The friendly sergeant, seemingly happy to play taxi driver, stopped twice on the way. They chatted, mostly about how boring life was in the street where Oliver lived. They both laughed when he told her it was as quiet as the grave. ‘I get so bored,’ he told her. ‘Nothing happens.’

​

They agreed Oliver should go to the police station the following afternoon to make a formal statement. He booked the hotel room for a week, simply because he didn’t know what he was going to do or where he was going to do it.

 

He was now showered and dressed in new clothes and sitting staring out of the window at an uninspiring view; a busy traffic junction below him and rooftops on the horizon. His phone rang.

‘How are you?’ asked the caller.

‘Who wants to know?’  

‘Danielle Skinner.’

​

‘In that case, I need an explanation. Why did you knock on my door minutes before my life blew up?’ He almost shouted. ‘And do you have a cure for buzzing in the ears?’

‘Downstairs in an hour?’

‘Down whose stairs?’

‘In the bar. Half an hour.’ Then she was gone.

​

Oliver stared at his phone. ‘My god,’ he said softly to himself. ‘She even knows where I am.’

​

Danielle Skinner was sitting in the corner of the near deserted bar. She looked up and smiled as he approached. ‘I don’t normally get drunk this early in the day, but I think today’s an exception. What will you have?’ asked Oliver.

‘A mineral water please,’ she replied.

​

A few minutes later, he returned to their table. Handing over her drink, he said, ‘One mineral water for the private eye; a large whisky for the rather confused man who rose from the rubble.’

She smiled. ‘Your good health.’ Oliver sat down opposite her.

​

‘Huh, that was nearly a goner - my good health, that is. I should have replaced that old boiler years ago.’ He raised his glass. ‘Cheers.’

​

Danielle paused for a moment while he took a sip of his drink. ‘I doubt it was the boiler.’

‘Pardon?’

‘I doubt it was the boiler,’ she repeated.

​

Oliver leaned forward and put down his glass. ‘You sound like DI Dixon. He was suggesting it was more sinister than Economy 7 getting its revenge for all those cheap units.’

​

She nodded. ‘For once, I agree with the police.’

‘You don’t agree with them very often, then?’

She shook her head. ‘Not at all, mostly.’

‘Do you know him?’

​

She grimaced slightly. ‘Only by reputation. And that’s not brilliant, I can assure you.’

Oliver pursed his lips, leaned back in his chair, and sipped some more whisky. ‘Dodgy? Inconsistent? Lecherous? Moronic? Perhaps arrogant?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes?’

She nodded. ‘Yes. All the above.’

​

Oliver looked mildly surprised. ‘So, you’re not keen. Not currently dating him then.’

‘Huh! Not a chance,’ exclaimed Danielle, a little louder than she’d intended.

​

‘So, Danielle Skinner, Private Investigations, why did you knock on my door this morning?’

​

She leaned back in her chair. ‘My story is going to take a bit of believing, so I hope you’ll hear me out.’

Oliver shrugged. ‘Your story about what?’

​

‘Everything will become clearer. Honestly, it will.’ She paused and looked away for a moment. As she turned back to him, she said: ‘I’ve been watching you. I’ve been watching you for four weeks. I know so much about you, I know so much, perhaps even things about yourself you don’t even know.’

​

Oliver stared at her and then emptied his glass in one gulp.

‘And,’ she added with a serious expression, ‘I know about your neighbour.’

​

Oliver tried to look nonchalant. ‘I could be interested.’

‘Well, Oliver Montague Roscoe, you’re a freelance journalist with an interest in art. You’re separated from your wife, who lives in Denmark.'

​

'You are currently unattached and have three children, but that’s all the obvious stuff, isn’t it? Marriage, children, education, parents. Anyone can learn that from the internet these days. But we have something in common, you and me.’

​

‘We do?’ Oliver looked puzzled.

‘Yep, we do. We have a secret – somewhere along the way we didn’t tell the people closest to us about something important.’

‘We didn’t?’

The detective nodded slowly. ‘Something we kept quiet about.’

​

‘Don’t tell me you were in the WI as well!’ said Oliver in mock exclamation. ‘That’s wonderful. By any chance, do you sing Jerusalem in the shower? If you do, I thank my god and ask that you sing a duet with me. We could have jam with it.’

​

Danielle smiled. ‘I must admit, I like the music, but it’s not my first choice in the bathroom. And I’m afraid I’m not big on jam.’

Oliver let out an exaggerated sigh. ‘OK. So, what’s the secret?’

​

She regarded him thoughtfully and then said, ‘Tell me about your parents.’

​

Oliver tried not to move uncomfortably in his seat but couldn’t stop himself. No-one had ever discussed this with him before. He frowned and looked away, taking deep breaths before turning back to face her and asked: ‘Which ones?’

​

‘I have the same problem, Oliver. My mother was young, had me adopted. My parents, as they became, were great, the best in fact. I have to say that because it’s true. And mine’s a classic case of a teenage mum, back in the day.’ She paused for a moment. ‘And before you ask, no, I never looked for my birth parents. Just like you. Never wanted to, and I still don’t.’

