Dad was worth the exorbitant rent I paid each month, and I was fortunate enough to have a good job which covered my expenses, admittedly with little to spare.

I finally found my voice. ‘It’s rather too soon to be making such huge decisions, Mum.’ Too soon for both of us in reality. ‘Wouldn’t you rather move to a smaller place yourself?’

‘No, I don’t think so. I feel closer to your dad here.’

Living back at home was undoubtedly a reasonable suggestion, but would it work? At thirty-two, did I want to move back in with my mother? I enjoyed my independence and freedom and was comfortable in my little flat. Did I really want to give it up? Yes, the flat was small with only one bedroom, a broom cupboard of a bathroom and an L-shaped lounge with a tiny kitchen area. But it was a ground floor flat with the added luxury of a small square courtyard garden, a sun trap when the weather was fine, and a place to fill with colourful blooms in pots and troughs throughout the summer.

‘It’s a long time since I’ve lived with anyone. I’m probably too set in my ways now.’ It was the best answer I could manage, although probably not the one Mum wanted to hear.

‘Think about it, love. It could be good for both of us, but maybe you’re right – it’s too soon to decide yet.’ Mum smiled, and the subject was closed for the time being. However, the conversation prompted me to suggest that it was time for me to go back home, and to work. I’d spent a week staying with my mother and, as they say, life goes on.

TWO

ANNA

Being a lab technician in the local hospital pathology department isn’t perhaps everyone’s idea of a dream job, but I love it. Strange though it seems to some, it offers sufficient variety and challenge to capture and maintain my interest with the opportunity of learning new things almost daily. Friends rib me about dealing with blood and other more unsavoury bodily fluids but the samples are minuscule and I’m rarely troubled by such gruesome thoughts. To me, it’s pure science.

In my eight years there, I’ve secured two promotions and am currently one of two supervisors in the lab, heading up a team of six. Five more technicians work alongside the second supervisor, Joel Amos, in the adjoining lab. Although I’ve been at the hospital longer than Joel, he has seniority due to his degree and previous experience elsewhere, yet it’s never been an issue, we work well together. Generally, it’s a great environment and I’m happy to be here. I’m not driven by ambition and have no desire to move on as long as the work interests me.

When Joel first arrived, his Nordic good looks, inherited from a Norwegian mother, created quite a stir amongst the girls. His blond hair is worn just a shade too long, and he frequently flicks it from his face in an unconscious action or runs his fingers through it absent-mindedly. Baby blue eyes and a tall muscular build ensure he gets noticed, yet Joel appears genuinely unaware of the effect his presence has on the opposite sex. Admittedly, he’s good-looking, but I think I’m impervious to such physical charms. To me, he’s simply another colleague.

After a week off on compassionate leave and the stress of Dad’s funeral, it was a relief to return to normality. Yet my mind refused to engage on that first morning back, and my thoughts frequently drifted to topics completely unrelated to work.

‘The key, please, Anna?’ Joel’s voice broke into my reverie. I was unaware of him standing beside me.

I think I physically jumped. ‘What? Oh, sorry, did you say something?’

‘Can I have the key to the storage room? Are you okay? You seem rather quiet today.’

‘Yes, I’m fine, thanks.’ I fished the key from my white coat pocket. ‘Sorry, I should have put it back in the key box. I forgot.’

‘It’s okay, no harm done. Look, I’m sorry about your dad. If it would help to talk, I’ve been told I’m a good listener?’ Joel smiled, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners.

‘Thanks, but I’m fine, honestly. Just a few things on my mind, you know.’

‘Well, the offer’s always there, Anna. You don’t have to be alone.’ Joel moved away to the storage room, leaving me wondering. Do people see me as a loner? If I’m perfectly honest, much of my time is spent alone and life can be rather dull with any interest and excitement generated solely through work. I have a few friends from long-ago college days, but most of them are paired off or married, with children, so yes, there are times when I’d have to admit to feeling lonely.

I haven’t reached the age of thirty-two without having dated a few times in the past, but I find it difficult to trust any potential boyfriend and have always visualised my future as a spinster, an old maid, with the desirable advantage of having only myself to please. Sticking with the honesty theme, I don’t need a psychologist to explain why I feel this way. It’s almost certainly due to my parents’ flawed marriage.

