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No sooner were Jan and Gil through the door than they started bickering, slamming their clothes into the too-big-for-the-room wardrobes before snatching up their coats and storming out to find something to eat. It took fifteen minutes fast walking through Venice’s back alleys for the oppression to lift. Somehow, they managed to salvage the evening and even joke about their room over a litre of the thinnest red he’d ever drunk and a shared bowl of blisteringly hot and oily arrabiata. By the time they left the little restaurant either they or the streets were weaving. Jan took his hand as they headed over a bridge and Gil felt his lost fondness return.

But the room’s gloom was waiting for them. They scratched their way through teeth cleaning and make-up removing and lay stiffly side by side on a lumpy mattress. And then, because this was Venice, city of lovers, and this was what they were meant to do, they rolled in towards each other and made clumsy and wholly unsatisfying … you couldn’t call it love. Jan slept after that, fitfully and as far away across the bed as she could manage. Gil didn’t sleep, he couldn’t. If the darkness hadn’t been so dense, he’d have stared at the ceiling. A ceiling so low that he felt he could reach up and touch it.

He nodded off at some point. Must have done, because he was in the room but it was early morning, just before dawn and the furniture was new. Servants’ quarters, back when the palazzo was young, to judge from the girl hunched at the foot of his bed, who was looking at him and sobbing. Her pregnant belly huge through a cheap shift. And then she was in the bed, legs splayed and he was standing at the end. There was blood and gore and screams. Gil could have sworn he heard a baby wail. And then, without knowing how, he knew the baby had been taken away and drowned; that the mother drowned herself a week later. When he woke the ceiling was crushing him. His mouth was wide, but not screaming.

The first thing he did was yell at the concierge. Then he yelled at Jan, who cried and said she hated birthdays and wanted to go home. Then he went out and found another hotel. A modernist cube, all right angles and straight walls and zero history.

Gil shook the fog from his brain and with it his memory of Venice and whatever it was he’d glimpsed for a second in the back of a car. Helen Graham was just a woman who wanted to keep a low profile, and whatever her reasons for it, they were nobody’s business but hers. That house though, of all places, why would she want to stay there? Personally, Gil would have preferred the palazzo in Venice, and that was saying something.

Fags, papers, more coffee and Gil got on the Internet. Who she was could be easily solved. He cursed himself for not doing it sooner. Bringing up Google, he typed in ‘Hélène Graham’ and hit return. There were a handful. All French. One or two roughly the same age. None that looked or sounded remotely like her. Gil wasted an hour before admitting defeat. What if Mrs Millward was wrong about her being French? Although the woman had an accent of sorts, her English didn’t sound French.

Typing in Helen Graham was even worse. As Google-fu went,
first name
and
last name
wouldn’t win him any medals, but you had to start somewhere. Hundreds of Helen Grahams. Sixty million hits to be precise. To narrow the search he clicked
Pages from the UK
, and the hits reduced to three point eight million. Then he did what he should have done at the start and put double quotes round her name. “Helen Graham” cut the number dramatically but still left dozens of search pages. Professors, academics, writers … The first ones up were those with obvious public profiles. She wasn’t there. So he switched to Google images and flicked through endless unfamiliar thumbnails. She wasn’t there either. Date of birth? Early thirties, he’d hazarded a guess. Maybe older but looking young on it.

Dob 1978, 1977, 1976.

He threw in 1979 and 1975 for good measure.

Doctors, dieticians, a historian. Directory Enquiries wasn’t much more help. Over two hundred Helen Grahams. Thirty-four in London. Forty in Yorkshire, none anywhere near Wildfell. Even Gil knew landlines were a thing of the past. Lighting another cigarette he tried to think. He needed images. Bookmarking a few HGs that looked possible, he went in search of their pictures. The first, his favourite, was thirty-six years old. Any delight was short-lived. Her Facebook pages proved she couldn’t look less like his Helen Graham if she’d tried.

In under an hour, he learned the private business of thirty-five Helen Grahams in their mid-thirties. Why didn’t these people lock their accounts? They’d be posting bank details next; probably already had, given the drunken party pictures, ecstatic post-birth baby pictures, boyfriends, lovers, husbands and exes laid out for anyone to see. It was a stalker’s paradise. Which was precisely why journalists loved it. Free pictures, free information and you didn’t even need to get anyone’s permission.

