Chapter 6

I parked at the bottom of the cul-de-sac and turned off the engine. It was only half-past five, but it was dark, and according to the weather app on my phone, it was minus one outside. It felt colder in the car.

It hadn't been difficult to find out where Mrs White and her husband lived, from the many news stories online. A number of photographs of Harry and Barbara entering or leaving their house had been taken at the time Stephanie disappeared. I recognised the street, and I spotted the house as soon as I turned in. It hadn't changed much. I hoped they still lived there. The only way to find out was to get out of the car and knock on the door. I was slightly nervous. Actually, that's a lie – I was shitting bricks. If I was simply paying a visit to my old English teacher to reminisce about our school days together, Mrs White would probably welcome me with open arms, but the dark memories of Stephanie's death were unlikely to be something you'd willingly invite into your home.

‘Come on, Dawn, you silly cow.' I often insulted myself. I deserved it for the way I dithered over things. ‘You've come this far, just go and knock on the door.' I took a deep breath and shivered. I opened the car door and stepped out into the freezing cold air.

I could hear my heels clacking on the pavement as I headed up the incline. The noise resounded around the empty neighbourhood. It was only early, but there was nobody around. It felt much later than half-past five.

On the doorstep, I hesitated. This really was the point of no return. I badly needed a wee.

I knocked.

It seemed to take an age for the door to open. When it did, I was bathed in a soothing warm glow, and I could feel the heat from indoors.

‘Mrs White?' I'm not sure why I asked as I recognised her straightaway. She hadn't changed much. A few more wrinkles, greyer hair, and she may have shrunk slightly, or I'd grown, but she still had a kind face and a sweet smile.

‘Yes.'

‘I'm not sure if you remember me. I'm Dawn Shepherd. You taught me English at Benfield School. It must have been about six or seven years ago.' My voice was shaking. Was it nerves or the cold? It was hard to tell.

Mrs White glared at me as she seemed to be searching her memory. I wasn't sure if I'd changed much since my school days. I'd put on weight, and my hair was now black rather than brown. Also, she only ever saw me in school uniform – green sweater and a grey skirt – yet I stood on her doorstep wearing black trousers and a black knee-length coat. All I needed was a scythe, and I could stand in for the Grim Reaper on his days off.

‘You used to run a reading club after school. I fell in love with Wuthering Heights straightaway, and you organised a trip to go and see it when it came to the Royal,' I added, to prompt her memory.

Suddenly, her face lit up.

‘Oh, my goodness,' she said, slapping a hand to her chest. ‘Dawn Shepherd. Yes, I remember you now. How could I forget? Your essay on Little Women had me in tears.'

‘Really?'

‘Absolutely. Come in, come in.' She beckoned, stepping back from the doorway.

‘I'm not interrupting anything, am I? You're not about to sit down to your tea or anything?'

‘No. We don't eat until much later.'

She closed the door behind me. There was definitely no backing out now.

‘Harry, I have a visitor.' She entered the living room, and I followed. It was warm and homely but slightly dated in its decoration.

On the sofa, staring at the TV, was a man of around seventy. He had thinning grey hair, a lined face and sad-looking eyes. He wore grey trousers and a beige sweater, and looked every inch the elderly man, whereas Mrs White was dressed in a bright coloured top and white trousers. She made the introductions and told me to sit down while she made a pot of tea. On her way to the kitchen, she prodded her husband and made him turn off the game show he was watching.

I took off my coat and sat down. The heat from the radiators was beginning to thaw me out. I looked around the living room, and my eyes immediately fell on a framed photograph of Stephanie on the mantelpiece. She was wearing a hooded sweater and a Father Christmas hat, sat in front of a huge Christmas tree, surrounded by presents. As she looked into the camera, she had an enormous grin on her face. I found myself smiling back. She was a pretty girl with dark blonde hair, a smattering of freckles beneath her eyes that danced across the bridge of her nose. Her eyes sparkled.

There were other photographs of Stephanie dotted around the room. Some on the walls, others on shelves and bookcases, all showing Stephanie with a smile on her face, enjoying life.

I swallowed hard. I felt sick. Suddenly, it felt wrong to be there. Maybe Mum was right. I heard Grandad in my head telling me to let sleeping dogs lie. My goodness, he was right.

Something moved out of the corner of my eye. I turned and saw Mr White adjusting his position on the sofa. His face was blank. I wondered if he'd noticed me staring at the photos of his daughter.

‘So, my wife taught you at Benfield?' he asked. His accent was pure Geordie. He sounded exactly like Pop-pop.

‘Yes. She did. My favourite teacher, actually.'

That made him smile. ‘She always wanted to be a teacher, right from a young age. She couldn't imagine doing anything else.'

‘She was an excellent teacher.'

He leaned forwards and lowered his voice. ‘You're not a journalist now, are you?'

‘No,' I said, placing my hand on my heart.

‘Good. I won't have my wife upset.'

A shiver ran down my spine.

‘Here we are then,' Mrs White said, as she breezed into the room carrying a heavy-laden tray.

I hadn't had enough time to react to Mr White's warning. I wanted to leave. The last thing I wanted was to upset either of them.

