Part 9 (1/2)

'Then be brave now,' I heard Daisy say as I gazed upwards. 'Be brave, Miranda.'

'Isn't it too late?' I asked bleakly.

'No. It's never too late.' I looked at her. 'Find him, Miranda.' My heart turned over. 'Find David.'

Find David...

'But what would I say?'

'What would you say?' she echoed. 'Well, ”sorry”, I suppose.'

I laughed a mirthless little laugh. 'I don't think ”sorry” would be quite enough. ”h.e.l.lo, David. I'm Miranda. You know that parcel you got sixteen years ago? The one that exploded in your hands? Yes, that's right. That one. You probably remember it quite clearly, actually. Well, the person who delivered it was me!” I'm not sure ”sorry” is going to be quite enough,' I repeated, as I felt my eyes fill.

'Well, it might be,' she said. 'It's the least you can say-and the most you can say. It's the only thing to say, actually, when you think about it.'

'Hmm,' I croaked. 'That's true.'

'Look for him, Miranda,' she said gently. 'Then maybe you'll be able to put this behind you at last. Isn't that what you really want to do? What you've always wanted to do?'

'Yes,' I whispered, after a moment. 'It is. I do want to do it. I've always wanted to do it. I've always wanted to find David White. And I will.'

CHAPTER 5.

By the time I left Daisy's, a couple of hours later, I felt shattered, but relieved. I'd unburdened myself, Daisy hadn't judged me, and she'd given me such good advice. Just the thought of trying to find David made me feel so much better. The thought of taking action at last. But where on earth would I look? He could be in Paris, or Peru, or Prestatyn. He could be anywhere in the world. But I knew what my first port of call would be. When I arrived home, I got the number and dialled.

'Welcome to the University of Suss.e.x,' said a recorded voice. 'The switchboard is open from nine o'clock until five thirty, Monday to Friday. If you know the extension number-' I'd have to wait. Then I looked up 'Professor Derek White' on the Net. There was nothing. And so, although I knew it to be a futile exercise, I looked up 'David White' too. There were nearly four million entries. There was a David White selling optical instruments; a David White who bought antiquarian books; a David White offering heating services; and David White, the actor, who starred in Bewitched. There were David White power tools and David White furniture, there was even a rap artist called David White. Maybe 'my' David White had become a scientist, like his father. Maybe he'd completely dropped out.

At nine o'clock the next morning I called the university switchboard again.

'I don't want to be put through to him,' I said carefully. 'But could you tell me if Professor Derek White is still on the staff?'

'Just a moment please...' There was a quick burst of synthesized Vivaldi. 'I can't see that name, no. What department is he in?'

'Erm... I'm not sure. Biology, probably. Or maybe Biochemistry.'

'I'll check for you again. No. There's no one of that name. Do you wish to be put through to anyone else in the Science department?'

I panicked. 'No, thanks.' They might ask me who I was, or why I was calling. I'd have to try a different tack. So I rang directory enquiries again, and tried to find a home number.

'Do you have the address?'

'Yes. I do.' I'd never forgotten it. 'It's forty-four West Drive, Brighton.'

'Please hold... There's no listing for a Professor D. White at that address,' the operator announced.

'Not even ex-directory?'

'There's no listing for that name at that address,' she repeated automatically. 'Would you like another number, caller?'

'No. Thanks.' I replaced the handset with a sigh. This wasn't going to be easy, but then it was a long time ago-they could have moved, or he might have died. He must be well over sixty-five by now, so he'd probably retired. Maybe their neighbours might know where they'd gone, or would agree to forward a note. With no other leads, I decided to go down there. I could combine it with a visit to Mum. I looked in the diary. Wednesday was free. Once I'd done my sleuthing, we could have lunch.

'That would be lovely,' she said when I phoned her. 'The girls are away-they've finished school now-so we'll have a nice catch-up on our own. And you can see the boys. You haven't seen them for a while, have you?'

'No, I haven't. That would be great.'

On Wednesday morning, Herman and I set off for Brighton early. I wanted to arrive before nine in order to maximize the chance of someone being in when I called. I didn't need to look at the map as I knew the way there so well. Through the City, over Blackfriars, then down the A23, past Hurstpierpoint; then I saw the Brighton sign. I had a pit in my stomach as I drove through the town centre towards Queens Park then turned right into West Drive. I'd revisited it in my dreams-and nightmares-so many times. The house was towards the end, semi-detached, Edwardian, set back, with a neat front garden protected by a low hedge. As I went slowly by, I saw no movement, but then it was still early-a quarter past eight. I turned round at the end, then parked two doors down, feeling like a private detective on the trail of some errant spouse. As I sat, waiting and watching, Herman would emit the occasional anguished sigh. At eight thirty I saw the postman arrive, but by nine there was still no sign of life. Perhaps they were away-the gra.s.s looked quite long. At nine fifteen, I got out of the car. Breathing deeply, I opened the gate, then walked up the path-remembering, with a sick feeling, the last time I had done that-and now, heart pounding, I rang the bell.

Strangely, I hadn't given much thought to what I would actually say. As I waited I mentally rehea.r.s.ed it. 'h.e.l.lo, my name's Miranda. I just want you to know that it was me. In 1987. It was me. I did it. But I didn't mean to. I've just come to say how sorry I am.' There was no answer. I peered through the frosted-gla.s.s panel, but could detect no shadows moving inside. I rang again, but still there was complete silence. I'd have to leave a note. I could have asked the postman if they still lived there, I realized, as I returned to the car. And I'd just reached into the glove box and pulled out the writing pad I'd brought with me for this purpose, when I heard a door slam. I looked up. A man was coming out of the neighbouring house with a black c.o.c.ker spaniel. I got out of the car again and crossed the road.

'Excuse me!' He glanced up, and I smiled at him politely. 'I'm sorry to bother you, but could you tell me if the Whites still live at number forty-four?'

The man looked at me blankly. 'The Whites? The Whites?' he said again. 'Goodness me, no. They left years ago. Years ago,' he repeated.

'Oh.' I felt crestfallen.

'Mind you, we've been here twenty years. Twenty years, we've been here...' He seemed to like saying everything twice.

'So you knew them then?' I ventured.

'The Whites?' I nodded. 'Oh yes. Nice family. Very nice family.'

'And when did they move?'

'Ooh, in about, what, '87 or '88? Yes. Must have been. Not long after... Well, they had a spot of bother. Nasty business, that was,' he shook his head. 'Nasty business.' He looked at me quizzically. 'Why do you want to know?'

'Well, I'm...an old friend of their son, you see.'

'Michael?'

'No,' I said carefully. 'Erm, David actually.' I felt a sudden surge of adrenaline.

'Ah, David. Yes. Good lad. Good lad he was.'

'Was?' I repeated, my heart racing.

'Is. I mean I just remember him as a nice lad. How do you know him then?'

My insides were churning, but I had my lie ready. 'We were at college together.'

'I see. So you're trying to get in touch again. Friends Reunited and all that.'

'Yes,' I said brightly. 'That's right.'

'But don't any of your other college friends have a number for him?'

'Er, no. They've all lost touch.'