Growing up feeling unwanted and unhappy, is it any wonder I get scared off at the first hurdle in any budding relationship? Perhaps that’s a bit hard on Mum. I know she loves me and always has – it’s just that her life seems to have been spent playing referee between Dad and me, always trying to please him or keep us apart. I firmly believe being alone is a much better prospect and a more peaceful existence than being part of a family at odds.

Isn’t committing your life to another person a massive gamble at the best of times? No, marriage is not for me. I’ve always been adamant. By remaining single there’ll never be someone else’s feelings to consider – I can be my own woman and please myself how I live without answering to a man for every action and decision – that’s always been the plan.

How is it then that this version of my future recently seems less and less attractive? Does domesticity have to reflect my parents’ marriage? Perhaps not, but rightly or wrongly, ending a relationship before it becomes in any way serious has been my defence against becoming involved and possibly hurt.

If romantic love exists, it’s probably only in novels. At Dad’s funeral, it was taken for granted that my parents’ marriage had been a happy one, but there were huge cracks in it that no one other than me seemed aware of, and those cracks generally concerned me. Perhaps this is why I’ve never been able to visualise myself in the role of the happy little wife – peacekeeper – domestic servant – how cynical does that make me sound?

As soon as I could afford to, I moved away from home. Now I have a job I love, but when pushed to think seriously about it, no goals or ambitions for the future, which makes me a bit pathetic, don’t you think? However, I have a pretty little cat called Lucy, a petite tortoiseshell ball of fur and the chief object of my affection. Doesn’t that enhance the old maid image?

And now there’s my mother’s offer to move back home, with Lucy too, of course. Surely this would be a backward step and who’s to say it will work out? With Dad out of the equation, I hope Mum and I will get on much better, but living together could be weird and might prove a step too far.

The first day back at work since the funeral passed quickly and once I disciplined my thoughts to focus on work, I managed to catch up on some of the projects waiting for me since before my time off.

When Joel approached me again, I was absorbed in legitimate thoughts about work.

‘I was thinking, Anna. I have a couple of tickets for the theatre and er … wondered if you’d like to come with me? It’s a musical show, a mash-up of songs from musical theatre if you like that sort of thing?’ Joel, much to my surprise, was blushing.

‘Yes. Thank you, I’d enjoy it.’ The words came out of my mouth before I’d fully considered the implications. Did Joel mean this as a date or was he trying to be kind and take my mind off Dad’s death? Hopefully it was the latter and my answer appeared to surprise him as much as it did me.

Joel told me the date – Thursday night – and left with a smile. Noting it in my diary, I wondered why I’d accepted his offer. The last thing I needed was the complication of a ‘date’, particularly with a colleague but the more I thought about it, the more I looked forward to it. Perhaps Joel was right and a night out would do me good.

I went to Mum’s for tea after work but decided not to mention Joel. As much as she needed a new focus in life I didn’t want it to be getting me married off. Having spent the weekend at my flat, I’d rung Mum on Saturday and Sunday, checking up on her despite her insistence that there was no need and she was okay. My mother is a quiet yet strong woman; life would be very different for her now and I’m unsure how our relationship will develop.

Having made an effort to cook a meal, Mum barely ate anything. We chatted about inconsequential things: my work, the jobs she still needed to do to sort out Dad’s estate, although he’d left a will and Mum was sole beneficiary, so things were reasonably straightforward. I offered to help in any way I could, although she had more experience than me in winding up an estate, having been her parents’ executor when they died, an event I barely remembered as they were killed in an accident when I was nine.

‘You could come and help me sort out Dad’s clothes if you like? Perhaps they can go to the charity shop; they’re always particularly grateful for men’s things,’ Mum suggested. I didn’t relish the idea but it would be a difficult task to complete alone, so we decided I’d come around after work on Wednesday night. Nothing like having something to look forward to mid-week.

THREE

CAROLINE

The house feels so empty. I keep expecting Ronald to walk through the door after work, shouting what’s for tea, love as he always did, then I remind myself that I’ll never hear his voice again, never feel his touch or be able to cook his favourite meal. I’ve grabbed two mugs from the cupboard to make coffee on more than one occasion before realising I’m alone – little things which have the power to startle, to bring the reality of Ronald’s death back to me, to make the loss fresh and new and make me weep. Things have changed and I miss Ronald dreadfully but not all the changes will be negative.

