‘Can I do anything to help?’
‘No. It’s shepherd’s pie. Even I can’t mess up shepherd’s pie.’ He gives the pan a rather anxious stir.
‘Shall I open some wine even though it’s Thursday?’
‘Why not?’ says Frank. ‘Let’s live dangerously.’
Ruth opens a bottle of red and pours them both generous glasses.
‘How was the inquest?’ says Frank.
‘OK,’ says Ruth. ‘Death by unlawful killing which is the verdict Nel— the police wanted.’
‘That’s good,’ says Frank. ‘Must be a stressful experience though.’
‘It’s not pleasant,’ says Ruth. ‘What with the families sitting there and everything.’ She glances at Kate but she seems absorbed in her picture.
‘What are you drawing?’ asks Ruth.
‘It’s very complicated,’ says Kate. ‘I can’t explain now.’
Ruth knows how she feels. She doesn’t much want to talk about her work either.
‘How was your day?’ she asks Frank.
‘OK. Two progression boards and three students wanting dissertation extensions.’
‘The usual then.’
‘Yup. I’ll be glad when this term is over.’
‘Me too,’ says Ruth but there’s something in Frank’s tone that makes her slightly uneasy. Does he sound a little sad? Maybe wistful is a better word. It’s OK for her to feel these things sometimes but it shakes her to think that steady, reliable Frank might also have moments of self-doubt. She realises that she has drunk half her wine. Frank fills up her glass.
‘We did alcohol in PSHE,’ says Kate. ‘It’s very bad for you.’
‘Mmm,’ says Ruth non-committally.
‘And I don’t like shepherd’s pie,’ says Kate.
‘Yes you do,’ says Ruth. She thinks that she can sense irritation emanating from Frank. Kate isn’t usually a fussy eater but she has recently become rather squeamish about meat. Ruth fears that the day is approaching when Kate will announce that she wants to be vegetarian, like Cathbad and his children. Ruth has nothing against vegetarians, she just thinks that it would put a strain on her already limited culinary repertoire.
The shepherd’s pie is quite good though. Like all of Frank’s cooking it lacks salt but Ruth doesn’t add any because she knows how annoying this is. She eats enthusiastically to show her appreciation. Kate picks at hers.
‘I’m quite looking forward to the weekend,’ says Frank. ‘It’ll be good to see the Saltmarsh again.’
What’s he talking about? Oh, Laura’s bike race. Ruth can’t believe that Frank can mention the Saltmarsh so casually. He must know what it means to her. It was both her beloved home and the place where she endured some of the worst experiences of her life. How can Frank say he’s looking forward to seeing it, like it’s the Golden Gate Bridge or some other tourist attraction?
‘I don’t know how much of the Saltmarsh we’ll see,’ she says. ‘The race starts at Titchwell, in the Briarfields car park.’
‘They have stops along the way where they give out water to the competitors. Bananas and jelly beans too, energy food. Jane used to do some road racing when she was in college.’
‘Americans say jelly when they mean jam,’ says Kate.
‘I know,’ says Frank. ‘When will we learn? We say biscuit when we mean cake too.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ says Kate. ‘Miss Blake says it would be boring if we were all the same.’
‘Miss Blake is right,’ says Frank. ‘Look at your mother and me. We’re very different but we get along just fine.’
What’s he getting at? thinks Ruth. It suddenly feels very important to change the subject.
‘Team Rank.’ Frank is smiling at her.
‘Is there more shepherd’s pie?’ says Ruth.
‘You can have mine,’ mutters Kate.
After the meal, Kate escapes to watch television. She left a Matterhorn of mashed potato on her plate but Ruth decides against demanding that she finish it. There will only be an argument which will probably give Kate food issues for life. She’ll eat again when she’s hungry. Ruth appreciates the way that Frank doesn’t comment. All the same Ruth feels strangely nervous at being left alone with her partner, if that’s what Frank is. She starts a bright conversation about Victorian mourning rituals, one of Frank’s areas of interest.
‘Ruth,’ says Frank.
