Chapter 12

I sat in front of the mirror in my bedroom doing my make-up. I was on the bed, and the mirror was on top of the chest of drawers, propped up against the wall. I chose a dark red lipstick, a thick layer of black eyeliner and a new kind of mascara that was supposed to make my lashes longer and thicker, but I hadn't noticed any difference so far. During working hours, I had my thick, dyed hair tied back professionally into a ponytail rather than the beehive I wore at weekends and for nights out. My style was old-fashioned; I loved the look of the Sixties and often joked to Mum I had been born forty years too late.

My mobile rang. I'd been playing a Dusty Springfield album on it, but the music abruptly stopped when the call came through. I looked at the display and saw Mum was ringing. I rolled my eyes. I didn't need another lecture. Not right now. I already had enough to contend with that morning, and my nerves were playing havoc with my stomach. I had made up my mind and didn't want it changing for me. The ringing stopped, and Dusty went back to singing about the son of a preacher man. I loved that song. I knew it by heart. I had sung it once at a karaoke night in the local pub. By the time I finished there was only Robyn left. If she hadn't been with me on the night out, I think she'd have left too. Singing wasn't my thing, evidently.

I left my flat, locked the door and trotted down the stairs. In the hallway, Robyn was at the post boxes collecting her mail. Robyn Shelley was in her early thirties and worked shifts in a call centre while designing her own clothes in her spare time. Often when I came home and passed her flat, I could hear a sewing machine whirring away.

‘Morning, Dawn. Off to a funeral?'

‘That joke is getting very old, Robyn.'

‘Why do you always wear black? It makes you look ill.'

‘It's a slimming colour.'

‘You've got such a hang-up about your weight. I wish you wouldn't. You're gorgeous. You should flaunt yourself more. I wish I had boobs like you've got.'

‘You wouldn't say that if you'd ever run for a bus with them.' I smiled. ‘You working today?'

‘Not until later. Listen,' she said, pulling me to one side of the hallway and lowering her voice. ‘Did you see the new bloke move in yesterday?'

‘No.'

I had heard the sound of someone walking up and down the stairs but had been too busy searching the internet and worrying about the fractured relationship with my mother to care.

‘Oh my God, Dawn, you should see him. He's absolutely gorgeous. He looks just like Chris Hemsworth. Or is it Chris Pratt? Actually, I think it might be Chris Evans. Anyway, one of the hot Chrises. I held the door open for him while he was bringing in a couple of boxes, and the way he smiled at me, I'm sure my ovaries did a little dance,' she said, with an excited grin on her face.

‘There's a mental image I'm not going to be able to unsee,' I said.

‘I'm going to pop round later, see if he's all right for coffee and sugar.'

‘I'd get your roots done first, if I were you.'

‘Bloody hell, they're not showing through again already, are they?' she asked, going over to the window in the door to see her reflection. ‘That's the last time I go there. I knew she wasn't putting enough colour on.'

‘Well, as much as I'd love to watch you make a tit of yourself with the new hunk, I've got to get to work.'

‘I'll try and get a photo of him and send it to you,' she said, with a smile.

‘You're a tart, Robyn, do you know that?'

‘You say it like it's a bad thing.' She stuck her tongue out.

I left the building with a smile on my face. For a brief moment, I'd forgotten the huge tasks ahead of me that day. The chat with Robyn had been exactly what I needed to settle my nerves.

It was another cold morning. The sky was cloudless, and the sun was slowly rising. There was a thick layer of frost on the windscreen, and while the engine of the Golf ticked over, I set to work on the windows with a defunct credit card.

Once in the car, while waiting for the rest of the frost to melt, I made a call. Listening to the call pick up, I took a deep breath and cleared my throat.

I had wanted to sound professional and strong, as if I knew what I was talking about, but I ended up chastising myself for stuttering and sounding wet. However, my call had had the required effect, and an appointment was made for later that morning. I just hoped my boss would accept my request for some compassionate leave.