For the first time in years, I feel a sense of freedom in my relationship with Anna, although perhaps it was too soon to suggest she move back home – an impulsive gesture, far too early for Anna. My daughter rarely visited her childhood home when Ronald was alive except when she knew he’d be out, a situation which saddened me yet one I understood perhaps better than she did.

Ronald invariably found it difficult to get along with Anna, they were complete opposites in temperament, and the friction between them was apparent from very early on. I hoped when Anna was born and Ronald saw her beautiful vulnerability, he would fall in love with her as I did, but no, he couldn’t even take to her as a tiny baby. Anna suffered from colic, and although I tried hard to comfort her through the night, she cried incessantly, which annoyed Ronald. He was a good husband but clearly not cut out to be a father, a facet of his personality which I tried desperately to make up for.

As Anna grew, it became evident even to her that her daddy didn’t want anything to do with her. Initially, she accepted this as the norm. I lavished affection and love upon her, making our times together memorable so Anna wouldn’t feel she was missing out. Still, as she grew older, the realisation that this wasn’t a typical family dynamic dawned on her. Her friends’ dads took them out, gave them lifts to Brownies and dancing class but not Ronald. He may just as well have been a lodger as far as any closeness to Anna was concerned, and it grieved me to see the gulf between them widening as my daughter grew.

Teenage years are always tricky, and my Anna was no different from any other girl of her age, testing the boundaries, wanting freedom, convinced she was grown up. Ronald’s answer to her rebelliousness was an attempt to lay the law down. He found it impossible to be flexible, couldn’t understand how she was feeling and expected unrealistic toeing the line. For years I felt like a pig-in-the-middle, an arbiter without hope of drawing the two together.

Looking back, I think Ronald was jealous of my love for Anna. Sad, I know, and I constantly tried to appease him to demonstrate how much I loved them both. But it developed into a balancing act. I was continually spinning plates, loving both of them but afraid to show it, afraid to differentiate between them in the amount of time or attention I gave – torn in two directions – pulled almost apart in my futile efforts to unite them.

The situation eased when Anna left home, yet I missed her so much it was like a physical ache. She did come to see me but only when Ronald was at the Legion or at work, and he never entered into our conversations. How immature this makes my husband sound. Yes, perhaps he was childish in his attitude, yet I completely understood his reasons. Sadly, Anna never could, which was my fault entirely.

But now my daughter is marvellous. Anna moved back home when Ronald died and stayed until after the funeral – a great comfort and even though she’s returned to her flat she rings me every day.

‘How are you doing, Mum?’ Anna greeted me with an affectionate embrace when she arrived on Wednesday evening to help with the endless sorting out.

‘Oh, you know, a day at a time, love. And you?’

‘Fine thanks.’ Anna took off her coat and shook raindrops from it. The rain was getting heavy. It was a wet beginning to February, a damp and foggy month that I was always glad to see the end of. ‘I bought a couple of cakes from the bakery for us.’ Anna tilted her head to one side and smiled.

‘Sounds good. Are you trying to fatten me up?’ I looked at my daughter, grateful for her concern.

‘You guessed!’

We ate the steak pie I’d prepared and lingered over coffee, neither of us in a hurry to start our task.

‘You always could make great pastry, Mum, it was delicious. Mine’s always like leather. I need more practice. Have you been out at all this week?’ I knew Anna was concerned that I should start to build some sort of new life without Ronald.

‘Oh, the odd bit of shopping and I met a friend for coffee yesterday.’

‘Good, you need to make an effort.’

‘I miss your dad.’ I said the words without thinking and then stupidly added, ‘Don’t you?’

Anna looked stunned. I should have known better.

‘You can’t say we had the closest of relationships, can you? Even from being very young, I always felt I was a nuisance to Dad, and he clearly didn’t want me around.’

‘That’s not strictly true. Dad did try his best, you know.’ I’d opened a can of worms here; how could I have been so stupid when things were going so well between us?

‘Try his best! What was there to try, Mum? I was his daughter.’ The anger was rising in Anna’s voice. ‘Surely he should have loved me for who I was? I wasn’t the most difficult of children yet he couldn’t wait to get rid of me, which you know as well as I do!’

‘You don’t understand … it was difficult for him.’

‘Don’t understand what? I know he had a hard time in the navy but you’d think he’d appreciate his family after all the trouble he saw. Anyway, he left the service after the Falklands, didn’t he? Dad wasn’t the only one to be traumatised and it was over thirty years ago!’

