Chapter 1

Monday, 7 January 2019

Ryton, Tyne and Wear

‘Who the bloody hell is ringing me at this time of night?'

I turned on the bedside light and squinted. It was like having a searchlight shone in my face. I had no idea what time it was. All I knew was that it was still dark, and I should be in dreamland. I couldn't focus on the display of my phone, but it wasn't somebody's name, just a series of random numbers. If this was some knob from a call centre on the other side of the world, I would not be happy.

‘Yes?' I answered. I'm not a morning person. Even when it's actual morning and time to get up for work. I like my bed, and I like my sleep.

‘Dawn Shepherd?'

Oh God, it was someone from a call centre. I could hear the sounds of an open-plan office in the background.

‘Yes?'

‘Do you know a woman by the name of Rita Shepherd?'

Okay, now they had my attention. Suddenly, I was wide awake.

‘Yes, she's my mother. Who is this?'

‘My name is Suzanne Hardy. I'm a constable with Northumbria Police.'

‘Police? What's happened?' A phone call in the middle of the night is never good news. But when the call is from a police officer, it can only mean one thing. Oh my God, please don't let Mum be dead. She's the only relative I've got left.

‘A woman was found attempting to break into a shop in the shopping precinct in Blaydon. We arrested her for drunk and disorderly. She gave us the name of Rita Shepherd and your contact details.'

‘What? That can't be right. My mother doesn't drink. Are you sure it's my mum?'

‘Five foot two inches tall, slim, about seven stone, dark brown shoulder-length hair, a tattoo on the inside of her left arm with a date, the fifth of November 1998.'

‘That's my date of birth.'

‘In that case, we have your mother in the station. Apparently, the shop she was trying to break into was her own,' said the police officer.

‘Hollyhocks?'

‘That's the one.'

‘Shit.'

‘I've spoken to your mother at length and, in between crying, she's told me a rather distressing tale. Do you think you could come and collect her?'

‘Erm… yes… of course. I'll be right down.'

This made no sense. My mum doesn't touch alcohol. Why was she trying to break into her own shop when she had a key, and why the hell was she drunk? She won't even have sherry trifle at Christmas.

I kicked off the duvet and immediately felt the chill of the cold winter night. I'm not the neatest person in the world, so I had to scramble around the floor trying to find something decent and warm to wear. I grabbed my keys from the chest of drawers and was just about to leave my bedroom when I caught sight of myself in the mirror. I could not leave the house with dried drool on my chin, a crease in my face and my hair all over the place.

I ran into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. That certainly woke me up. I couldn't do anything about the crease running down my cheek – hopefully it would have faded by the time I got to the station – but a beanie hat would hide the Russell Brand tragedy I call my hair.

There wasn't a cloud in the sky when I left the block of flats, just an infinite number of stars. It was bloody freezing, and frost sparkled on every surface under the sodium of the street lamps.

I drive a VW Golf which is almost as old as I am. I slammed the door once I was inside and the sound resounded around the quiet neighbourhood. A light went on across the street. Oops. Never mind. The engine started on the sixth attempt. By the time it came to life, more lights had come on in houses along the road. I didn't turn the heater on. My car couldn't cope with driving and warming up the people inside at the same time. It was one or the other. I'd have to remain cold.

As I entered the police station, I realised this was my first time inside one. I'd recently started a new job: I was on the cusp of becoming one of the great paralegals of the twenty-first century… Although, at present, my job was mostly filing, making coffee and asking Sharon if she wanted any post taking to the box on the corner. Still, we all have to start somewhere.

The tired-looking bloke behind the desk took my name, and I sat down on the hard plastic chair, looking around me at all the crime prevention posters. There was a strong smell of disinfectant that was tickling my nostrils. I wanted to sneeze, but the desk sergeant looked like he was about to nod off, and I didn't want to disturb him.

The door to the main part of the station opened, and a short, stick-thin police officer stepped out. She looked younger than me, and her uniform seemed a size too big.

‘Miss Shepherd?'

‘Yes.'

‘I'm PC Hardy. We spoke on the phone. Would you like to come through?'

There I was, five foot seven, twenty-one years old and, despite my mother's many reassurances that I'm big-boned and have childbearing hips, I prefer to speak plainly and call myself fat. Next to me was a teeny-tiny police officer, and we were walking down the corridor looking like a comedy double act. I felt like I was in a farce.

‘What happened?' I asked. ‘My mum doesn't drink. She doesn't like alcohol. She never has done.'

‘Well, I'm afraid she's taken a taste to it now. In a big way.'

‘And you say she was trying to break into her own shop?'

‘She was kicking the bottom glass panel of the front door. It's going to need replacing, I'm afraid.'

‘Are you charging her with anything?'

She stopped walking. I carried on until I couldn't hear her dinky feet catching up alongside me.

‘I've had a chat with your mum. She's told me something quite distressing. Have you noticed a change in her behaviour lately?'

I thought for a moment. ‘She's been a bit quieter than usual, I suppose.'

‘And she hasn't said anything to you about… anything?'

‘Like what?'

‘Look.' PC Hardy placed a hand on my arm. It wasn't comforting at all. In fact, it was incredibly awkward. The only Hardy I want touching me is Tom, and in that scenario, we wouldn't be fully dressed in a police station. ‘There's something your mother has been wrestling with, but I think she's ready to tell you now. I've had a word with my sergeant, and he's perfectly happy to issue your mother with a caution and let her go.'

