I finally got home; it wasn’t the first time that I had destroyed the entire house looking for something. But I must have missed it, a clue, a tiny scrap of paper that looked irrelevant at the time but now would hold significant value. I emptied every single drawer onto the floor, and I even looked between each book in the bookcase. Nothing. I sat on the kitchen floor, surrounded by the sheer carnage I’d just inflicted on the house, and none of it could help me. As a final attempt at finding it, I decided to text James.
I can’t find her address.
Is it here, somewhere?
Remember, you are walking a path once travelled by Harry.
As cryptic as James’ message was, I knew exactly what he was getting at. Harry had an awful sense of direction and always used his sat-nav religiously. The police gave it back along with all the belongings from his car once they’d catalogued everything. They sat underneath the stairs in a clear bag that I hadn’t had the courage to go through yet. I opened the cupboard door, and I could already see it through the plastic. I quickly ripped it out of the bag and turned it on. I recognised most of the addresses on there, but one stood out.
Once I was only a few minutes out, it became apparent how rough the area was. I locked the doors instinctively; youths littered the street corners with their hoods up, smoking and drinking with no regard for the people who lived there. I pulled up outside the address, and it was an unremarkable house, the same as the other fifty houses on either side of it. There was a child’s bike left there to rust in the garden. I didn’t feel safe here, but it couldn’t have been worse than coming face-to-face with the Broadheads. I made my way up the garden path, and I saw the curtains twitching. She knew I was there. I knocked on the door politely at first, but when no one came for a few minutes, my knock got progressively louder. I just needed to gain entry, and I’d decide later how I was going to deal with this based on her answers to my questions.
“I know you are in there; I saw the curtains moving,” I shouted through the letterbox.
The door remained locked. I pounded on the door as hard as I could.
“Becky, I just want to talk. Please,” I said through the letterbox, “Harry’s dead. And I just want to know what kind of man he was. I don’t blame you,” I shouted.
All at once, the emotions of the day and the constant banging on the door got to me, and I slumped down with the door against my back. I was so tired of it, sick of not getting anywhere. I started sobbing and banging my head against the door. I heard the door unlocking slowly behind me, and I stood up to greet whoever was behind.
A woman answered the door, but she wasn’t what I had expected. She had greasy blonde hair scraped back in a ponytail, and she was wearing pyjamas and slippers. In her right hand, she was clutching a rolling pin, brandishing it as some kind of weapon. It was incredibly shallow of me, but I instantly felt better. There was no way Harry would have left me for her.
“You aren’t going to need that, Becky. I just want to talk,” I said softly.
“Harry’s dead?” She asked.
“Yes. Three weeks ago. He fell off Filey Brigg.”
“Did he tell you about Joshua?”
“No. But I’ve found out since. Can I come in?”
Becky beckoned me inside. I walked in cautiously, and she placed the rolling pin on the table beside the front door, which put me at ease slightly. Toys and clothes were absolutely everywhere, but there was a narrow walkway through the hall into the kitchen, clearly made by Becky sweeping the objects littering the floor to one side. Maybe my parental instincts were kicking in because I felt sorry for her instead of turning my nose up at her. She sat down at the dining table in the kitchen, and I sat facing her; she was fidgeting with a small toy soldier she had picked up, choosing to look down rather than in my eyes.
“So, what was going on with you and my husband?” I asked.
“Nothing. It wasn’t like that,” she replied.
“So, why was he here?”
“I told him Joshua wanted to meet his dad.”
“Did he meet him?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because he didn’t want you finding out. He said you were trying to conceive, and it would upset you.”
“He wasn’t wrong. But he could have told me.”
Becky stood up and started pacing the kitchen. She started breathing rapidly and out of nowhere. I instantly recognised the signs; she was a few steps away from a full-blown panic attack.
“I would have never got involved if I knew it was going to end like that. I just needed the money, that’s all. I’m sick of the threats, and the phone calls, and I just want her to leave me alone.”
“Who?”
“Yvonne.”
“What’s Yvonne got to do with this?”
“She’s the one who put me up to it. To get in touch with Harry.”
“She encouraged you to find Joshua’s father?”
“No, you don’t understand. Harry isn’t Joshua’s father.”
“What do you mean, Joshua isn’t Harry’s son?”
“Yvonne paid me to tell him he was.”
“What? Why would she do that?”
“I don’t know. But I was desperate.”
“How did you even meet her?”
“I did meet Harry at university on a night out. She found the photograph of us both and tracked me down on social media.”
