Mitchell glanced across at his schedules in the hallway. ‘Not even one action point,’ he said, ignoring his uneasiness.
‘Great.’ Poppy grinned as she picked up the muesli box.
Mitchell’s mobile phone screen was still blank, so he used his landline to call his boss. He explained he’d been in an accident and needed to rest up.
Russ already knew about Mitchell’s hospitalization from Barry and agreed with his time off. He was committed to the city council’s mantra of providing a supportive working environment for all, and he loved to win trophies and awards to prove it.
‘Has the woman I helped come forward?’ Mitchell asked.
‘No, and let’s hope she doesn’t,’ Russ said. ‘We don’t want any negative stories kicking around before the centenary celebrations. Someone falling from a bridge is not good for the city’s image, might raise health and safety concerns. So do not, I repeat, do not say anything to the press, or put stuff on Twitter or Facebook. We need it to settle down, nice and quiet. You got that?’
Mitchell decided not to mention the online news article. ‘Loud and clear,’ he grumbled, shifting on the sofa. ‘I never use social media anyway.’
After her bath, he let Poppy eat a bowl of Coco Pops for her lunch, just this once. He insisted she drink a glass of milk.
He sat next to her at the table and jiggled his leg, unused to convalescing.
Poppy pushed her empty bowl away. ‘I got some homework yesterday and it’s deadly boring.’ She began to recite the assignment in a singsong manner. ‘Produce a piece of work during the school holidays to celebrate Upchester’s centenary of city status. It has to include photos and more than one quote.’
Mitchell liked projects, especially the planning stages. He secretly relished helping Poppy with her schoolwork, and his juddering leg stilled. ‘You could write a story about the architecture of the city bridges,’ he said. ‘Did you know the concrete one is called a beam bridge? It’s the simplest kind, like a tree chopped down and placed across a river.’
‘You’ve told me before.’ She rolled her eyes teasingly. ‘It’s my homework. Did you look for the lady on the internet?’
He nodded. ‘I found a short video.’ Mitchell played the clip and showed Poppy the text about the competition.
‘That’s rubbish,’ she said. ‘You can’t see her properly.’
‘I know.’
‘And no one will write in.’
The landline phone rang, and Poppy stared at it suspiciously. Mitchell once overheard her talking about it to her school friend Rachel, as if it was invented in the Dark Ages.
‘I’ll get it,’ he said and picked up the receiver. ‘Hello.’
‘Mr Fisher?’ The lady’s voice was breathless and he wondered if Vanessa had got hold of his phone number.
‘Um, yes?’
‘It’s Miss Bradfield.’
‘Oh, hi,’ he replied. ‘If you’re calling to see how I am, I’m absolutely fine.’
‘But you’re off work?’
‘Well, yes.’
There was a moment’s silence. ‘Look, I know this is a big ask,’ she said. ‘But can you come over to my place? Like ASAP.’
He frowned. ‘What, now?’
‘Yes. I’d like to talk to you. I have ninety minutes free before my next lesson.’
Mitchell didn’t feel like traipsing across the city today, even though she’d been so helpful. He wondered if Poppy had left something behind at her house. ‘We kind of have plans.’
‘Oh,’ she said dejectedly. ‘Only I’ve just watched a small film of you online, and I need to ask you something. It really can’t wait.’
‘About the film?’
‘About the lady in the film.’ She paused, as if carefully considering her next words. ‘I think the woman you rescued might be my sister.’
‘Don’t use your posh voice, Dad,’ Poppy whispered as they stood waiting for Miss Bradfield to answer her door. They’d taken a bus across the city and got here within forty-five minutes of Miss Bradfield’s call. ‘It’s embarrassing.’
‘What posh voice?’
‘The one you use on the phone and in expensive shops.’
‘I never go into expensive shops.’
‘Just speak normally, okay.’
Mitchell had started to recite words in his head to see if he did pronounce them in a grander manner, when Miss Bradfield opened the door. She was wearing red shorts with a frayed hem, and a blue-and-white striped shirt. Her feet were bare. ‘Glad you could come over,’ she said.
‘Hi.’ Poppy fanned her hand behind her head. ‘Pineapple.’
Miss Bradfield returned Poppy’s gesture. ‘Come in and get comfy.’
Poppy jumped inside with both feet. ‘I wasn’t in school today,’ she said.
‘She stayed at home with me for a bit of recovery time,’ Mitchell explained. He covertly gave some money to Miss Bradfield to cover the taxi fare and music lesson.
‘We talked about my homework, though,’ Poppy said. ‘The history of Upchester. Yawn.’
‘Well, history can be can be anything, even something that happened five minutes ago. Only boring people get bored.’ Miss Bradfield led the way through the pink glossy kitchen and out into a small yard. A book lay flat on her striped deck-chair and a small guitar was propped against the wall. Poppy picked it up, strummed it then held it up in one hand like a rock star.
Sasha trotted over and flopped onto her side with her head on Mitchell’s shoe.
‘She lubs you.’ Miss Bradfield smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. In fact, Mitchell thought she looked a lot paler than she did yesterday. ‘Can I get you guys a drink?’
Poppy smacked her lips. ‘I loved that orangey stuff.’
‘We’d both like a glass a milk,’ Mitchell said.
Miss Bradfield reappeared a few minutes later with three glasses of frothy yellow liquid. Poppy’s glass sported a pink paper umbrella and Mitchell’s a green one. ‘I made banana milkshakes, so everyone is happy,’ she said.
After sucking nervously on her straw, she reached behind her cushion and passed a couple of photographs to Mitchell. ‘These are of me with my two sisters.’
The first shot showed three brunette women, laughing and raising cocktail glasses to the camera. Miss Bradfield stood in the middle wearing her aviator sunglasses. The woman on the left sported a black top and a striking gold pineapple pendant. ‘This one is Naomi, my younger sister. And I think you helped my older sister, Yvette.’ Miss Bradfield tapped the pretty lady to the right of the shot.
Mitchell’s mind raced at the potential coincidence of it being her. He couldn’t be certain, because the woman’s face was partially hidden by a cocktail glass. But her chestnut curly hair was similar. He looked at the next photo and this time he could see her more clearly. Her dark eyes, her smile. He could picture her in his arms again.
It was her.
Relief tidal waved over him that he’d found her. ‘Yes. Yvette.’ He found he liked saying her name.
Miss