by C. J. Cooke
It’s raining, and everywhere is full. I don’t know enough French to ask if anyone can point me in the direction of a hotel with rooms, and my legs are aching. I need to lie down. I take the metro to the final stop, Place d’Italie, and head past a row of shops that are shutting up for the night towards a sign for a hotel. Hôtel du Paradis. Sounds exactly what I’m looking for.
As I cut down a wet, narrow alley I hear the sound of footsteps behind me, then a voice. As soon as I turn a fist plunges into the side of my head, knocking me clean off my feet. One second I’m upright, the next I’m face down in a puddle. I see three of them reflected in the dark water. A foot moves back, goes to kick me in the ribs. I manage to block it and tip the guy over but his friends don’t like that so much. There are four of them gathered around me now like a pack of wolves. They all start booting me then, and I curl up into as tight a ball as I can. Someone stomps on my head and with an explosion of pain behind my eyeballs I fall silent.
All the lights go out.
27
Helen
6th September 2017
I wake with a start. A slash of light through the curtains falls on a blister pack of pills on the bedside table. Sleeping tablets. When did I buy those? I’m fairly sure I didn’t. I don’t remember taking them last night either. The digital clock on Michael’s bedside table reads 13.24. I don’t know what day it is.
I pull myself to the edge of the bed. All my muscles feel pulverised. I cling on to the walls and make my way slowly to the top of the stairs.
‘Reuben?’
No answer.
My heart is racing. I take the stairs in a bum-shuffle, the way Saskia did when she was learning to walk. At the bottom of the stairs I can see the front door is open. With a shudder of fear I creep towards it, wondering if someone is already in the house. I step outside, look up and down the street. No one is around. The sky is grey, the first nip of autumn in the air. Reluctantly I head back inside. The house no longer feels welcoming and homely. My mind spins to all its hiding places. To the cellar we never use. The attic.
I inch across the creaking floorboards of the hall to the kitchen and find the largest knife I can in a drawer, bracing myself to hold it in front of me as I check every room in the house before recognising that even if I find someone here my soupy muscles and bruised bones wouldn’t stand me in much stead against an intruder. So I take to the downstairs bathroom and lock the door before lowering myself to the ground, shaking and weeping.
After a half hour or so I open the door half an inch and listen for any sound. Nothing. I can see the landline handset on the kitchen worktop. Quickly I reach for it and call Jeannie. She answers on the third ring.
‘Hello, darling. Are you alright?’
‘Reuben’s not here,’ I whisper. ‘Have you seen him?’
‘Yes, this morning,’ she says. ‘I took him to school. I think he was glad to go actually. I’ll be back in an hour. I’m just picking up some more groceries for you. Stay in bed, OK? Enjoy the peace and quiet.’
A knock at the front door interrupts our conversation. I ask Jeannie to stay on the line and hold the handset in one hand, the knife in the other, as I inch into the hallway. Three figures behind glass. Slowly I open the door a half-inch and peek through. A short woman with purple glasses and close-cropped silver hair and two men. All in suits.
‘Helen?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m Detective Constable Fields,’ one of the men says in an earthy Yorkshire accent, his eyes flicking down to the knife in my hand. ‘Have we come at a bad time?’
I open the door fully and let them in, quickly setting the knife on the console table with a faltering excuse about chopping apples.
DC Fields tells me he’s been appointed as my FLO – our family liaison officer. He insists that I stay on the sofa with a mohair blanket around my knees while he makes me a cup of tea, though I’m still mentally peeling myself off the ceiling. I feel adrift without something to do, so I end up making the tea and enlisting DC Fields’ help when I can’t lift the kettle. DS Jahan and DCI Lavery sit in the living room and offer small talk about the weather, about how long we’d lived in Northumberland, about the bookshop.
‘I can’t face the bookshop just yet,’ I tell DC Fields, and he throws me a sympathetic smile. ‘I know it’s five minutes from here but …’ I tail off, the thought of having to confront that black, destroyed space that was our beautiful book haven flooding me with fresh dread.
I take a Citalopram and two Ibuprofen when no one is looking to stave off the brain zaps I’ve been having as a result of antidepressant withdrawals and the ache of torn muscles down my back, shoulders, and wrist. I hadn’t experienced pain from the whiplash until now, but the doctor said that shock was a powerful blocker of pain.
