The Lost Daughter Page 14

  “Really?” She screwed her mouth to one side defiantly. “So does that mean I own half of the Croydon Park house?”

  The solicitor inhaled slowly. “It depends whose name the title deeds are in. Is there a mortgage on the property?”

  Val didn’t know.

  “Did you sign any papers when the house was purchased?”

  She couldn’t remember. Tony was always putting documents in front of her and demanding a signature. He took care of the finances and she took care of the house. “So what happens now?”

  “As I explained last time, you can’t divorce your husband without his consent, or without fault being proved. That situation hasn’t changed, so I suggest you sit down with him and work out a sensible settlement. I’m sure he won’t let his”—he hesitated, checked the paper in front of him before finishing the sentence—“daughter starve.”

  “You don’t know him,” Val said bitterly.

  Mr. Trotman looked at his watch. “In the meantime, how would you like to settle the bill for this consultation? I made it quite clear that only the first one was free.”

  Val stared at him. “You know I don’t have any money. I can’t pay you unless you make Tony give me my inheritance.”

  He cleared his throat. “My secretary will agree terms with you: a weekly sum until the bill is paid.”

  Val stood up, alarmed. “But you’ve done nothing. What am I paying you for?”

  Mr. Trotman rang a buzzer on his phone and asked his secretary to escort Val to the door. “My invoice will be in the mail,” he said.

  She opened her mouth to argue, then decided not to bother. Let him sue! She swept all the papers into her shopping bag and hurried out without another word.

  * * *

  After the meeting, Val felt fired up with rage and drove to the city-center bank where her father had held a safe deposit box. She marched up to the counter, showed the letter, and asked the clerk if she could see inside the box.

  She was asked to take a seat while the young man made a phone call and went to talk to one of his colleagues. Val glanced at the clock on the wall: two fifteen. She had to collect Nicole from school at three.

  After seven long minutes, an older man in glasses and a suit with buttons straining over a potbelly came to talk to her.

  “Mrs. Doyle,” he began, “I’m afraid your husband emptied the deposit box a few weeks ago. I guess he forgot to tell you.” He handed the receipt back to her.

  “Are you sure it’s the same one? It was in my father’s name: Irwin Scott. Not Doyle.”

  “Exactly. Your husband signed our termination-of-rental form when he took the possessions away. I have a copy here.” Val checked the document. He’d emptied it just days after she left him. The bastard. “Do you remember what was in it?”

  “I’m afraid not. Even if I did, I wouldn’t be at liberty to tell you.”

  Val was livid. He had been her father; it was her property now. “Might I use your telephone?” she asked. “I need to check with my husband that it was him who came here and not an impostor. I’m surprised he didn’t mention it.”

  The man hesitated, then agreed. He led her to a side office and showed her how to press the button on the phone for an outside line, then hovered in the doorway as she called Tony’s office.

  When he answered, she launched straight in. “Tony, what was in my dad’s safe deposit box? I have a right to know.”

  “You’ve got no rights at all. None. Why the hell should I tell you anything? You left me and stole my daughter, then you got your ugly cow of a mate to steal the papers from my desk. I owe you nothing. Sweet nothing.”

  Val clenched the receiver, trying hard not to lose her temper. “Can’t you just tell me what was in the box? He was my dad, after all.”

  Tony gave a harsh laugh. “A dad you didn’t speak to for seventeen years. Give me back my papers and I might consider telling you.”

  She had never loathed any human being as much as she loathed him at that moment. “Oh, yeah, and thanks for keeping it secret that I’d had a letter from my mom. Were you planning to tell me about that anytime?”

  “I should have burned it,” he said. “Careless of me. Anything else that comes in the mail for you will go up in smoke—just like our marriage.”

  “You can sing for the papers in that case. And don’t think I’m going to let you see your daughter anymore. You’re not safe for a child to be around.”

  Before she hung up, she heard his mocking laughter down the line. She slammed the receiver so hard that the bank man came to check it wasn’t broken before ushering her out.