‘Yes, but settling back into civilian life wasn’t easy. You were just a tiny baby and he wasn’t used to children.’

Anna’s eyes flashed with fury. ‘Not many new parents are! Couldn’t he have tried a bit harder? You always did defend him, Mum, but why? He was the adult. I was the child, yet I don’t ever remember any genuine affection from him. My only memories are of being in the wrong and not doing the right thing, whether at school or home. Would it have been too much to ask of my own father to have found something in me he could be proud of? And now he’s dead I’m feeling guilty again. He’s still making me feel like I’ve done something wrong!’

Angry tears were spilling over. Anna’s words were spoken and couldn’t be taken back. I regretted allowing this conversation to develop. It was stupid of me to expect Anna to make allowances for Ronald when she didn’t know the truth.

A few moments of silence seemed to cool the room. I hesitated over what to say next, longing for Anna to understand why Ronald behaved as he did but not wishing to hurt her. Eventually, I decided on honesty.

‘Perhaps there is something you should know, Anna. Your dad tried hard with you, he really did, and I don’t want you to remember him with such negative feelings. He wasn’t a bad man and maybe I should have told you this before, but then it wouldn’t have been fair on your dad…’

‘There you go again, defending him! What about me? What is it I should know?’

‘When … your dad came back from the Falklands, I was already nearly three months pregnant with you.’

‘So what?’

‘He’d been on a tour of duty for six months, Anna. You weren’t his baby, his biological child.’ I felt the blood drain from my face as shame washed over me. If I hadn’t already been seated, I would most likely have collapsed. It was the hardest thing I’d ever had to say to my daughter – or anyone.

Over the years, I’d considered telling Anna the truth many times, thinking she had a right to know or that it would help her understand Ronald’s position, but courage always failed me, until now. Somehow it was vital that Anna’s memory of the man she’d called father was not one of a bully or an uncaring man. I owed as much to Ronald.

The silence seemed to stretch for an eternity. I think we were both lost for the right words to say until Anna’s low accusing voice broke into the quiet.

‘So – are you saying you had an affair while Dad was away fighting in the Falklands?’

The words sounded dirty, disapproving and understandably so. I hardly knew how to answer, feeling suddenly sordid. I was so used to defending my husband – not myself.

‘I wouldn’t describe it as an affair, no.’

‘Just a one-night stand then? That’s bloody perfect!’ Anna pushed the chair away as she stood, grabbed her coat and ran angrily out of the front door into the pouring rain, slamming it as hard as she could and I was left berating myself for being such a fool.

What kind of Pandora’s box had I opened?

FOUR

ANNA

It’s hardly surprising that my thoughts refused to shift from my mother’s revelation. Why hadn’t she told me this before, and why do so now? I was stunned, at a loss for an answer. If anyone ever suggested to me that Mum was the sort of woman to have an affair, I’d have laughed loud and long, but clearly, I didn’t know her as well as I thought.

Even now, in her fifties, she’s an attractive woman but most definitely not the sort to seek attention from other men. Mum loved Ronald. That much was plain to see. She cared for him with genuine affection and stayed with him through good and bad, hardly the actions of a woman who would have an affair.

Unwelcome thoughts crowded my mind, robbing me of sleep. Each rumination posed more questions, the most urgent being, who was my father? I knew Mum and I should discuss this rationally like the adults we were, yet I felt anything but rational and more like a petulant child. I wanted to stamp my feet and shout it’s not fair. I needed time to calm down, to process this shocking news.

Mum rang soon after I arrived home, but when I saw her number, I didn’t answer. Another childish reaction; perhaps I was trying to punish her when in reality, she’s probably punished herself enough over the years and likely regretted her actions and the hurt they’d caused Dad, and indirectly, me.

Perhaps if Mum had remained faithful to Ronald, things would have been different. It was no longer surprising that he didn’t like me. I was another man’s child, a constant reminder of his wife’s infidelity. If Mum’s reason for revealing this to me was to explain Ronald’s feelings, then to some degree she’d succeeded, although there’s so much more I need to know.

Why had Ronald stayed with her? Why accept another man’s child in name but not emotionally? Would it have been better if they’d separated? The speculation didn’t help and my brain swam with thoughts which stubbornly refused to shift. Yes, Mum and I needed to talk but not yet. It was too raw.

