As she got back into the elevator, clutching everything referring to the five Mafia companies, Jane wondered how the person she’d believed to be – and loved as – her mother had felt about the laughing, beautiful Anna Simpson. That question inevitably prompted another. How or what did she feel about Alice Belling? Angry at the deception and humiliation, perhaps. Disbelief, at the idea that the woman had never represented a danger to her marriage. But not hatred, which she’d expected – waited – to feel. What then? Sadness, Jane decided. Sadness about too much to examine every reason for it. Too late to undo, she thought again. There was one thing – one further sadness – she could prevent, Jane realized. She wouldn’t keep the birth certificate and adoption papers of John’s baby where one day his son might find them. Nothing could be left for John’s son to discover that his father hadn’t been the most perfect man, which was how she planned always to describe him.
When Jane handed what she’d collected to Peter Mitchell the lawyer said: ‘I’ve got your word this is it? All there is?’
‘Yes,’ said Jane. ‘There’s nothing left.’
But there was, Jane corrected herself at once. She was going to have John’s baby.