The waiting was agony. We sent off our samples as soon as Mark had ordered his own kit. Mark did it all online. He labelled us all with initials rather than surnames. ‘Who knows what other relatives might be out there, Sally? Conor Geary may have fathered other children. We don’t know what Peter is like. We need to protect our privacy.’ I was SD, Mark was MB and Peter was PG.

After two days, Mark found the audio that contained the reference to ‘my boy’. These recordings had been made in the pre-digital era. Dad was asking Denise about her extreme attachment to Mary (me).

Tom: Denise, I notice that you watch little Mary all the time. You know that you’re safe now, right? Nobody will hurt you ever again?

Denise: [unintelligible]

Tom: Sorry, Denise?

Denise: I’m still afraid.

Tom: What are you afraid of?

Denise: He’ll take her away.

Tom: Denise, he’s not here. You will never see him again.

Denise: He took my boy.

Tom: What?

Denise: It doesn’t matter. I didn’t want him.

Tom: [a tone of exasperation in his voice] Denise, do you understand that it’s not good for Mary’s development for you to be so close to her? The child needs to learn a little independence. Mary?

[Sound of whispering]

Denise: Don’t talk to her.

Tom: Why not? Do you think I could hurt her?

Jean: Tom, perhaps –

Tom: Hush, Jean. Denise?

[A hissing noise, followed by silence and then the tape shuts off]

‘I wonder what she meant by “I didn’t want him”,’ I said. ‘Why wouldn’t she want him?’

‘We can’t be sure that she was talking about Peter.’

‘Who else would she be talking about? She said, “He took my boy.”’

‘It’s weird, isn’t it?’

Mark was annoyed with my dad. ‘Do you think Jean guessed something?’

‘I’m not sure. Perhaps she was hinting to Dad that he needed to be more patient with her. The way he said that about hurting me, Denise could have interpreted that as a threat.’

‘Was he like that with you? Impatient?’ said Mark.

‘Not at all. He was kind and indulgent with me. But I guess I was always compliant. That tape is dated almost a year after our rescue. I’d say he was exhausted. He hadn’t made any breakthrough with Denise. She wasn’t exactly cooperative, was she?’

‘After what she’d been through? Are you surprised?’ Mark raised his voice.

‘I’m sorry. I forget that you knew her. She was your big sister. I wish I remembered her.’

‘Another thing we can thank Tom Diamond for,’ Mark said, a bitter tone in his voice.

‘He was doing his best, what he thought was right for me.’ I was fed up with people talking badly about my dad. He might not have done everything he should have, but what he did do, he did for the right reasons. I’d had plenty of time to put myself in his shoes and imagine what I would have done if I had been him. Tina made me see it. I had forgiven him. ‘We can’t change the past,’ I told Mark.

‘One thing I can’t understand,’ he said. ‘If Peter has known all this time about you and about Denise, if he remembered what Conor Geary said and did, why didn’t he ever go to the police? Being afraid of publicity is a lame excuse for shielding a paedophile, especially after he’s dead.’

‘I get it, Mark. I would be the same as him. He hasn’t done anything wrong. Why should he be associated with his – our psychopathic father?’

I ignored his glare.

48

Peter, 2012

It took Lindy five years to forgive me for giving the baby away. She had called her Wanda. Throughout the pregnancy, I had pretended to go along with it. I thought it was easier to let her have this fantasy. It made her so happy.

I had taken the baby in the box to the front door of St Patrick’s Cathedral in Auckland in the middle of the night. It was cold. I hoped she would survive and tucked her as tightly into the blankets as I could. As I walked away, I heard her begin to mewl. I kept walking through the deserted streets until I got into the car and drove home.

Lindy was beyond hysterical when I got back. At first, she thought I’d taken the baby to the hospital because there was something wrong with her. I didn’t tell her anything.

During the following years Lindy attacked me so often that I had to put the shackles back on. She stabbed me with knitting needles, knives and scissors, scarred my arms badly with a solution of sugar and boiled water, attempted to strangle me with a home-made noose. I ended up in the hospital’s A & E twice. The staff there assumed I’d got into fights with my peers. I let them think that. One matron threatened to call the cops, but when she looked at my medical records and saw that I was that Steven Armstrong, who had been orphaned so young, she relented and instead gave me a lecture about mixing with the wrong crowd.