  * * *

  Val was badly shaken by the afternoon’s revelations, but she had to calm herself before collecting Nicole from school. As she drove back, she took deep breaths, watching the women in the street outside and wondering if their lives were better than hers. Was that one with the long kaftan and the frizzy red hair happy? How about that plump woman in the too-tight jeans?

  She always tried to find something interesting to do with Nicole in the three hours after school before her shift at the office block started, feeling guilty that her little girl had to spend every evening, from Monday to Friday, in such a dull environment. Sometimes they went to a museum, or baked a cake, or visited the library to choose new books. It was their special time. Her hands were shaking and she was still arguing with Tony in her head, but she stretched her lips into a smile and forced her voice to sound cheerful.

  “What did you do today?” she asked, and listened to Nicole’s long explanation about printing colored patterns on a wall chart with a map of Australia.

  There was a travel agent on Darling Street, and Val decided to drop in and ask about the cost of flying to China. Nicole happily flicked through the display of brochures, picking out photos of hotels with turquoise swimming pools and asking, “Can we go here, Mom? Or here? I like this one.”

  The saleswoman telephoned Qantas, and Val listened to the one-sided conversation with increasing gloom. “Stopover in Singapore . . . then a transfer. Can you fly direct from Singapore to Peking? . . . Uh-huh. And does Harbin have an airport? . . . Uh-huh. . . . Can you give me a ballpark? One woman and a child traveling?”

  She hung up the phone and wrote a figure on a slip of paper before handing it to Val. Six hundred and twenty dollars. It might as well have been six thousand. She felt tears pricking her eyelids.

  “I see. And how about the cost of going by ship?”

  The woman picked up a shipping brochure and skipped through the pages.

  “There aren’t any tourist sailings from Sydney to China, but merchant ships often take passengers. Let me make a call for you.”

  Val gripped the edge of her seat, praying under her breath as the travel agent was shunted from one department to another until she found someone who knew what they were talking about. “A hundred and twenty? . . . Sharing a cabin?”

  She looked at Val.

  “When’s the next sailing?” Val asked.

  The agent repeated her question, then relayed the reply. “Third of May. Takes three weeks to Tianjin, then you’d have to catch a train to Peking and from there to Harbin. I can book the Harbin train for you. Is that any use?”

  It was only two weeks till the third of May. How on earth would she raise the money?

  “It could be,” she said brightly. “Thanks for finding out. I’ll drop by and let you know if I can make that one.”

  “You’ll need visas,” the agent told her. “You get them at the consulate.”

  Somehow I have to manage this, Val thought on the way home. Nicole was holding her hand as she hopped, trying not to land on cracks in the paving stones, and it jerked her arm up and down. It could be my only chance.

  She went to apply for their visas the very next day. That was the easy bit. The money for the tickets was going to be much harder to find.

  * * *

  The following Saturday evening, Val was washing the dinner dishes around ten when
there was a loud knock on the door. She glanced into the bedroom, but Nicole was fast asleep and didn’t stir. Who could be calling on her at such a time? It must be a neighbor, because they were on the landing outside rather than down at the street door.

  She opened her door a crack and gave a muffled scream as it was shoved so hard that it swung wide and a hand grabbed her hair. Tony’s face, scarlet with rage, was inches from hers, his breath stinking of beer. Before she could speak, he drew back his fist and punched her hard on the left side of her face, right on the cheekbone. The force made the back of her head slam off the door frame. Pain knocked her senseless; her cheek was throbbing, and squiggly shapes were exploding inside her eye, but she struggled to push him away.

  “Stop!” she begged. “Your daughter’s asleep.”

  Still gripping her hair, Tony started slapping her face: first one side with his palm, then the other with the back of his hand. “You utter bitch. I can’t believe I married such a treacherous bloody snake of a woman.”

  Each slap jerked her head. She could taste blood and her ears were ringing. She was still trying to push him away, but it was futile.

  “How did you find me?” she gasped.