I arrived at work, but I didn't take my coat off. I smiled at my colleagues and headed straight for Mr Schofield's grand office. The second I sat down opposite him, I did something I hadn't expected: I cried. Despite believing myself to be a confident and independent woman, I was still scared of authority and upsetting people. I hoped to plead my case with Mr Schofield and tell him I'd just discovered who my father was and would like some time to get my head sorted. I'd even take unpaid leave. However, the unexpected tears worked in my favour. Mr Schofield, uncomfortable in the company of a weeping woman, called his secretary to come in while he disappeared to another room. Less than an hour later, I left the building. I was to take the rest of the week off, longer if I needed it, and I would still be paid. I made a mental note to buy Mr Schofield a bottle of whisky on my return. He likes a tipple.

By the time it came to eleven o'clock, I had composed myself. It was time to see Clare Delaney.

Clare Delaney worked for Ripley, Blumenthal and Partners. Their head office was on Collingwood Street, not far from where I worked at Schofield and Embleton. The street had imposing Victorian buildings on either side, and the clacking from my heels echoed as I walked as confidently as I could manage. I could see the offices up ahead. The gold lettering above the oak door looked regal and the plaque beside a downstairs window was shiny and new, not tainted by the harsh north-eastern weather. This was a company with money, and they wanted their clients to know it.

I pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside. I was hit with a smell of newness coming from the deep blue carpet which padded my footsteps. The ceilings were high with low-hanging chandeliers, and the walls were painted a brilliant white to accentuate the original artwork adorning them.

‘Can I help you?'

I recognised the haughty voice I'd spoken to on the phone earlier that morning and turned to face a receptionist sitting behind a very grand desk. She was young, slim and pert. Her face looked pinched, and her lips were thin. She eyed me with an arched eyebrow and made a point of showing she was judging my dress and size.

‘I have an appointment with Clare Delaney. My name is Dawn Shepherd.'

The raised eyebrow went further up the receptionist's forehead. She was obviously wondering how an overweight goth could possibly afford the services of one of the junior partners.

The stick-thin receptionist led the way down a long corridor where even more original artwork hung on the walls. I supposed these solicitors' clients must have six-figure salaries and more than two cars in the garage, which made me wonder how Dominic could afford the fees. She knocked lightly on a solid polished door and pushed it open, stepping back to allow me to enter and closing it with a loud bang once I was inside.

Clare Delaney stood up from behind the oversized desk that seemed bigger than my entire flat. ‘Ms Shepherd, I'm Clare Delaney, pleased to meet you. Have a seat.'

She held out her hand which I didn't notice at first because I was so distracted by the grandeur of the room. When we eventually did shake hands, I wasn't totally shocked by the powerful grip. I sat nervously on the leather chair and tried to look like I belonged in a room like this. It wasn't working. To quote Victoria Wood, I felt like a sausage roll in a bag of Twiglets.

‘Angelina tells me you have information regarding Dominic Griffiths,' Clare began.

‘Angelina?'

‘My receptionist.'

‘Oh.' It made sense she had a name as pretentious as Angelina. I wondered if it was a real name or one she'd made up to sound like she came from a privileged background.

Clare Delaney was a tall and broad woman. She wore her dark red hair like a huge mane cascading down around her shoulders. Her make-up was severe, as was her power suit and killer heels. Her accent, although loud and authoritative, was obviously fake. She seemed to be trying to hide her Geordie roots.

‘That's right.' I licked my lips and swallowed hard a couple of times. Nerves were getting the better of me. I'd really need to work hard on my confidence, if I was going to survive in this industry. ‘I recently discovered that Dominic Griffiths is my father.'

Clare's eyes seemed to light up. ‘Really?' she asked, leaning forwards on the desk, interlocking her fingers. ‘Tell me more.'

The fact she was genuinely intrigued, or maybe just loved a bit of gossip, made me smile, and I relaxed. I leaned back in the firm leather chair and told the story of my mum having a year-long relationship with Dominic and falling pregnant on their last night together.

‘That's quite a story. So, why have you come to see me?'

‘I want to know who my father is. I'm getting very conflicting images of him. The press paints him as the embodiment of evil, yet my mum tells me he was a considerate, caring and romantic young man. The two pictures don't match.'

