Blood Born Page 13

  “Why?”

  That word again. “It’s far too complicated.” A five-year-old couldn’t understand her need for autonomy and independence and she was not about to explain why she had changed her surname from Reynolds to Crichton either. She tried to change the subject. “So are we going to the park?”

  Ben stayed sitting and reached for a paperweight. “Why do people have to have different names?”

  Anya kissed him on the cheek. “It’d be pretty funny if poor Mrs. Henry called the roll and said the exact same name for every child. Imagine if you all were called Ben.”

  “The girls would look pretty silly being called a boy’s name.” He giggled at the idea, then opened the drawer and rummaged until he found a pencil. “But why do we have to have last names?”

  Anya put the pencil back and closed the drawer, mindful of his fingers. “Names go back a very long time and tell you things about the family. Some names tell you where a family came from, like Crichton. It comes from a place in Scotland where my great-great-grandfather used to live. Other names can tell you what someone did for a job. Someone called Smith was related to a person who made things out of metal or could have even made things out of gold.”

  “Is Josh Smith rich?”

  “No,” she laughed. “But his great-grandfather could have been a jewelry maker.”

  “What’s a Hegarty?”

  “Well, Benjamin Hegarty, let’s find out.” Anya called up Google and searched. The site described it as meaning “unjust.” Knowing Martin sometimes that could fit. “It sort of means one-sided.”

  “You mean like the goodies? That should be you because you help catch the baddies with Auntie Kate.”

  “Something like that,” Anya said and lifted him off. “Time we cleaned your teeth and I got dressed. Can you find some shoes and socks in your bag?”

  Ben was off. Before switching off the computer, she typed in Brody. “Muddy place” wasn’t what she had expected, but was pretty appropriate right now, given the discovery of his mother’s baby.

  Curiosity led her to type one more name: Harbourn. She sat back when the result flicked on to the screen. The family moniker couldn’t be more telling.

  “A polluted, dirty stream.” With a family labeled polluted, they either lived near contaminated water or were known for being generations as vile people. She suspected the criminality displayed by the current family members wasn’t due only to events in their childhood. At least some of it was probably in the genetic makeup. She had always thought that environment was more important than genes, but many of Ben’s mannerisms and his easygoing personality were more like her father, whom he didn’t see very often, so the traits could hardly be learned. Having a child had forced her to reconsider the influence of inherited traits.

  She decided to perform a literature search on the latest research to help her better understand criminal families.

  In the Harbourns’ case, she had a gnawing feeling that evil and violence were quite likely bloodborn.

  20

  Anya glanced at the miniscule back seat and offered to take her own car. Even with the front seat as far forward as possible, Ben would only just fit into his booster, feet tucked up. Without much of a window and limited ventilation, she hoped the tuna pasta he’d had for lunch wouldn’t reappear on Dan’s upholstery.

  “It’ll be fine,” Dan reassured. “It’s just a car.”

  Ben gently stroked the red paintwork. “My dad says that fast red cars are for people with baby willies.”

  Anya felt her face brighten as she squeezed Ben’s hand tighter. “I’m so sorry, Dan, I don’t know where that came from. I’m sure he doesn’t even know what it means.”

  Dan stood hands in his back pockets, then moved them self-consciously to his front. “That’s okay, having met your ex-husband, I can imagine he might say that.”

  She bent down to her son’s eye level. Martin did have a habit of mouthing off, especially about people who intimidated him for one reason or another. “We don’t say rude things like that. Apologize please.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Brody,” Ben uttered, and raised his eyebrows at his mother. “Why is it rude?”

  “Sometimes it’s not polite to repeat what grown-ups like your dad say.”

  Despite Anya’s reservations, Dan remained insistent that they take his Ferrari to the nursing home. With Ben in his booster and Anya in the passenger seat with her knees almost touching the dash, they accelerated out of her street, faster than she had expected. Ben sat quietly, having quickly forgotten his reprimand.

  “This is a cool car!” he exclaimed.

