are two-a-penny these days.’ He slid his gaze around the room. ‘In order to determine if the infant is indeed Alys Grant we need to match it to a sample of maternal DNA. But that’s not why I’m here today.’
Chapter 49
Izzy
Wednesday 22 January, 4 p.m. Carmarthen
The historic town of Carmarthen was situated on the river Towyes but, instead of faffing about with taxis and trains, Izzy decided to take the van. It was a little difficult but now that they’d reduced the dressing to just around her thumb and forefinger it was manageable.
There were other differences to the journey, differences she was trying not to dwell on. Differences like the fact someone was hellbent on trying to ruin her life and, up to now, they’d nearly succeeded. It was only by luck more than anything that they hadn’t managed to damage the van. It was only by luck that she hadn’t gotten around to unloading the back of the large supple of fleeces and it was only by luck that she was still alive.
Izzy didn’t believe in luck or chance or whatever it was called. Some people would say that falling pregnant on a first date was unlucky but how could she ever think that having Alys was a bad thing? She was the very best thing that had ever happened to her and she wouldn’t change a second of the time they’d spent together.
Without the satnav, she’d never have found the elegant, stone-built mansion surrounded by formal gardens. While only a little over an hour from St David’s she hadn’t visited since a child and the roads were all new to her.
She struggled out of the car, her heart dropping at the sight that greeted her, the stunning gentleman’s residence a wealth away from her parents’ Sixties bungalow. There was nothing she could do about the ill-fitting borrowed denim skirt and sloppy jumper. She couldn’t even put a hand up to smooth her hair with the sight of the door opening. So, instead of wasting time, she walked towards them, apologising for being unable to shake their hand.
‘You have a beautiful home,’ she said, following them both across the marbled hallway and into the lounge, complete with wood-panelling and thick cream carpets that she was almost scared to walk across in her borrowed boots.
‘Thank you, it was built in the 1920s by Edwin Lutyens. When we bought it back in the Eighties it had sadly fallen into disrepair.’ Mrs Madden tugged on the tapestry bell-pull beside the fireplace. ‘It’s been a labour of love getting it back, hasn’t it, Jack?’
Mr and Mrs Madden were as far removed from Izzy’s parents as it was possible to be. Both tall and slim, they were dressed in that effortless way that only comfortable wealth allowed. Their wardrobes … no. Their walk-in-closets … would be packed with Burberry and Erdem as opposed to the George and Primark she was used to. Even their shoes were immaculate and, in Mr Madden’s case, polished to a military sheen. In fact, that’s what he reminded her of with his straight back and clipped moustache; one of those old-school army colonels with a military record to match his bank balance. Everything was muted, understated and, quite frankly, she was frightened to death. After all, she had no right to be here. She had no right to interfere and certainly no right to ask the first in the list of questions queuing up since Rhys’s visit to the farm.
She took the seat offered, placing her borrowed bag on the floor beside her chair and tried not to feel overwhelmed by the impressive artwork dotted around the buttercream walls. Instead, she turned her attention back to the couple sitting opposite on the button-back, champagne-coloured sofa with cranberry throws draped across the arms. Mr and Mrs Madden, for all their poise, appeared awkward and uneasy, their eyes not quite meeting hers. But before the interrogation could begin in earnest there was a soft knock on the door – a welcome interruption where cups, saucers and matching side-plates, with thin slices of the softest jam sponge, were handed out. For a few moments the silence was only broken by the chink of bone china as social niceties took precedence.
‘Thank you for agreeing to see me at such short notice,’ Izzy said, her cup safely resting back in its saucer. ‘It’s difficult for me to know where to begin.’
‘How about from the beginning, m’dear? I have to admit we were surprised by