Chapter 19

I spent most of the night in bed with a tub of Ben and Jerry's while reading Carole's diaries. It wasn't long before I was so engrossed that I forgot about the ice-cream, which wasn't like me at all. They gave me a snapshot of what life was like for Carole and Anthony in those early years of marriage. Some of the entries had Polaroid photos stuck beneath them. I looked at them closely, smiling at the fashions of the Seventies and the hairstyles and the Griffithses' gaudy choice of decoration. It was amazing to see Anthony looking young, cheeks full of colour and standing upright. And he was right, there was a resemblance between me and Carole. They looked genuinely happy in those early years.

Smiling at the photos, exhaustion from the past few days finally caught up with me, and I fell asleep while reading – I hadn't even got to Dominic's birth yet.

The next morning, when I eventually woke, the cardboard tub of ice-cream was a soggy mess of melted chocolate, and there was a suspicious-looking brown stain on the carpet which would take some explaining and probably a great deal of effort to get out. I immediately got back to reading the diaries. In the first few years of wedded bliss, Carole had written about how happy she was to be married, how much she loved her husband and how excited she was to move into their first home together. Soon, the subject of motherhood came up, and she was looking forward to giving her husband a child. She actually used that phrase, as if having a baby was a gift to present to the man of the house. There were several false alarms and a couple of miscarriages, and by the end of the Seventies, Carole was beginning to suspect she'd never have a child. From the language she used, this was unacceptable. She had to become a mother. The mental anguish she felt was evident in the way the writing on the pages became more untidy and deeper-etched, as Carole vented her anger on the pages. She began to despise herself, and I felt tears of sympathy begin to run down my face as I read about how my grandmother hated waking up each morning as a failure of a woman, incapable of performing the most basic function of her gender – to have a child.

Over breakfast, I read more of the diary entries:

A knock on the front door made me jump. My cereal had gone soggy in the bowl while I'd become engrossed, once again, in Carole's diaries. Maybe I should use them as a way to lose weight: read them at mealtimes so I'd forget to eat.

I opened the door to see Robyn on the doorstep, dressed up smart and conservatively but wearing far too much fragrance. I coughed.

‘You either got lucky last night or you've forgotten all about it,' she said, taking in my bed hair, dressing gown and novelty penguin slippers.

‘What?'

‘I don't believe this. You badger me into meeting Barbara White and then forget all about it.'

‘I haven't forgotten. We're not meeting her until half eleven.'

‘It's eleven o'clock now.'

‘What?' I leaned back and looked at the clock on the wall in the kitchen. ‘Fuck!'

Robyn looked at her watch. ‘I'd say you've got about ten minutes to get ready before we can leave without being late.'

‘Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,' I said as I ran to the bedroom.

‘What are these?' Robyn asked, when I came back into the main part of the flat.

I'd had the quickest shower I'd ever had and taken great care not to get my hair wet. I pulled on a pair of black jeans and a cream sweater I'd forgotten I had, deciding once again that it was probably better to tone down the severity of my usual dress code. I'd applied the basic amount of make-up and sprayed myself liberally with an expensive fragrance Mum bought me for Christmas. I smelled nice, looked decent, but felt scruffy. It would have to do. I grabbed my bag, rushed into the kitchen and saw Robyn poring over one of Carole's diaries.

‘You shouldn't be reading those. They're private,' I said, snatching it from her hand.

‘Who wrote them?'

‘It doesn't matter.'

‘It's Dominic's mother, isn't it?'

‘What makes you say that?'

Robyn took the diary back and opened it. ‘"Thursday, the second of June 1988",' she read. ‘"James Flint came around earlier and told me to stop bad-mouthing him to the neighbours. He told me the real reason why he hadn't invited Dominic to his youngest's birthday party, despite inviting all the other kids in the street. It turns out all the other children are frightened of Dominic. He hasn't done anything wrong. He's just quiet, that's all. I've tried to get him to play with the other kids, interact, but he's not interested. He just sits there, staring at them. I tried to defend Dominic to James, but I don't think I did a good enough job. I don't even know what words I used. The thing is, I perfectly understand. Dominic scares me, too, sometimes, with his silence and his staring."'

Robyn stopped reading and looked up at me.

‘I haven't got that far yet,' I said.

‘Why have you got all these diaries? What's going on?'

‘Look, Robyn, we're going to be late. I'll explain everything on the way.'

By the time I found a parking space in Eldon Square, Robyn knew everything.

‘Oh my God, you should so sell your story,' was the first thing she said.

‘What? I don't bloody think so.'

‘Why not? You could make a fortune out of this. The newspapers would make you a good offer. So would the glossy magazines and all those sad-rags you find in the dentists' waiting rooms. Then there's telly. They're bound to want you on This Morning. It's a shame Jeremy Kyle's no longer on.'

‘Robyn, will you stop. I have no intention of selling my story, and I've absolutely no desire to go on TV. This is my life, and it's private.'

‘You're missing out on some serious cash, babe.'

‘I don't care. You'd better not tell anyone either. I mean it, Robyn. This is personal.'

Robyn's face softened. ‘You're right. I'm sorry. I was getting ahead of myself. You must be going through hell right now.'

I pulled into the space and turned the engine off. ‘To be honest, I don't know how I'm feeling. I was shocked, obviously, but… well, Dominic has always denied killing Stephanie. He's spent twenty years in prison. Without this Fenadine business, he'd only have another five years left, then he'd be out on licence anyway. He's served the majority of his sentence, so why not just admit killing her if he did it?' I frowned.

‘Do you think he's innocent?' Robyn asked.

It was a while before I replied. ‘I have no idea.'

‘You must think he is, or you wouldn't be going to all this trouble. If there was a hint of doubt in your mind, you wouldn't be pursuing it like this.'

‘Do you think?'

‘Definitely. You're not the type of person to risk everything, knowing there's no chance of winning.'

I looked out of the windscreen at the concrete car park. It was overcast, and there was a stiff, cold wind blowing – I could feel it through the gaps in the car where the sealing had perished. Robyn was right. I did believe my father could be innocent.