kitchen, she’s already serving up bowls of curry and rice, and a plate of warm naan bread.
‘This looks amazing.’ As Cath joins us, she glances at my laptop. ‘You’re still busy, Jess?’
‘I need to see what I can find out about Fiona.’ But there’s more. I need to look for anything about Kimberley, if there are any news cuttings from that time; any links between my mother, Fiona, Matt. Frowning, I look up. ‘Where can you look up old newspaper reports?’
‘You could try online?’ Zoe suggests. ‘There are archives, too. But that’s where I’d start. About Fiona … do you know anything about her?’
When I shake my head, she goes on. ‘It’s just that one of Nick’s golfing friends is a lawyer – in Brighton. I’m sure he’d do some digging if you wanted him to.’
At the prospect of more help, relief fills me. ‘That would be amazing.’
‘I tell you what.’ Zoe sits down opposite me with her phone. ‘I’ll text Nick now. I think James is with him in the Algarve. What did you say her name was?’
‘Fiona Rose. She used to be known as Allie Macklin. The name of the girl who died is Kimberley Preston, in case he needs that.’ Hardly able to believe she’s doing this, I take a mouthful of curry. ‘Thanks.’
*
After we’ve eaten, I take myself off to one of the armchairs in the sitting room. Opening my laptop, I google Allie Macklin. Then out of curiosity, I google Matthew Roche and a list of headlines come up. ‘Local man missing,’ and ‘Missing man suspected murdered.’
Sitting there, I try to think. Then slowly I start to type into the search bar. Kimberley Preston 1996 teenager death.
Even though it happened over twenty years ago, there are links to news articles and screenshots of newspaper front pages, but it’s no surprise that the death of a teenager would have been headline news. As I read about the parents of Kimberley Preston, instead of dissociated names, they become my family: Kimberley my aunt, her parents my grandparents. People I’ve never met, a chapter of her life my mother rarely talks about. And at last, after all this time, I understand why. In the aftermath of Kimberley’s death, their lives must have been devastated.
I focus on a photo of an elderly woman, grief clearly written in her eyes, in the lines of her skin. Kimberley’s grandmother – my mother’s grandmother, more family I’ve never known about. Then I find another photo of happier times, of my mother and Kimberley, with their parents.
As I continue searching, another story comes up. This time it isn’t a headline, but mentions Charlie Brooks, who after losing his girlfriend, Kimberley Preston, hung himself from a tree in the garden where she’d died. Realising it must have happened in our garden, shock hits me. It’s as my mother said, one reckless action from which waves of heartbreak rippled; are still rippling, even today.
While I’m searching, Rik texts me from Falmouth. Miss you. It’s followed by a line of red hearts. I text him back. Miss you too xx Will fill you in on everything xxx.
Zoe comes back into the kitchen. ‘Jess? I just heard from Nick. When James gets a chance, he’s happy to look into this. He couldn’t say when, but he’ll be in touch with you when he’s back.’
‘That’s so brilliant. Thank you so much …’ I glance down as another text from Rik flashes up on my phone. Can I help? I think quickly. Rik is a geek. I should have thought about it before. Quickly I start typing. Any dirt on Fiona Rose, a Brighton lawyer, or info on what really happened to Kimberley Preston. xxx. Then as an afterthought adding, any dirt on Matthew Roche would be a bonus.
Pressing send, a bubble of hearts float up the screen of my phone, then I turn back to my laptop.
*
I spend the following day finding out everything I can about Fiona Rose, when I google her, finding out there are many. But as I whittle them down by location, I find one listed as a partner at Hollis and James, a law firm, which fits with her ambition to become respected and credible. It mentions her previous position at a firm in Cobham, Surrey, called Dentons. But not a whole lot more than that. Studying the headshot of her, estimating her at around my mother’s age, I take in coolly appraising eyes, a posture that suggests confidence, feeling my heart sink.