‘You’re feminine, Mum, always let Robert rule the roost. How did that work out for you? Is he still changing secretaries every few years?’
She ignores my dig.
‘What I’m saying is, all marriages go through rough patches. Often much more serious than yours. You can both get through this.’
‘Neither of us want to get through this. We’ve not been happy for years, and anyway he’s found someone else.’
‘Who?’
‘Plain Jane.’
‘Well you’re definitely in with a chance of getting him back. You’ve still got your looks. My genes, no need to thank me. Though a little make-up wouldn’t go amiss. You should be making more effort now you’re separated, not less.’
I smile. ‘Jane’s not really plain,’ I say. ‘I just call her that because she’s so boring. I think they were seeing each other before.’
‘Maybe you should try being a little more boring. It’s all very well being a career girl—’
‘No one’s used that expression since 1979. In the same way that no one says “lady doctor”.’
‘So what am I supposed to call female doctors?’
‘Doctors?’
‘You’ve got an answer for everything, haven’t you, Julia? I don’t know why you always have to be so hard on me.’
‘Not as hard as you are on me. Sam’s going to grow up hardly knowing who you are, the amount you work. Is it any wonder your husband’s had enough? I’m not taking your side in all this.’
‘They’re called home truths,’ she says. ‘And I may be hard on you but at least I don’t sneer.’
‘I—’
Audrey raises a hand.
‘Don’t deny it. Poor Mum, the little woman at home in the kitchen who gets into a tizzy if her husband’s dinner’s not warm enough and worries that her windows aren’t as clean as next door’s.’
‘That’s not true,’ I say.
‘And it’s not just the words I use or being a housewife. It’s everything. Oh, she reads Joanna Trollope and Maeve Binchy, while you’re reading something with no plot that’s won a prize, thinking it makes you clever.’
‘I like those books.’
‘Well I like Maeve Binchy and Joanna Trollope. There’s nothing wrong with them.’
‘I never said there was.’
‘No, but I see you smirking every time I pick one up. It’s the same with television or even the curtains. If I was clever and educated, I’d like better television and have better curtains. Well, where’s your cleverness got you? Halfway to a divorce and relying on a handout from your stepfather to put a roof over your head. And you look down at me for not being independent.’
‘Touché.’
‘And why haven’t you got any money after all your years working?’
‘Sam has to stay in the house, and I have to help pay for it and Sam’s upkeep.’
‘No savings?’
‘Sam’s starting university soon.’
‘He can’t cost that much. I know you’re at fault …’
‘Yeah, we covered that.’
‘But you should be able to live decently. What would you have done if I hadn’t been able to lend you the money for the deposit?’
‘You did, and I’m doing OK.’
I go to the stove. The pasta’s turned to mush. I hold up the soggy mess. Audrey shakes her head. Another example of my domestic ineptitude.
Audrey looks out of the window. It’s clear tonight and the lights of the City outline its buildings against the inky sky.
‘I suppose when Sam does leave home, you’ll get your share of the house,’ she says.
‘Hmm,’ I say.
After dinner we go to the lounge and watch Audrey’s favourite television programme. It’s about an English couple renovating a French château. There’s about a hundred episodes. After the first advert break I sneak off to the bathroom and check the phone. Nothing new pops up.
I come back to the lounge and slip the phone down the side of the sofa. After three episodes of the château programme Audrey says, ‘I’ll go up and read. It’s been a long day. I’m leaving early tomorrow. I’ll ring you when I get back.’
‘I’ll be at Pearl’s tomorrow,’ I say.
‘Friday then, when you’re free.’
I kiss her goodnight. When she’s gone, I retrieve the bottle of vino cheapo lurking at the back of the fridge and pour myself a glass.
I’m a third of the way down when the buzzer goes.
It must be for the previous occupants – no one ever calls for me. I decide to leave it. It buzzes again.
‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Rex and Sol have gone.’
