The Hollow Heart Part 1

The Hollow Heart.

...love will find a way.

By Adrienne Vaughan.

To my parents, Harry and Marion for the love that binds us.

Reta my sister the one heart and soul, shared...

...and my husband Jonathan, my love story.

In memory of Tony Poole, the man, and Spike, the cat two cool dudes.

Prologue.

She stood looking up at the large iron gate, the gaps between the struts of twisted steel boarded up with blank, grey ply. No view beyond. She lifted the latch and barely making an opening large enough, slipped through to the other side. The gate swung closed on well-oiled hinges, the latch clicked into place. No escape. And drawing in the cool air, she willed her heart to still as she walked the short distance to the door, eyes fixed on the ageing enamel sign. But the letters had faded and the words were illegible.

There was nothing else to indicate what the place was about or what took place inside, no hint of activity, no sign of life. She had been here before but had never summoned the courage to go in. Now, she had no choice. Her deadline was today, no time to change her mind or have a change of heart. If she was going to do it, it had to be now. She felt a chill crawl up her spine to her neck, she pulled her jacket collar up, s.h.i.+vering with excitement, apprehension or something more sinister she did not know.

What she did know was that by pressing this tarnished, bra.s.s door bell, her life could would alter for good. She pushed her shoulders back and lifted her chin, she could just see the smeared reflection of her face in the cracked paint. She blinked, caught between the girl she was and the woman she might be. And here it was, the doorway to a past she did not want, a future she could not avoid. She took a huge breath and pushed the bell; the name just a smudge but she knew what it said; what it meant.

She heard footsteps coming towards her, she stepped back, heart pounding, adrenalin pumping, fight or flight, her brain asked urgently, come on hurry up, fight or flight, which? The door swung open, a young girl in a gaily embroidered smock stood there, dark hair in braids, red ribbon woven through; she smiled brightly.

"h.e.l.lo, are you the reporter?" She asked in a slight accent.

Marianne nodded, words taken away with surprise.

"Come in, Sister Mary May will be in the Chapel, I'll show you."

Adjusting her shoulder bag and taking one last look up and down the street, Marianne followed the girl into the hallway. In stark contrast to the exterior of the building, the walls were painted yellow, the polished floor a honeyed walnut and soft lighting doused the whole place in warmth. As they walked towards a set of imposing doors at the end of the corridor, Marianne could hear a faint musical murmuring, it was soothing, tranquil - disconcerting. The doors swung noiselessly open and Marianne stepped into an enclosed courtyard. She stopped to take it all in, squinting as her eyes adjusted. Above her a domed roof of sapphire gla.s.s, littered with silver stars curved across the darkening sky; before her a life-sized statue of the Madonna stood on a plinth carved into what looked like the side of a mountain; a trickle of water at the statue's feet flowed into a pond strewn with petals, as rows of fluttering candles lit a marble altar. Every hair on Marianne's body stood to attention.

There was a loud crash, a clunking of metal and then next to the altar, a door hidden in the rock, swung open and a large, elderly woman bustled in. Fiddling with keys, she raised a hand to greet Marianne, letting the door slam, the draught extinguis.h.i.+ng the candles.

"Ah f.e.c.k, I always forget to close this one first, if the other is open," She tutted, flicking on fluorescent lights. She crossed the room, hand extended, her smile exposing yellow teeth and the remains of lunch.

"You're the journalist then, what's all this about? I'm very busy you know, can we get straight to it?"

Marianne looked the woman up and down. She wore a bold checked skirt, red golfing sweater, battered gilet and carpet slippers; her crinkly hair was hennaed and twisted in a knot on top of her head.

"Are you...?"

"Yes, yes, who were you expecting, the Mother Superior from the Sound of Music?" She put a hand to the wall and turned off the Gregorian chant that had been oozing through hidden speakers. She stretched her mouth encouragingly at Marianne, "Well?"

"I'm investigating a very serious allegation, Sister. I have it on good authority this refuge is not what it seems. I'm told it's operating as a clearing house for the illegal sale and adoption of children."

The woman didn't blink, she just kept smiling at Marianne.

"Really? And whose good authority is this?" she asked, her tone even.

"I can't tell you that, but I can tell you I've evidence. Through an internet search we have managed to reunite a woman and her daughter. This woman says she came to this refuge as a frightened, young girl to have her baby and it was stolen. She says she was drugged and told her baby had died. She said she knew that wasn't true and never stopped looking for her daughter."

The nun pulled a packet of cigarettes from her gilet, lit one and puffed on it, blowing the smoke into Marianne's face.