Ruth’s monologue on jet jewellery trails away. Frank fills up her glass again.
‘Ruth,’ says Frank. ‘Shall we go on holiday, just the two of us?’
‘Without Kate?’
‘You know Nelson and Michelle want to take her to Cornwall in the summer. We could go to Europe. To Rome or Barcelona. The Amalfi coast.’
Ruth can’t resist a slight thrill at the names. She loves Italy and Spain. But she is far from sure that she wants to let Kate go on holiday with her father and stepmother, to say nothing of Baby George. And she’s worried that the proposed romantic break means something ominous. At least Frank can’t want another child. Ruth is fifty in July.
‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘I’ve never been away without Kate.’
‘We won’t be far away,’ says Frank, with an American’s expansiveness towards distance. ‘Only a couple of hours on a plane. And I think it could be good for us. Give us a chance to chill, to relax, to talk.’
Ruth is worried that the Us has a capital letter. She’s not sure that she wants time to talk. In her experience, talking can lead to trouble. Why can’t they just go on with their lives, going to work every day, taking Kate to school and picking her up, watching box sets in the evening?
‘Maybe,’ she says at last.
‘Great,’ says Frank, taking this for agreement. ‘I’ll get some brochures. It’ll be fun, honey.’
*
When she finally escapes to her study, Ruth stares at her computer screen. Her emails scroll in front of her. St Jude’s. Kate’s school. Publishers wanting her to recommend their books. Various shops where she can’t ever remember buying anything. Why is she so frightened at the thought of going on holiday with Frank? After all, they have been living together for two years and they get on very well. It’s a civilised, respectful relationship where they both do their share of housework and childcare. They have two studies, for goodness’ sake. What could be more civilised than that? But the last two summers have been spent in Cambridge, with the odd day trip to the coast. Ruth and Frank have never gone on a plane together, they have never shared hand luggage, they have never stayed in a hotel. The thought of this, signing in as Dr Ruth Galloway and Dr Frank Barker, makes Ruth feel as if she’s hurtling downhill in a roller-coaster.
Flint appears in the doorway and meows accusingly. From the sitting room Ruth can hear the Simpsons theme tune. She imagines the opening credits, that blue sky with the perfectly shaped clouds. And then it happens again. One minute she is breathing normally, the next she can’t remember how to do it. She is sucking at the air, unable to take it in. It’s a horrible feeling, like being trapped in her own body. She grips the edge of the desk. You’re safe, she tells herself. You’re in your own house. Frank and Kate are downstairs. Breathe in for four, out for eight. Her hand flails and touches blissfully familiar fur. Flint. She strokes him, head to tail, scratching at the base of his tail, the way he likes it. She realises that she is breathing again. Thank you, healer cat.
Her phone is buzzing. Shona. Shall she let it go to voicemail? No, it might be something about Phil.
‘Hallo.’
‘Hi, Ruth. Are you OK? You sound a bit strange.’
‘I’m fine. A bit breathless, that’s all. Just walked up the stairs.’
‘You should come to spin classes with me.’
When hell freezes over, thinks Ruth.
‘How’s Phil?’ she says.
‘Much better,’ says Shona. ‘It was really nice of you to visit him yesterday. He was very touched. He said you had a lovely chat.’
‘It was good to see him,’ says Ruth. She realises, to her surprise, that they did have rather a nice chat.
‘The doctors think he can come home at the weekend.’
‘That’s great news.’
‘Yes, it is. I’ve told him that he has to have a proper rest. No worrying about work.’
‘Phil mentioned that he was thinking about taking early retirement.’
‘That’s right.’ Shona’s voice sounds as if she knows exactly what Ruth is getting at. ‘There might be a vacancy at UNN.’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ says Ruth. ‘I was just thinking about Phil. About you and Phil. He said that you wanted to go travelling . . .’
Her voice trails away.
‘That’s nice,’ says Shona. ‘Actually, the reason I was ringing is that I think I’ve found Phil’s notes. The ones about the excavation. They were on the Cloud. Shall I send them over?’
‘Yes please,’ says Ruth.