Sleep eventually came and I woke after five hours, surprisingly alert but with my mind still fizzing with the previous day’s revelation. The day held responsibilities when all I wanted was to pull the covers over my head and go back to sleep. Impossible.

The hours stretched uninvitingly before me and I knew I’d struggle to concentrate at work. Still, I dragged myself out of bed and into the shower hoping the water would wash away the unpleasant feelings which returned with consciousness to trouble me again. I went through the motions of making coffee and toast but left them on the side to go cold and headed out to the hospital.

With Mum’s disclosure still at the forefront of my mind, I’d completely forgotten that I’d promised to go to the theatre with Joel. Now regretting accepting the invitation, I wondered if I could wriggle my way out of it. However, when I saw the look on his face as he offered to pick me up later, I couldn’t bring myself to disappoint him and decided to go. Besides, it would give me something else to worry about, like deliberately bashing your hand to take your mind off the pain in your foot.

The day passed quicker than I expected, although I longed to be home, to indulge my inner slob and do nothing more taxing than watching mindless TV. But it wasn’t to be. I was committed to going out. Hopefully, Joel realised this was only a platonic thing; having two tickets, presumably, he’d simply asked me to accompany him rather than waste one of them.

I scanned my wardrobe, wondering what to wear. Not being a great one for going out or socialising in general, there were few choices which should have made the decision easier but didn’t. What did people wear for the theatre these days? It was such a long time since I’d been – casual or smart.

I settled on semi-smart as it was only the local theatre and not London’s West End. Hopefully, a calf-length skirt with high boots and a soft light blue jersey top was the right combination. I didn’t want Joel to think I’d made a huge effort with my appearance, yet it was important to look right for the occasion. But what was the occasion, a date or a couple of friends sharing an evening out together?

‘Stop it, Anna!’ My words were directed to the reflection in the bedroom mirror. ‘You always have to overthink things. Just let it go and enjoy the evening for what it is.’ I finished brushing my hair which was loose rather than pinned up as it generally was for work, and sighed at the finished result. I’d got it right, not over the top, just enough.

As I turned to move away from the mirror, I paused, struck by the reflection which stared back at me. On close inspection I was clearly nothing like Ronald Greenwood. Why had I not noticed before? He had brown eyes, and mine were blue – I had my mother’s oval face yet not her petite frame, and her eyes were grey. Did my height or my dark blonde hair come from my biological father? Mum’s revelation threw up many unanswered questions yet there was no time to consider them.

Joel was bang on time and he also looked entirely different from when at the lab but then we all wore the same insipid white lab coats there. Individuality was non-existent in the working environment. A slightly awkward moment passed as Joel complimented me on my appearance; it sounded remarkably like the beginning of a date rather than the friendship thing I was aiming for, but I thanked him graciously and we set off. Joel’s black Peugeot 308 convertible was undoubtedly a step up from the battered ten-year-old Mini I drove when it deigned to start.

To my surprise, I actually enjoyed the evening. The show was brilliant and as I was drawn into the music, I felt my body and mind relaxing, letting go of my worries for a while at least. The cast was small but exceptionally versatile and talented with infectious enthusiasm. Joel ordered wine at the bar during the interval and we chatted easily about the first half and the music we’d heard.

‘It amazes me how they can alter the whole feel of the stage with only a few simple props and clever lighting; subtle but brilliant changes,’ I marvelled. ‘They’ve achieved exactly the right atmosphere and mood for each song.’

‘You were singing along with most of the songs, Anna. Do you have a favourite?’ Joel smiled and I felt my cheeks burn.

‘Oh no, I wasn’t singing aloud, was I? I love them all, but Les Misérables’ music really moves me. I saw the London show with a friend one weekend ages ago and became hooked immediately. Not knowing the story, I bought the CD and read up on it afterwards. To hear those songs again with some idea of the plot makes them even more powerful. I love them!’

‘I’m glad you came and that you’re enjoying yourself.’ Joel smiled again and reached across the table, covering my hand with his own. I was taken entirely by surprise and immediately snatched my hand away as if I’d been scalded.

‘Sorry…’ Joel looked hurt and confused. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you.’

I immediately felt stupid; it was hardly the most intimate of gestures, just a touch.

‘Shouldn’t we be getting back in now? I think they’ve rung the first bell.’ How pathetic was I?