"What absolute b.o.l.l.o.c.ks! And don't quote me, no-one would believe a nun said that. It is though, complete and utter nonsense. I've been running this establishment for over thirty years, I know every woman and child personally, it's been my life's work." She moved forward to take Marianne's arm. "Come and talk to some of my girls. Yes, a few children are offered for adoption, but only when we're absolutely sure their natural mother is unable to care for them. Always the best interests of the child at heart. Always."

"DNA tests have proved the mother and daughter are genuine and the woman was here, she has copies of paperwork and a death certificate for the baby which we now know is fake. Will you confirm or deny this woman's story, Sister?" Marianne stood her ground. The woman dropped the cigarette and crushed it underfoot.

"You're being very stupid young lady and I'd advise you not to take this any further," Her voice barely a whisper as her eyes burned into Marianne.

"When the story breaks more women will come forward. I've spoken to some already but they're scared they'll ruin their children's lives and they're terrified, terrified of you." And for a split second Marianne wondered if someone in her life, someone she did not know yet was closer to her than anyone else in the world, had been the victim of a scenario such as this? That one thought, that single hateful wish was the one thing that made what had happened to her, bearable, forgivable.

Her brain snapped back to the present, as the nun turned on her heel, plaid skirt thwacking against her knees as she moved.

"Time you left, I've heard enough." She strode to the corridor. "Anna, the so-called journalist is leaving." The young girl appeared instantly, hurrying to open the front door and escort Marianne through it.

"This isn't the end of it," Marianne threw back as she left. "I'm going to press with what I have, I've a deadline to meet, you had your chance."

"What was your name again?" the woman called out. "So I get it right when I report this hara.s.sment to the police."

"Marianne Coltrane, Chesterford Chronicle," she replied, catching fear in the young girl's eyes.

"Coltrane? I knew some Coltranes once, nice people they were." The woman sneered after her. Marianne pa.s.sed quickly through the door, pulling it tight shut behind her. The evening had become night, and as she walked into the dark, a bitter wind stung her face. She hurried on, she needed to file her report and decide upon her next move.

Chapter One .

An Unlikely Suitor.

The runner pushed open the office door, a bundle of newspapers gripped tightly under one arm. He peeled off a copy and slapped it on her desk.

'Mother Reunited with Daughter Stolen at Birth!' screamed the headline. She read it slowly, twice; it made her want to laugh and weep at the same time. She took a deep breath, suddenly elated, she had done it again; another wrong, righted; another great story. Marianne Coltrane allowed herself the merest flush of pride. This was good work.

She checked the by-line. Jack Buchannon's name was next to hers; a nod to her boss, having unpicked the initial thread of this complicated and despicable charade. She had done the real graft though, exposing a black market in the sale of new born babies, a hideous scam masquerading as a charity helping young girls 'in trouble'. Now justice would be done and would be seen to be done. The picture told the story; two women clamped in an embrace, the years falling away, their love as fresh as if one had just given birth to the other, their new beginning s.h.i.+ning out from the page, a ray of hope. She folded the still-warm paper crisply, putting it aside.

They say newsprint seeps into the veins, but for Marianne it was like drowning, submerged the instant she had seen her work in print; just a couple of small paragraphs and yet they were her words; powerful words. The truth hit her like a train. The pen is indeed far mightier than the sword. From that moment on, the newspaper business filled her very soul, it became her entire world, everything. It was all she had and she was sure, all she could ever wish for.

The newsroom was a goldfish bowl, all movement visible through vast panes of gla.s.s opposite her desk. Reporters flashed to and fro like minnows, the sub-editors clumped together in the middle like a puffball of tangled weed, with features, picture desk and sports spiralling out; wayward fronds in murky waters.

She could hear voices rising and although she could not yet see them, she recognised the combatants and knew what they were arguing about. She checked her watch. The gla.s.s of water on her desk vibrated, sending up tiny champagne bubbles of oxygen. Placing a hand on the polished surface, she could feel the pulse of the ma.s.sive press many floors below. It was running off the lunchtime edition; pus.h.i.+ng thousands of copies through steel rollers onto conveyor belts, to be strapped into bundles, loaded onto waiting vans and whisked through the city streets at breakneck speed.

It was timed to hit the newsstands two hours ahead of its nearest rival. It had been her idea to change the print s.h.i.+ft making this edition that bit earlier, it had helped, though sales were still on the slide. She closed her eyes, absorbing the therapeutic thrum of the machine, the life force of every word she wrote.