​

Oliver said nothing. He discovered, after his parents’ deaths, that no one had formally adopted him. He wasn’t sure why, but his sister blurted it out one day, although he could remember she’d certainly been looking for a fight.

 

She picked on every little thing when it became clear Oliver was to inherit half her mother’s money. He stared at the private eye seated opposite.

​

‘Now yours,’ she continued, ‘is a slightly unique case. What do you know about your birth parents?’

‘What has it to do with you?’

‘Trust me Oliver. It is important. I wouldn’t do this if it wasn’t.’

​

Oliver believed her but still quipped: ‘But you get paid for being a so-and-so.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Sorry, not funny.’ He stared at the glass he held. ‘Nothing. I know nothing,’ he mumbled. ‘I tried to find out, but kept hitting walls. Perhaps I was too discreet, too timid about the truth. Perhaps I don’t want to know. I don’t want to be disappointed.’

​

‘Well, I think it’s more to do with them not trying to keep secrets. Until now, that is.’ She sipped her drink. ‘I know all about you. May I continue?’

​

Oliver nodded slowly. Should he tell her his birth certificate named his adoptive parents as his natural parents? Did she know already?

​

‘Your father was in the government and your mother was the daughter of a couple who moved in the right circles, as they say. A country house party brought your mother and father together. We’ll call it a party, but it was a little more than that.’

 

Danielle was speaking slowly and pondering over her words. ‘And, without doubt, Andrew Cunningham – her husband – knew exactly what would happen. He wanted it to happen.’ She glanced at Oliver. ‘It’s a little perverse, isn’t it? A lot to take in.’

​

Oliver said nothing. He suddenly realised that if his parents weren’t his parents, and if this story were true, then a crime had been committed—a crime he perpetuated simply by using his birth certificate to prove his supposed identity as Oliver Roscoe. He heard Danielle continuing.

​

‘As I say, your mother was married to someone else, and your father… well, she only ever met him at this party.’ Danielle paused, waiting for a reaction. There was none.

‘Later, when you were born, it was political and social pressure, as well as from her husband, which forced your mother to have you adopted. Frankly, I think your father was oblivious for a long time.’

​

Oliver wanted to shout at her but couldn’t, but he raised a hand. ‘Hold on, hold on,’ he demanded in a soft voice. ‘You’ve dropped a bit of a bombshell, to say the least. I hadn’t a clue about my actual parents, but I never imagined I resulted from a country house orgy. What right have you to dredge this up?’ Oliver was confused. Was he feeling frustrated or angry – or both? ‘What’s the point?’

Danielle looked straight at him. ‘Your mother sent me,’ she said calmly.

​

‘What? From beyond the grave? She died two years ago.’

‘I meant your natural mother – your real and legal mother.’

Oliver stared at her. ‘She sent you?’

Danielle nodded.

​

‘And is she – your client – paying you well for knocking on my door and putting me in shock?’

Danielle nodded again.

​

‘Well, it’s your round then. Another large one of the same, please,’ demanded Oliver, holding out the hand that held his glass. She stood up and took the glass, and then headed to the bar.

​

Oliver watched her cross the room. He kept his gaze fixed on her. As she waited for the drinks, she turned and glanced back at him, before turning back to talk to the guy behind the bar.

​

Oliver watched her walk back again. She smiled. ‘Are you keeping me under surveillance? Worried I’ll do something underhand?’ She put his drink on the table and sat down.

‘What?’ asked Oliver, coming out of a light trance.

‘You watched my every move.’

Oliver blushed slightly and then mumbled, ‘It’s worth watching.’

​

‘Thank you.’ Danielle leaned forward slightly. It was then Oliver noticed now she was drinking whisky as well.

​

‘Your mother – my client – had only been married for two months when her husband – a much older man - took her to a country house party for the weekend. Well, it was a little more than a party, as I’ve hinted.

 

Remember my client, your mother, was in, what we could loosely term, an arranged marriage around money and land. Back then, she fulfilled the expectations of such arrangements.’

​

‘As you said before,’ pointed out Oliver, ‘that it was more than just a party. How old was this guy, anyway?’

‘Twenty-seven years older and twice married before, and as I have learned along the way, a volatile bully.’

‘Three marriages… Well, if at first you don’t succeed…’ Oliver’s voice trailed off.

​

‘Yes. Well, the weekend party was more of a secret society cum brothel meets wife swapping type of weekend. And only for the rich and influential – the very discreet - of the day. They were regular events, apparently.’

​

‘Seems quite a do,’ remarked Oliver flippantly. ‘Can’t beat good old-fashioned country pursuits, can you?’

​

‘That’s true.’ she smiled ruefully. ‘And the man your mother was, how shall we say, paired off with was none other than a rising young political figure. Already a junior minister in government and destined for greatness. For now, I’ll call him Mr X.’ Danielle paused a moment. Oliver said nothing, so she continued.

