Abduction, p.15
Abduction, page 15
Arthur was starting his new post a week after the move, in a city centre practice with seven other GPs. He would enjoy the challenge of grassroots medicine; he always did, and held no ambitions beyond being in general practice, dealing with the huge variety of problems which came his way. But then I would be left alone in our lovely old house all day with only my thoughts to keep me company. Or would I?
Chapter Thirty
Isobel Solomon
* * *
If Arthur was doing what I suspected, life would change radically for us both. It was an audacious plan, totally out of character for either of us, yet there are times in life when risks must be taken. And this was certainly risky. I only hoped the end justified the means.
When my husband finally arrived home, he was carrying a sleeping child, a girl, limp in his arms, a beautiful child who captured my heart as soon as my eyes rested on her. Arthur laid her gently on the sofa, and I couldn’t stop staring. He’d done it, he had actually done it!
As I watched the child, my heart skipped a beat and I heard myself whisper ‘Ruth’, a name I’d not spoken since we lost our daughter. This girl could truly be Ruth; the likeness was uncanny, and I decided there and then that she was meant to be with us and had been sent for us to care for and love. We had rescued her!
The child slept for another two hours, during which time I watched her peaceful slumber, sweet rosebud lips parted and breathing steadily. Long fair eyelashes resting on pink cheeks – she was perfect, and I could hardly wait for her to open those eyes so I could learn their colour. When she did wake, there was fear in her eyes – blue, as expected – Ruth’s eyes.
The girl’s initial fear turned to panic and the child sobbed, great heaving sobs as she gasped for air and cried out.
‘Mummy!’
I held her in my arms, and at first she struggled but then relaxed into my embrace, allowing me to stroke her hair and whisper soothing words as I’d done so many times in the past.
When the tears dried, she again asked for her mother and then her father, and I was struck by the sad thought that the child should want them, even though they had abused her so badly.
‘You’re going to stay with us now; you’ll be happy here. Would you like something to drink and some cake?’
Ruth shook her head, the soft honey blonde hair clinging to her damp cheeks. I brought a drink anyway and a slice of cake.
‘I want Mummy!’ she sobbed again, her little bottom lip trembling, but this time she allowed me to comfort her. Her warm, slim body felt so good in my arms; she was quivering, and I could feel her heartbeat next to my own. I loved this child already, and we would make a life for her which was so much better than the one she was living.
When the bout of crying ceased, Ruth picked up the juice and drank it. Her eyes strayed to the cake.
‘You can have it if you like.’ I smiled and watched her pick it up, take a bite and put it back on the plate. She asked for her mother again but this time without the tears.
‘I can be your mummy now; would you like that?’
The child stared at me and stepped back.
‘It’s okay, you’ll be happy with me.’
Arthur had been out again and returned with several carrier bags of new clothes and a large sack bearing the name of a high street toy shop chain. He could have been Santa Claus bearing gifts. Smiling at Ruth, he said hello and after looking warily at him from beneath those beautiful lashes she moved closer to me.
This was heaven. For a while, I allowed myself to believe Ruth was actually back, yet deep inside I knew this girl was not our daughter. I steered my thoughts, however, twisting and turning them, allowing myself to believe that what we were doing was a good thing, we were being totally altruistic, saving this girl and offering her the best possible life she could have.
Those first few hours were difficult. Ruth tried to be brave, but the sobbing continued at regular intervals during which she allowed me to comfort her. She ate very little and became tired soon after six. I’d shown her where she would sleep and eventually, after more tears, I sat by the bedside and stroked her hair until sleep finally came. Arthur said it was the medication he’d administered which made her so tired, but she was peaceful and we left the room with a light on and the door ajar in case she woke.
Arthur started to tell me what had happened that afternoon, but I stopped him.
‘I don’t want to know. It’s done now and she’s here.’
He nodded, but we did need to talk about how to proceed during the next few days.
‘No one here knows us, and in a couple of weeks we’ll be at Carlton Wells in our new home where the neighbours will accept us as a family – why should they think otherwise? If we cut her hair it will change her appearance, and I’ll continue the sedatives over the next few days to help her settle down.’
Arthur could always be trusted to think of everything. Before we retired to bed I switched on the late news, expecting there would be something on the child’s disappearance and knowing I’d be better off not watching, but some strange masochistic desire prompted me. The incident got a brief mention on the national news, followed by a more detailed report on the local news.
A photograph was shown of the smiling child, not what I expected, but then children are resilient and if she’d been born into an abusive family, she would know no better. The news cameras tracked frogmen trawling the river. We knew they would find nothing.
‘Switch it off, love,’ Arthur asked, and I did. We went to bed, but neither of us could sleep and talked in whispers about the days ahead. I didn’t wish to know the details of how Arthur had taken this child. I compartmentalised the sordid aspect of the situation and we discussed only the future, a future in which we were reunited with Ruth.