‘Doing it now. How are you, anyway? How’s life amongst the dreaming spires?’
From Ruth’s study window she can actually see the spires. It’s a beautiful evening, the ancient buildings golden in the twilight. Ruth strokes Flint, who is now lying on the desk.
‘Fantastic,’ she says. Apart from not being able to breathe. ‘We must get together soon.’
‘Yes, we must,’ says Shona. ‘We’ll have a girls’ night out.’
And with that threat, she rings off. Ruth refreshes her screen and the new email is there. She clicks onto the attachment and starts to read. Flint puts a fat orange paw on the keyboard. A row of Ps appears on the screen. Ruth deletes them.
Notes on the excavation at 5 Church Lane, Salthouse. Phil is meticulous, even in his preliminary work. Coordinates, the day’s weather, wind direction, the number of people on site, soil pH, the initial appearance of the bones. Ruth stops. Look at the forensics again. This is it. The thing that has been bothering her ever since the day Phil visited her at St Jude’s. A church bell rings, somewhere across the rooftops. Eight o’clock. Ruth picks up her phone and sends a text to Crissy Martin.
And then she goes on reading.
Chapter 27
Ailsa Britain does not look overjoyed to see Judy. She stands in the hallway of the community centre, as if she wants to stop Judy from coming any further in.
‘I’ve got a class in a minute,’ she says.
‘What do you teach?’ says Judy.
‘Painting.’
Bob had also said that Ailsa was a gifted artist, in the style of someone Judy had never heard of. But she remembers that Ailsa has actually known Jenny – and March – through creative writing classes. What sort of thing does Ailsa write? She has never thought to ask.
‘I’m trying to trace Sofia Novak’s family,’ she says. ‘I wondered if there was anything more that you could tell me about her.’
‘She was Hungarian,’ says Ailsa. ‘I got the impression that her parents were rather stuffy. They didn’t approve of her interrailing. Her father was a civil servant and her mother was a housewife. I remember because we talked about women needing to liberate themselves from domestic tasks.’
As far as Judy can make out, all the domestic work at Grey Walls was done by Crissy Martin. Judy can’t imagine Ailsa helping out much.
‘Any other family?’ she says.
‘She sometimes talked about a brother and a sister. I think Sofie was the youngest, the baby.’ She smiles when she says this and Judy realises that Bob might have been telling the truth when he said that everyone loved Sofia, or Sofie as Ailsa has just called her. What would she say if she knew that Ivor March had confessed to killing Sofie? But Nelson wants to keep that information confidential for a while, in case he can get March to confess to the other murders.
‘Anything else?’ she says. ‘The smallest thing might help.’
‘I don’t know . . .’ Ailsa sounds rattled now. ‘It was all so long ago.’ Her phone buzzes. ‘Excuse me, I must take this . . .’
She goes into one of the classrooms but Judy hears her saying, ‘Crissy. What is it, darling?’
Crissy Martin. Interesting. She hadn’t known that Crissy and Ailsa were on darling terms. But Ailsa had told Judy that she adored Crissy. They have clearly kept in close touch over the years.
Ailsa has left her portfolio propped up by the door. Judy opens it carefully. What she sees is an extraordinarily detailed picture, in ink and what looks like delicate watercolour. At first she can’t make sense of the intricate shapes and swirls but then she sees that it’s a house, but one that is almost entirely covered in brambles. Each branch is studded with deadly-looking thorns and the occasional blackberry blooms, swollen and sinister, the sort of fruit that would send you to sleep for a hundred years. There are people caught up in the brambles too, men and women with luxuriantly curly hair, as if that too has been growing unchecked for years. Judy hears Ailsa saying goodbye and hastily shuts the portfolio.
The picture has left her strangely shaken. Partly because the bramble-covered house is so obviously Grey Walls.
*
‘I keep having panic attacks. At least I think they’re panic attacks.’
