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‘Hugo Hegarty is certain that these are the stamps he bought for Lorraine Wilson.’
‘But not so certain he’d swear on it in a court of law, is he?’ Lizzie Mantle interjected.
‘No, and that could be a problem down the line,’ Branson replied. ‘Some of the single ones have postmarks – he can’t swear they are the same as the ones on the stamps he acquired for Lorraine Wilson back in 2002, because he didn’t keep a record of the postmarks. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to get involved.’
‘Why not?’ Grace questioned.
‘All the dealings were done in cash. I suspect he doesn’t want to raise his head above the parapet and attract the interest of the Inland Revenue, on top of the police.’
Grace nodded; that made sense. ‘And how strong a claim to them does Skeggs have?’
‘Skeggs was effing and blinding about Abby Dawson having stolen his stamps, saying that was the reason he took her mother, it was the only thing he could think of doing that would bring her to her senses,’ Gle
‘He never tried just asking nicely for them back?’
Branson smiled. ‘I asked him if that was the case, if he wanted to press charges against her for theft. Then he went all quiet. Surprise, surprise. Started muttering about issues, but he was evasive when we tried to push this line. He said he would have problems demonstrating title to them. Then at one point he blurted out that Dave Nelson had put her up to this. But we couldn’t get any more out of him on that. That’s why for now, despite our reservations, we’ve had to let Abby have the stamps back. Until there is evidence that a theft has taken place here or in Australia.’
‘Very interesting he said that,’ Grace commented.
‘Know what I think?’ Branson said. ‘That there’s some kind of love triangle going on here. That’s what this is about.’
‘Do you want to expand on that?’ Grace asked.
‘I can’t, not at the moment. But that’s what I reckon.’
Thinking out aloud, Grace said, ‘If David Nelson – Ro
‘We’ll keep pressing Skeggs, but his brief’s keeping him quite well bottled up,’ Gle
‘What about putting more surveillance on her?’ DC Boutwood suggested.
Grace shook his head. ‘Too costly. I’m thinking that David Nelson may well have left Australia, if he has any sense. He won’t risk showing his face in England. So my bet is that Abby Dawson will go to meet him somewhere. We put out an all-ports on her. If she buys an air ticket or turns up at a passport control, then we’ll follow her.’
‘Good thinking,’ Gle
DI Mantle nodded. ‘I agree.’
121
It was one of those all too rare autumn days when England looked at its very best. Abby stared out of the window at the clear blue sky and the morning sun that was low but warm on her face.
Two floors below in the manicured gardens, a gardener was at work with some kind of outdoor vacuum cleaner, hoovering up leaves. An elderly man in a crisp mackintosh walked slowly and jerkily around the perimeter of the ornamental pond, which was stocked with koi carp, prodding the ground ahead of him with his Zimmer frame as if wary of landmines. A little white-haired lady sat on a bench on the highest part of the terraced lawns, parcelled up in a quilted coat, studying a page of the Daily Telegraph intently.
The Bexhill Lawns Rest Home was more expensive than the home she had originally budgeted for, but it was able to accommodate her mother right away and, hey, who was counting the cost now?
Besides, it was a joy to see her mother looking so happy here and so well. It was hard to believe that two weeks ago today, Abby had entered that van and looked down at her bewildered face sticking out of the rolled-up carpet. She seemed a new person now, with a new lease of life. As if, somehow, all she had been through had strengthened her.
Abby turned to look at her. She had the same lump in her throat that was always there when she was saying goodbye to her mother. Always scared it would be the last time she saw her.
Mary Dawson sat on the two-seater sofa in the large, well-appointed room, filling in a form in one of her competition magazines. Abby walked across, laid a hand tenderly on her shoulder and looked down.
‘What are you trying to win?’ she asked, her voice choked as their last, precious minutes together were ticking away. Her taxi would be here soon.
‘A fortnight for two in a luxury hotel in Mauritius!’
‘But Mum, you don’t even have a passport!’ Abby chided her good-humouredly.
‘I know, dear, but you could easily get me one if I needed one, couldn’t you?’ She gave her daughter a strange look.
‘What do you mean by that?’
Smiling like an impish child, she replied, ‘You know exactly what I mean, dear.’
Abby blushed. Her mother had always been sharp as a tack. She’d never been able to hide anything from her for long, right from earliest childhood.
‘Don’t worry,’ her mother added. ‘I’m not going anywhere. There’s a cash prize as an alternative.’
‘I’d love you to get a passport,’ Abby said, sitting on the sofa, putting an arm around her frail shoulders and kissing her on the cheek. ‘I’d love you to join me.’
‘Where?’
Abby shrugged. ‘When I get settled somewhere.’
‘And have me turn up and cramp your style?’
Abby gave a wistful laugh. ‘You wouldn’t ever cramp my style.’
‘Your dad and I, we were never much ones for travelling. When your late aunt, A
Abby fought back her tears.
‘I’m really proud of you. There’s not much more a mother could ask of a daughter. Except maybe one thing.’ She gave her a quizzical look.
‘What?’ Abby smiled at her, knowing what was coming.
‘Babies?’
‘Maybe one day. Who knows. Then you’d have to get a passport and come and be with me.’
Her mother looked down at her entry form again for some moments. ‘No,’ she said, and shook her head firmly. Then she put down her pen, took her daughter’s hand with her own bony, liver-spotted fingers and squeezed it tightly.
Abby was surprised by her strength.
‘Always remember one thing, Abby dear, if you ever decide to become a parent. First you give your children roots. Then you give them wings.’
122
An hour and a half after leaving her mother, Abby pulled the suitcase containing almost everything she was taking with her from Brighton along the platform of Gatwick Station, and up the escalator into the arrivals area. Then she deposited it at the left-luggage baggage storage.
Carrying with her only the Jiffy bag that Detective Sergeant Branson had returned to her on Saturday, which was inside a carrier bag, and her handbag, she walked up to the easyJet ticket counter and joined a short queue. It was midday.
In his office, Roy Grace was reading through a wodge of faxed reports that had been sent from Australia during the past twenty-four hours by Norman Potting and Nick Nicholl. He felt a little guilty about keeping Nicholl out there so long, but the list of contacts that Lorraine Wilson’s friend had given them had been too good to be ignored.