Blood Loss by Kerena Swan (brene brown rising strong .txt) 📗

praying silently that he saw this news as progress. The case wasn’t proving to be as easy as Paton had hoped but he was confident that the Fiesta they needed to trace was either the deceased man’s car or the one with an owner based in Manchester. Who would use a vehicle in a dead man’s name unless they were hiding something or running away? And was it just a coincidence that Nash had links with Manchester?

‘I need to go to Manchester, sir. I’ve been told Nash was conducting business there for what seemed to be an unnecessarily long time and I suspect he was having an affair. I’d like to question the businesses he was dealing with and ask if he was seen with a woman. Can you approve my expenses for a couple of nights?’

‘Don’t stay in the Marriott. A Travelodge will do.’ He gave Paton a half-smile. ‘And make sure you don’t spend too much on food. My budgets are being squeezed again.’ He sat back in his chair and tapped his lips with his pen. ‘I’ll contact a colleague in the Manchester police. If you find any witnesses, you can take them into one of the local stations there to produce an E-Fit photograph.’

Paton thanked Metcalfe then left the office. Wendy wouldn’t be pleased that he was going away for a couple of nights but it couldn’t be avoided. They’d have to ask his sister to mind Tommy in the evenings while Wendy was at work. He’d also ask his sister to keep an eye on Wendy’s mental health. He just hoped he could find a connection in Manchester or another sighting of the silver Fiesta, otherwise he’d be disrupting his family for nothing.

Chapter 32

March | Sarah

As soon as I’ve finished tidying the seating areas at the library and re-stacking the shelves, I sit at one of the computers to research DNA test results and whether they can be wrong. Nothing else makes sense now I know Mum gave birth to me. I start with the lab I used and check reviews and ratings but it seems as though they only have happy customers. I make a note of the telephone number of the clinic so I can call to ask if I could have been given a false reading.

Next I research how saliva samples can be contaminated. It says to avoid putting anything in your mouth for at least an hour prior to collecting cheek-cell samples. Apparently, foreign particles from food, liquids and toothpaste don’t alter the DNA but they can mask it. The website describes how they degrade the sample and make it unusable. I think about the mouthwash I used after I’d visited Derek. No. That sample can’t have been compromised. I waited at least an hour before I took it and Mum had been asleep for ages when I stole her saliva sample.

The lab assures its customers on its website that this mistake doesn’t adversely affect the results because the lab always catches this problem and suspends testing immediately. I’d have simply been asked to do a re-collection at no extra charge. I switch to another website that says in rare circumstances human errors can be made with the data so if in serious doubt they recommend a second test from a different lab. Maybe I’ll do that. I’m sure Mum will agree to a re-test and if hers is wrong, which it must be, then I’ll go back to John and re-do his. Thank goodness I get paid tomorrow so I can order another kit.

When I arrive home, Mum’s waiting for me and she’s more sober than I’ve seen her in a long time.

‘I’ve been looking through your old memory box. Do you remember this?’ She holds a small, pink plastic band in her hand with a popper type fastening that’s still done up. The bracelet has been cut to remove it from the baby’s wrist but the hand-written information in red biro is clear. Sarah Butcher 26.09.1995 0281. ‘It’s your identity bracelet from the hospital. More proof that you’re my daughter.’

I sit next to her and she places it reverently in the palm of my hand, a wide smile on her face. I circle it to join the ends. It’s tiny. I pull the old box of photos towards me from the corner of the room and pick up a few snaps from the top until I find the pictures we looked at earlier. Mum takes a handful and strokes the faces gently with her fingertip, cooing over snaps of me growing up.

I find the picture of Mum holding me shortly after the birth and another taken a few days later. She looked so different back then with her dark hair and golden skin. She had joy and hope for the future etched on her face. Nowadays she mostly looks worn out and beaten into acceptance of a life with little happiness to lighten her long dark days.

I gaze at the images of the new me in her arms. I have puffy eyes and round cheeks and a dusting of light-coloured hair. I have no distinguishable features and look like many other new-born babies. The earlier one shows an ID bracelet like the one Mum just put into my hand. I peer more closely but the words are not visible. The second one is taken from a different angle so the wrist is obscured and I can’t see the bracelet.

‘Are there any more photos of us in the hospital?’ I ask, and I pick the box up to tip the entire contents on the floor then scatter them with the palms of my hands. I’ve glanced at these pictures years ago but now they are fascinating.

‘Careful, Sarah, you’ll bend them. I think there were a couple more taken of you before we left.’ Mum gets on her hands and knees then picks a photo up. ‘Look. This was your dad on our third date. Doesn’t he look handsome?’

I murmur