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  “I wanted to ask a favour, I wondered if you would mind looking after Harry sometime this week, so I can pop into Dunwell Library, I want to do some research. I’ve decided to see if I can find Michael’s mother.”

  “Of course, I’d love to look after Harry, but are you sure Samantha dear, about finding Michael’s mother? Sometimes things are best left in the past. You might not like what you find.”

  “I know it’s a risk, but I made a promise to Michael and I must at least try.”

  “Well, you know best and I know from past experience whatever I say won’t change your mind. The bed and breakfast is quiet at the moment, so whenever you want to go is good with me.”

  “Tomorrow? I’ll bring him round about ten.”

  “Tomorrow is fine. Just be careful, that’s all I ask. Just be careful.”

  Chapter 4 – The Applebys

  Dunwell Library was housed in a very large modern red brick building, within a complex of other council run organisations. Arriving on the first floor, Sam stepped into the outwardly quiet chamber and immediately approached the librarian seated at the front desk.

  “Hi, I’m not a member, but I was wondering if I could make use of your archives … please,” Sam added quickly, as the elderly woman’s narrowing eyes peered over her heavy framed glasses.

  “You’ll need to fill out a form!” she snarled, handing Sam a white card. “Everyone who uses the library must fill out a form. After all, we can’t have just anyone coming in from the street to use our facilities you know. Fill it in, then bring it back to me, and I’ll give you a password so you can access our online data, if you so wish.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Sam was directed to the archive section and settled down in front of a computer. The first task she had set herself was to try and find the newspaper article about finding Michael, to see if there was any additional information to be gained. It was laborious work, looking through all the national newspapers, time was ticking away and then she found it, in the London Evening Standard. The picture in the article was considerably clearer than the one she had in her possession and even better, she was able to enlarge it on the screen. She felt elated, as she read the name Appleby on the box, confirming that at last she had a lead. Of course, even if she were lucky enough to find anyone called Appleby, in the area around the Royal Free Hospital that didn’t mean they were anything to do with Michael, his biological mother still could have just found the box in her distressed state. Nevertheless, this was all she had to go on.

  Studying a map of London at the time of Michael’s birth, Sam homed into the Royal Free Hospital and printed off the map of residential streets in the surrounding area, before finding the 1971 census and typing in Appleby. When the Applebys of number twenty-nine Park Street, less than a mile from the hospital, appeared on the screen, she just about managed to stop herself from yelling out with excitement.

  There were five members of the Appleby family living at that address. Top of the list was Frank Appleby, father – the Reverend, Frank Appleby, aged forty-two. Sam dropped back in her chair. Oh my, a man of the cloth. If Michael did come from this family, then a child out of wedlock would have been a very big deal. The second named Appleby was Catherine, mother, housewife – aged thirty-one. The next three names were the Appleby children, all girls. Hannah, aged nine, Grace, aged seven and finally four-year-old, Martha. Sam looked intently at the names. OK, so Martha was out, she would have been too young in 1977 to have a baby, so that leaves either Hannah or Grace. She wondered if they were still living around the area. Clicking on the 1981 census, she was disappointed to see that the Applebys no longer lived in Park Street or anywhere else in the vicinity. Printing out relevant copies for her investigation, Sam made her way back to the librarian, paid for the printing and left.

  ***

  Arriving at the second floor of Dunwell Police Station, Sam presented herself in front of the secretaries’ desk.

  “Excuse me, young lady, could you tell me if it’s possible to speak to Superintendent West?”

  The young woman she was addressing lifted her purple-haired head.

  “DI Adams!” she squealed, “I didn’t know you were coming in!”

  Jumping up, she bounded towards Sam.

  “You know I always like to surprise you Lilly, and don’t forget I’m no longer a detective, it’s just ‘Mrs. Adams’ these days or ‘Sam’ to you.”

  Lilly gave her a big hug. “It’s so good to see you. It’s not been the same around here since you left ... Superintendent West is in his office, I’ll tell him you’re here.”