  “Glad you like it. Thanks for agreeing to come,” Dan said. “I don’t get the chance to visit my dad very often.”

  Anya wondered whether Dan couldn’t or wouldn’t make the time. Like most people, he managed to do the things he enjoyed, like socializing and attending A-list parties. Was it guilt about placing his father in a nursing home, or discomfort at seeing someone he loved so disabled? She knew his father had suffered at least two strokes. To be institutiona-lised as a result meant the overall disability had to be severe.

  They car hugged a tight corner on an amber light. Anya placed her hands by her sides to brace herself. “How long ago was his first stroke?”

  “Happened just after Mum’s funeral. Doctors thought it was the stress of losing her. He was one of those men who never had to see a doctor or take medication.”

  Anya knew the type. Usually they were men who had been active in their youth and clung to those memories. While they were healthy, they stayed away from doctors, even for routine check-ups. By the time they had their strokes or dropped dead of a heart attack, it was too late.

  They pulled up at a set of lights, next to a teenager whose eyes widened at the sight of the Italian car.

  Dan revved the engine, then backed off the accelerator when Anya turned to him and raised her eyebrows. “You know you’d make that teenager’s day if you let him take off from the lights first.”

  The lawyer shrugged. “You’re always thinking of other people.” Still, he hesitated when the lights changed and the teenager disappeared with smoke blowing out the back of his faded Cortina.

  “Satisfied?” He changed gear and revved the engine again.

  Anya smiled.

  “You know, you’re like my mum in that way.” He held the gearstick while he spoke. “Dad used to say that Paul Newman had it right being so proud of his wife. Why go out for a hamburger when you’ve got steak at home? Even after fifty years together.”

  Anya’s grandparents were like that. She had tried to imagine sleeping next to someone for fifty or more years, then suddenly waking up without them. The world empathized with the grief of a newlywed whose partner had died. The reality was that, in time, young people moved on after the death of a spouse. For a couple who had been together decades, the grief of losing their life partner could be too much to live with.

  She moved her hands to her lap as they overtook a bus. “Do you share his steak philosophy?”

  “In theory.” He grinned. “But in Dad’s day they didn’t have lamb burgers, gourmet vegetarian, organic meat or duck to choose from.”

  “You and my ex-husband have more in common than you think.” She turned around and Ben had fallen asleep.

  “Are you close to your father?”

  Dan glanced at his passenger. “I was closer to Mum. Dad has always been pretty opinionated about community service law and didn’t really approve when I went into private practice.”

  “You said he was always healthy. It can’t be easy going from that to a nursing home.”

  Dan slowed the car a little and checked road signs. “It’s not easy seeing him so helpless. He isn’t the father I know, he’s a shell of a man now. Hell, we can’t even argue, so how am I supposed to know when I’ve disappointed him again.”

  Suddenly Dan’s behavior with women and his aggressive approach to winning cases made more sense. Even intelligent, successf
ul adults still desperately wanted approval-and love-from their parents, and could overcompensate in the process.

  After thirty years, Anya still wanted to hear her mother tell her that she wasn’t to blame for Miriam’s abduction.

  Dan pulled into the gravel driveway leading to the red-brick complex and parked in front of a grassed area. He pulled a backpack from the boot as Anya reached back and stroked her son’s arm, waking him from a shallow sleep.

  Inside the grounds of Pine Lodge, they pressed the buzzer and waited. The jangling of keys preceded the staff member’s appearance.

  “Good morning. How can I help you?” The older woman pushed the sleeves of her navy cardigan up to her elbows. Beneath, her corporate patterned shirt hung out over navy trousers. This was a nurse who was more hands-on than usual administrators. The white walking shoes confirmed it.

  As she wiped her hands on her trousers, the sleeves slid down again.

  “Now, you would have to be William Brody’s son. You are the absolute splitting image.”

  Dan lowered his head and tentatively extended his hand.