‘Very true. They don't. I first met your father… let's see, when was it?' she mused. ‘It was probably about five or six years ago. Have you heard of a drug called Fenadine?'

‘No.' I didn't mind lying to a solicitor. Besides, she should be used to it.

‘No. You're too young to know about it. Fenadine was an anti-depressant drug used in the Eighties and Nineties. It was removed from the market in 2002. Dominic was taking this drug at the time Stephanie White was killed. At first, Fenadine was seen as a wonder-drug. It was used on children in America who had difficulty concentrating and modifying their behaviour. These days we'd say they had ADHD. It was successful too. Clinical trials continued, and the drug was used to treat adults with depression and anxiety. Unfortunately, there was a snowball effect.'

‘What does that mean?'

‘Well, one person who is going through a brief depressive episode goes to the doctor and is given a low dose of Fenadine for a couple of weeks. The patient recovers, no longer needs the medication, and the doctor presumes it is the medication that was successful in the patient's recovery. Another patient may have required longer on Fenadine before they noticed any difference, or maybe a higher dosage. But it was successful for this patient in just a short time, and suddenly Fenadine is the go-to drug whenever a patient presents with symptoms of depression.'

‘But every patient is different. You can't measure depression, can you?' I asked.

Clare smiled, impressed with my ability to keep up with the narrative. ‘No, you can't. Like you said, everyone is different. Every brain is different, and each brain reacts differently to every type of drug. Not to mention other immeasurable factors going on in people's lives.'

‘So, Dominic was taking this Fenadine, and he had a reaction to it?'

Clare opened her laptop, and with long, slender fingers, nails painted bright red, she hammered on the keyboard. ‘Dominic started on a low dose, just ten milligrams per day. After two weeks, there was no change, so the GP increased the dose to twenty milligrams. There was a marked improvement, so he remained on that dose for three months. By then, his body had become used to the drug, and an increase in the medication was needed. By the time he met Stephanie White, he was taking one hundred and fifty milligrams of Fenadine every day.'

‘Bloody hell!'

‘Exactly.'

‘You said Dominic was depressive and suffered from mood changes, what did that involve?'

‘Are you sure you want to hear all this? It might be upsetting.'

‘No more upsetting than finding out the father you never knew you had is a murderer.'

Clare shrugged and continued. ‘Dominic was very withdrawn. He wouldn't mix with children of his own age, and he would either be very disruptive in class, or he would spend the whole day sitting in the corner of the room not talking, not interacting with anyone. I suppose, if tested, Dominic would have been classed as autistic, or a variation of autism. He seems to have been ignored and fed medication as if doping him up was the answer. At first, Fenadine helped to balance his behaviour. As the dose was increased, instances of his erratic behaviour became more severe.'

‘Severe? How?'

‘At the age of eight, Dominic slapped a girl in the head, so hard she permanently lost the hearing in her right ear,' Clare said, almost nonchalantly.

‘My God.' I gasped.

‘When he was ten, he picked up a mug from a teacher's desk and threw it at the head of a fellow pupil. That child ended up losing his right eye.'

I closed my eyes and put my hand over my mouth. This was shocking. ‘But Dominic wasn't taking Fenadine then.'

‘No. These are the reasons for him taking Fenadine.'

‘How do you know all of this?'

‘I've done my research,' she said with a smile. Or was it a grin? It could have been a smirk. Either way, it reminded me of Jack Nicholson's ‘Here's Johnny!' line in The Shining. Even my goosebumps had goosebumps.

‘Who told you?'

‘Client confidentiality,' she said. Now, it was a sneer.

‘So, when he was on the drug, he was much calmer?'

‘Considerably.'

‘So it worked then?'

‘Until he murdered Stephanie White.'

‘But how do you know that was the drug and not just Dominic?'

‘The last recorded piece of evidence of Dominic's violent behaviour was at the age of fifteen, five years before he killed Stephanie. Towards the end of 1998, Dominic suffered a setback. He'd finished school with very few qualifications. He went to college to retake some GCSEs and hoped to get on an engineering course. He failed. He applied for twenty-six jobs in a three-month period and was turned down for every one of them. He sank into another depressive episode, and his mother sent him back to the GP for a medication review. All they did was increase the dose from eighty milligrams per day to one hundred and fifty.'