Mrs White placed the tray on the coffee table. There was a large white teapot decorated with flowers growing up from the base, matching cups and saucers and a matching plate with a mixture of biscuits laid out on it.

She poured the tea and handed the cups round, telling me to help myself to milk and sugar from the matching jug and bowl. She was full of smiles, and I smiled back, but I kept stealing the odd glance at Mr White. Although both of them had welcomed me into their home, there was a hint of sadness about them. Their smiles didn't quite reach their eyes. It was understandable: the murder of their only child would stay with them for the rest of their lives. They wouldn't have got over the loss of Stephanie, but they would have adapted to a life without her. They'd go on holiday. They'd enjoy birthdays and Christmases together. They'd laugh and go for meals out, but at the back of their minds was the knowledge their only child had been brutally murdered, and that would put a dark tinge on any celebration.

‘So, what have you been doing with yourself since you left Benfield?' Mrs White asked. She sat back in her armchair opposite me, crossed her legs and blew on her tea before taking a sip.

‘I went to Newcastle University. I studied English Literature and Law.'

‘You kept up with the English then; that's good.'

‘Yes.' I smiled and felt myself relaxing. ‘You got me interested in the classics. I was hooked right away.'

‘Do you still read them?'

‘Not as much as I used to, unfortunately. I started The Tenant of Wildfell Hall before Christmas, and I'm not even halfway through yet. Work takes up a lot of my time.'

‘What is it you do?' Mr White asked. He too had his legs crossed and held a cup and saucer in his hand, but his expression was sceptical. Always the detective, I assumed.

‘I'm a junior paralegal. I work for Schofield and Embleton in town.'

‘Oh, I know them,' Mr White said. ‘A good firm. Are you enjoying it?'

‘So far.'

‘That's good. Your mother must be very proud of you.' Mrs White smiled.

‘She is.'

‘Let me think,' she said, with a frown. ‘She had a shop, didn't she? At Blaydon?'

‘Yes. A florist. Hollyhocks.'

‘That's right. I remember now. Does she still have it?'

‘Yes. It's doing very well.'

‘Good. I'm glad.'

Mrs White took a sip of her tea and looked at her husband over the top of her cup. I felt as if some kind of question had been asked between the two of them telepathically.

‘Forgive me for being so blunt,' Mr White said. ‘But why have you come here?'

‘Ah.' I could hear my cup rattling in the saucer so decided to place it back on the tray. ‘I'm not quite sure how to say this. I don't even know if I should've come here, but… well, you were my favourite teacher, Mrs White?—'

‘Goodness, call me Barbara,' she interrupted.

I smiled. ‘Barbara. Thank you. I felt that if I didn't come and tell you then it would always weigh on me. I don't know if I'm doing the right thing or not.'

‘Dawn, slow down. What's happened?'

I closed my eyes for a moment and took a deep breath and tried to draw some energy from somewhere deep inside me to break the bad news.

‘I'm not sure if you remember, but my mum brought me up by herself. Well, my grandparents were there a lot, but it was my mum who… Sorry, I'm waffling.' I took another deep breath. ‘A few days ago, my mum told me who my father was. She had always told me it was someone she met at a party whom she didn't really know. It turns out that was a lie. She did meet him at a party, but they went out together for about a year. She knew exactly who he was but didn't tell me, as she wanted to protect me from the truth.'

Barbara's face had dropped. The smile had gone, and she looked tense.

‘My father… is Dominic Griffiths.'

Barbara visibly baulked at the mention of his name. She let out a noise that sounded like an animal in pain. It was like I'd slapped her in the face. Mr White jumped forwards, grabbed the cup and saucer from her and placed it on the tray. He perched on the edge of the armchair and wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

‘I think it's probably best if you go,' he said.

‘I'm so sorry.' It sounded insincere, but it was the truth. ‘I really didn't mean to upset you like this.'

‘Please. Just go.'

I stood up and reached for my coat.

‘No. Wait.'

I looked back. Barbara had stood up.

‘Don't go. Sit down. Please.'

‘Barbara, love, we don't need this.'

‘No. We don't. Neither does Dawn. But we're lumbered with it. Now, let's all just sit down.'

Barbara sat first. I followed. It was a while before Mr White took his eyes off me and went back to his place on the sofa.

‘I'm guessing you didn't know he had a child,' I said. ‘I don't think anyone did. Mum certainly didn't tell anyone. She only told me because… well, recent events have been playing on her mind.'

Barbara's eyes filled with tears. ‘It can't have been easy for her,' she said, though her words lacked feeling. She took a breath and continued, ‘That man brought so much tragedy into our lives. He stole the most precious thing we had and destroyed our lives.'

‘At school… we knew you'd lost a daughter, but I had no idea…' I trailed off.

Barbara turned to the photo of Stephanie on the mantelpiece. I followed her gaze.

‘Stephanie was the best daughter we could have wished for. She had so much life and energy inside her. She wouldn't sit still for a moment, except when she was watching football with her dad.'

I looked across at Mr White. He had tears in his eyes and his bottom lip was wobbling.