A door slammed, the arguing grew closer. She ducked behind a pile of files, hoping she had not been spotted; she had been in the office for hours, checking and re-checking her notes, filing them meticulously, this story was big and just the tip of the iceberg. She always started early, avoiding the dreaded school run, when rivulets of children spilled from vehicles of all shapes and sizes, irritatingly blocking the entrance to the newspaper's car park, until the bell sounded and their relieved parents could drive away.

Now she watched the two men standing beyond the glazed wall, the old dog facing down the young pup, gesticulating at each other and then towards her inner sanctum. She was in no mood for their posturing, not today, she was on a deadline, she needed to stay focused. She crouched down as they scanned the gla.s.s, hotching herself along the carpet to kneel beneath her desk, trying to make herself invisible. In her haste she disturbed some papers and the invitation to the National Media Awards fluttered past her nose to the floor.

She prayed they had not seen it. She forced herself to leave it where it lay, resisting the urge to pick it up and read again the spine-tingling phrase, 'As a nominee you are invited to attend.' She could just imagine the dazzling Hollywood smile of the guest presenter, as he handed her the coveted trophy for Journalist of the Year. The voices grew louder, and deciding her presence, at least as referee, was required after all, she hauled herself up, and gathering an armful of files, propelled herself into the corridor.

As the clash between the two men heightened, she burst through the door, slicing the atmosphere, tottering to negotiate the cluttered s.p.a.ce with her hands full, spectacles doubling as a hair band against a shock of auburn. She smiled at the younger man, who looked swiftly to the elder. She dropped the files on Jack Buchannan's overflowing desk, neither male had attempted to a.s.sist; this was a newsroom after all.

"What's up?" she asked, still smiling at her editor, Jack, a grumbling Scot with a penchant for a stiff gin at any time of the day or night. He ignored her, returning to his desk to prod at the keyboard, abruptly bringing to a close the heated discussion she had interrupted. The computer bleeped uncomfortably, he waggled the mouse, picked it up and dropped it in a drawer, slamming it shut. The network was down.

"Is there a problem? Something you're not happy about, Jack?" she asked patiently.

"Ach, look at them, no-one doing a hand's turn. You'd think their arms had been ripped out at the sockets, brains turned to slush. Can they not just pick up a pen and y'know, write with it?" He flung out an arm, embracing the disabled cl.u.s.ter about him, on a good day one of the most dynamic editorial teams in the country. Marianne leaned back on his desk, arms folded.

"I've seen the first edition, good work Marianne," she said, under her breath. Jack pretended he did not hear.

"I've given Paul a directive and he's being argumentative, nothing for you to worry about. Now, I need a cigarette." Jack stood up, hesitated, it was raining outside. Slumping back into his chair, he put on spectacles to bring the office clock into focus and immediately brightened. Marianne guessed what he was thinking. The d.u.c.h.ess of Cornwall would be just open, the public house kept odd hours, catering for the print team coming off the night s.h.i.+ft. At least a smoke outside the pub meant a chat with someone half-intelligent, if not wholly intelligible. He made for his coat. Marianne opened her diary.

"Bit early, Jack," she said, softly. The younger man coughed.

"Have you a problem?" Jack grunted, his accent as broad as the day he crossed the border. "Alright, get it off your chest, but I'm not changing my mind, no matter what Marianne says."

"We've been discussing 'The Interview'," Paul Osborne widened his eyes at Marianne. "I think Jack's wrong to insist we run a politician and only a local politician at that. The Interview's taking off; people have started asking who we're doing next. The bag lady sleeping outside St Winifred's A & E department was amazing. I mean a war hero, on the sc.r.a.pheap, living as a down-and-out, a severe failing of the system, the system she fought to protect."

"I do know the story," Jack sighed. He liked the lad. He was a promising photo-journalist, one day he could be a quality writer. He had talent. He also had a conscience, ethics and a campaigning sense of righteousness. Jack was in no mood for Crusaders. Marianne unfolded her arms, looking from one bristling bundle of testosterone to the other.

"Would you like my opinion?" She was still smiling.

"We need George Brownlow." Jack pulled on his aged Barbour.

"Not for The Interview, please, can't we write him into Lifestyle or something?" Paul pleaded support from his colleague.

"As our new MP, he needs a decent piece. He's important. Anyway, who have you lined up for the next 'Interview'? 'We're working on it' is hardly a headline." Jack was checking his pockets for cigarettes.

"It's a surprise," Marianne replied easily.

Jack guffawed, severe nicotine withdrawal kicking in.

"Okay what about this," she said, "American TV star's son, married to local beauty, living happily in that new development by the ca.n.a.l. You know, why Chesterford instead of Los Angeles fors and against?"