The doctor, a pleasant woman who looks as if she’s in her early thirties, doesn’t laugh or reach for a hotline to the nearest mental hospital. In fact, she doesn’t look very interested. Ruth is her last patient of the morning and she has probably used up her store of empathy. Ruth knows that she is lucky to have got an appointment at such short notice but she, too, is now rather bored by the whole business. The loo in the waiting area had a sign on it saying, ‘Patient Toilet’. Well, the WC must be the only thing around here that isn’t feeling frustrated.
‘Describe them to me,’ says Dr Kahn. She looks at Ruth with professional kindness. In the two years that Ruth has been living in Cambridge, she has only visited the doctor once, when Kate had tonsillitis. At least it won’t say ‘malingerer’ on her medical notes.
‘The first one happened when I was swimming,’ says Ruth. ‘I panicked. I suddenly felt as if I couldn’t breathe. I thought I was going to drown. Then I had another one last night, just out of the blue.’
‘Do you have any other symptoms?’ asks Dr Kahn. ‘Increased heart rate? Dizziness.’
‘It’s more like vertigo,’ says Ruth. ‘I feel as if I’m going down in a lift, very fast.’
Dr Kahn looks at her meditatively before reaching for her blood-pressure cuff. Ruth is relieved that she isn’t going to be dismissed with a ‘think positive thoughts and drink more water’ but she always feels stressed at these tests which, of course, makes her blood pressure soar. ‘White coat syndrome’ someone called it when Ruth was pregnant with Kate and constantly under surveillance. She also has a constant nagging fear that doctors will tell her that she needs to lose weight. She gets this even when she goes to the dentist. Another example of white-coat neurosis.
‘It’s a little high,’ says Dr Kahn a few minutes later, ‘but nothing to be too worried about. You’re probably just a bit anxious about being here.’
Ruth, who has been trying to conjure up images of tranquil seas and tropical islands, exhales.
‘What do you do for a living?’ asks the doctor.
‘I’m a university lecturer.’
‘That must be stressful at times.’
‘Sometimes,’ says Ruth. ‘I’m been involved with a police case recently, as an expert, and that can be a bit, well . . . difficult . . .’
‘I can imagine,’ says Dr Kahn, looking as if she can. ‘I think it was probably a panic attack,’ she continues, ‘and the best thing you can do for that is try to control your breathing. I’ve got a pamphlet here somewhere.’ She searches on her
desk.
‘I’ve got a friend who has taught me some meditation techniques,’ she says.
‘That’s good,’ says Dr Kahn. ‘Try to take it easy. It’s the holidays soon. I imagine that you get nice long holidays.’
‘I wondered if it could be the menopause,’ says Ruth, registering the slight resentment in the last remark.
‘Any other symptoms?’ asks the doctor.
‘Not really.’
‘Perimenopause can make women anxious,’ says Dr Kahn. ‘There are some herbal treatments that might help. I’ve got another pamphlet somewhere . . .’
‘It’s OK,’ says Ruth, standing up. ‘Thank you for your time.’
‘Is there anything else that might be worrying you?’ says the doctor. ‘Anything at home?’
‘No,’ says Ruth. ‘Everything’s fine at home. We’re just planning our summer holiday.’
As she says this, she feels a band tightening around her chest.
*
‘Crissy Martin rang when I was with Ailsa,’ says Judy.
‘Did you hear what it was about?’ says Nelson. They are in his office but Nelson is late for another meeting. His PA, Leah, is standing accusingly at the door.
‘No,’ says Judy, ‘but I thought it was odd. I mean, I didn’t think that the two women were that close. Why would Crissy be ringing Ailsa?’
‘John Robertson, the gardener, said something about Crissy and Ailsa,’ says Nelson. ‘Implying that there was something going on between them. Mind you, he implied that about almost everyone in that house.’
‘Chantal Simmonds said that both Bob and Leonard had feelings for Ivor.’
‘She thinks everyone’s in love with Ivor. But Ailsa was in a relationship with Bob and married Leonard.’
Judy thinks of Ailsa’s picture, of the brambles choking the house, of the bodies – dead? Or asleep? – lying amongst the poisonous fruit. She thinks of the tangled relationships in the house. Of Sofia being welcomed in, and then disappearing without trace.
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