If I wavered at all, it was when I watched the late news broadcast on Sunday. Naturally, Ruth was asleep and Arthur was out on call, otherwise I might never have put the television on. Stephen Bryson was seated behind a bank of microphones, flanked by police officers and pleading for the return of his daughter.
My heart was beating so quickly I thought it would burst; he had tears on his face and sounded genuinely distraught. I switched the broadcast off and went to make tea, needing to do something to erase the sorrowful image from my mind. I sat sipping the hot tea, telling myself he was only acting, putting on a show for the world. I worked hard at convincing myself he was not what he appeared to be and really didn’t care what happened to his daughter. And his wife, I thought, why, she didn’t even bother to turn up for the appeal. With hindsight I can see how my mind justified our actions. I wanted to believe this child had been abused and so I did.
Arthur eased himself slowly into Ruth’s favour. Naturally, she leaned towards me as I was with her every minute of the day, and when he came home she acted shyly.
Initially, my husband had difficulty in calling her Ruth and would talk about her as if she wasn’t our daughter. I remember on one occasion getting terribly upset about this and insisting she was Ruth. It was my coping mechanism, how I perceived her; this girl really was Ruth and had come back to us. After that little incident, Arthur never contradicted me and only ever talked about her as Ruth.
Chapter Thirty-One
Isobel Solomon
* * *
The day of our move arrived and it was such a relief. My first task of the morning was to cut Ruth’s hair. The poor child hadn’t been out of the flat for over a week, but we were on the brink of our new life and her appearance needed to change. I tried to make it fun and said we were playing a game and I was going to cut her hair to make her look beautiful, but she sat solemnly, watching with wide eyes as the soft locks fell to the floor around us.
Ruth now displayed a quiet resignation towards being with Arthur and me. The new toys helped to some degree, and we explored them together. Our games even elicited an occasional smile, but the spark of life which should be evident in such a young child was missing.
I told myself her behaviour was due to the cruelty suffered at the hands of her previous family and in time she would learn to laugh and play and be truly happy with us. When I called her Ruth, she looked perplexed and sometimes replied that she was called Grace. I persevered with her new name until she responded to it and eventually stopped saying her name was Grace.
Arthur cut down on the sedatives, but on the day of the move he administered more than usual; it would be another change, another trauma to endure, and we wanted to make it an easy one. The removal men did their job and by midday Arthur, Ruth and I were following the van containing all of our possessions for the fifteen-mile trip to Carlton Wells.
The first things we wanted in place were Ruth’s bed and furniture, so the men packed them last in order to unload them first. Her room was at the back of the house, overlooking the garden. I sat with her in the car until things were in place, then Arthur carried a sleepy Ruth upstairs to bed. Fortunately, she remained asleep for about three hours, during which time the van was unloaded and we had all our furniture in place.
When Ruth woke, we shared a simple meal of scrambled eggs around the kitchen table. The French window at the rear of the house was open, and after she’d eaten, Ruth stood in the open doorway looking out onto the garden. Our poor child hadn’t been outside for well over a week, and clearly wanted to go into the garden. I nodded and went with her to explore, holding her warm little hand in mine. There was a swing left by the previous occupants, and she ran towards it. For the first time since Ruth came to us, a look of happiness crossed her face.
I pushed her as high as she wanted and sang songs to the rhythm of the swing. When we were both tired, we lay on the grass gazing at the sky and Ruth actually chuckled, watching a bird bathing in the old bird bath. Another first, and to me a sign that things were beginning to settle down. How could she have been happy in such a small flat when even Arthur and I were not? This house would be the catalyst to establish us as a family. With its spacious rooms and large garden Ruth would have everything she wanted; I would move heaven and earth to make her happy.
Early in the evening of our first day at Garden House, the doorbell rang. It jolted me from my thoughts, and a moment of panic gripped me. Arthur answered it and I heard him talking to a woman, whom he then brought into the lounge. My instinct was to hide Ruth away but there was not time; the lady was coming towards me with a smile on her face and a huge chocolate cake in her hand. With her free hand, she shook mine and introduced herself as Helen, our next-door neighbour. Arthur told her my name and then Ruth’s.
A shudder seized me, and I was paralysed with fear – would Ruth contradict him? This was the first real test. Helen bent down to speak to my daughter as I put a protective arm around her shoulders.
‘Ruth’s rather shy.’ Arthur sounded confident, much more so than I was.
‘Good way to be these days.’ Helen nodded, and I hoped she didn’t notice how her words made me blush.
‘Well, I won’t keep you – you must have so much to do, but if I can help at all just give me a knock.’
Our new neighbour was probably approaching seventy, very sprightly and certainly friendly enough. Arthur showed her out, thanked her for the cake then returned to the lounge.
‘We have to start as we mean to go on, Isobel. We’re a family now, the three of us, and people need to see us as such.’
‘I know, but I was worried Ruth might have said something out of place.’
‘She’s three; almost anything she says will be taken with a huge pinch of salt. I’m sure Helen accepted the situation for what it is: a new family moving into the village.’