He was dismissing Helen Graham number 53 and starting 54 when it dawned on him that the whole world was on Facebook. Eighty per cent of the UK, or so he’d read. Scrolling to the search box, he began to type: ‘K-A-R-E-N M-A-R-K-H-A-M’ and hit return. Far less common name Markham. Nothing. Not one.

The next thought came to him slowly, sickeningly. Surely Jan would have told him … wouldn’t she? He knew the answer to that even before he slid his cursor back to the search box and, with a sinking inevitability, keyed in the letters: ‘K-A-R-E-N K-I-N-N-E-A-R’. Four hits. One in exactly the right bit of London. It was locked.

‘For fuck’s sake!’ Slamming his hand on the desk, Gil winced.

Bloody thorns. Bloody idiot.

He pushed the chair back from his desk hard, stood up and sent it spinning across the room into the door. Sod’s bloody law. He couldn’t find Helen Graham but he was pretty sure he’d found his daughter. Just one bloody Facebook search away. Not that there was any way of being sure, since it was a locked account. Was she being a smart girl, her father’s daughter? Although clearly she considered someone else her father now. Or was she trying to keep people out? A particular person, even. Maybe him?

There was only one way to find out.

‘You sad bastard,’ he muttered, as he began to open a Facebook account. But he wheeled his chair forward when he got bored of crouching and kept going. It took him five minutes to open the account and then he spent another twenty trying to work out what would make Karen most likely to accept his friend request. A lot of information or a little? Not that he had much hope of success with either. He gave name, location, birthday and occupation (ex-occupation, though he glossed over that). A pop-up appeared suggesting
A Few More People You Might Know And Like To Be Friends
With
if he knew Karen. Scanning the list only confirmed he didn’t really know Karen at all. He carried that thought through the morning and into the pub at noon.

By chucking-out time his daughter had still not responded to Gil’s Facebook request. Not that he’d expected her to. Just hoped … She was probably at work, wherever that was. He’d long since given up berating himself for not knowing even the most meagre details of her life. He’d asked his ex-wife often enough, but Jan just said that was between him and Karen and refused to get involved. ‘Why won’t you tell me?’ he’d wanted to yell. The one sure-fire way to end the conversation. Then it dawned on him. Her sister would know. How could she not? He wondered why he hadn’t thought to ask before. It was almost three, so Lyn would probably be home, or down the shops, or maybe on her way to pick up her eldest from school.

Who was he kidding?

He didn’t have the faintest clue where she’d be. He didn’t know if she worked part-time or full-time or no-time. For all he knew, she could be on maternity leave. That thought brought him up short. No way would she have had another without telling him. Just before Christmas, that had to be when he’d last spoken to her. Nine months? Ten? A baby was possible … But no, she wouldn’t do that. They got on better than that.

And there’d been birthday cards since.

They just weren’t a clingy sort of family. That was all. Pressing
Lyn – home
on his mobile, he started walking. Out of town again. This time with one eye firmly on the traffic and a slight limp in his injured knee.
Paul, Lyn, Meggie and Alfie are busy right now
,
said his elder daughter’s voice after three rings on her home number.
Leave a message and Alfie will probably push the nice red button to delete it
.

Gil smiled, didn’t leave a message.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to forewarn her; but now she’d put that idea in his head about Alfie deleting messages … Well, he’d never know, would he? Scrolling down, he found
Lyn – mobile
and walked as he waited for the phone to connect. Too far into the Dales and he’d lose his signal. But he had a way to go before that happened. Five beeps, six, seven … More bloody voicemail. He was about to hang up when his daughter’s voice kicked in.

‘Hello? Dad? Hold on, I’m in the car. Give me a sec to pull over.’

Before he could speak he heard himself tossed aside, bounce once on the passenger seat and again, harder, on the floor. Gil winced, as if his own scarred cheek had just hit the ground. ‘Just a sec, sweetheart,’ he heard Lyn say. ‘Mummy needs to talk to Granddad.’

‘Gangdad.’

‘Yes, that’s right. You remember Granddad.’

Except he wouldn’t, couldn’t. Little lad hadn’t seen Gil since he was a baby.

‘Stay put, sweetheart. Mummy won’t be a minute.’