Paul was horrified. The 'local beauty' was his sister Zara, a former fas.h.i.+on model. The TV star's son, his brother in law, Mike. Both kept deliberately low profiles. Paul would never use family connections as media fodder, he was aghast.

Jack fastened his coat, "And the actor's name?"

"Ryan O'Gorman, you know, good looking Irish guy, big hit series on American television, and a few arty films too, in his younger days."

Jack pulled his collar around his jowls. "Never heard of him."

Marianne looked at him, unblinkingly. Jack s.h.i.+fted a little.

"Really? He's the star turn presenting the National Media Awards next week."

"I can't wait!" exclaimed Sharon, their shared secretary, as she dumped a pile of post on Jack's desk. "He's really dishy in an 'older man' kind of way. I could show him a few of the local attractions, no bother."

"Are you in this meeting?" Jack barked. Sharon exited. "I'm not sure I like the sound of this, I know we've been short-listed for a few awards but you're not hoping to influence any decisions are you?" He eyeballed Marianne, she met his gaze, he knew she would never stoop so low. He also knew she would never reveal what she was working on until it was in the bag. He recognised a smoke screen when he saw one. He gave her his 'do as I say' frown but even he had to admit the politician was not the most enthralling of subjects.

"Look this young headline hunter doesn't want George Brownlow for The Interview, but I say it has to be the MP unless you come up with something I feel compelled to run, it must be an exclusive mind. If so, you can do Brownlow as a Lifestyle piece. But not the b.l.o.o.d.y actor no-one has heard of or his son in a flat by the ca.n.a.l, okay? Nothing mediocre, we don't do wishy-washy, we need to keep readers not lose them."

The shrillness of the telephone interrupted them. Jack s.n.a.t.c.hed at it.

"Yes, myself and Marianne Coltrane," he said into the receiver, "I took the lead, Marianne worked it up into the story. Well, she is one of my best journalists."

Marianne mouthed, "One of?" at him. He hushed her with his hand.

"I'm sure you'll find everything is in order, of course, speak to her if you like, but we do have another newspaper to get out tomorrow, so don't make a meal of it, if you don't mind!" He handed the phone to Marianne.

"Don't tell me, Legal Department?" she whispered. "Hi Lionel, how's it going? Yes all verified and checked. Yep, the forged Death Certificate has been validated by forensics. Yes, now we've hit the newsstands there is a copy of my report and relevant contacts with evidence on its way to Detective Inspector Greene. Is that all Lionel? As Jack intimated, we are on deadline here."

Jack shoved his hands in his pockets and set his jaw. Paul gazed in awe at Marianne, who was now sitting on Jack's desk, swinging her legs. She jumped to the floor.

"No, Lionel, I did not send my copy to the Legal Department first." She put her hand over the receiver. "I'm in trouble again, with compliance apparently. It's a black mark, written warning or something?" Jack narrowed his eyes. Lionel was clearly banging on.

"Well, the thing is Lionel, if I sent it to you for clearance and it gets leaked to the opposition and they publish our brilliant exclusive story and sell more newspapers than us, well there won't be a Legal Department, will there Lionel, because we'll all be out of a job." She put the phone down gently.

"Too right," Jack agreed, "Prat!" Marianne laughed. "I hope everything is checked, treble-checked and verified," he said, glaring at her.

"Of course it is. Although we know this is going to blow wide open, so I was thinking, let's launch a website, publish the names and photos of the women who were in the home, with their written permission of course, and let those who wish to make the connection come forward. I am sure there are dozens, if not hundreds, of women who were told their babies had died, only to have them kidnapped and sold on in the illegal adoption racket."

Jack bit on his plastic subst.i.tute cigarette.

"I like it, added value. Now what were we discussing?"

"Whether or not to do our local MP for the Interview, although Brownlow would be difficult to do as a 'Lifestyle' piece, he doesn't seem to have a lifestyle," Marianne continued. "Conservative, rarely drinks, not married, not gay, spends a lot of time taking tea with community leaders of all persuasions. Not a little boring."

Paul groaned.

"Well let's see what you come up with, as I said, we don't do mediocre, who on G.o.d's earth would be remotely interested in some n.o.body actor's son living by the ca.n.a.l?" Jack called back as he left, "The d.u.c.h.ess awaits."

"It was a bluff." She side-stepped Paul's anxious look, "I knew he wouldn't go for it, I wasn't casting your family to the wolves, just wanted to throw him off the scent while I work something through."

Paul rubbed his left temple vigorously. "Who then?"