The Good Samaritan
Page 35

I’ve worked here for a few years now so I know first-hand the good work the charity does, Laura was quoted as saying. It’s taken a lot of hard work to raise the money, from jumble and bake sales to sponsorship, and I’d like to thank my husband Tony and Insurance World for their help with sponsorship, too.
So she was married. I wondered how calculating a person had to be to pull the wool over her husband’s eyes. Or maybe he was like-minded. Perhaps he knew what she did and turned a blind eye to it.
There was always a chance this was a gargantuan fuck-up and my hunch was wrong. I was about to close the lid of the laptop when the last line of the story caught my eye.
When asked what advice Laura would give to anyone thinking of calling End of the Line, she replied, ‘We’re here for you in whatever capacity you want us to be.’
It was exactly the same line she’d used on me when I’d told her I wanted to die. I googled the phrase and it wasn’t something she’d taken from End of the Line’s website or anywhere else and just repeated. It was her own. This had to be the same woman I’d spoken to.
I smiled to myself, as I knew exactly how I was going to get to Laura.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I sat in the driver’s seat of my car a few metres away from End of the Line’s offices in Northampton town centre.
I was parked on double yellow lines, and every forty minutes or so I’d spot the same sour-faced traffic warden in my rear-view mirror patrolling the avenue. Each time she made her way in my direction, checking car registrations with the electronic device in her hand, I’d start the engine and drive around the block. Then I’d park in the exact same spot once she’d gone.
I’d learned Laura Morris was volunteering that day when she’d answered on my third call to the helpline. I wondered what the odds were on that happening so soon. But I didn’t want to talk to her today. I’d immediately hung up, grabbed my coat, keys and phone, and hurried to their office to wait for her to emerge.
I’d been there for much of the morning when a handful of people entered within minutes of each other. I assumed a new shift must be about to start. Soon after, Laura left. Her head tilted up towards the cloudless sky to gauge the May bank holiday weather, then she walked down the handful of concrete steps and passed my car. I compared her face to the online newspaper story I’d printed out, and I was as sure as I could be that it was the same woman. Seeing her in the flesh after the weeks of effort I’d put in to track her down and unmask her made me giddy. I clenched my fists and took a deep breath.
She wore white running shoes and a waterproof jacket and carried a handbag-sized folded umbrella, so I assumed she wasn’t driving. I grabbed some loose change from the ashtray in case I needed to follow her onto a bus, opened the car door and, no longer caring about traffic wardens, began my pursuit. I held back for a moment when she looked behind her, then she opened her bag, pulled out a cigarette and lit it.
I’d watched enough telly cop dramas to know to keep a safe distance. Chances were Laura wouldn’t know she was being followed, but I couldn’t take the risk. If I could see her, then she could see me. I slipped my headphones over my ears so that if she turned around, I’d just be a man listening to music.
She kept a steady pace and while she wasn’t a power-walker, she moved with purpose. I followed her for about thirty minutes before we entered a housing estate. It was a moderately affluent area with long front gardens, neatly trimmed hedges and lawns, and rows of flowers.
One house stood out from the rest like a silver penny among coppers. And Laura was making her way up its driveway. The walls had been rendered and painted a creamy white and the window frames weren’t like the neighbours’ houses – brown, plastic and diamond-leaded. They were modern, dark grey frames and the glass was slightly tinted. Instead of a grassy lawn there was block paving and enough room for two more cars to park next to the yellow Mini Cooper already there. Under a window were some carefully arranged terracotta plant pots. Although stylishly tied together, the house and garden didn’t fit in with the surroundings.
Laura unlocked a double front door and, as she crossed the threshold, I briefly registered the walls and their unusual colour, patchy with dark grey and black streaks. I waited for her to close the door behind her before returning to my car, satisfied.
I headed back the next morning at seven, desperately needing to know more about a typical day in her life. With lukewarm coffee in a flask, I parked on the opposite side of the road and waited.
I must have missed her husband, as the only car parked on the drive was the Mini, which by its garish colour I doubted was his. When Laura finally left an hour and a half later, a pink rucksack was strapped to her back and she set off on foot.
She strolled briskly and I stuck to the other side of the road, dodging behind trees and cars, taking pictures of her en route with my camera phone. She paused outside Westfield Junior School’s gates and concentrated on a group of girls and boys running around and laughing together. She waved to one, but her smile faded when the girl didn’t see her. Laura briefly became distracted by some of the other mums standing by the gate, and she looked as if she might want to join them in conversation. Instead, she turned and walked away as if she were afraid to take the risk.
Her journey continued and more photos followed, until finally she approached the driveway to a large white building split into several wings that I was familiar with. What is she doing here? I wondered.
It was Kingsthorpe Residential Care Home, where my Granddad Pete had been moved after a stroke left him paralysed down the right-hand side of his body. He was barely able to move or talk. Mum and Dad visited him twice a week; Johnny and I less so, especially after Charlotte’s death. I’d been too busy thinking of myself to remember him.
The receptionist appeared to be familiar with Laura Morris, because she buzzed her in through the doors without asking to see any ID. Then Laura wandered along a corridor before veering out of sight.
I remained outside, shuffling from foot to foot, unsure of how to play it. Would I be pushing my luck if I followed her inside? Maybe, but I had to chance it.
‘Hi, I’ve come to see Pete Spencer,’ I told the young woman behind the desk, and gave her my brightest smile.
‘What relation to Mr Spencer are you?’ she asked, stony-faced.
‘I’m his grandson. I haven’t been for a while.’ She looked at me as if to say, I know. Shame on you.
At her request, I passed her my driver’s licence as identification and she handed me a visitor’s lanyard to wear around my neck. Granddad’s room was located in a separate wing, to the right of the corridor, along with other physically impaired patients. But Laura had turned to the left. I glanced around to make sure nobody was watching me before I walked down the same corridor she’d taken. It wasn’t long before I found her.
She was sitting in a lounge area, holding the hand of a boy strapped into a wheelchair who was laughing along to a book she was reading him. Her eyes only flitted between the book and his smile, like if she looked elsewhere, he might vanish into thin air. Only a mum could look at her own child with so much love. She stroked his hand and laughed with him.
I was taken aback, trying to reconcile the woman before me with the one who, just days earlier, had suggested I should kill myself. I watched them for a couple more minutes, but felt intrusive. I had to remind myself that having a child with special needs didn’t change who she was or what she did to vulnerable people.