Static crunched in Gil’s ear as she picked him up again. Reaching a gap in the drystone wall, Gil heaved himself over the old stile, finding it noticeably tougher than yesterday, when he’d still been able to bend his knee. Several groups of walkers straggled across the valley in front of him, three or four abreast, swinging those damn ski sticks. Where had they come from all of a sudden? It wasn’t even that sunny.

‘That’s better – I’m parked on the verge. Hang on … no, Alfie, stay in your seat, love, Mummy will be right outside … You OK, Dad?’

‘Yes, fine, why wouldn’t I be?’

A pause, followed by a small intake of breath. ‘We-ell, let’s just say you don’t call every day of the week. You sure you’re OK? Nothing wrong?’

Gil opened his mouth. Pot–kettle, he wanted to say.

He shut it again. He couldn’t very well complain. Retiree with nothing to do objects because his thirty-something daughter with two kids and a job doesn’t call him. ‘Fair dos,’ he said. Then, ‘Well, I’m calling now. From the Dales. You wouldn’t believe the number of walkers. Just thought I’d see how you are. How are the kids?’ He managed to catch himself before he could add, ‘Any more on the way?’

‘We’re good. Meggie’s at school full-time since last week. Alfie’s just started nursery. Mornings only. Godsend. Paul’s busy at work. Me too. Dad …?’

‘Yes?’

‘You sure you’re OK? There’s not anything?’

‘Yes, I said so, didn’t I?’

‘Yes, but … Well, it’s just not like you to call out of the blue, like, for no reason.’

Gil took a deep breath. ‘I thought I might, you know, take you up on your offer. That is if it still stands, of course.’

‘Offer?’ Lyn sounded confused.

‘To take the train over … See the little ones. It was in your Christmas card …’ He was losing his confidence now, wishing he hadn’t called. He hadn’t even got around to asking about Karen yet. Maybe this wasn’t the time.

‘Dad,’ Lyn laughed. ‘That was for Christmas! It’s September!’

‘Christmas soon,’ he said, all too aware of how very pathetic that sounded.

‘Of course you can stay with us. Meggie and Alfie would love it. Any time. Just give me some notice in case Paul’s going to be away.’

Gil wouldn’t mind that. His son-in-law was all right for a salesman. It wasn’t like they’d ever really got to know each other. Only met a handful of times in the ten years Paul had been married to his daughter. If anything, he suspected Paul thought of Kevin as his father-in-law.

‘Is that it, Dad? Only I’m on my way to pick Meg up from school and Alfie’s raising merry hell in the back of the car.’

‘There was one other thing …’

‘Y-es.’ Suspicion entered Lyn’s voice.

‘About your sister …’

Silence.

‘I was just thinking. Wondering, if you had an email address.’

‘You know I do and you know I can’t. Karen doesn’t want to hear from you. She knows where to find you. And if she wants to, she will. She was the youngest. She took it hardest. You know she did. Is this the reason you phoned?’

‘No, love, course not. It’s just, if I could speak to her, I’m sure we could sort it out.’

‘Are you? I’d leave her alone if I were you.’ Lyn paused, listening to muffled yells too far from the phone for Gil to make out. ‘Yes, love,’ he heard her say. ‘Mummy’s coming now …

‘Dad,’ she was back. ‘I’ve got to go. If you really mean it about coming to visit, call me later with dates.’

11

It was better this time. In as much as when she emerged from her migraine Helen knew where she was and, for that matter, who she was and when it was. She knew it with such sharp-edged clarity it was shocking.

The house felt better, too. The bits of it she used anyway. Familiar, almost calm. The floorboards and joists had ceased their constant moanings, the scuttlings and scrapings had fallen silent. As if she wasn’t the only one who’d been waiting for the storm to pass.

Helen wandered along the landing on colt-like legs, testing door handles and windows as she passed. Locked. All of them, apart from the one she’d wedged open with a book just before her migraine kicked in. The book was still there, half in/half out, its pages curled where pre-dawn mist had descended. The three-bar fire still blazed. Waving her hand in front of its bars to gauge their heat, Helen grinned. Blazed in the loosest possible sense. Several years earlier she’d trained herself not to turn on gas or electrics when she felt a migraine coming on. Her chances of remembering to turn them off again were minimal. She hadn’t expected yesterday’s to roar in quite so fast. Normally she could predict, gauge their ferocity and closeness. But this attack had taken her completely by surprise.