Roses Are Red - Miranda Rijks Page 0,102

all together. Then DI Cornish arrives and confirms what I intuitively already know. Patrick is dead. Fiona is still alive and has been rushed to hospital with a major head injury.

33

Four Months Later

This time last year, Mia talked about having a big sixteenth birthday party. Adam promised her a disco with the best DJ in town, a marquee in the garden, a night to remember.

But that was last year.

Instead Mia, Oliver, Cassie and I go to Brighton and eat fish and chips in newspaper, and big whirls of candy floss, and when it rains, we hold our faces up to embrace the heavy droplets and dance along the promenade. We take a ride up the tall observation tower, and although we thought we’d see nothing, the clouds part and the sun rays shine through, glittering on the choppy, grey English Channel.

Cassie buys Mia a leather bag with tassels from a little shop in The Lanes and then whispers something in her ear. Mia turns to me and asks if she could have her hair cut short like Cassie’s, and coloured perhaps? And I can’t say no.

Now we’re back at home, knee-deep in packing boxes. Everything is labelled and ready. It’s our last night here. Tomorrow, we’re moving to a new house in Guildford. It’s smaller and modern; an easy house, within walking distance of the town. Mia and Oliver are going to another school despite the fact that Mia is midway through her GCSEs. We are all having a fresh start.

I don’t think Ajay will ever entirely forgive me, and why should he? I sold my shares in the business to him. It seemed like the right thing to do. He upped the share price and offered for me to stay on as a non-executive director. I declined the offer. The kids and I have more than enough money; I never need work again. But I will. I’ve got plans to give a lot of it away.

‘Right, I think we’re done,’ Mia says, interrupting my thoughts. She’s scraping bits of sellotape off the knees of her skinny jeans. A popping noise makes me jump. Blood is sucked from my face, and I have to grab onto the pile of boxes to stop myself from fainting.

Cassie walks into the living room, holding a bottle of champagne.

‘It’s ok, Mum,’ Mia says, squeezing my hand.

Cassie notices my pale face. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘Didn’t mean to frighten you. I kept this out and four glasses. I know they’re too young to drink, but still…’

I take several slow deep breaths and smile. Mia, Oliver and I are all seeing a therapist; individually for now, and perhaps all together a few months down the line. It’s helping. Every day, I think a little bit less about what happened: how clever Fiona was in befriending Cassie first and then me; how my desperate need for love made me a sitting duck for a man as devious as Patrick; how easy it was to set up innocent Ajay as the fall guy; and how Adam’s father set all of this in action by denying the existence of his illegitimate son.

And then there’s me. I don’t think I’ll ever date again, not seriously, anyway. Having been taken in by such consummate actors, I doubt I will ever truly trust again. But I have the children. I have Cassie. I have a new future ahead, and that should be enough.

‘Oliver, come and join us,’ I shout upstairs.

He clatters down the stairs. Cassie pours a finger measure of champagne into a glass and hands it to him. She pours a bit more into a glass for Mia. She and I have such full glasses, we have to sip from the rims.

‘A toast,’ she says, holding up her glass. ‘To a much happier future and joy in your new home!’

We all take a sip.

‘Ergh,’ Oliver says, holding his glass out in front of him as if it’s contaminated. ‘It’s gross.’

‘More for me, then.’ Mia grabs it and pours the remaining champagne into her own glass.

We sit on the floor, our backs against the bare walls.

‘How are the plans for the charity coming along?’ Cassie asks.

‘Good. I’ve pulled together a brochure, and I’ve found us a small office in Guildford. I think it’s on my bed, if you want to see it.’

‘Yes, I would,’ Cassie says.

‘I’ll get it for you, Mum.’ Mia leaps up. All of her adolescent sulkiness has dissipated. It breaks my heart that she’s had to grow up so quickly.

‘Can I go and finish packing?’ Oliver asks.

I smile. His room was finished hours ago, with the exception of his iPad. I don’t mind him going off to play games.

‘Have you decided yet?’ Cassie asks in a low voice when she’s sure both the kids are out of hearing distance.

‘Yes. I’m not going to do it.’

She nods. ‘The right decision.’

It was DI Cornish’s idea. ‘We could organise DNA testing on a biological sample from Patrick Grant that is being held by the coroner. It will let us know whether Patrick really was Adam’s half-brother. What do you think?’ he asked.

I told him I would mull it over. And I have. I don’t need to know. Patrick was an evil man, whether or not he was related to Adam. I’m not sure that anyone would want to know that one of their relatives was a murderer, and I can’t see how knowing whether Patrick was a real relative, by blood or not, would make any difference to my children’s lives. I need them to heal, to restore their faith in humanity. And I have no desire to give Fiona any reason to justify the horrific actions she and Patrick took. Sometimes, I think that I want her to rot in prison for the rest of her life; other times, I feel pity for her.

For my part, I have set up a charity for the victims of internet and dating fraud. We’ve only been going for two months and already have had exposure in the national press. Dating fraudsters come in many different guises, and I want to be there both to educate people and to pick up the pieces for those who get conned. I know I’m one of the lucky ones. I don’t need to worry where the next meal is going to come from or how to pay the heating bill, but I want to be there to support people who have been ripped off for everything they own.

Cassie walks slowly into the room. She’s reading my brochure. She has tears in her eyes.

‘I didn’t think you’d make it so personal.’

‘It’s my story, Cass. It’ll resonate with other people.’

She reads it out loud:

I expect you’re like me. You think that it will never happen to you. You might be older or younger, richer or poorer; it doesn’t make any difference. You could be male or female or gender neutral. None of that matters in the slightest. You probably think that you’re sensible, cynical maybe, that you would spot a fraudster a mile away. Who in their right mind would ever lend or give money without financial guarantees in place? Not you. Not me.

But you see, I was like you. I was looking for love, for another chance. To see out the rest of my years in quiet companionship. I had a heart and I wanted to share it. And that’s all it took. Once you become a target, once they unearth your vulnerability, your ability to love, they attach themselves to you with limpet ferocity. They will never quit taking what is yours. Not until they bleed you dry.

And how do you stop them? I don’t know. I want to believe the world is full of good people, but there are some bad ones, and they contaminate our earth with their evil. I don’t want you to become cynical, to be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life. I want you to open your heart to love without fear. But to open your heart is to take the risk it will be broken. Please take that risk. Be careful but not cynical. And if in the unlikely event things go wrong, we are here for you.

With love,

Lydia