‘Is that Ms Winter, Julia Winter?’ a male voice says.
‘Who’s this?’
‘I’m Detective Inspector Warren and I’m with Detective Constable Akande of Surrey Police.’
The intercom crackles.
‘What’s this about?’ I ask.
‘Perhaps we could come up and speak to you?’
‘It’s getting late,’ I say.
‘It is rather urgent, Ms Winter.’ Another voice, female – this must be Akande.
‘Can you tell me what it’s about?’ I ask again, though I know what they’re going to say.
‘We’re here to talk to you about Brandon Wells.’
Chapter 13
1994 – Guildford
Julia didn’t get to meet Alan until Wednesday at breakfast. She had a spoonful of Fruit ’n Fibre in her mouth when he sauntered into the kitchen, still in the process of doing up his tie. He was much as his silhouette had suggested, of average height and a little too thin. He must have been older than he looked because, in grey trousers and a white shirt, he had the appearance of an overgrown schoolboy.
‘Hi,’ he said and was out of the door before Julia could respond.
She ran into him again that evening, when she came in from work. He was sitting at the kitchen table, watching television.
‘Hello, again,’ Julia said.
He turned slowly from the TV and scanned Julia, as if seeing her for the first time.
‘Hello,’ he said and turned back to the TV.
Maybe he was shy, and she should be the one to instigate conversation.
‘I’m Julia, by the way,’ she said.
‘I know,’ he said without looking at her.
‘And you’re Alan, right?’
‘Well deduced.’
His eyes remained fixed on the television. Julia was sure he wasn’t actually watching the soap opera that droned on in the background. She tried again.
‘Is there much to do around here? Do you go out much?’
This time he did make the effort to look at her.
‘You’ve got to be joking,’ he said. ‘I’m glad I’ve got a girlfriend back home. All the girls round here are right slags and the guys are no better.’
His expression made it clear Julia was included in this derision.
The prospect of sitting alone in her room all evening wasn’t great, but it was better than being with Alan.
She was about to leave when he switched off the TV and swung his leg over to sit astride the bench. She automatically turned to face him.
‘What do you think of Genevieve then?’ he said.
Julia was sure whatever her opinion, he would deem it contemptible.
‘She seems nice,’ she said neutrally.
Alan pulled a disappointed face, as if this was exactly the sort of wishy-washy comment he’d expected of someone so dull-witted.
‘I saw Genevieve leaving your room the other night,’ he said.
Julia remembered his sly closing of the door as she went to the bathroom.
‘She didn’t try it on with you, did she?’ he asked.
The question shocked Julia. She knew that was exactly what Alan had intended and managed to feign nonchalance.
‘Why would you think that?’ she said.
He tipped his head to one side. ‘No reason. I though
t she might swing both ways. She seems the sort and she certainly can’t resist young flesh.’
He smiled and stood up as if to leave. Julia didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of riling her but couldn’t hide her irritation.
‘If Genevieve’s behaviour bothers you, why are you still here?’ she asked.
Alan stopped and looked at her, a sneer twitching at the corner of his lips.
‘Who said it bothers me?’
‘I wouldn’t like it, someone coming into my room at night.’
Alan raised himself up and looked more superior than ever. ‘Ah, but she did come into your room at night.’
‘Not for that reason,’ Julia said.
He laughed. ‘If you say so. And anyway, as far as I’m concerned, Genevieve can drop in any time she likes. She’s hardly going to overpower me, is she?’
‘What are you talking about – she’s just missing her son,’ Julia said.
‘And what exactly do you know about her son?’
‘He’s in Switzerland.’
‘In Switzerland. Technically accurate, I suppose,’ Alan said.
God, he was infuriating.
‘What do you mean – is he in jail or something?’ Julia asked.
‘It’s a bit more permanent than that.’ Alan slowed down his speech as if waiting for her clunking brain to catch up. ‘He’s dead.’
This time Julia couldn’t hide her shock.