Once I’ve settled into an armchair and everyone has exhausted their pleasantries, Detective Sergeant Jahan flips open a notebook. He is younger than I’d noticed on Skype, smartly dressed in a grey suit, pristine white shirt and navy tie. He has these dark eyes that seem to see all the way to the other side of the Universe. Detective Chief Inspector Lavery is short and lithe, with silver hair cropped neatly to her scalp. She’s wearing navy slacks with a white short-sleeved shirt, runner’s veins roping all the way around her arms and neck. I know they’re here to help, but I feel a lurch in my stomach at their presence. I’ve never dealt with the police before, and certainly not plain-clothed detectives. After Luke’s death I’ve always broke out into a sweat anytime I spotted the neon stripes of a police car.
‘We wanted to talk to you about the next steps,’ DCI Lavery tells me. ‘A key aspect of the search for your husband will be to speak to witnesses in San Alvaro, and we’d like to do some searches of the house.’
I blink. ‘Search the house? You mean, this house?’
‘To search for any correspondence Michael might have had,’ DS Jahan says. ‘Letters, emails, text messages …’
‘… most importantly, his devices,’ DCI Lavery says.
‘His mobile phone and laptop were destroyed in the crash,’ I say.
‘What about desktop computers or tablets?’ DS Jahan says. ‘Does he have a home office?’
‘His office was in the shop. But it’s been destroyed in the fire.’
Blank stares. ‘Well, there may be hard copies of correspondence that will help.’
I’m still lost. ‘But … correspondence with who?’ DS Jahan frowns. I know how uptight I sound. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m just trying to work out what this search is for.’
‘We know he took a flight out of Belize and landed in Heathrow,’ DCI Lavery says. ‘We’re still trawling through data from Heathrow to find out where he might have gone but that’s going to take a while. In the meantime, we’d like to form a picture of Michael’s life leading up to the crash.’
‘We spoke with your sister Jeannie earlier this morning,’ DS Jahan says. ‘She said you seemed quite paranoid before you went on holiday. She said she was worried about you before you left.’
‘Worried?’ I say. ‘Well, I suppose she was worried about the fire … I hardly saw my sister before so I’m … I’m not quite sure why she would have said that I was acting paranoid.’
‘You mentioned that you felt watched before,’ DCI Lavery says. ‘When you were on holiday.’
I nod. ‘Yes, and clearly that wasn’t paranoia, it was fact …’
‘What about before the holiday? Did you feel watched then?’
Of course I did. The letters came every year.
‘No. I was perfectly fine before we went on holiday.’
‘I suppose the fire would have added to Michael’s stress levels,’ DS Jahan says.
‘Well, yes. The fire added to all our stress levels,’ I say. ‘We still don’t know if the insurance company is going to pay out. We have a huge mortgage on the shop and if they don’t pay …’ Already my heartbeat is quickening and I can feel my colour rising.
‘Can you tell us what happened?’ DCI
Lavery asks. ‘With regards to the fire?’
I close my eyes and clasp my hands tightly. It’s no easy thing to talk about. ‘We got a call in the middle of the night. We raced down there but the fire was bigger than either of us anticipated. We’d thought we should bring a couple of fire extinguishers that we keep at home in case of an emergency …’ The memory of the thick black smoke curling underneath the shutters comes back in a horrible rush. My chest tightens, my blood runs cold. ‘Michael went inside, tried to tackle it,’ I say, my voice growing hoarse. ‘There was nothing we could do. He loved that shop. It was his baby.’
‘And you don’t think anyone started it maliciously,’ DCI Lavery asks.
I shake my head. ‘The investigation is still in progress. One of the firefighters said it was probably just one of those things. A bookshop unfortunately contains a lot of inflammable material.’
‘Do you think Michael could have had anything to do with it?’ DC Jahan says bluntly. It takes me a moment to understand what he’s asking.
‘You mean, could Michael have started the fire?’ I say, incredulous. ‘No! Absolutely not.’
‘We checked the village CCTV cameras,’ DCI Lavery says. ‘Michael’s car is a green Vauxhall Zafira, correct? Registration NP03 TRF?’
