I thought about my mother and my sister in Ireland. I googled them regularly. There was a lot of information. True crime websites compared my father to Lord Lucan but my father had not killed anybody. Not directly. Denise Norton had died in a psychiatric hospital a year or so after she was freed from my father’s house. My sister, Mary Norton, had been adopted in England. Conor Geary had gone on the run. I looked everywhere for mention of Conor Geary’s son. Had Denise not told them about me? Had she forgotten about me? Was she mad? Or just terrified? How brainwashed I had been. My father was evil. And I was half evil, at least. I had to live with that. It became my habit to check on updates to the Denise Norton story at least once a month.
In December 2017, a story broke in Ireland. Mary Norton, my sister, had tried to cremate her dead adoptive father. I saw a photograph of her. Tall and strong in a black coat with a jaunty red hat, at Thomas Diamond’s funeral. She looked like me, her nose, the shape of her eyes. Thomas had been my mother’s psychiatrist and he had secretly adopted my sister after Denise’s death. I knew where Mary was, her village, her new name.
A spark lit inside me. I had a chance to do something good. To right a wrong. I remembered tearing that teddy bear from her tiny fingers. I could return it to her. I packaged it carefully in an old shoebox and sent it anonymously with a short note.
Six months later, my father’s real name started popping up in internet searches, and then on the pages of the New Zealand Herald. A very old photo of my father, clean-shaven and without spectacles, taken back in Ireland. An artist’s impression alongside it of what he might look like now in his early eighties. Why were they looking for him now? How had they tied the missing paedophile Conor Geary to New Zealand? Who told them he had been here?
And then I realized – it was me. Sending Toby had alerted them to a Kiwi connection. How stupid of me. I was a cyber security expert. I had always been able to hide my Google search history by setting up privacy software and I wasn’t dumb enough to have any social media presence, but I was the person who had alerted the Irish authorities to New Zealand. Now the police were looking for him. A retired Irish dentist. No mention of a son.
But in August 2018, I got a phone call from the New Zealand police. They wanted to interview me about my father, James Armstrong. They came to my home. It wasn’t hard to pretend to be upset about the circumstances of his death in 1985 in a burning car. They asked me where I’d been born and where he had been born. My story was so well rehearsed after thirty-eight years, they hardly pressed me on any issues. They asked if the name Denise Norton meant anything to me. Had my father ever used any other name? Where had he studied dentistry? Where had I lived in Ireland? Had my father taken any special interest in other children? Why had my father homeschooled me?
I was able to paint a picture of a strict but indulgent father, in deep mourning for my mother ever since we left Ireland. His distinct lack of interest in other children and his belief that the New Zealand education system was sub-par. I was able to produce his Irish dental qualification document on which the name Conor Geary had been expertly replaced with James Armstrong.
My father, I said, was an eccentric but a loving father and an excellent dentist as any of his patients might testify. I missed him every day. I teared up at the hypocrisy of my words. The detective apologized for the intrusion and said they would not bother me again. They implied they knew they were on a wild goose chase. The man they were looking for did not have a son.
I continued to monitor any news of my sister, Mary Norton, living as Sally Diamond in Carricksheedy, Co. Roscommon, Ireland. I felt some warmth towards her. All of the reports I had read described her as ‘a loner’ or ‘a misfit’ in school or her village. I couldn’t find any record of her having a job or a career. I felt for her. Was that kinship?
Her date of birth was recorded as 13th December 1974, but I knew it was earlier, the 15th September of that year. I remembered that date very clearly. As the New Zealand police had ruled my father out of their enquiries and had no link between either of us to Denise Norton, I risked sending my sister a birthday card in September. I thought she should know when her birthday was. She would never be able to guess who sent the card.
In early November, I received an email from a team of podcasters to my work email address.
Dear Mr Armstrong
We run a podcast company, Hoani Mata Productions, based in Christchurch, making documentaries about true crime cases in New Zealand.
I am trying to track down a Steven (Steve) Armstrong who lived in Rotorua between 1981 and 2013. Did you and your father live in Rotorua at the time that a child, Linda Weston, was abducted there in 1983? Was your father James Armstrong? We know he was recently ruled out of a case regarding an abduction in Ireland in 1966. We know that James Armstrong was not involved in either case, but we are looking for his son to appear as a ‘talking head’ in our series investigating the disappearance of Linda Weston and the subsequent recovery of her body as an adult woman in April 2012. Are you the Steve Armstrong who lived in Rotorua during this entire period?
We are aware that this James Armstrong died in a tragic car accident in 1985, but if you are his son, we would love to get your thoughts or memories of the time when Linda went missing and what it felt like to be a child in Rotorua and how your father came to be a suspect in the kidnapping of an Irish child. I understand the Steve we are looking for was homeschooled, and that is of interest too, as it was so unconventional. Also, if it is you, and it’s not too personal, we might talk briefly about the abduction in Ireland? You may not know anything about it, and I’m not sure if we will use the Irish angle in the final cut, but we are gathering as much data as we can.
It is not public knowledge yet but it has recently come to light that Linda Weston had a daughter who was abandoned at a church in 1996 as a newborn baby. Linda’s daughter, Amanda Heron, has agreed to present our podcast and I am hoping to develop it into a TV documentary at a later date. Please let me know your response at your earliest convenience, and of course, apologies if we have the wrong person. Alternatively, if you are that Steve Armstrong, we will fully understand if you do not wish to take part. The police are not co-operating with our investigation at this time, so our search for information has been frustrating to stay the least.
Ngā mihi from Christchurch
Kate Ngata
I took a deep breath and cancelled my schedule for the rest of the day. My daughter, Amanda Heron, was out there, looking for answers. I googled her and found a glut of information. Young people have no idea how available their data is. Within minutes, I had her address, her phone number, her school records, her Master of Arts in Music qualification from the University of Auckland, photographs of her with her adopted family going back to when she was a baby. Photos of her singing with a choir. Photos of her with two different boyfriends, Amanda on a motorcycle crossing the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco, Amanda in a camper van in Montana. And very recent photos: Amanda in an evening gown just last week at a New Zealand Symphony Orchestra performance.
Amanda was twenty-three and stunningly beautiful like her mother. I was startled by the sight of her lovely grinning face, with its intact teeth. Our daughter, Wanda. I stared at the photos, wondering how I would begin to have a conversation with her, before realizing that it would not be possible. I had to get away.
I sent a very polite reply to Kate Ngata, wishing the company well with their series, but ‘as head of Cyber Security with New Zealand’s premier bank, it would be entirely inappropriate for me to comment on any personal matter. I’m sure you understand.’