‘Why didn’t she say?’
‘Hello.’ Alan waved his hand in front of Julia’s face. ‘This is Genevieve. She and reality have never been the best of friends, y’know. And Valium and vodka aren’t helping the situation.’
Julia had thought Genevieve affected and melodramatic. It hadn’t occurred to her that she might be grieving.
‘What happened to him?’
‘He was on a climbing expedition in the Alps. There was an avalanche. The body was never recovered, which is why she can kid herself he’s coming back.’
‘There’s no chance?’
‘No one survived.’ His tone was matter-of-fact. ‘It was six years ago. You’d think she’d have moved on.’
Julia thought of Audrey’s miscarriages. The absent children, never spoken of.
‘She lost her son,’ she said.
‘And how is pretending he’s still alive helping her?’ Alan said. ‘You know she keeps his room exactly how it was, buys him birthday and Christmas presents for when he comes back?’
‘What about Dominic’s father?’ Julia asked.
‘Never on the scene, as far as I can tell. Genevieve was cuckoo long before the whole thing with Dominic. You know she changed her surname to D’Auncey by deed poll. That’s Dominic’s father’s name. He never married her, already had a wife and he wasn’t going to leave her. And who could blame him?’
‘Poor Genevieve,’ Julia said.
‘Ah yes, the poor Genevieve narrative,’ Alan said. ‘The script she wants us all to stick to. Well, you can if you like. I’ve better things to do with my time.’
He ended the conversation by turning from her and exiting the room, leaving Julia unsure what to believe.
Chapter 14
2017 – Archway, London
I hunch next to the door and listen as two sets of footsteps ascend the stairs, one a dull thud, the other a light, barely audible tap. The last time I’d been interviewed by the police, over twenty years ago, I had the arrogance of youth on my side. Now, my heart’s pounding and my palms are clammy.
As they come closer, I can hear panting and pauses. Finally, I open the door to a man in late middle age, with a heightened complexion and moist brow, his gut spilling over his trousers. The other is young, slim and slight. Barely out of breath, she’s obviously been slowed down by her boss. They introduce themselves again.
Warren has a northern twang, too soft to identify any specific location. Akande is a South Londoner, trying to sound Home Counties. She has eyes the shape of a cat’s, sharp and sly. The dislike is instant and mutual. My instinct is to slam the door in their faces, but I have little choice other than to invite them in.
‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’ I ask.
Warren looks at my glass of wine. It’s late on a Friday night. He can’t normally work these hours. A glass of wine would be his preferred option, or perhaps a pint of bitter. He sees me watching him.
‘Just water, thanks,’ he says.
‘Nothing for me,’ Akande says.
‘Take a seat,’ I say as I head to the kitchen.
I watch the detectives’ reflections in the window above the sink. Neither has sat down. Warren is standing where I left him and Akande is moving about the room, looking at my small collection of books, then at my phone on the table. She looks at Warren expressively. He doesn’t react. Perhaps he’d be more interested if she found the one stuffed down the side of the sofa, a poor choice of hiding place. They have no right to take it, no warrant has been produced. But other than love cheats, who needs a secret phone?
I’ve been away from them too long. I fill the glass and return to the lounge.
‘So, you’re from Surrey,’ I say on my return. ‘How can I help?’
My voice sounds strained, my words contrived.
I should have been bold and said, ‘I suppose you’re here about Brandon,’ or, ‘If you hadn’t contacted me, I’d have contacted you.’ My breezy manner won’t fool them. They deal with liars every day.
‘I don’t know if you follow the news,’ Warren says. He’s still a little breathless from climbing the stairs. ‘And perhaps you don’t get the Surrey news up in London, but I understand you used to live in Guildford.’
‘A long time ago,’ I say.
‘At 72 Downs Avenue, owned by a Mrs Jennifer Pike.’ He observes my confusion. ‘Perhaps you knew her as Genevieve D’Auncey.’