  Digger heaved his stocky build out of his swivel chair and greeted his friend as soon as she entered.

  “I see you’ve still got that awful spider plant,” beamed Sam, looking around.

  “What, the one you bought me last Christmas, to ‘brighten up my office’? Yes, the damn thing keeps multiplying. It’s lovely to see you,” he said kissing her cheek. “What brings you out of your village? Is everything OK?”

  “Yes, fine thanks, apart from Alex of course, I’m guessing he’s told you about his Russian girlfriend.”

  “Yes, in great detail. I’ve told him it’s too soon to get so involved, but some people never learn. I must admit Claire and I always thought you and he …”

  “Let’s not go there …” Sam broke in. “Look I’ve actually been doing a bit of detective work. I’ve decided to start to look for Michael’s birth mother.”

  “Right, well if there is anything I can do to help, just say.”

  “Thanks, there is something. Would you and Claire mind looking after Harry, I need to go to London. Mum’s had him today, so I don’t want to ask her again.”

  Digger leaned on the corner of his desk and grinned, “I’m guessing you’ve got a lead and your mother wouldn’t approve of your next move?”

  “Correct. She thinks I shouldn’t stir up the past, but I made a promise and I have to keep it.”

  ***

  It felt good to be back in the capital, back to her old patch, well, close by it anyway. From the Underground, Sam took the bus to Hampstead Heath and after a short walk found herself on Park Street. Obviously, the Applebys hadn’t lived here for almost forty years, but if there was a possibility, even a remote one that someone might remember them, she had to give it a go.

  Standing in front of number twenty-nine, Sam took a deep breath. The building was almost as she had pictured it, a mid-terrace, with ivy clinging to its Victorian bricks. The dark blue door looked as if it could do with a coat of paint, but otherwise she guessed the outside hadn’t changed much over the years. A large privet hedge helped to screen the crazy paved frontage from the road. Nestling amid all the other houses, she wondered what secrets it held within its walls? Was this the house where Michael was born? She imagined the panic and anguish his mother must have felt as her baby’s lungs filled with air as he took his first breath. Surely someone in the street would have heard the baby’s cries? Seeing the lace-curtain twitch at the top window, she realised someone had caught her staring at the house. Slipping away, she strode back to the end of the street, where she spied a small parade of shops at the apex of the main road and made her way purposely towards them.

  After about an hour of banter with shopkeepers and customers, she soon realised she wasn’t getting anywhere. No one it seemed remembered the Applebys – it was just too long ago. Feeling deflated, she pushed the door to Kapoor’s Convenience Store and stepped inside. Immediately she noticed an Asian man of about fifty, serving behind the counter and a much younger woman was filling the shelves. Sam reached into the cold cabinet and took out a bottle of water and a cheese and pickle sandwich.

  “£6.50,” the man sniffed.

  She took out her purse. “It’s nice around here. Have you lived here long?”

  “Most of my life. My father started this shop and I took over when he died. Are you thinking of moving to the area?”

  “No, no it’s far too expensive for me.
I know of a family who lived here though, about forty years ago, the Applebys? I don’t suppose you remember them?”

  He grunted. “Actually, I do.” Sam’s heart quickened. “The Applebys are the reason we came to live in England.”

  “Oh, how interesting,” she said, eager for him to continue.

  Frown lines appeared on his forehead. “How do you know the Applebys?”

  “Um, I don’t, I’m actually researching my family tree and they appear on my husband’s side.” This wasn’t too far from the truth.

  He placed his hands on the counter. “Seems to be the thing these days, researching family trees. Like that programme on telly, ‘Who Do You Think You Are’?”

  “I guess … The Applebys, you said they were the reason your family came to England?”

  “Yes, yes that’s right. Do you want to write it down?”

  “No thanks, I’ve got a good memory.”