  He grabbed her throat and began to squeeze. “Your solicitor gave me the address. Nice bloke. We’re in the same golf club. He reckoned I should know you’re trying to steal my money.”

  Val grabbed his wrists and tried to pull his hands from her neck, but he was too strong. She began to feel faint but knew she mustn’t lose consciousness. If she passed out, he might grab Nicole and she would never see her again. She tried to kick his shins, but he dodged out of the way, his face ugly with hatred. Was he going to kill her? He was too much of a coward. With a criminal conviction, he would get kicked out of his fancy golf club.

  She stopped struggling and Tony loosened his grip slightly, letting her gasp some air.

  “Here’s what’s going to happen,” he said. “You are going to fetch all the papers you stole from my desk and give them to me nicely. Any money from that estate is mine, and you will never get your claws on it. Be quite clear about that.”

  Val tried to speak, but only a croaky whisper emerged. “Can we get divorced?”

  “Not until I say so,” he spat. “You’re scum and I don’t want you back. Look at the bloody state of you! Having sex with you was like having sex with a sack of potatoes. Frigid cow.” He squeezed her throat again, clearly relishing his power over her. “We’ll get divorced if and when I say so, but be very sure that I will never pay you a cent.” He released her and she rubbed her throat, coughing and straining to inhale. “Now get the papers.”

  “What about your daughter?” she croaked. “I know you love her. And you and I used to love each other too. Remember?”

  “Yeah, and then you betrayed me. I want nothing to do with either of you. The papers!” He shoved her into the flat, positioning himself in the doorway so she couldn’t slam the door.

  Val scooped them quickly into a plastic bag. She just wanted him gone. So far Nicole had slept through the encounter, but she couldn’t risk him turning on his daughter next.

  Tony took the bag and checked the contents quickly. “If there’s anything missing, I’ll be back,” he warned. “Remember: I know where you live.”

  He staggered on his way down the stairs. Val watched him go. Once he was outside, she rushed down to close the street door behind him and saw that he had forced the flimsy lock.

  She hurried back up to the flat and bolted the door from the inside, then went to the bathroom. Her entire face was red and puffy, like a boxer’s. The left eye was swollen closed and her lip was cut, dripping blood onto her white T-shirt. Purple fingermarks circled her neck like a macabre tattoo, and her throat felt raw and scratchy. She got some ice from the freezer and wrapped it in a tea towel, then held it to her eye.

  She knew Peggy would urge her to call the police. This was the proof of fault she needed to get a divorce—but Val hesitated. There was no phone in the flat, so she would have to run to the phone booth in the next street, and she was scared Tony might still be out there. Besides, he would deny it and there were no witnesses. None of her neighbors had come out to hear what was causing the ruckus. It was a Saturday night; maybe they were out.

  What stopped her more than anything was the knowledge that Tony knew where they were. If she called the police, he would be angrier than ever and maybe he would attack Nicole next time. She would have to find another home or he could turn up any night when he’d had a skinful and was looking for a punching bag. She couldn’t live in fear of every knock on the door. They would have to move—and soon.

  Chapter 22

  WHEN NICOLE WOKE IN THE MORNING, SHE BURST into tears at the sight of Val’s face, which looked worse now than it had the previous evening. Her eye resembled a ripe purple plum and wouldn’t open even slightly. The cut on her lip was black and jagged, and her cheeks were swollen like a chipmunk’s. She draped a scarf around her neck to hide the fingermarks, but had to invent a story to explain the rest of the injuries to her daughter.

  “Your silly mom was tidying the bookshelf when that big fat dictionary fell on top of me,” she said.

  “Did you cry?” Nicole asked.

  “I did a little bit,” she said truthfully.

  “You should’ve waked me and I would have kissed it better,” Nicole said. She sat down to eat her cereal, but kept eyeing Val as if she were a stranger.