  “Oh, it’s only water, I’ve been helping bathe one of our residents who thinks cleaning once a month is excessive. Sometimes it’s just like being with toddlers, the fuss some of them make.” She shook hands with each of them, making a special fuss of Ben.

  “I’m Rhonda Gillespie, nursing unit manager. I was on holidays when your father was admitted, which is why we haven’t met. The old wag is doing really well.”

  “Is it convenient to visit?”

  “We’ll make it convenient. Nothing like some lovely family to cheer you up. How about in the garden? He likes it out there and it’s a gorgeous day.” She showed them in and pointed to the doors past the corridor. “Nothing extravagant, but there’s a courtyard with outdoor furniture, potted plants and a birdbath.”

  “Excellent,” Dan said.

  Ben held his mother’s hand.

  Sister Gillespie locked the front door behind them and loped off, shoes squeaking on the lino floor with each step.

  “You’d think this was a prison,” Dan whispered.

  “They probably have some demented patients who wander. They have a duty to stop them getting lost. No doubt some lawyer would sue them for neglect if that happened.”

  “Valid point, I suppose.”

  Dan opened the external door for Anya and Ben. They walked down a ramp to a wooden bench by a half-filled water fountain. The lawyer fidgeted with his shirt, tucking it further in multiple times before curling his top lip at the oversized birdbath.

  “That’s a disgrace, it’s stagnant. You’d think they would have gone to the trouble of putting in a pump and fountain instead. The rates they charge…”

  Anya wondered if the sound of running water would have been advisable in a home for the elderly infirm.

  “I’m guessing you’ve never had prostate trouble, or urinary incontinence.”

  “Ah. No.” He sat and straightened his legs before pulling them back in.

  “Can I look for insects?” Ben asked, squatting down near one of the plants near the brick wall.

  “Sure, but don’t touch any spiders.”

  “Mum.” Ben raised both hands in the air. “Spiders have eight legs. Insects only have six legs.”

  “Just don’t touch any please.” As he wandered off Anya asked softly, aware of her son’s proximity and acute hearing, “How are you going to approach him about the box contents?”

  Dan leaned in closer. “Planned to wing it, depending on how he is today. The doctor tells me he has bad days and sometimes worse days. It’s not the sort of thing you just drop into a casual conversation. ‘Hi Dad, how are they treating you, what’s the food like, oh and did you know there was a dead baby in the walk-in wardrobe?’”

  At that moment the door opened and the sister pushed her patient along in a wheelchair. The man sat slumped to the right, but his frame was large.

  The senior Brody was clean and neatly dressed in a checked shirt, corduroy trousers and a hound’s-tooth squire’s cap. By the gnarled fingers and flexed wrist, William Brody had suffered an extensive stroke paralyzing the whole of his right side.

  The nurse turned the chair to face away from the sun and placed the brakes on. Bending over to make eye contact with the old gentleman, Nurse Gillespie said, “I’ll leave you to catch up with your son and his lovely girlfriend. If you need me, just press the buzzer around your neck. Okay?”

  She waited for a response.

  William Brody stared at her with his pale blue eyes and raised his left hand, but not in a dismissive way.

  “Oh, and here’s your notebook so you can write things down.” She explained to Ben. “William can’t speak words any more, so he writes them down. That’s pretty impressive, isn’t it?”

  Ben ran over to check the pad, then returned to a pile of stones near the wall.

  With that, the nurse straightened and headed back inside.

  Dan moved forward and awkwardly hugged his father.

  “It’s great to see you settled in. Hope you’re not giving the nurses a hard time.”

  The older man reciprocated with his good arm for longer than Anya had expected. Dan was the one to break the hold.

  “Dad. I’ve brought someone with me to meet you. This is Doctor Anya Crichton.”

  Mr. Brody looked across at Anya and smiled, revealing a droop to one side of his mouth. He removed his hat, placed it in his lap and extended the functioning hand. Anya shook it and felt the strength of his grip. Despite his disabilities, his eyes had a rare sparkle to them. She liked him already.