Joel drank the last of his wine and stood to leave, his arm outstretched to allow me to go first and being careful not to make physical contact.

The second half of the show was as good as the first. Andrew Lloyd Webber’s compositions featured largely in this section, and I found myself lost in the evocative music from shows including Phantom of the Opera, Aspects of Love and Evita.

When the final encore was over and the curtain fell, my thoughts returned to reality. Looking at Joel, whose handsome face still reflected some of his earlier confusion, I attempted to make up for my previous reaction by smiling warmly.

‘It’s been a lovely evening, Joel. I’ve enjoyed it so much, thank you.’

Joel smiled too, yet his eyes still held a degree of puzzlement. He appeared unsure of where he stood.

On the way home, the conversation focused solely on the show, and when Joel left me at my flat, we said an awkward goodbye. He didn’t attempt to touch me again.

Walking into the darkness of the flat, I shivered. Lucy’s presence was even more welcome than usual as the little cat jumped down from the sofa, stretching her front paws before padding over to rub against my legs. Her affection lifted my mood. The visit to the theatre was a brilliant mid-week interlude in what was usually a rather mundane life, but it left me with a weird melancholy.

Opening the back door to let Lucy out, I filled a glass of water, picked up an apple from the fruit bowl and settled down on the sofa. I’d give Lucy half an hour or so before calling her in for the night. Strangely I needed her company.

Reflecting on the evening stirred mixed emotions. The music was incredible and for that reason alone I was glad to have seen the performance, but Joel was a different matter. Undeniably good company and a very attractive companion, it somehow felt like I’d mishandled the evening. In hindsight it might have been better to have laid down some ground rules before accepting the invitation but I could hardly have given Joel a list of conditions. It was only natural he’d thought of the evening as a date, and truthfully part of me knew this. Was I being unfair to him? Perhaps so. I can be so stupid at times but I’d apologise tomorrow at work.

Another question gnawing at the back of my mind was whether I wanted to go out with Joel again. Wasn’t I the one who was intent on a single life? Seeing a man certainly threw that idea out of the window. Yet the thought of being with Joel outside of work appealed to me; he was great company with a gentle personality, amusing and even witty at times. Damn it, I’d probably ruined it by recoiling from his touch.

It wasn’t as if he’d been taking liberties, he only reached for my hand, yet his simple touch seemed to pierce the protective bubble I’ve so carefully built around myself. His one gentle touch challenged the persona I presented to the world of being a happily single young woman. Was I honestly as happy being alone as I told myself?

It was too late for such soul searching and my mother’s revelations had confused me more than I cared to admit. This was certainly not the time to be making decisions about relationships; I needed to get my head around the issue of my father, and the only way forward was through talking to Mum.

An urgent mewing at the door broke into my thoughts and rising to let Lucy back in I decided to go to bed. Lucy followed, jumping up and claiming her space on the duvet. Stroking her small warm head as she purred beside me, I wondered if my cat’s company was indeed all I needed for a happy future.

FIVE

ANNA

I resolved to do two things the following day. The first was to thank Joel for our evening out and apologise for my pathetic behaviour. The second was to ring my mother and arrange to see her again. Knowing what she was like, I was sure she’d be fretting, worrying about me and what she’d told me. Mum shouldn’t have to feel this way when she’s grieving. I was ashamed of my behaviour towards her; she was still my mum and I loved her whatever she’d done in the past.

It was a quiet day in the lab with all work up to date. I’d have preferred to be busy, without time to think. A hectic day always passed quickly. Still, it was Friday and not much new work came in before the weekend. I made coffee in the small rest-room, affectionately referred to as ‘the cupboard’ when Joel came in, stopping abruptly when he saw me.

I smiled at him. ‘It’s okay. I’m just having a coffee. Would you like one?’

‘Yes, please, strong and hot, milk and sugar.’ He relaxed, returning my smile, and then sat in one of the two easy chairs, watching as I made the drinks. We drank our coffee in silence and I found myself frantically trying to think of something to say to keep Joel in the room a while longer. I craved his company but was afraid I’d ruined any chance of friendship which might have been possible.

‘I enjoyed our trip to the theatre, Joel. Thank you for such a lovely evening. I’ve been playing CDs from the shows ever since, and I swear even my cat knows the words by heart now.’ What was I thinking, rambling on like a mad woman? What would he think?

