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Back Cut to the Bone Save as PDF
Chapters (71)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise for Cut to the Bone
  3. About the Author
  4. Also by Roz Watkins
  5. Note to Readers
  6. Dedication
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. Extract
  67. Prologue
  68. Chapter 1
  69. Author’s note
  70. Acknowledgements
  71. About the Publisher

I knew all about fathers who didn’t see their daughters, but a ‘busy life’ didn’t explain what was going on here. I was very keen to meet Bex.

‘I love my daughter,’ Tony said. ‘It’s just … shocking the way the years slip by.’ He pointed to a framed photograph on an old dresser. ‘That’s her. That’s my Bex.’

The photo was small and I had to stand and take a step closer to see it clearly. A slim, dark-haired girl of about sixteen stood next to a huge, spotty pig, smiling with exactly the same radiance as Violet.

‘Do you think this Violet might be my granddaughter?’ Tony said.

Looking at the photograph, he must have suspected as much. ‘We’re investigating that possibility.’

Tony nodded slowly. ‘Right.’

‘What time did Violet leave your house last night?’ I asked.

‘About nine thirty. She said she had a job at the abattoir. She had white overalls on, so I suppose she planned to go straight there. But she was agitated when she left.’

‘Violet didn’t react well to your conversation?’

‘She was upset. Kept asking me who her father might be. I said I had no idea and she didn’t like that at all. I’m afraid she left here in a terrible state.’

7

Bex – August 1999

Bex sat in the back of the taxi twisting her fingers and praying the driver wouldn’t start talking again. The closer they got to Gritton, the more her stomach climbed towards her mouth. It took all her energy to clamp her lips shut instead of shouting to the driver, No! Turn round! Take me back to the station so I can go home!

The driver lifted his chin. ‘Visiting relatives?’

She didn’t want to talk. She had no idea what might spew out. His previous comments had required no answer. Everyone thinks taxi drivers are racist, don’t they, love? But I don’t mind immigrants. We had a Polish bloke do our bathroom. She’d been able to sit and smile and nod, while her own private mental battle raged on.

If she tried to speak, would her insides erupt? She risked it. ‘I’m visiting my dad.’

‘Do you live with your mum then, love?’

‘My mum’s dead.’ The casual lie slipped out. Easier to say than, My mum left when I was three, and went back to the Ukraine. Because what kind of mother would do that?

‘Oh, darling, I’m sorry. When did she die?’

‘Thirteen years ago.’ Bex touched the pelican brooch she wore on a chain around her neck. ‘It’s okay. I live with Aunt Janet in Southampton. She’s nice.’