The Throwaway Children (47 page)

Emily Vanstone sat at her desk drinking a cup of tea, scanning the papers that Miss Drake had brought in. There was nothing that interested her particularly in
The Times
or the
Telegraph
, and so she turned to the
Belcaster Chronicle
, which she always read cover to cover. She liked to keep up with what was happening round her; keep her finger on the local pulse.

She had been pleased with the piece Terry Knight had recently written about her in his series on rising business women. At the end of it he had also mentioned her charitable work, noting that the EVER-Care Trust, which looked after destitute children, had been founded by her.

A good paper, the
Chronicle
, she’d thought at the time. A good, traditional paper. Trustworthy. Speaking for all right-thinking people, not like the gutter press, stirring up muck at any opportunity.

Turning to this pillar of the community now she saw the two-inch headline blazoned across the front page.

YOUNG MOTHER SLAIN

Below was a grainy wedding photograph of a young couple, under which was printed

Mavis and James Randall on their wedding day.

Shocking! thought Emily Vanstone. Such a horrifying thing… and here in Belcaster, too. She peered at the picture, but the names and faces meant nothing to her. She read on.

The Belcaster police are seeking Jimmy Randall (33), labourer, to help with their enquiries into the vile murder of his wife, Mavis. Mavis Randall, recently married and mother of baby Richard, aged five months, was found by her mother earlier this week, lying in a pool of blood in her own kitchen. She had been stabbed with a kitchen knife, later found by the police. Mavis Randall, whose two daughters by a previous marriage had, without her knowledge or consent, been sent to Australia by the EVER-Care Trust…

The name leaped out at Emily and she skimmed through the rest of the article before flinging the paper aside. Colour flooded her cheeks as rage flooded her mind. How dare they! How dare they print such things! She’d sue them! She’d ring the editor and tell him if he made no retraction, she’d see him in court. She’d demand an apology. She’d… she’d…

Suddenly she felt giddy, a sharp pain behind her eyes, and the room spun round her. She couldn’t catch her breath. She pushed her chair back, her heart pounding, but she couldn’t stand. She managed to reach the bell on her desk, and Miss Drake came at once to its summons. She took one look at her employer and rushed to her side.

‘Miss Vanstone! Miss Vanstone, are you all right?’

Clearly she wasn’t. She had collapsed back into her chair, her breathing was ragged and the colour, so high just moments earlier, had fled her cheeks, leaving her ashen-faced.

Frightened by what she saw, Miss Drake said, ‘You must lie down, Miss Vanstone. Here, let me help you to the couch.’ She took hold of her employer’s arm and supporting her as best she could, managed to get her across to the sofa.

‘I’ll ring for an ambulance,’ she said.

‘No!’ Miss Vanstone spoke vehemently, though her voice was scarcely more than a whisper. ‘No ambulance!’ Then, more gently, she said, ‘Just a glass of water. I’ll be fine again in a minute. Just felt faint for a moment, that’s all. Happened before. Nothing to worry about.’

‘Shall I call the doctor?’ suggested Miss Drake. ‘I really think I should.’

‘No,’ repeated Miss Vanstone firmly. ‘No, thank you. Just the water.’

Reluctantly Miss Drake left her and went to fetch the water. When she came back she was pleased to see her employer looking a little better, colour creeping back into her cheeks. She helped her to drink, holding the glass to Miss Vanstone’s lips.

‘Thank you.’ Miss Vanstone gave her a weak smile. ‘I’ll be fine now.’ She looked at her secretary who was still staring anxiously down at her. ‘And I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention this little episode to anyone. It’s nothing, and I’d hate my family to hear of it and begin to worry.’

‘Well, if you’re sure…’ Miss Drake still sounded less than happy with the situation.

‘I’m sure,’ said Miss Vanstone, swinging her legs round so that she was sitting up. ‘There’s no need to trouble the doctor. I’ll just sit here for a while and then I’ll go home. Be good enough to pass me the
Chronicle
,’ she pointed to the paper which was now lying on the floor, ‘and then I’d like a cup of tea.’

She was sounding much more her usual self now, and it was with some relief that Miss Drake handed her the paper and left her sitting up on the couch, while she went to make the tea.