A swish of silk. The scent of lemon and cinnamon.
‘Yes, of course. It was very sad.’
Again, my words sound forced, like lines learnt and repeated.
‘You shared the house with four other lodgers. Gideon Risborough, Alan Johns, Lucy Moretti and …’ He pauses. ‘Brandon Wells.’
‘That’s right.’
‘What do you remember about Brandon?’
‘It was a long time ago.’
‘Anything?’
‘He left suddenly. Genevieve’s sister thought he’d stolen some money.’
‘Are you aware that, in 1995, his parents contacted the police and reported him as a missing person – his last known address being Downs Avenue?’
‘You know, I’d forgotten until you mentioned it,’ I say. ‘But, yes, a man did come and speak to me. I can’t remember his name.’
‘Lancaster,’ Akande says. ‘Michael Lancaster.’
‘It could have been.’
Corduroy trousers, blue parka; he waited outside my house, not two streets from here.
‘Do you recall what you told him?’ Akande asks.
‘I don’t know if I had anything to tell. Brandon’s leaving, well it was all overshadowed by the whole thing with Genevieve.’
‘Brandon never told you he was going, even though you were close?’
‘Who said that? We weren’t close. Not at all.’
‘He told a friend he was seeing a girl in the house. Her description matched yours.’
I don’t reply straight away. Akande waits.
‘I don’t recall Brandon having any friends. I can’t remember meeting any. He just hung around with people in the house.’
‘So, when you say you weren’t close at all …’ Akande says.
‘I wouldn’t have expected him to remain in contact after he left, even if he hadn’t stolen that money.’
‘You hadn’t argued.’
‘We had nothing to argue about.’
Warren looks unconvinced. ‘There were no conflicts – what about the male occupants of the house?’ He refers to his notebook. ‘Alan Johns and Gideon Risborough – did Brandon argue wi
th them?’
‘I really can’t remember. Why are you asking me all of this?’
Warren looks to Akande.
‘A body’s been found on the Downs, less than a quarter of a mile from the house you shared. We believe it to be Brandon Wells.’
A dull thud lands in my guts. However much I expected this, it’s a shock, hearing the words from a policeman. The identity of the body is no longer confined to website supposition and all hope that the past week was some surreal nightmare is erased.
‘It can’t be him,’ I say.
‘Forensics are sending DNA confirmation, but we’re pretty certain that the body discovered is Brandon Wells.’
I place my hands on the back of the sofa to support my weight. What else will Forensics find?
‘Do you know how? I mean, what happened to him?’ I ask.
Warren looks at me hard, trying to gauge my reaction. ‘We’re undoubtedly looking at a homicide, though we’re not releasing further details at the moment. But you can see why we need to talk to all the people Brandon knew from that time,’ he says.
‘Have you spoken to the others?’
‘Both Mr Risborough and Mr Johns are on holiday in Italy, with their families.’ Does either of them notice me wince? ‘But we’ve spoken to Lucy Moretti. Was there anyone else living in the house back then?’
‘Only Genevieve.’
‘We’re also trying to find any photographs from that time,’ he says. ‘I don’t suppose you have any?’
My nose burns in memory of the acrid smoke from the small bonfire we made, fulfilling our pact to destroy all records of the time. The thought of current social media existing back then makes me shudder. Whenever I saw Sam posting on Facebook or whatever the hell kids use these days, I used to say, ‘You’re only seventeen. You don’t know when you’ll want that information to disappear.’
He’d laugh at me. ‘Why would I want it to disappear?’
‘Ms Winter?’
Warren asked me a question – what was it?
‘Sorry … I …’
‘I asked if you had any photographs from that time,’ he says.
‘No. I didn’t own a camera,’ I say.
‘Unfortunate.’
‘Do you recall exactly when Brandon left?’ Akande asks.
‘You know what happened to Genevieve?’ I ask.
The Verdict Page 6