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Back The Daughter Save as PDF
Contents (71)
  1. THE
  2. DAUGHTER
  3. MICHELLE FRANCES
  4. PROLOGUE
  5. ONE
  6. TWO
  7. THREE
  8. FOUR
  9. FIVE
  10. SIX
  11. SEVEN
  12. EIGHT
  13. NINE
  14. TEN
  15. ELEVEN
  16. TWELVE
  17. THIRTEEN
  18. FOURTEEN
  19. FIFTEEN
  20. SIXTEEN
  21. SEVENTEEN
  22. EIGHTEEN
  23. NINETEEN
  24. TWENTY
  25. TWENTY-ONE
  26. TWENTY-TWO
  27. TWENTY-THREE
  28. TWENTY-FOUR
  29. TWENTY-FIVE
  30. TWENTY-SIX
  31. TWENTY-SEVEN
  32. TWENTY-EIGHT
  33. TWENTY-NINE
  34. THIRTY
  35. THIRTY-ONE
  36. THIRTY-TWO
  37. THIRTY-THREE
  38. THIRTY-FOUR
  39. THIRTY-FIVE
  40. THIRTY-SIX
  41. THIRTY-SEVEN
  42. THIRTY-EIGHT
  43. THIRTY-NINE
  44. FORTY
  45. FORTY-ONE
  46. FORTY-TWO
  47. FORTY-THREE
  48. FORTY-FOUR
  49. FORTY-FIVE
  50. FORTY-SIX
  51. FORTY-SEVEN
  52. FORTY-EIGHT
  53. FORTY-NINE
  54. FIFTY
  55. FIFTY-ONE
  56. FIFTY-TWO
  57. FIFTY-THREE
  58. FIFTY-FOUR
  59. FIFTY-FIVE
  60. FIFTY-SIX
  61. FIFTY-SEVEN
  62. FIFTY-EIGHT
  63. FIFTY-NINE
  64. SIXTY
  65. SIXTY-ONE
  66. SIXTY-TWO
  67. SIXTY-THREE
  68. SIXTY-FOUR
  69. EPILOGUE
  70. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  71. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

She suddenly wanted to get down. Pocketing the bag, she slowly descended, finding it much harder than going up. Retrieving her jacket from the foot of the tree, she headed back across the park.

The bag sat by the kettle while she made tea, something to stall the opening of it; a bracing tactic. She wondered whose it was. It might not be Becky’s, probably wasn’t, she told herself sternly. The memory stick probably didn’t even work – had been damaged by months, maybe even years, of cold and wet.

She took it into the living room and plugged it into the drive of her ancient beast of a computer. The memory stick appeared as an icon on her screen. It had no name. She double-clicked and the computer chattered and whirled and then a box popped up. In it was a single file, entitled ‘R’. She clicked again. A document opened up and on it was a list of names, addresses and phone numbers. A glance told her she knew none of them, but the patterns of their postcodes looked familiar. They all started with TN – in fact they were all in the same place: Ramsbourne in East Sussex. She scrolled further down but the document stubbornly stopped moving. There was nothing else there.

What was it? Was it Becky’s? Who were all these people? She didn’t know the answers to any of these questions and, frankly, probably never would. Unless . . . No, that was a mad idea. A few more clicks on the computer and she discovered that a train ran to Ramsbourne every thirty minutes from London Victoria. The journey took an hour. Only an hour! But it was silly, pointless really. What was she going to do when she got there? But what was she going to do here . . . It was the country. Be nice to get out of London, enjoy the sunshine. Fresh air! It could be a day trip. A nice little excursion to the countryside. Before she changed her mind again, she took a single slurp of the tea, grabbed her bag and headed out.

FOURTEEN

The train-door button flashed and beeped as it opened. Kate was the only person to get off in her carriage and as she looked each way down the platform, trying to locate the exit, she saw only three other people: a sprightly-looking retired couple kitted out in rambling gear, maps in plastic pouches around their necks, and a girl in her late teens, long dark hair swinging as she ran down some steps to what Kate saw was the car park. The girl leapt into a small silver Mini that was driven by a woman who looked like she could be her mother and they were off. When Kate looked round again, she saw the ramblers had gone too, swallowed up into the green. A public-footpath sign, down the side of the station, was the only indication of where they might have vanished.