Page 68 of All Our Missing Pieces

Neil turned the page and they continued to scan the columns rapidly in unison before turning the page and beginning again – but Beatrice found herself wanting to be quicker still.

‘Steady on,’ he cautioned. ‘We don’t want to miss anything.’

‘Yes, but… Okay, you’re right.’

Finally, Neil turned a page and the name at its top was Clide. Beatrice felt perspiration spring out on the palms of her hands and abandoned the ‘Date of Birth’ column altogether, scanning only down the list of names.

But they went straight from Clifferly to Cliggett. There hadn’t been a single baby born in 1983 with the surname Clifford. Not on 27 February or any other day. Not adopted or born to married parents. None at all.

Beatrice looked up from the page, her eyes stinging from strain and the threat of tears. She felt as if all their patience had been rewarded only with failure. She looked back at the shelves of remaining books – the three volumes still to go through, along with the remaining quarter of this one, and she was overcome with despair.

‘Come on,’ Neil said. ‘Chin up. You could still be in here somewhere.’

But Beatrice was already on her feet. ‘I’m done with this. I’m going straight to look under Doyle.’

Leaving the A–DOOL volume open in front of Neil, she hurried to the shelves and pulled out the next red book, carrying it back with her arms outstretched like a waitress bearing a tray.

‘Scoot over,’ she said.

Neil closed the book and slid it to one side. Beatrice laid the other in its place and opened it at random near the beginning.

‘Dracott,’ Neil read. ‘You’re too far in.’

‘I know.’

Not wanting to damage the pages, the impatience almost killing her, Beatrice leafed backwards.

‘Doze,’ Neil read, his finger on the bottom of the page. ‘What a name.’

But Beatrice barely heard him. The name sprang out of the page as if it was printed in bright red instead of muted black.

Doyle.

There were three of them. Sebastian R, born in October to a woman whose name had formerly been Kelly. Roisin T, whose mother had been born an Irwin.

And Doyle, Aisling. Date of birth: 27/02/1983. Sex: F. Mother’s maiden name: Doyle.

‘There it is,’ she said. ‘That’s me.’

‘Does that mean your landlady…?’

‘I don’t know. She must’ve got married. Clifford must be her married name. The house never changed hands from when the Doyles bought it until she inherited it. It’s got to be her.’ Her voice sounded loud in the silent room. ‘She must be. It’s here, in the official record.’

‘Hold on,’ Neil said. ‘What if she had a sister?’

The thought had crossed Beatrice’s mind before, but now it made even more sense. ‘You mean if there were two granddaughters, but only one of them got the house, because…’

Her throat closed, imagining it. One daughter who’d done everything right, inherited everything. The other cast out, stripped of her child, her home, her place in the family.

She stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. ‘I’m done searching through records. When we get back to London, I’m confronting Orla. I’m going to make her tell me the truth.’

FORTY-TWO

When I saw Luke’s reaction to seeing Rachel, my first instinct was to comfort him. But I didn’t get the chance: the two of us stood there, frozen, for just a few seconds, our drinks forgotten in our hands, before Luke moved away from me. Hesitantly at first and then more purposefully, he edged his way through the crowd towards the window where she was standing.

I could see Rachel’s friends nudging one another, their whispers inaudible to me over the music. I knew what they were saying, though – He’s here. He’s seen her. Shit, he’s only turned up with his new girlfriend.

As I watched, Luke put his hand on Rachel’s shoulder. She turned to look at him, the purple and orange lights from the balcony illuminating her face. Whatever had been there before – the smile, the bravado – had vanished and she looked small and vulnerable, the swell of her belly beneath her white dress seeming almost too heavy for her slight frame to support.