Of course, it was perfectly possible that the couple had produced a child who looked like that. English people weren’t exactly pure-bred Anglo-Saxons, after all. They were mongrels to a man, a mixture of Celts and Vikings, Saxons and Normans, and more exotic arrivals. In the North West of England, almost everyone had an Irish migrant or two lurking in their family tree. This child’s conception might simply have thrown up the genes of some Gaelic or Huguenot ancestor. Or her looks could result from a more recent influence – a Jewish refugee grandfather, or a Middle Eastern immigrant.

Yes, all of those things were possible. But none of them was the first thought that sprang to Fry’s mind when she looked at Luanne Mullen.

29

When Fry looked down at the A6 that afternoon, she didn’t know what to expect. A stagecoach with four grey horses, or two of them drawing a landau. Maybe Dick Turpin on Black Bess. Who knew what went on in this area?

She passed the Lowthers’ car standing on the drive. A white Rover, nice and clean. A couple of years old, though, so it was probably time Mr Lowther had a new one.

Once she was sitting in the Lowthers’ conservatory, Fry lifted the photograph of Brian and Lindsay and their three children off the corner table. No pussyfooting around any more. Not at this point.

‘Luanne is a very attractive child, Mrs Lowther,’ she said.

‘Yes, isn’t she?’

‘She doesn’t look a bit like either of her parents, though. Her colouring is very dark.’

‘It happens. There’s no accounting for genes.’

‘I know what you mean,’ said Fry. ‘But you can account for the genes in this case, can’t you? Luanne is definitely your daughter’s child?’

Henry Lowther had remained impassive so far, trying to smile politely, but not quite managing it. Mrs Lowther fidgeted, reluctant to answer. But Fry was prepared to wait.

‘No, she’s adopted,’ said Mrs Lowther at last.

‘Ah, finally,’ said Fry. ‘And this adoption was how you came to know Rose Shepherd, am I right?’

‘Yes, it’s true.’

‘And the meeting in Matlock Bath on Saturday? Whose idea was that?’

The Lowthers looked at each other. ‘I suppose I suggested it to Lindsay,’ said Henry. ‘It was just a casual remark, really. “It would be nice to see Rose Shepherd again and say thank you, wouldn’t it?” Something like that. That was weeks ago. And Lindsay didn’t say anything at the time. But the idea must have taken root in her mind, because a few days later she spoke about organizing a meeting as if it was already a fait accompli.’

Mr Lowther’s self-conscious use of the French phrase made Fry think of Georgi Kotsev’s ciao and merci. But then, Georgi rightly took pride in his command of languages. How many could Henry Lowther hold a conversation in? Until now, he hadn’t even made a good fist of English. Not if you defined conversation as an exchange of information.

‘You’re going to have to be more forthcoming with us, sir.’

Lowther got up from his chair and moved restlessly around the conservatory. He was a big man – much too heavy round the waist, of course, but intimidating when he stood over you like that.

‘You have to realize that they went through a difficult experience together,’ he said. ‘The adoption process in Bulgaria wasn’t easy. Not at all what we expected. It was quite a shock to arrive at that orphanage. We had never seen anything like it.’

‘Tell us how it came about.’

‘I have some business contacts in Bulgaria,’ said Lowther. ‘They came over here a few years ago to talk about forming trade links, possibly even a joint venture. They were very impressed with our set-up, and we made sure they had a good time while they were here, of course. They invited me over to Bulgaria for a little jaunt in return for our hospitality.’

‘And did they show you a good time?’

‘Oh, there was some vodka, and a lot of red wine. We explored the country a little.’

‘Where did you go? Pleven?’

Lowther hesitated slightly. ‘Dounav.’

‘Vodka and red wine? Didn’t you drink any rakia?’

‘I tried it, but I’m not too fond of brandy.’

‘And Rose Shepherd?’

‘I was put in touch with her through one of my business contacts. He knew someone who’d used her services previously. The advantages of networking, you see. You can get hold of pretty much anything if you know the right people.’

‘Was it you who suggested the adoption to your daughter?’

‘I mentioned it as an option.’

‘I see.’

‘It worked quite well, in the end,’ said Mr Lowther defensively. ‘We were desperate for a girl – or at least, Lindsay was. But after Liam’s birth, the doctors told Lindsay and Brian they couldn’t have any more children. Adoption is such a chancy process in this country, and it takes so long. In any case, you can’t get babies to adopt here any more. And Lindsay didn’t want a child the same age as the boys. We’d read about orphanages in Eastern Europe where all these babies needed parents. Once Lindsay heard about that – well, you can imagine what she was like.’

‘Not really, I’m afraid.’

‘Well, it was all we could do to stop her catching the next flight to Romania. We knew there wouldn’t be any peace until she’d gone to look for herself. But we read up on it a bit – on the internet, you know. And we found that Bulgaria was the place to go these days. So that’s where we went. It seemed as simple as that, at first.’

‘You keep saying “we”.’

‘I couldn’t let Lindsay go out there on her own.’

‘No, but it might seem more natural for her husband to have gone with her.’

Lowther paced the length of the room. ‘It’s difficult for Brian. He has his job, and he can’t just take time off whenever he wants to. But I can organize my time however I like. I’ve got people I can delegate to. And my daughter came before my business, anyway. I was ready and willing to go to Bulgaria with her.’

‘And Rose Shepherd helped you arrange an adoption?’

‘She worked with the people at the orphanage.’

‘Oh, of course. The orphanage.’

He stopped pacing and stared out of the window at the traffic. His shoulders seemed to sag as he was forced to bring back the memories.

‘It was in a small town about thirty miles from Pleven. When we found the place, it was a rundown building with peeling paint, full of chipped wooden cots and thin mattresses. It was awful. Lindsay nearly cried when she saw outside. The thing I remember most is the smell of bleach – it was the first thing that hit us when we went in. But it got worse after that. We could see that the children all slept in cots, regardless of their age. And some of them looked to be more than four years old. We discovered that they were expected to share clothes, and even toothbrushes. Food seemed to be in short supply, too. It was so depressing. Personally, I would have turned round and come home immediately. But then there was Zlatka …’

‘Sorry? Did you say Zlatka?’

‘Lindsay and Brian decided to call her Luanne, but her Bulgarian name was Zlatka Shishkov. She was so small and frail, with big eyes and dark, wispy hair. No one could have resisted her.’

‘And that was the child the orphanage offered you?’

‘Not at first. There was another child they wanted us to take. A girl who was already past her third birthday then, yet she spoke no more than a few words of what the people at the orphanage called “baby Bulgarian”. She still wore nappies, too. Her records said that she’d been neglected by her mother for at least the first year of her life, and she had limited interaction with adults. So she didn’t develop all the normal emotional responses or social skills, you see. When anyone reached out to touch her, she flinched away. She was happy to have visitors, but only because it meant being out of her cot for a while. She had no idea who these strange people were that had come to see her.’