  Dan reached into his daypack. “I’ve got some fresh pajamas and toiletries and a copy of the latest Edinburgh military tattoo on DVD. The staff told me over the phone you can watch DVDs in the common room. Maybe we can watch it together next time. Oh, and I was going through some of Mum’s things and found this. Thought you’d like to keep it by your bed.”

  He placed the silver frame in his father’s lap. Anya could see that it was a photo of the couple’s wedding day. In it, a young couple smiled with the promise of a new life together. William Brody touched the photo and Anya thought she could detect a slight tearing of his eyes.

  “I found something else, Dad, and I’m not sure how to explain it. I asked Anya to come along to help.”

  The senior Brody frowned and his eyes darted from Dan to Anya and back again.

  “There’s no easy way of saying this. I found an old sealed box under the floorboards in the wardrobe.”

  William tightened his grip on the photograph and looked down.

  His son bent forward to meet his father’s eyes. “Did you hear what I said? It had been there for years.”

  The old man resisted looking up. For a moment Anya wondered whether the recent stroke had affected his ability to understand. She decided to try a more gentle approach.

  “Mr. Brody, I’m a pathologist. Dan asked me to take a look at what was inside because it was so unusual. I had to notify the police-”

  With that, William looked up, eyes wide open, and shook his head. Anya realized he understood exactly what they were saying. NO POLICE he wrote on the pad before reaching out for Dan, clasping at his arm.

  “Dad, are you all right? Do you understand?” The lawyer looked at Anya for support. “God, I wish you could just talk to me.”

  “It’s okay,” Anya said. The part of the brain responsible for speech was separate from the writing center. Mr. Brody still had the ability to write his innermost thoughts. She held the paper and replaced the pen in his bony fingers.

  The new words he wrote were shaky, but clear.

  NO POLICE.

  “Why? Dad, are you trying to tell us that you know about the box and what was in it?” Dan stood and ran his hand through his hair. “I can’t believe you kept this a secret. A real skeleton in our closet.”

  Ben had found a small lizard to distract him and, to Anya’s relief, was paying no attention
to the conversation.

  Dan whispered. Mr. Brody’s hearing had to be better than most elderly people’s.

  “What were you thinking, keeping a dead baby quiet? I grew up in that house and am supposed to be an officer of the court. So were you.”

  Anya studied Mr. Brody. “Notifying the police is just procedure. There isn’t going to be an investigation, or media attention, if you’re worried about a scandal tarnishing the family name.”

  William looked down at the photo again as Anya continued, “We ordered a DNA test on the remains.”

  Dan bent down, seemingly more aware of Ben in the background. “Dad, we know it was Mum’s.”

  Again, the left hand tried to hold the pen steady.

  THERESE

  GOOD WOMAN.

  Dan returned to the bench, read and reread the note. His jaw tensed.

  “Please, no more secrets. We know that you weren’t the father.”

  The old man stroked the photograph and tears dropped on to the glass. Minutes passed before he picked up the pen and wrote.

  GOOD WOMAN.

  Dan sat forward. “I can’t believe it. You always said that you two were childhood sweethearts, never been kissed by anyone else. And now you’re saying she got pregnant by another man? And you knew she buried the baby? God, Dad, what other secrets have you been keeping? When I think of all the self-righteous lectures you’ve forced me to listen to.” Dan’s voice grew louder, as if trapping a suspect in a trial. “Does the real father know?”

  The old man shook his head but looked at Anya, almost pleading with his eyes. There had to be more to the story and his son wasn’t giving him a chance to explain.

  “Dan, would you mind taking Ben inside for a few minutes, I’d like to talk to your father, and I’m sure you could use a drink of cold water.”

  The lawyer hesitated, but breathed out. “Ben, how about we see if they have any jelly in the fridge?” Ben stood up, wiped the dirt from his knees and, after a nod from his mother, grabbed Dan’s hand and headed inside.

  Anya knelt close to the chair. “Do you know who the father was?”