‘I can't stand the game myself,' Barbara continued. ‘Never could. Harry and Stephanie were obsessed though. If they weren't watching it, they were playing it or talking about it. They drove me crazy.' She half-smiled at the memory.

‘Have you spoken to him?' Mr White asked.

‘I'm sorry?'

‘Your father. Have you contacted him?'

‘No. No, I haven't.'

‘Are you going to?'

‘Harry, that's none of our business,' Barbara chastised.

‘I really don't know what I'm going to do yet, Mr White.'

He softened at this. ‘Call me Harry.'

‘Thank you.'

‘How do you feel about him being released?' he asked.

‘I don't know that either. I'm struggling to come to terms with it all. I'm guessing you've read in the news about that drug he was taking?'

‘We've read everything,' he said, reaching across to take his wife's hand in his. ‘We knew he'd be released one day. I must admit, we were both shocked when we heard he was coming out early, but I suppose?—'

‘No.' Barbara snatched her hand back. ‘There's no suppose about it, Harry. Whether he was taking a drug that messed with his head or not, at the end of the day, he killed our Stephanie. He murdered a child. He should never see the light of day again.'

‘Barbara and I have different views on justice, Dawn.'

‘Harry will forever be a policeman,' she said. There was an edge to her voice. ‘He believes in law and order, and justice. He doesn't see that the law isn't working, that it's the criminals who are looked after before the victims and their families. Dominic is getting his life back after twenty years. Are we getting Stephanie back? No, we're not. So he shouldn't be released.'

‘He's not getting his life back, Barbara. We've been through this countless times. He'll be released on licence. He'll have a probation officer. He'll have to report to the police. He'll have to ask permission to move house, change job, go on holiday?—'

‘But he'll still be able to do those things, Harry,' Barbara said, jumping up and walking over to the window. ‘Stephanie can't go on holiday. She's dead. She's not coming back. He stole her away from us, and he should pay with his own life.' She turned and went into the kitchen.

‘I really shouldn't have come here, should I?' I asked.

Harry shrugged. ‘You did what you thought was right.'

‘Turns out I was wrong.'

‘Not at all. We go through stages like this. Something happens that reminds us, takes us back to those dark days, and we have the same argument over and over again. I was a detective for over twenty-five years. I have to believe in the justice system, or it makes everything I worked for a sham. I'm sure you're the same, now you're in the legal profession. Dominic was sentenced in a court of law. He's served his sentence, and he's getting released. That's all there is to it.'

‘It's admirable that you think like that,' I said. I meant it too.

‘Could you repeat that to my wife?' he said, with a hint of a chuckle.

‘Dawn?'

I looked up and saw Barbara standing in the doorway to the kitchen. Her eyes were red from crying.

‘I'm sorry for my behaviour. I shouldn't have reacted like that and dragged you into our argument.'

‘That's fine. I'm sorry. I probably shouldn't have come here.' I stood up and reached for my coat again.

‘No. I'm glad you came. And you deserve to know who your father is. Nobody can help who their family is, can they? Remember your cousin Shaun, Harry?'

‘Let's not go down that route, Barbara. The less said about Shaun the better.'

‘Precisely my point. There are bad apples in every family.'

I smiled. Once again, Mrs White had a way of making everything seem better. I was suddenly back in English class and worrying because I couldn't understand why Miss Havisham was being such a cow to Pip and Estella.

I started crying. I've no idea where the tears came from or why they were falling, but once they started, I couldn't stop. Barbara came towards me and put her arms around me. I towered over her, so it must have looked strange from Harry's point of view.

‘You must be going through hell right now,' she said.

I tried to speak, but my tears were choking me. I sat back down, took a deep breath and composed myself. ‘Do you hate me for coming here?'

‘Of course I don't. Dawn, I don't want you to worry about us. Don't get bogged down in who your father is and what he did. He is an evil man, but you're not him. Be yourself. Promise me you'll not let it consume you,' she said, looking at me straight in the eye.

My tears had stopped. ‘I promise.'

‘Good,' she said. ‘Now, I'm going to make us another pot of tea, as this one has gone stone cold. When I come back, you can tell me all the fun things you did at university.' She stood up, picked up the tray and headed for the kitchen.

I took a tissue from my pocket and wiped my eyes. No trace of mascara, thank goodness.

‘Can I ask you a question, in your capacity as a detective?' I asked quietly, so Barbara couldn't hear us from the kitchen.

‘Of course.'

‘I've been reading up about Dominic, what he did, and he's always said he was innocent. Is there any way that could possibly be true?'

‘No,' he replied firmly. ‘No. He's guilty.'

I nodded. ‘You didn't work the case though, did you? I'm guessing DI Braithwaite is retired now, but do you think I could talk to him? Do you know where he is?'

‘Ian is a very good friend of mine, but you won't be able to speak to him. He had a severe stroke a few years ago. He's living in a nursing home on the other side of Newcastle. He never got over Stephanie's death. He was her godfather, and he had to deal with finding and identifying her body. It ruined him.'

I slowly shook my head. It wasn't only Stephanie my father killed on that day. Barbara and Harry were victims and so was Ian Braithwaite. How many more would I find who had suffered at the hands of Dominic Griffiths?