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She shakes her head. “I think there was a kid, but that wasn’t her name.”
“Oh, well. Okay.” Maybe the Sampsons changed their adopted daughter’s name, or maybe it was a different Harry. In any case, time to resort to the census records.
I access them on my phone, starting with the year two thousand and one.
Bingo! There he is, listed as the landlord of the Rose and Castle. Harold Sampson, with his wife, Faith, and his daughter, Beth, aged seven years.
So, she’s no longer called Naomi. It’s my first real breakthrough.
I skip to the next census, two thousand and eleven. Harold Sampson is no longer listed as resident at the Rose and Castle. So, where did he go next?
I take a room at the Rose and Castle, for want of anywhere else to go just yet, and settle in to scour more public records in search of the Sampsons. I hit the jackpot, in a manner of speaking, when I happen across a record of Harold Sampson’s death, registered by his widow, Faith. Her address at the time was the Dog and Rabbit Inn, in Newcastle.
The next morning I reset my satnav and head further north.
The Dog and Rabbit is a typical inner-city drinking hole. Bustling with activity, the music is loud, the clientele boisterous, and the food could best be described as wholesome. I make enquiries at the bar but draw a blank. No one currently working there has any idea who ran it before. I order a glass of sparkling water and take a seat in a corner to ponder my next move.
The elderly gentleman at the next table eyes me with interest. “Ye’re wantin’ old Harry then, lass?”
I glance up sharply. “Did you know him?”
“Aye, that I did. Pulled a real decent pint did old Harry. It were a shame ’e went so sudden, like. Dropped dead of a heart attack, ‘e did.”
I smile and nod sympathetically. “I was hoping to pay my respects to Faith, or Beth. You don’t happen to know where they live now?”
“Can’t say as I do, lass. Faith didnae want to stay on, after ’er man passed away. She an’ the lass, and the wee one, they moved on.”
“Wee one?” Surely Naomi would have been a teenager by then.Did they have another child as well?
“Aye. The lass ’ad a bairn, a little boy as I recall.”
“I see.”
“Became a plumber, she did,” the elderly man continues. He seems happy to chat so I let him rattle on. “Odd sort of a job for a lass if ye ask me, but they get up to all sorts these days.”
“A plumber? You mean Beth?”
“Aye. A plumber. Set ’erself up in business, up Berwick way, I ’eard.”
“You’re sure? Beth Sampson became a plumber with a business in Berwick?”
“Is that no’ what I said?” He takes another long slurp of his beer, then gazes sorrowfully at the bottom of the half-pint glass.
I take my cue. “Would you like another?”
He beams at me, “Aye, lass, that’ll be right generous of ye. I’ll just ’ave a pint.”
I leave my new friend to nurse his pint of bitter and start Googling plumbers in Berwick. Beth Sampson comes up almost straight away. I note the address of her business, make my excuses, leave another half-pint behind the bar for my informant, and head off to reprogramme my satnav again.
Less than two hours later, I’m parked opposite a plumber’s yard on the outskirts of Berwick-upon-Tweed. It looks to be locked up, deserted. A ‘For Sale’ sign is nailed to a post outside.
A semi-detached house adjoins the yard. On impulse, I decide to knock. There’s no answer, but a neighbour opposite pauses on her way back with two bags of shopping.
“They’re not there anymore, love.”
“Oh. I see. Would you happen to know where they went?”
“No, sorry. She moved out at the start o’ lockdown an’ ’as not been back since.”