​

‘Anyway, we know your mother, my client, only slept with two men that weekend. Her husband and Mr X, who apparently took a shine to her and pursued her for the whole time they were at the house.’

​

‘How do we know that?’ asked Oliver. ‘That she only slept with two?’

‘Because she said so. She told me and I believe her.’

Oliver shrugged.

​

‘Anyway, six weeks she discovers she’s pregnant, with you that is, and hasn’t a clue what to do except announce the joyful event to her husband. At that point, she wasn’t sure who the father was, but it all went pear-shaped quickly.’

‘Why?’ interrupted Oliver.

​

‘When she announced to her husband that you were on the way, he went crazy.’ Danielle sipped her drink. ‘Absolutely ballistic, in fact.’ She paused again and leaned forward in her seat. ‘You see, unbeknown to your mother, you couldn’t be his because he was shooting blanks - always had done, it seems.’

​

Oliver pursed his lips and then exhaled slowly. ‘So, the old man wasn’t too pleased. But he introduces his wife to other men, and I guess has an enjoyable time himself. Bit of hypocrite though, as he’d taken her to the party.’

​

‘I agree, but anyway, he stuck with his young bride so long as she disappeared for a while. He arranged for her to live somewhere on the vast family estate in Scotland until you’re born.

 

Mr and Mrs Roscoe, a couple in the employ of the Cunningham family, looked after your mother. They already had a young child - a little girl – so they took on your care. As time passed, everyone accepted you were a Roscoe.’

​

‘Well. At least that’s what everyone thought. What really happened is that everyone presumed everything - the family felt entitled to do things their way. It seems nothing was going to tarnish the family name, and your mother’s feelings on the subject weren’t relevant - simply ignored.’

​

Danielle leaned forward; hands clasped. She looked straight at him and said, ‘Oliver, there’s some doubt about the legality of your adoption. I’m really sorry to break that to you.’

​

Oliver looked at her. ‘I wasn’t adopted,’ he said. ‘I discovered two years ago that I may not even exist. My sister took delight in telling me.’

​

‘Pardon?’ Danielle looked startled.

‘My birth certificate gives my mother as Roscoe and my father as Roscoe. Someone, it seems, gave false information and I’m a forgery.’

​

Danielle lowered her head and momentarily closed her eyes. She put one hand to her forehead. ‘I suspected that. That’s awful for you.’

​

‘A bit of an understatement,’ noted Oliver.

‘Although, we can admit that and argue someone coerced your natural mother, and she was unaware of the birth certificate fraud. If you weren’t legally and formally adopted, then you remain my client’s legal son. If that’s the case, then you will inherit large chunks of land and money – a lot of money, in fact.’

​

Oliver continued to stare at her. Danielle wondered if the delayed shock from the morning’s blast had overcome him. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying, Oliver? Do you feel OK? Do you need help?’

​

He muttered. ‘Yes, yes, and no, thank you. I’m OK.’ He smiled. ‘At least I think I’m OK. It’s hard to say. I answered the door to a stranger, just before my house blew up. I landed on my neighbour and crushed her sunbed. Then a Detective Inspector Dixon from CID turns up.’

 

Oliver shrugged dramatically. ‘But he doesn’t seem particularly surprised about anything. That’s odd. Very odd.’ Oliver drained his glass. ‘I’m now drinking whisky in a hotel with the same stranger who came to the door earlier. And to be honest, she might be involved more than I can imagine. I’ll probably get my head around it all soon, but one thing is for sure…’ He stopped talking and look straight at Danielle.

​

‘What’s that?’ she asked.

‘I doubt I’ll ever answer the door again.’

​

Danielle smiled and sipped her drink. ‘You pulled a crowd though, didn’t you?’

‘Morons and gawkers. Haven’t they anything better to do?’ Oliver paused. ‘Why were you still there? You had enough time to leave the street.’

​

Danielle looked down at the drink in her hand. ‘I’d parked around the corner. On the way to the car, I made a call. Just as I finished, I heard the blast and walked back. That’s all there was to it.’

​

‘In my experience of interviews with a broad range of people over the years, is that they look at their glass before answering for two reasons: either they are truly reflecting on the question and answer honestly and with humility.’ Oliver looked at his empty glass. ‘Or they’re telling lies. Naughty little lies.’

​

Danielle looked across at him. ‘Oliver,’ she said, leaning forward, ‘people will lie to you. People have lied to you. Over and over, for many years. I promise I have neither lied nor will I lie.’

​

They sat in silence. Oliver’s head was thick with everything that had happened that day. His ears were still buzzing. His companion sat looking at him. Oliver knocked back the rest of his drink. ‘Another?’ he asked.

​

Danielle thought for a moment. ‘Nah, I’d better not. Otherwise, I’ll have to leave the car here and get a taxi.’

​

‘Or, when the time comes, I could just get Parker to bring the Bentley around to the front.’

​

​