Emily was more frightened by her sudden turn than she was prepared to admit, even to herself. This had happened to her once before, at home. Her housekeeper had been on hand that time, and she, too, had been sworn to secrecy. Deep breaths were the thing, slow, deep breaths. By the time Miss Drake returned with the tea tray, Emily was breathing normally and feeling much better. She sipped the tea gratefully, and then turned her attention back to the article in the paper.

Mavis Randall, whose two daughters by a previous marriage had, without her knowledge or consent, been sent to Australia by the EVER-Care Trust, is thought to have confronted her husband over his part in this decision, and it has been suggested that it was this that started a fight that ended so tragically in her death.

Suggested? Suggested by whom, I’d like to know, thought Emily fiercely.

Randall, known to be violent, has not been seen since the evening preceding the murder, when he stopped off at the Red Lion public house on his way home from work. The police are asking for anyone who might know his whereabouts to contact them at Belcaster central police station. He is considered dangerous, and should not be approached by members of the public.

The couple’s infant son, Richard, is being cared for by his grandmother, Mrs Lily Sharples.

Lily Sharples! Emily immediately recognized the name. Lily Sharples! So she was at the root of these scurrilous rumours. This Mavis Randall, who’d been murdered by her husband, must be the mother of the Stevens girls; Lily Sharples’ granddaughters.

I might have known, she thought. I might have known she’d be behind this. You’d think she’d have more important things to worry about with her daughter dead on the floor, the murderer still at large and her grandson to look after.

She remembered Lily’s fury at having the girls sent so far away. Well, thought Emily now, wasn’t I right to send them? They were indeed at risk in that dreadful household. Early rescue from that man has probably saved their lives!

She thought about the letter she’d sent to Daphne soon after her last encounter with Lily Sharples, and she felt that what she’d said was now justified by these subsequent events. Yes, indeed, now she’d got over the shock of reading the account of the murder and the suggestion that EVER-Care was responsible in some way, she began to see that once she put her side of the story, she would have the public on her side. Children should not be left in the homes of such violent men, they should be removed and placed where they could be cared for, and brought up in safety. Her belief in herself and the work of EVER-Care was still rock-solid. She knew she had done, and was doing, the right thing.

Feeling revived by the tea, Emily Vanstone went back to her desk and rang the
Belcaster Chronicle
. When the call was put through she demanded to speak to Mr Chater, the editor.

‘This is Emily Vanstone of Vanstone Enterprises, and the EVER-Care Trust,’ she began when she was finally connected.

‘Good morning, Miss Vanstone,’ cut in Philip Chater, ‘and how may I help you today?’

‘It’s about the article in today’s edition of your paper,’ she said. ‘I have no idea who’s been casting such unsubstantiated slurs on EVER-Care, but I have to tell you, Mr Chater, I expected better of the
Chronicle
. I take great exception,’ she repeated the words, ‘great exception to such statements being made about the EVER-Care Trust without any reference to me.’ She paused but when the editor said nothing she went on, ‘The EVER-Care Trust maintains the right to decide what is best for individual girls in its care. We never divulge what those decisions are, to protect the child.’

‘I understand your concern, Miss Vanstone, but the
Chronicle
has to keep in mind PUBLIC INTEREST.’ Philip Chater spoke the last two words in capital letters. ‘Public Interest is what we consider when printing a story. Have these two young girls been sent to Australia without the consent of their family?’ It was his turn to pause, but when Emily made no answer, he went on, ‘People will want to know, Miss Vanstone. It’s in the Public Interest.’

‘It has nothing to do with the public,’ she snapped, ‘and I have no intention of confirming or denying anything about any of my girls. EVER-Care never discusses our children with outsiders.’

‘Well, I’m afraid, Miss Vanstone, I don’t see that I can be of any help to you,’ said Philip Chater. ‘Indeed, I’m not at all sure why you wanted to speak to me.’

‘I want a retraction, Mr Chater, and an apology for slandering EVER-Care.’

‘Out of the question, I’m afraid,’ said the editor smoothly. ‘If EVER-Care has been sending children to Australia, there is no slander, no libel, as we have simply printed the truth.’

‘And what I also want to know, Mr Chater,’ Emily went on as if he hadn’t spoken, ‘is where you obtained this information. Who made these suggestions that there is a connection between this dreadful murder and EVER-Care?’