  * * *

  All week Val kept herself to herself, wearing huge Jackie O shades to hide the worst of the swelling and looping colored scarves around her neck. She left home only to ferry Nicole to and from school, to pick up groceries, or to go to her cleaning job in the evening. Her brain was ticking over constantly, trying to decide what to do, weighing up one option after another. Every night she lay awake working out the repercussions and pitfalls of each plan. Tiny noises startled her: was it Tony coming back? She bolted the door and wedged a chair under the handle so it would be hard for him to break down, but still she slept fitfully and wakened at sounds as faint as that of a moth fluttering against the windowpane.

  By the end of the week she had made her decision. There was only one route open to her. It was a terrifying prospect, but she had run out of options.

  “Shall we visit Aunt Peggy today?” she asked Nicole on the Saturday morning, and Nicole clapped her hands in excitement. She loved playing with Peggy’s son, Lenny.

  “What the hell happened?” Peggy exclaimed, taking a step back in horror. “Did you get mugged?”

  Although Val’s appearance was much improved, she still looked as though she had come off worse in a boxing match, and her throat bore the clear imprint of her husband’s fingers.

  “Was it Tony?” Peggy mouthed, after checking Nicole was out of earshot, and Val nodded.

  “He’s an animal! You have to go to the police,” Peggy’s husband, Ken, insisted. “I’ll come with you. He can’t get away with this.”

  “I can’t.” Val shook her head. She had given it a lot of thought. “I’m not brave enough to stand up in court and accuse him. He would hire an expensive solicitor and get off scot-free, then he would come after me. He’d never let it rest.” She took a sip of coffee and winced at the sting of hot liquid on her lip. It was still difficult to swallow; the swelling made it feel as though there was a rock stuck in her throat. “No, I’ve decided that Nicole and I will go to China to see my mom. We’ll be gone a couple of months, and on our return I’ll find a new flat and a new job. I’ve started from scratch before, so I can do it again.”

  Peggy and Ken looked at each other. Ken spoke first. “How will you raise the money? We would help, but—”

  “No, it’s fine,” Val broke in. “But I need you to look after Nicole for me this morning, just for a couple of hours. Is that OK?”

  “Of course!” they said in unison. “What are you going to do?” Peggy added, wrinkling her forehead.

  “It’s better if you d
on’t know,” Val told her. She checked the clock. Five to ten. It was time to go.

  * * *

  She stopped the car at the end of the street where she had lived for seventeen years and peered down. Tony’s car wasn’t under the carport. He always played golf on Saturday mornings, and she couldn’t imagine he would have changed that routine. She parked in the next street, pulled up the collar of her jacket, and put on her jumbo-sized sunglasses, then walked around the corner, her legs trembling. What if he came back unexpectedly? What if one of the neighbors saw her and came out to say hello, then told Tony she had been there?

  She didn’t see anyone except some kids playing football, who didn’t give her a second glance. She walked up the drive and around to the back of the house, peering in the windows for signs of life. No one there. She took out her old keys and tried them in the back door, but as she had suspected, Tony had changed the locks. Probably did that the week she’d left, knowing him.

  Beside the kitchen there was a laundry room with a small window covered by a fine-mesh insect screen. Val never used to close the window over the screen so that the room was aired and didn’t smell damp. She was relieved to see Tony hadn’t thought to close it either. She had brought a metal nail file with her and slipped it under the edge of the screen, pulling it away from the wooden frame. The aperture was narrow, only two feet tall and slightly narrower in width, but she managed to slide through headfirst and pulled herself over the washing machine to the floor on the other side. As she landed, she knocked over a bag of clothespins and froze, listening. Was anyone else in the house? Maybe Tony had gotten himself a new woman already and she would come rushing down at the noise . . . but there was no sound.

  Val’s heart was hammering so loudly she thought she might have a heart attack as she crept into the kitchen, where the sink was stacked with dirty dishes. Tony’s breakfast plate was on the table, with dozens of ants marching around a spill of marmalade and trudging down the table legs carrying toast crumbs on their backs. You had to keep on top of the ants in that kitchen or they took over in no time.