The Long Weekend by Veronica Henry Read Free Book Online Page A

back in the box file and snapped it shut again. She had found the one thing her mother had never wanted her to find. But why all the secrecy? Why didn’t Marina want her to know who her father was?
    It took Laura and Dan a while on the Internet to compile a shortlist of possibilities. Dan was right – Tony Weston was a common name. But in the end they narrowed it down, by a meticulous process of elimination and extensive research in the local library, until at last they had a prime suspect.
    This particular Tony Weston had once been the head of art at St Benedict’s School for Girls, in the town where her mother had grown up. The school Marina had attended. He had left there the year before Laura was born.
    Laura found his website, advertising painting courses.
    ‘His CV doesn’t mention St Benedict’s,’ she pointed out to Dan.
    ‘That smacks of guilt in itself. He must be hiding something. Why would you leave that out, unless you didn’t want anyone to know?’
    ‘Or you wanted to forget . . .’
    They examined the evidence. Forensically, the drawings on his website were similar in style to the sketch they had found – bold, impressionistic, exuberant.
    ‘Do you think it’s him?’ Laura asked Dan.
    ‘There’s only one way to find out,’ he replied. ‘You’ll have to go and see him. We’ll go there for the weekend.’ He scrolled down Tony Weston’s website. ‘Pennfleet looks like a nice enough place.’
    And so Laura emailed Tony Weston and booked a weekend of private painting tuition, under a false name – Starling was too unusual; she didn’t want to ring any alarm bells, so she called herself Emma Stubbs, after a childhood friend. She paid using one of Dan’s cheques, explaining that the weekend was a birthday gift. Tony Weston would have no reason to suspect he was being hunted down.
    And now here they were on the train, rattling past Staines, Slough, heading relentlessly west. She had no idea how she was going to play it, if she was going to reveal her identity, or how she would even know if she’d found the right person. Maybe she wouldn’t have the courage to see it through.
    When they reached Reading, she was tempted to jump off.
    ‘I don’t think I can go through with this,’ she said to Dan. ‘Let’s get off and get the next train back to London.’
    ‘Don’t be silly,’ he told her. ‘We’ve already paid for our tickets and the hotel. It would be a waste. If you do bottle it, the worst that can happen is we spend the weekend in Pennfleet.’
    Laura had to admit that she couldn’t argue with his logic. And so the train rattled on, past Newbury, Hungerford, Pewsey. By the time they reached Castle Cary, the warmth of the carriage and the sleeplessness of the night before had lulled her to sleep. There was no turning back now.

Four

    J ust before eleven, Claire heard the front door open and prayed it wasn’t an arrival. She hated it when guests checked in early. The corridors were still busy with Henry the Hoover and lined with canvas bags of dirty linen, and there was nothing worse than the sight of a hotel room door agape and a stripped bed. There was nothing you could do about it – rooms had to be turned round – but she wished people would wait till after midday at least to turn up.
    She looked up nevertheless, with her most welcoming smile. If their room wasn’t ready, complimentary coffee and shortbread on the terrace usually mollified.
    ‘I know it’s too early to check in, but I wondered if I could leave my . . .’
    The guest trailed off, dropping his battered leather Gladstone bag with a clatter. ‘Claire?’
    She dropped her pen with a matching clatter.
    She’d dreamt of this moment for years. More years than she cared to remember; years that had seemed interminable as she struggled to get him out of her mind. And eventually, of course, in the fullness of time, the dream had faded, only sneaking back to catch her unawares every now and again, in her sleep,