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‘I really don’t know what to do for the best,’ I said, sitting back on the comfortable sofa, wrapping my hands around the mug. ‘Clare said I should visit him in prison and ask him the questions she can’t answer.’
‘Don’t listen to a word she says,’ he said firmly. ‘All she’s interested in is money. She doesn’t care about reuniting a father with his long-lost daughter. She doesn’t give a damn if we all live happily ever after. The second that massive cheque is cleared and in the firm’s account, she’ll move on to the next case and forget all about you.’
‘You’re right.’
‘I know I am. What you need to ask yourself is, will your life be any richer for having Dominic in it? Do you want your father to be part of your future?’
‘If you’d asked me that a week ago, I would have said a definite yes.’
‘And now?’
I thought for a long moment. ‘He killed someone.’ There was a catch in my throat. ‘Whether he meant to or not, he killed a child.’
‘There’s your answer.’
‘But what if he’s spent the last twenty years in prison regretting it?’
‘Could you forgive him then?’
‘Maybe. I-I’m not sure. Could you?’
‘No,’ he answered firmly.
‘Why not?’
He adjusted himself in his seat. He was obviously wrestling with something he didn’t want to bring up. ‘I know Dominic. You only know about what you’ve read in the news. I know what wasn’t reported – I lived it. Carole kept some diaries. I’ll dig them out for you. However, I think you should speak to a man called Joby Turnbull.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘He was a friend of Dominic’s. He knew him before and during the Fenadine years. Speak to someone who doesn’t have an interest in whether Dominic is released or not. You might find him useful.’
‘How do I find him?’
‘You’re a child of the internet age – you tell me,’ he said, with a smile.
Chapter Fourteen
I always hated pulling up at red lights, as I worried my poor wee car would stall and everyone would stare at me. The engine was ticking over noisily, and I tried not to think about it conking out. My eyes drifted. I was next to a row of shops, and I saw a poster for the Evening Chronicle in a newsagent’s window. The headline screamed DOMINIC GRIFFITHS TO BE FREED NEXT MONTH. Clare Delaney hadn’t mentioned that. Had she known? She must have done, surely. Why hadn’t she told me? My God, what a bitch. I could have prepared Anthony for it, even warned Barbara and Harry. They’d see the paper, watch the local news and have it hit them in the face. They all deserved better than this.
I drove home at speed. Well, what passed for speed in my Golf. I was fuming. I parked in my usual spot at the back of the building, tore up the stairs and into my flat, my sanctuary, and slammed the door behind me. I had a lot to do. I also needed a drink. While I booted up the laptop, I went to the fridge for a bottle of wine.
The stories I’d read on the internet about my father were understandably focused on the crime. However, nobody seemed interested in his not-guilty plea. Even now, twenty years later, he was still saying he didn’t kill her. Did the police in the original investigation just assume he was lying? Shouldn’t they have investigated his claim and tried to find someone else who could possibly have murdered her? It was hard to tell if all the evidence led to Dominic or if the police just hadn’t bothered to gather any evidence beyond Dominic.
I grabbed a pen from the empty coffee jar I used as a pen holder and scribbled a note on a pad. I needed to speak to someone who had worked on the original investigation. Yes, on the face of it, Dominic was guilty – blood was found in his allotment shed, and the body was in his attic – but a thorough investigation should have taken place. Someone would be able to answer my questions. I’d no idea how I could question police involved in the case, especially as DI Braithwaite was in a nursing home. I could hardly just walk into a police station and ask to go through their archives.
I refilled my glass. I didn’t even remember drinking the first one. I sat down at the table and logged on to Google. Now to find this Joby Turnbull. Unfortunately, all I knew about him was that he was roughly the same age as Dominic. He could be anywhere in the world. He might even have changed his name. Fortunately, Joby wasn’t a common name. He shouldn’t be too difficult to find.
I tried the usual social media sites: Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. There were several Jobys but no Joby Turnbulls. Eventually, I struck lucky with LinkedIn and found one living in Newcastle who was a social worker. Fingers crossed he was the one. I sent him a vague message saying I was a paralegal working with Dominic Griffiths’ legal team, and if he was the Joby Turnbull who knew Dominic as a child, please could he get in touch. It wasn’t a complete lie, and I didn’t give him all the gossipy details in case he turned out to be someone entirely different.
There was a knock on the front door, and I jumped. I hardly ever received visitors. I closed the laptop, went over to the door and, closing one eye, looked through the spy-hole. It was Robyn. I wasn’t in the mood for her cheeriness right now, and the last thing I wanted was to hear if she’d slept with the hunky new neighbour. I opened the door and put on my best fake smile.
‘Hello. I can’t stop,’ she said, as she barged her way in. ‘First of all, guess who’s got a date with the incredibly sexy new neighbour on Friday night?’
‘I’d say you but that seems too obvious,’ I said, closing the door.
‘It bloody is me. I saw him heading out, so I thought I’d properly introduce myself. I told him when bin day was, and if he wanted to take advantage of the milkman?—’
‘Like you’ve done many times,’ I interrupted.