I nod. She flips through her notes. ‘The fire started around midnight. A green Zafira appears on the CCTV at thirteen minutes past midnight heading down Fraser Street, which is the route between your house and the shop.’
‘There must fifty green Zafiras in the village,’ I say quickly.
‘Five,’ DS Jahan says. ‘Two were out of town, one was in the garage. That leaves just yours and one other on the road. Your sister said that Michael often worked late. Was he working late that night?’
My thoughts are churning, my heart thudding. ‘I don’t know. He could have been. I really don’t think …’
‘We have a note also that Michael had been involved in a fight with another parent shortly after the fire,’ DCI Lavery adds coolly. ‘Benjamin Trevitt, father of Joshua Trevitt. Reuben’s friend, I believe. Mr Trevitt filed a complaint of assault.’
I look over their faces, my throat tight. ‘I didn’t know Ben had filed a complaint.’
‘Tell us about Michael,’ DCI Lavery says, leaning forward, clearly wanting to avoid upsetting me too much. I won’t be much use if I fall apart. She glances around the room, taking in the pictures on the walls of our family in happy times, the mess of Saskia’s toys in the corner. I start to tell them about the bookshop, about how dedicated Michael is. How he’s set up weekly reading groups for new mums and pensioners, writing competitions, school visits – more a social enterprise than a mere shop. She smiles.
‘Aside from his job, though. What’s he like as a husband, a father? Behind closed doors?’
I’m a bit confused by the question – or the reason she’s asking it – but I go along, slightly wary. ‘Michael’s a good husband. A great father. He was the one who suggested we go to Mexico. For Reuben, you know?’
‘Expensive trip,’ DS Jahan says. ‘Was it something you’d been planning for a while?’
I shake my head. ‘No, it was kind of last minute …’
He looks down at his notebook. ‘Michael booked the trip after the fire, isn’t that right?’
I nod, and he holds my gaze.
‘I don’t know about you, but if I’d just lost my livelihood in a fire I wouldn’t be booking a two-month family holiday in the Caribbean.’
His stare pins me to the seat. I feel my breaths quicken, my skin turns to ice. I start to answer but he cuts me off.
‘What about before the fire?’ DCI Lavery asks. ‘Were either of you stressed about finances?’
I don’t like what she’s implying. ‘No more than anyone else,’ I say. ‘We have mortgages on the house and the shop but no credit card debt or anything like that.’
It seems to be the right answer, because they share a look and move on, asking for more details about the beach hut, about the butler and the touring company we booked with in Mexico.
Then: ‘We do have an update about the driver of the other vehicle,’ DCI Lavery says. ‘Vanessa Shoman – the lady at the British Embassy? She was able to pass on a name and after some probing, the police in Belize confirmed that this was the man they’d interviewed. We asked another police force in the area to run some checks on the van, so we’re eighty per cent certain this is the individual we’re after.’
I look from DCI Lavery to DS Jahan, wondering why they didn’t mention this before now.
‘Well, who is he?’
‘His name’s Jonas Matus,’ DS Jahan says, flipping open his tablet. ‘Does that name mean anything to you?’
My hands are shaking and I can barely breathe. It feels as though a monster is being given a human shape. I feel nauseous. ‘I’ve never heard that name before,’ I say weakly.
DCI Lavery consults her notes. ‘He’s local to San Alvaro. Has some previous convictions. Theft, fraud, assault.’
‘I remember his shoes,’ I say in a tight voice. His boots. Right there by my face. A scuff on one toe.
‘His boots?’ DC Fields says, and I explain.
‘We don’t have a full body photograph, I’m afraid,’ DS Jahan says, tapping on the screen of his tablet. ‘The police sent us this mugshot.’
He passes me the tablet. On the screen, a man with dark, blank eyes, overlapping teeth, a distinct underbite. A wave of revulsion rolls over me. I stand up and begin to pace slowly across the room. DCI Lavery asks if we should stop, take a breather. I go out to the porch and stand in the cool breeze urging myself not to faint.
A hand on my shoulder. ‘Are you OK?’
DC Fields. ‘I know it’s really, really difficult to face this,’ he says gently. ‘But the sooner we get a clear idea of what went on in the time leading up to the crash, the better. Do you think this is the trespasser you saw at the beach hut?’