‘Good. I enjoyed it too. Maybe we could go out again sometime?’

The suggestion both surprised and delighted me. Next time I’d try not to make such a fool of myself.

‘Yes, I’d like that.’ I smiled and felt my face redden. Thoughts of Joel were popping into my mind quite frequently, and in a romantic way too. I wondered what would have happened if I’d responded differently the previous night – what it would be like for him to kiss me. Then I reminded myself of my resolution to stay single – but were my reasons for such thinking now baseless?

Knowing the truth about Mum’s marriage was throwing every certainty I’d ever held on to away. I didn’t even know who I was anymore. It seemed the most inappropriate time to be thinking of entering a relationship, but my heart was telling me I wanted to see Joel again, to have a second chance, and it looked as if it might be possible after all.

‘You seem a little distracted today, Anna. Is everything all right?’ His perception shouldn’t have surprised me but it did, and for a moment I didn’t know how to answer.

‘I wish it was. Since Dad died, I’ve learned some disturbing things which I can’t seem to get my head around. I went to see Mum yesterday, and she told me something which wasn’t easy to take in.’ I took a sip of coffee and raised my eyes to look at Joel, hoping I’d not scare him off again. Quite the opposite it appeared; his expression showed nothing but concern.

‘Sorry, I’ll not bore you with all my family problems. I’ll get over it.’ I waved my hand, trying to make light of it.

‘It wouldn’t bore me. If you do ever want to talk, I’m here for you, Anna.’

‘Thank you. I might just take you up on it.’

Fulfilling the second promise to myself, I rang Mum to suggest meeting at the weekend for coffee and proposed a neutral venue, thinking it would be more appropriate, although I didn’t know why. Too many memories at her house, perhaps, or fear of losing my temper again if we were at my flat. Mum was delighted to hear from me and I felt ashamed not to have rung sooner. We agreed to meet the following day, Saturday, at a quiet coffee shop on the High Street.

The morning was dry with a chill February wind. As I entered the coffee shop, I saw Mum sitting in a window seat staring somewhat distractedly into the street. She saw me enter and smiled as I approached. We ordered drinks, and when they arrived, I shivered, wrapping my hands around the hot latte for comfort and warmth, unsure what to say now I was here.

‘I owe you an apology, Mum. My behaviour the other day was completely out of order. I shouldn’t have stormed off.’

‘You had a shock. It was as much my fault as yours. Although, perhaps I shouldn’t have told you, I just hoped it would explain why your dad, sorry, Ronald, felt as he did.’

‘Maybe I understand better now, but it’s raised so many other questions. I presume you know who my real father is. Are you going to tell me?’

Mum hesitated before replying. Her voice was low, and sadness clouded her face ‘I honestly don’t think it would do any good. He doesn’t know about you and I’d rather keep it that way.’

‘But what about me? Don’t I have a right to know? What if there was a medical emergency and I needed a kidney or something?’

Mum lifted her head and raised an eyebrow.

‘Okay, I know it’s a bit far-fetched, but it would surely help me understand if you told me more about what happened?’

‘Please, Anna, I need you to trust me on this. It wouldn’t benefit you in the slightest to know who he is. Haven’t I always done what’s best for you in the past? Can we just drop this and talk about something more cheerful?’

Once again, I experienced the familiar sense of frustration and a swelling seed of anger. Perhaps it was as well we were meeting in a public place. However, seeing the hopeful expression on Mum’s face softened my mood. So many good times from childhood flashed across my mind, and I knew for the present at least, I would have to trust my mother’s judgement.

‘All right, Mum. I’ll try to forget about it for now but maybe next time we meet, at least have a good reason why you think I shouldn’t know who he is. So can we leave it there?’

‘I won’t change my mind – can you consider trusting me on this?’

Stalemate.

Disappointment niggled at me, yet I’d asked Mum to reconsider and it seemed reasonable that we should both reflect before we next met. So the subject was closed, at least for the moment.

Mum asked about work and how things were going in general. I clung to those good times I’d recently recalled, which helped keep me calm and see other facets of Mum’s personality instead of dwelling on this one significant disagreement. Yet still, it was almost impossible to look at her without thinking about my father, my birth father. Having always been the curious sort, I knew not knowing would gnaw at my mind. Would I be able to let it go?