  “Alright then. My father met the Reverend Appleby when he was working as a missionary in our village in India. When it was time for him to go home he persuaded my father to follow him to England. My mother had died and my father was still in deep mourning, but he wanted a better life for my younger brother and me, so we came here.”

  “The Reverend Appleby sounds like a very kind man.”

  He removed his hands from the counter and folded his arms. Sam noticed he didn’t comment on her remark.

  “I actually went to school with the eldest girl, Hannah, I got in touch with her again just recently on Facebook.”

  “That’s nice for you.”

  He sniffed again and suddenly renewed his curiosity about Sam’s presence. “Are you sure you’re not a reporter, trying to rake up the past? Cause if you are, there’s the door.”

  “No, no, honestly, I’m not a reporter. Why would you think I was?”

  “Well for one reason, because of the trouble about the baby.”

  “Baby?” replied Sam innocently.

  “Yes, the police swarmed around the streets, must have been in the late seventies, for months. A new-born was found and the police were knocking on doors trying to find the mother. They were in and out of the Applebys house for weeks.”

  “Why were they questioning the Applebys in particular?”

  “Oh, it was such a long time ago …” he scratched his head. “Can’t remember exactly, all I remember was my father getting upset like everyone else in the area. He went on about it for ages. A year or so later when it had all died down, the Applebys moved away.” A look of irritation suddenly appeared on his face. “Did you want to buy anything else? Only we close for lunch.”

  Sam looked thoughtful. Naturally, the Applebys must have been prime suspects. The police had the box as evidence; they must have thought ‘case solved.’ Obviously, they’d questioned the family but it seems no further action had been taken. Perhaps, after all, Michael’s mother had simply found the box.

  “A packet of plain crisps please. Do you know where Hannah lives now? Or if she’s married?” she asked, opening her purse again.

  “Watford, she’s living in Watford, I’ve no idea where the rest of the family are. She’s still Appleby on Facebook so I’m guessing she’s never married. Now, if you don’t need anything else, I’m going to close.”

  ***

  Sitting on a wooden bench, on the edge of a very bleak Hampstead Heath, Sam lifted her collar and pulled her coat tighter around her before peeling back the plastic covering her sandwich. A cold wind whistled through the trees, making her shiver even more. Taking out her iPhone she googled, ‘Electoral Roll’. If Hannah Appleby did live in Watford, she shouldn’t be too difficult to find. Tapping in her name, she was relieved to see it appear – it seemed she was living with someone called Wayne Smith.

  ***

  Arriving at Watford station, a couple of hours later, Sam made her way to the exit and hailed a taxi.

  “Albert Court please,” she said, climbing into the back seat.

  “What number, Miss?” grunted the taxi driver.

  “Just drop me off at the beginning of the street, thanks.”

  Sam began to shake nervously as she made her way up the short path to number fourteen. This was a big deal. Arriving at the glass fronted door, she could hear voices from the other side, loud voices, screaming voices of a man and a woman who seemed to be having an argument. Reaching out she pressed the doorbell. Several seconds later she pressed it again, this time she could see the silhouette of a woman on the other side of the glass. With the chain still on, the door opened and a woman’s bruised face appeared through the gap.

  “Get off my porch!” she growled, “this is a no cold calling area. Didn’t you read the ruddy signs?”

  “No, sorry I must have missed them. I’m looking for Hannah Appleby?”

  “If you’re trying to sell something, you’ve come to the wrong house, the coffers are bare.”

  “No, no, I’m not selling anything. Are you Hannah?”

  The woman glared at her, without uttering a word.

  “If you’re Hannah,” Sam continued, “I wanted to talk to you about Michael.”

  The woman’s face reddened and noticeable beads of sweat appeared on her forehead.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, be off with you or I’ll call the police!”

  With that she started to close the door, however, Sam managed to wedge her foot between the door and the frame stopping her from closing it completely. A man’s raised voice, she guessed Wayne Smith’s, could be heard from somewhere in the house.