He is holding the tablet with the mugshot of Jonas Matus staring back at me with a gaze that might burn my eyes out. I take deep breaths, force myself to stay focused. Is he the man I saw running away from the beach hut? ‘I didn’t see his face,’ I explain.
He swipes to another image of Matus’ white van, obviously taken before the crash. I have to turn away and cover my mouth, because immediately a memory of the van lunging into my lane flashes across my mind, sharp as a razor. I feel it slamming into me, the spin of the car. I see it in a haze at the far end of a mosaic of shattered glass, on the other side of the road, upright, the bumper crumpled and the windscreen shattered, steam rising from the bonnet. It’s the same van.
‘We spoke to the people who were staying at the beach resort at the same time as you,’ DS Jahan says. ‘One guy said he spotted a white van in the area just before you left. It seems there aren’t a lot of vehicles out that way which is why he noticed it.’
‘If Matus was watching you, though,’ DCI Lavery says thoughtfully, folding her arms, ‘how did he know where you were staying? If hardly anyone knew you were in Belize, much less your actual address, and if you say Matus had no connection to you … how would he know where you were?’
‘Maybe he didn’t,’ I hear myself say. ‘Maybe the crash was an accident and he’s making up this claim to avoid blame.’
They consider this, but even I don’t believe my words. The instinct I had in the beach hut of being watched is back. I feel like something is just within my blind spot, and if I look close enough at my memories I’ll see it, bright as the noon day sun.
‘Are you alright?’ DCI Lavery asks, seeing my face blanch. I feel faint but I tell him I can manage. I need this to be over.
‘So … just thinking about the fight with Mr Trevitt,’ DCI Lavery says, sweeping her eyes across our family photographs on the walls. ‘You have a lovely home and a lovely family. Would you say that Michael wasn’t normally a violent guy?’
We’re back to this again. Why can’t they see that Michael has nothin
g to do with Jonas Matus?
‘Michael said he was trying to protect Reuben,’ I say slowly. ‘I’m not exactly sure what the threat was but … we have to be careful with Reuben in certain social situations. I suppose it’s been a long time since he was invited to a birthday party. In fact, I think this was his first invitation in fourteen years. Michael was probably being over-protective and …’
‘Has Michael been violent before?’ DCI Lavery asks. Then, more gently, ‘To you, maybe?’
I shake my head. ‘Absolutely not.’
‘Not even in an argument? After a few drinks?’
‘Every couple argues, especially when you’ve been together for as long as we have …’
‘What were your arguments about?’
I shrug. ‘Same as everybody else’s. Housework. Money.’
‘You were happy, then?’ DC Fields surmises.
I stare at my hands. At my wedding band. ‘We had our ups and downs.’
‘How bad were the downs?’
‘Michael didn’t like to talk about things. He could be … distant.’
‘What about the painting?’ DCI Lavery says slowly. ‘Your sister mentioned that Michael destroyed an expensive painting he’d bought you. Can you tell us about that?’
My mouth falls open. Jeannie actually brought that up? She mentioned the painting?
I look around each of them and I know my cheeks are burning, a red glow all the way from my cleavage to the tips of my ears, the mark of stress. I want to dodge the question, come up with an excuse. But they’re all looking, and I don’t want them to suspect me of lying. Why has Jeannie told them about this? I had forgotten that I’d confided in her.
‘It was a long time ago, before we had Reuben,’ I say in a shaky voice. ‘We went to an antiques market in Venice and came across this painting that I fell in love with. It was of a ballet class, a row of dancers at the barre. The man said it was a lost Degas. It was five hundred euros, and neither of us were sure that it was actually a Degas. Even so, Michael insisted on buying it for me.’
It was a beautiful Autumn day, and we went to Murano, the beautiful island in Venice with rainbow-coloured streets and the bones of a slain dragon in the floor of a church. Michael and I were deeply in love, locked in a mutual gratitude at having found each other, at finding peace after so much anguish. I remember that holiday marked a change in how we dealt with the past, with the guilt of Luke’s death. The painting captured for me not just the beautiful image of dancers, reminding me of my ballet days, but of the promise of a future where we could be happy together.