‘That's quite a leap.'

‘Which turned him into a killer. He was no longer thinking for himself. His mind, his senses, were dulled by the medication. He wasn't in control. Go and speak to his father, your grandfather, he knows a great deal more about his son than he ever let on to me.'

‘How do you know that?'

A smile appeared on her lips. ‘I meet a great deal of people in my line of work. I can spot a liar from across a crowded room. I've met Anthony Griffiths on many occasions and spoken to him at length about his son's behaviour, before and during taking Fenadine. He knows things he won't share with me. With you being a family member, he may open up more.'

I was frowning. Surely if Anthony knew more, he would have told me when I visited him. Unless he thought he was protecting me.

‘Why is Dominic seeing you?'

‘How do you mean?'

‘I mean, what is it you're doing for him? How did he come into contact with you?'

‘It was me who contacted Dominic. I was researching Fenadine, trying to track down people who had taken the drug and committed acts out of character. In 1995, I represented a woman who assaulted her ex-husband. She was found guilty and given a suspended sentence. However, she felt that, as she was taking Fenadine at the time of the assault, she was not responsible for her behaviour. Following the court case, she came off the medication and had no more outbursts of violent behaviour. Unfortunately, having a conviction had a negative impact on her getting employment. It's taken years, but I successfully sued Maxton-Schwarz, the makers of Fenadine, on my client's behalf. I've since found eighteen similar cases of people taking Fenadine who committed unlawful acts, and I've had their convictions quashed and received settlements from Maxton-Schwarz totalling more than ten million pounds. In America, settlements have totalled almost fifty million dollars.'

‘Bloody hell,' I said. ‘So, Dominic could receive a payout?'

‘Dominic was sentenced to life in prison to serve a minimum of twenty-five years. Although he is still in prison, he will be getting released in the near future. Based on Dominic's good behaviour over the past twenty years in prison and the fact he was under the influence of a prescription drug, now banned, at the time of the murder, I have put together a case that the parole board and the Home Office have accepted. I am hopeful that once this gets to court, I should be able to secure a seven-figure compensation claim from Maxton-Schwarz for your father.'

‘Seven figures? You mean one million pounds?'

‘At least.' She shrugged, as if she dealt with seven-figure sums every day. ‘It's a small price to pay for twenty years of your life.'

‘Oh my God.'

‘Quite,' Clare said, with a smirk on her painted lips.

‘Dominic has always denied killing Stephanie. Has he ever said anything to you about it?'

‘No,' she replied quickly and firmly.

‘Why not?'

‘That has nothing to do with me,' she said, looking away.

‘But you're his solicitor.'

‘I'm representing him in suing Maxton-Schwarz. Whether he killed Stephanie or not is of no consequence to me.'

I was shocked. How could she possibly say that with such coldness?

‘Let's say, for argument's sake, that he is guilty,' I began. ‘Doesn't it worry you that you're helping a convicted killer be released from prison before his time, possibly get his conviction quashed and receive a life-changing amount of money?'

Clare smiled and leaned back in her seat. ‘Dawn, if he's guilty, we are still presented with the question of whether or not he killed her because the balance of his mind was disturbed due to the drug he was taking. Would he have killed her if he wasn't taking Fenadine? Who knows?' She shrugged. ‘It's the fact that he was convicted of a crime, and he was taking a drug which has been proven to alter people's state of mind, that makes his sentence unsound.'

‘But he could have still killed Stephanie, even if he wasn't taking Fenadine.'

Clare squeezed her lips tightly closed. She had no intention of replying to that.

‘This is a lot to take in,' I said.

‘Let me tell you something,' Clare said, leaning forwards on her desk once again. ‘In January 1992, Joshua Clarke was made redundant from a car manufacturer in Austin, Texas. He applied for other jobs, but his age went against him – he was in his mid-fifties. He spent his days at home and his wife was the sole wage-earner. She started working more hours to cover the shortfall in income and was eventually promoted at the hospital where she worked in administration. Her wages increased considerably, and although they were still earning less, with a few cutbacks, they were solvent once again.