  “Who’s at the fucking door?”

  The woman turned her head in response. “It’s just someone asking directions.”

  “Is that your husband?” whispered Sam.

  “No, my boyfriend, not that’s any of your business. Get your foot out of the way!”

  “Look, I saw a café on the other side of the road. I’ll wait for an hour.”

  The man’s voice once again vibrated through the interior of the house.

  “Shut the fucking door woman! Were you born in a barn? Get back here and bring me a beer!”

  “One hour,” repeated Sam, removing her foot just before the door slammed shut.

  ***

  Sam was on her second cup of cappuccino, when the café door opened, striding towards her the woman sat down in the opposite seat.

  “I’ve had to come out to buy my man beer. What do you want? Why are you here?’

  Sam sat forward and looked intently at the bottle–blond, whose bruised face was now caked in heavy makeup.

  “Are you Hannah? If you are, I wanted to talk to you about Michael?”

  “Yeah, I’m Hannah, but as I’ve already told you, I don’t know a Michael!”

  “I think you do.”

  “Look, I don’t know who the hell you are, and I don’t really care. I came here to tell you to piss off and leave my family and me alone. Got it?”

  Hannah rose and Sam reached up and put her hand on her arm.

  “I haven’t come here to upset you I just wanted some answers. Let me buy you a coffee.

  “I haven’t got time,” said Hannah, wrenching her arm away, “he knows how long it takes me to get his beer, it’ll be me he’ll take it out on if I’m late.”

  “Please, give me a few minutes and then I promise, I’ll go away.”

  Hannah stared at her. “OK, I’ll give you five minutes, then I don’t want to hear or see you again, got it? I’ll have a latte to take away.” She sat back down again, albeit reluctantly. “So, how about telling me your name?”

  “It’s Samantha, but most people call me Sam.”

  “Posh name, you sound posh too. So, what do you want to know Sam?”

  Trying to ignore Hannah’s continuing hostility towards her, Sam forced a thin-lipped smile. “I know your family used to live in Park Street in London. I want to take you back to 1977, I’m sure you remember the story of the baby boy left on the steps of the Royal Free Hospital?”


  “Yeah of course, it was a big story at the time.” Hannah looked down at her hands, seemingly examining her polished green nails. “So, they did call him Michael … but why are you asking about him?” She lifted her head; her eyes seemed to bore into Sam. “Do you know him? Did he send you here, instead of coming himself? ‘Cos I’m sorry to disappoint you, but you’re both on the wrong track. I’ve no idea who his mother is and that’s exactly what my family told the police time and time again. It got very weary.”

  Sam realised she was on fragile ground; she certainly wasn’t going to reveal yet she was Michael’s widow or more importantly, that Michael had a son.

  “I did know him, yes.”

  A look of shock erupted on Hannah’s face.

  “You said ‘did’? You’re not telling me he’s ruddy dead?”

  Damn, she was losing her.

  “Yes … Michael passed away two years ago, but before he died, he’d actually started looking for his mother himself. For his sake, I just wanted to fulfil his dream of finding her.”

  There were definite tears in Hannah’s eyes as she leapt to her feet, the sound of her chair scraping loudly on the tiled floor, causing heads to turn.

  “How dare you come here, stirring things up over a man who’s died, you sick fuck!” she roared right up in Sam’s face. “Never contact me again, or I’ll set my man on you! Do you understand?”

  ***

  Back in Honeysuckle cottage, Sam closed her curtains to the outside world. Her mother was right; the past should be left where it is, in the past. If Hannah was Michael’s mother, then unfortunately, she wasn’t the influence she wanted to bring into Harry’s life. If she wasn’t, and the Applebys had nothing to do with Michael, then she’d simply come to a dead end – there were no more clues to follow. With reluctance she made the decision not to pursue it any further. Returning the box of Michael’s ‘things’ to the back of her wardrobe, she turned the small brass key in the lock and walked out of the room.