His Kidnapper's Shoes by Maggie James Page A

back towards the house.
    People talk about closure and stuff, but I don’t think my grief would have been lessened in any way had I registered the death and given Daniel a proper burial. It wouldn’t have changed the awfulness of it all. Although I realised what I had done with Daniel was wrong in the eyes of the law, I didn’t regret it. I could never have had my baby cremated as I had with Gran; somehow, I found the idea of flames burning into his delicate flesh utterly abhorrent. And I didn’t like the idea of burying him in some anonymous cemetery, flanked by the corpses of strangers. No, his grave was somewhere wild, beautiful and peaceful and the oak tree would take care of my baby forever.
    Has your anger towards me lessened at all, Daniel?

12
     
     
     
    CAN OF WORMS
     
     
     
     
    Daniel stared at the monitor on his computer, willing his fingers to take the first steps on the family history website Tim had showed him.
    His mother had been born in 1967, or so she’d told him. Any sister of hers who might have given birth to him would have been younger, he suspected, but he didn’t think he should take anything for granted. Perhaps she had been older. Best to keep his search parameters reasonably wide, he thought. He decided to research births between 1957 and 1973 in the online register, under the name of Covey, in the town where his mother grew up. Covey wasn’t the most unusual of names, but it wasn’t exactly common, either. With such a large timespan to look through, it took longer than he thought. His shoulders ached and his eyes hurt by the time he’d finished.
    The only registered birth attributed to his grandmother, Madeleine Jean Covey, in that area of Hampshire during the time span in question was that of his mother, Laura Susan Covey.
    He tried again, this time not including Hampshire. He’d assumed there’d been no change of home for the Covey family, but checking was essential in case what his mother had said hadn’t been accurate, or an outright lie. This took even longer, but the result ended up the same. He found no trace of Madeleine Covey having given birth to any children other than Laura.
    He might have missed what he was looking for, of course. He’d try another angle; he’d attempt to find an entry in the death register. If this hypothetical sister had died, it had probably happened around the time Laura turned eighteen. He had to hope she had never married and taken another name; he was screwed otherwise.
    He scanned through for the death certificates of anyone named Covey during the period 1983 to 1988, the timespan in which he thought the sister had probably died. None appeared to fit what he was looking for. Nobody of the right age to be his mother, with the name of Covey, had died in the area of Hampshire where Laura Bateman had grown up.
    From what he could see, there had been no sister. His mother wasn’t his aunt. He rubbed his hand over his jaw, sighing. This looked like a dead end.
    The phone rang. Shit. He’d been so wrapped up in what he’d been doing he’d forgotten to call Katie.
    ‘You’re neglecting me already.’ He registered the laugh in her voice.
    ‘I’m sorry, Katie. I got pretty tied up with this online family history thing.’
    ‘You find anything?’
    ‘Nope. Mum was indeed an only child as far as I can tell. No trace of any sister, in either the birth or death records.’
    ‘Well, that’s one avenue of enquiry knocked on the head. Don’t forget. You still have the DNA option to follow. You looked into that anymore?’
    ‘No. This has taken up most of my time. But I'm definitely going to do it. Especially now the family history thing has turned out to be a blind alley. I’m going to Mum’s tomorrow. I’ll get some of her hairs from her brush whilst I’m there.’
    ‘Remember to find some with the root still on.’
    ‘Will do. Anyway, enough of me and my weird family issues.’ He lowered his voice, injecting a truckload of molten sex