‘Oh my God. She's ill, isn't she? She's dying.' My eyes filled with tears. I felt sick. I could taste last night's disappointing korma.

‘It's nothing like that, I assure you. It's just… you should prepare yourself for a bit of a shock.'

The first shock was seeing the state of my mother. Rita Shepherd is the complete opposite of me. She's petite, dainty, wee. She wears size eight clothes and size three shoes. She's always dressed smart, doesn't overdo the make-up and has her hair professionally touched up once every three weeks to hide the grey she's paranoid about. The wreck of a woman waiting for me in the charging suite of the local nick was nothing like the person I've called Mum for the last twenty-one years. The moment she looked up and saw me, the tears started to stream down her face. I took a deep breath. I wanted to cry too but knew I needed to be the strong one here. This wasn't going to be easy.

The drive back to Mum's house in Ryton was fraught with tension. I kept glancing at her as we drove quietly along the deserted roads. Every time we passed a lamp-post, and the bright yellow light entered the car, her face lit up. She was unrecognisable. Who was this woman sitting next to me? She was slumped in her seat, arms rigidly folded, a look of tiredness and embarrassment etched on her face. The car reeked of alcohol. I wanted to talk to her, to ask her what the hell was going on, but now wasn't the right time. I just needed to get her home. Besides, I had no idea where to begin. There were so many questions running around my mind, I didn't know which one to ask first.

Once inside the three-bedroom semi-detached house I'd grown up in, in the comfort of a warm living room, both of us holding mugs of hot, strong coffee, I couldn't hold my tongue any longer.

‘You've got some explaining to do, apparently.' I felt like the mother here. This was a real reversal of roles, and I didn't like it.

Mum nodded.

‘What is it? Are you ill?'

‘No,' she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

‘Money worries?'

‘No.'

‘What is it then?'

‘Dawn, just let me tell you in my own way.'

‘Go on then.'

My lips were pursed. I glared at my mum, my role model, my hero. I couldn't begin to fathom what was going on inside her head. We never kept secrets from each other. We prided ourselves on having a very open and honest relationship. I told my mum everything – from the big issues like getting a new job, to the embarrassing ones like the time I was caught having sex in a bus shelter with Mark Foster on the night I passed my driving test. Mum reciprocated. She told me about the time she found a lump in her breast (fortunately, it was only a cyst) and when her business was in trouble (now fully solvent again). There was nothing, as far as I was aware, that my mother could be keeping from me.

‘I was hoping I'd never have to tell you,' Mum began. A tear escaped her left eye and ran down her cheek. ‘I don't buy newspapers, as you know, but I went into Morrisons, and there it was on the front page of a couple of tabloids. I almost collapsed right there and then. I've been looking online ever since, and it looks like it's definitely happening.'

‘Mum… I don't know what you're talking about.'

‘It's about your dad,' Mum said, looking up at me for the first time.

‘My dad?'

She took a deep breath to compose herself. ‘I've been lying to you your whole life. I've always known who your father is. I've always known where he is.'

I could feel my eyes widening. So this was the shock the PC was talking about. When I had been old enough to understand, Mum had sat me down and told me that she hadn't known my dad, that she had just met him at a party, and although it hadn't been planned, she had been over the moon when she discovered she was pregnant. She had known she didn't need a husband or a stepfather to raise me – she was more than capable of bringing me up single-handed, and that's what she had done. I was a credit to her, apparently. Everybody said so. I'm not one to blow my own trumpet, but ten GCSE passes, all As and Bs; three A-levels, two As and a B. And… Screw it, why not brag? A first from Newcastle University.

‘Who is he? Where is he?' I asked, the words tripping over each other as I spoke.

My mum cried. The tears fell in a torrent. She couldn't speak. All my life I'd wanted to know who my dad was. It was hurting me seeing Mum so upset, but I needed her to explain.

From under the sofa cushion, she produced a copy of the Evening Chronicle and handed it to me.

The newspaper was a week old. The front-page headline was huge: STEPHANIE WHITE'S KILLER TO BE RELEASED. I remembered reading that story in my lunch-hour. Stephanie White was a teenage girl who disappeared on her thirteenth birthday in 1999. Her killer was due to be released early for some reason I couldn't remember; I had only skimmed the story. Why was she showing me this?

‘I don't understand,' I said.

‘Dominic Griffiths,' Mum said through the tears, ‘the man who killed Stephanie White. He's your father.'

My stomach lurched, and I suddenly felt freezing cold. What was she saying to me? I couldn't bring myself to look back at the newspaper I was holding. I couldn't take my eyes off my mum, searching her face for answers. She nodded, confirming what she'd said. Eventually, I looked down at the paper on my lap and at the small photograph of a young Dominic Griffiths staring back at me. He had only been twenty years old when that picture was taken, when he'd butchered little Stephanie. He was tall and had broad shoulders, large brown eyes and dark, floppy hair. I remembered looking at this exact same photo when I read the story last week and thought he looked pretty hot for a murderer. I had no idea I'd been looking at my father.

Oh my God, I actually thought my father was hot. My father, the killer.

I heaved. I dropped the paper and lifted a hand to my mouth, but it didn't get there in time. I vomited all over myself.