‘Joshua Clarke, however, couldn't get a job. He received rejection after rejection, and it got to the point where he rarely left the house. He became depressed. His wife took him to the doctor, and he was prescribed Fenadine. At first, there was no change, so his dosage was increased. He eventually began to feel better and started to leave the house more. Unfortunately, he became paranoid and suspected that his wife was having an affair with someone at work. She had started wearing nicer clothes, make-up and perfume than she had before. She said being in management meant she needed to look the part, but he was convinced she was cheating on him. One night, she was late home from work. There had been a power cut at the hospital and the automatic doors had failed, trapping the staff inside. When she arrived home at eleven o'clock that night, she found her husband waiting in the living room with a loaded shotgun in his hands. He shot her twice in the chest. She was dead before she hit the floor.'

‘Oh my God.'

‘He was sentenced to life in prison. Seven years later, he was released with a cheque for two million dollars in his back pocket, signed by Maxton-Schwarz.'

‘So, even though he killed his wife, he was released from prison?'

‘He hadn't been in his right frame of mind, because he was taking Fenadine,' Clare stated clearly.

‘But he killed his wife.'

‘Yes, he did. And it's tragic,' she said, without emotion in her voice. ‘But he wouldn't have done that had he not been taking Fenadine.'

‘But he might have done.'

‘We can spend eternity arguing what someone may or may not do, depending on what was or was not happening at any particular time. All we have to go on is facts, and in the case of Joshua Clarke and your father, they both committed murder when they were taking Fenadine.'

I felt conflicted. Suddenly, I understood what Mum had been talking about. Even if Dominic hadn't meant to kill Stephanie, he still did, and by releasing him early, it was a slap in the face to Stephanie's memory and her parents who deserved justice.

‘Dawn, have you spoken to your father?'

The question snapped me out of my thoughts, and I looked up. ‘No.'

‘I think you should,' she said, with a glint in her eye. ‘I think it could be beneficial for both of you. You obviously have a great many questions, and I can't answer all of them. He, however, can. And I believe he will, if you're the one asking them. I think you should write to him.'

‘Maybe. I'll give it some thought.'

‘The thing is—' Clare said. She stood up from her chair and walked slowly around her desk, perching herself on the edge, crossing her legs. She was inches away from me and loomed over me like a lion in the jungle glaring down at its trapped prey. ‘Although there is no statute of limitation against bringing a case against Maxton-Schwarz, there is a moral angle we need to consider.'

‘In what way?'

‘Like you said, your father said he didn't kill Stephanie, but he did plead guilty to hiding the body. It's a grey area and one that we could do with adding a dash of colour to, so that when Dominic is released, and the story hits the press, we can draw a line under the case and the public won't be in uproar.'

‘But you said the conviction would be quashed. He wouldn't be a murderer then.'

‘I was getting a little ahead of myself there,' she said, with another twinkle in her eye. ‘The case would go under review. If the panel was to prove Dominic killed Stephanie, the conviction would still stand. Our argument is that he wasn't in the right frame of mind, couldn't be held responsible, but he'd still be a killer in the eyes of the law.'

‘So, you think if he confessed and atoned, or was able to prove his innocence, it would help?'

‘Exactly.' She grinned. ‘I tell you what I'm going to do. I'll contact your father on your behalf. Don't worry, I'm incredibly discreet. I'll set the ball rolling, and we can arrange a meeting.' She smiled, leaned forwards and gave my shoulder a patronising rub like I was a child who'd gone to the toilet on my own for the first time.

Clare jumped down from her desk and went back around to her side. She licked her lips and rubbed her hands like the money-hungry vulture she was. She sat down, picked up her expensive-looking fountain pen and began frantically scribbling notes.

She looked up and stopped as if she'd forgotten I was there. ‘Was there anything else?'

‘Oh. No. I don't think so.'

‘Leave your contact details with Angelina, and I'll be in touch.' She put her head down and continued writing.

I stood up and tentatively walked to the door, guessing the meeting was over. As I left the room and stood in the empty corridor, I couldn't quite understand what had just happened. All I knew was that I had passed the point of no return.