He was right, I knew, and I hoped Ruth hadn’t picked up on my edginess. The evening passed quietly, and Ruth seemed naturally tired by bedtime, the fresh air was considerably better than sedatives to help the child sleep.
During our first few weeks, we settled into village life. I learned of a playgroup but made excuses when I was invited to enrol Ruth. It would take a good while longer for me to feel confident enough to let her become involved in any activity without being on hand to monitor what she said. We did, however, put her name down at the village school. It seemed to be a friendly place, and I liked the idea of small classes. We checked the Ofsted reports on their website, and the academic standard seemed to be good too. I knew it would come quickly but didn’t want to think too far ahead. We needed more time to bond; it was small steps and perseverance which would win the day.
Ruth never again referred to herself as Grace or contradicted me when I said Ruth. It was almost as if she recognised this house as a new beginning for us all. In time, she started to smile and laugh again, a huge relief as secretly I’d feared I was unable to make her happy.
She only ever asked for her mummy two or three times after the move. My reply was always the same: ‘I’m your mummy now, Ruth.’ And then I would distract her with a little treat or a game. However, it was not until October that she actually called me ‘Mummy’, and it was one of the happiest days of my life. Before our first Christmas together, she also started to call Arthur ‘Daddy’.
As to the investigation into Grace Bryson’s disappearance, it was no longer worthy of media attention, and I was relieved not to have to listen to broadcasts any longer. The New Year came with a flurry of snow, and Ruth and Arthur made snowmen in the garden. I watched from the window as they ran around, laughing and throwing snowballs.
Life was good again, not only for Arthur and me but for Ruth too. Each smile or laugh was an affirmation that we’d done the right thing. Over the next two years Ruth seemed to forget her origins and by the time she started school she accepted us as her parents.
After fourteen years, I was reasonably confident our secret would never come to light. Ruth was such a wonderful daughter, and we loved her from the first day she came to us. Thinking back, we were extraordinarily fortunate she was never recognised, but the timing of our move to Carlton Wells worked in our favour.
No one suspected a thing. By then the initial press activity had died down somewhat, with other current sensational stories bandied around the media, and Grace Bryson became yesterday’s news. They say that the best place to hide something is right under people’s noses, which was exactly what we did and it appeared to work.
When DS Priestly arrived at our door, it was a shock. We’d assumed after so many years the police would no longer be looking for Grace Bryson so I knew that whoever had recognised her must be a family member or someone very close for them still to be searching. The detective seemed satisfied that Ruth was our daughter and apologised for troubling us, but the visit disturbed us more than he knew.
For the first time in years, we needed to make contingency plans, but disappearing with a sixteen-year-old girl was not as easy as it was with a three-year-old. Firstly, we put our house on the market, with considerable regret. Garden House had been our true family home, where we learned to live in comparative happiness.
After a week without hearing from the police again we almost dared to hope we were safe. But it was not to be the case. Goodness knows what brought the same detective back to our home, but he arrived with a colleague in what was clearly a more official capacity. DS Priestly told us the Grace Bryson case had been reopened, words which sent a chill through my body. The visit lasted only about ten minutes, but when they left we knew something had to be done – staying in Carlton Wells was no longer an option.
We should have known we couldn’t hide forever.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Jack Priestly
* * *
During the next hour or so, Ruth asked more questions of me than I did of her, and I tried my best to enlighten her. We were interrupted once by the desk sergeant, who asked to have a word with me, and as I left the room he made sure we were well out of hearing range before he told me two things: firstly their duty medic was in the station and ready to examine Ruth, a formality in all such cases, and secondly that his colleagues had found Stable Cottage and Isobel Solomon, but Dr Solomon was dead.
Dave Bennet had reached Kelso before Jake and me and was then on his way to Stable Cottage, expecting to find Dr and Mrs Solomon under arrest. I managed to speak to him on his mobile – no small achievement in this part of the world – to inform him what had transpired in the last hour.
Dave was only minutes from Bamburgh and arrived shortly after our conversation, greeted at the cottage by the two Kelso officers and an ambulance crew who were on the point of moving Dr Solomon’s body. The local officers had rung for the ambulance, and the paramedics confirmed Arthur Solomon was dead. A massive heart attack, or a stroke, was their initial assessment but the coroner would make the final call.
Dave acted swiftly in declaring the cottage a possible crime scene, and working with the Kelso PCs began to preserve any evidence which may be pertinent as our investigation unfolded. He later told me Isobel was sitting in a chair beside the window, arms wrapped tightly around her body as she rocked to and fro. She appeared to be staring at nothing, and when Dave spoke to her there was no response.
Mrs Solomon seemed to have retreated into a private world, oblivious to reality, and as she clearly needed medical help, a second ambulance was called. Dave then asked a Kelso officer to ring for the scene of crime officers who would make a thorough search of the cottage.
Dave dispatched the second ambulance crew with Mrs Solomon, accompanied by one of the local officers, to the hospital.