An hour went by, during which we managed to avoid talking about the past other than in general terms. Walking home later, I was glad to have made an effort to remain calm. Our relationship was too precious to ruin. Surely we could find a way to resolve this issue, even if it meant compromise on both sides.

SIX

CAROLINE

I could procrastinate no longer and was finally sorting through my husband’s papers. His birth certificate and naval discharge papers were stored in a metal box together with our marriage certificate and Ronald’s death certificate. In the same cupboard, crammed with several years’ worth of miscellaneous items we’d kept for sentimental reasons, were newspaper accounts of the sinking of HMS Sheffield.

On 4 May 1982, an Exocet missile fired from an Argentinean warship hit HMS Sheffield eight feet above the waterline, tearing a gash four feet by ten feet in her side. The missile’s burning rocket set fire to the Sheffield, damaging the electricity generating systems and preventing anti-fire mechanisms from working. The water main was also ruptured in the attack, and as there was no way the fires could be extinguished, an evacuation was initiated.

HMS Sheffield had only just relieved her sister ship, HMS Coventry, from defence watch when the missile hit, fired from a distance of only six miles, the equivalent of point-blank range. The stricken vessel was towed away from the task force to prevent the assisting ships from becoming a sitting duck target for Argentinean aircraft. Burns casualties were evacuated first, and uninjured crew members waited helplessly on the deck, watching and waiting for their turn.

Ronald was one of the navy personnel who watched in horror from the deck as injured shipmates were helped into lifeboats. In agony from their burns, the screams and cries of grown men could be heard above the rough seas as Ronald waited in turn, praying the Sheffield would remain afloat until they were all safe. Chaos and confusion coloured the scenes on deck, with the faces of the injured barely recognisable, burned and disfigured by the greedy flames. Ronald told me later that fleetingly he’d wondered if they would all have been better off going down with their ship.

He learned of twenty men who lost their lives that day, twenty comrades who would never return to their waiting families and another twenty-six who were injured. It was a life-defining moment for Ronald – an event which would remain with him forever as if the flames had seared some inner part of his soul, a part which was destroyed with his dead comrades. He too suffered injuries, painful burns to his hands and face and a deep gash to his right leg, which later needed twenty-six stitches. Ronald played down the pain he suffered, always mindful of those who could no longer feel pain.

It was an event which changed my life too, although there’d been an even more personal violation while Ronald was away serving his country.

Returning to sea was not an option for my husband after the Falklands. Perhaps he’d lost his nerve, or maybe it was what we now know as post-traumatic stress disorder, but Ronald accepted an honourable discharge and only occasionally missed the sea and his comrades. Being a skilled engineer, he soon found work, and although I pleaded with him to take time off to recover from his ordeal, he was a proud man and started working again as soon as his physical injuries allowed.

The memories were painful. I switched on a few lamps to disperse the early-evening gloom, and the room was comfortably warm. When the doorbell rang, I’d already spread the papers over the dining room table and had studied each one deciding which to keep and which to consign to the bin, telling myself to be practical and dispassionate. I answered the door, and Anna stood on the porch wrapped up warmly against the bitter wind, dancing from one foot to another to keep warm. I was not expecting my daughter.

‘Why don’t you use your key?’ I asked.

‘I don’t have it on me,’ she replied as I dragged her into the warmth. Then, on seeing the clutter spread around the room, Anna paused. ‘Am I interrupting something?’

‘No, no, I’ve been putting this off for ages. You can help if you like?’ I looked hopefully at her.

‘Are they Ronald’s papers?’

‘Yes, although most of them can probably be shredded. I’d appreciate the help, but it’s okay if you don’t want to, I can finish it later.’

‘No, I’ll help. At least I can shred while you do the sorting.’

I made some tea and we sat side by side at the table. I looked again at the documents and lifted another newspaper cutting with headlines about HMS Sheffield.

‘Ronald was never the same after the sinking. He changed. I think a part of him went down with the ship and his lost colleagues, yet he could never talk to me about it. It must have been horrific. I can’t begin to imagine.’

Anna took the cutting from me and started to read. After a few moments, she placed the paper back on the table. ‘How did he change, Mum?’

I was startled at the question. Anna generally avoided talking about Ronald.

‘He’d been so full of life before the Falklands conflict. It wasn’t always easy, him being in the navy, but we managed and the times we did spend together were special, wonderful. He had quite a sense of humour, which was what attracted me to