‘I’m sorry, Miss Vanstone,’ said the editor, sounding anything but, ‘we never reveal our sources. If you would like to make a statement of rebuttal for us to print in our next edition, of course, we’d be happy to have it, but otherwise I fear there is little more I can do to help you.’ And he cut the connection, leaving Emily Vanstone gripping the telephone in impotent fury.

‘Insolent man,’ she muttered as she replaced the receiver in its cradle. ‘Insolent and insufferable man! We’ll see about you. I’ll speak to Martin.’

‘Have you seen the paper?’ she demanded as soon as Martin answered the phone.

‘Which paper?’ asked her brother-in-law.

‘The
Chronicle
,’ replied Emily. ‘They’re suggesting that there’s some link between EVER-Care and this murder.’

‘Oh, that,’ said Martin. ‘Yes, lot of nonsense if you ask me.’

‘But it’s slander.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ answered Martin. ‘It’s no more than an idea that’s been floated, it’s not a statement of fact.’

‘People will take it as fact,’ said Emily angrily. ‘They’ll believe what they read in the paper, whether it’s true or not. So, what do we do about it, Martin?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’ shrilled Emily. ‘Why not? We must refute it.’

Martin sighed. ‘Emily,’ he said, ‘the less we say about it the better. Ignore it. Say nothing, do nothing, and it will all be forgotten in a couple of days. Making a song and dance about it will only give credence to the whole thing.’

‘But—’ began Emily, but Martin cut her short.

‘Emily, you asked for my advice and I’ve given it to you. What you do with it is up to you.’ And, for the second time in half an hour, Emily found herself holding a silent telephone.

She thought about what Martin had said. His advice had been sound, she knew that, but it didn’t make it any easier to take. Her fury at the
Chronicle
and its arrogant editor was unassuaged. She wanted to vindicate herself and EVER-Care for the decisions she’d made, but she couldn’t do that without revealing the way she’d gone about it.

She was about to leave the office, when Miss Drake told her that the
Daily Drum
was on the phone and wanted to speak to her.

‘That rag?’ said Emily. ‘What on earth do they want?’

‘They didn’t say, Miss Vanstone, they just asked to speak to you.’

Emily thought for a moment and then sighed. ‘You’d better put them through,’ she said, and picked up her phone.

‘Emily Vanstone.’

‘Ah, Miss Vanstone, good afternoon. This is Steve Roberts from the
Daily Drum
. I was just ringing to see if you had any comment to make about the murder of Mavis Randall and her connection with the EVER-Care Trust… her children being sent to Australia without her knowledge?’

Emily drew a sharp breath. ‘No, Mr Roberts, I have not. No comment whatsoever.’ And this time it was Emily who slammed down the receiver.

‘Hey, Betty,’ Sean Bennett called as he came into the room. ‘What was the name of the place you come from?’

‘Belcaster,’ replied Betty, not looking up from painting her nails bright red.

‘No, I know that. No, the name of the home you was in.’

This did catch her attention and she looked up. ‘Laurel House,’ she said. ‘Why?’

‘Here, in the
Drum
.’ He held up a newspaper. ‘Laurel House, part of the EVER-Care Trust. That the one?’

‘Yeah, that’s it. Why, what does it say?’

‘Says they kidnap kids and send them abroad without asking their families,’ answered Sean. He held out the paper. ‘Some woman been kicking up a stink about it. Here, have a look.’

‘Where’d you get this?’ she said, glancing at the date. ‘It’s a week old.’

‘I know, it’s my prop,’ said Sean.

Sean worked the tube stations, quietly lifting wallets and purses. With a newspaper under his arm as he hurried through the rush hour crowds, he was almost invisible. Sometimes he waited on platforms, and then he read the paper. He had today, and saw the name Laurel House; the place that Betty had told him about.

‘But have a read of it, Bet,’ he said.

Betty skimmed through the article. It told her nothing she didn’t already know and left out much that she did.

Miss Emily Vanstone, founder of EVER-Care, had refused to be interviewed, the
Drum
announced, and declined to comment. Why would she do that, enquired the
Drum
, if there was no substance to the allegations? If there was nothing to hide? ‘What,’ it asked, ‘goes on behind closed doors at EVER-Care?’