‘Very wise.’ They exchanged another little look, and my stomach dropped away like on a rollercoaster you think is over, only to find there’s one more loop. How stupid I’d been, how arrogant, to dismiss them as plods. They knew something. Of course they did. This was more than just routine. ‘Mrs Thomas, our system cross-references names automatically on our databases. We couldn’t help but notice that, earlier this year, there was an allegation made against you. That you committed a crime.’
‘What?’ I had started to rise from the sofa, and now collapsed back into it, winded by fear.
‘A car break-in, in East London.’ Oh my Holy God. ‘The victim gave your name as a possible suspect. A Damian Henderson.’
I gaped at them in what they hopefully saw was genuine outrage. ‘Damian!’
‘You know him?’
‘We worked together. I knew about the break-in – but I – I was living down here already when that happened! It’s madness!’
‘That’s what the police thought, hence they never followed it up. Can you think of any reason he’d accuse you, Mrs Thomas?’ The woman met my eyes calmly over her notebook. They knew. They must have guessed why he would say something like that, what kind of person I was.
‘I . . .’ Oh God, be careful, Suzi. ‘We didn’t part on the best of terms, is all. But I haven’t seen him since, not for months.’ That was a lie. I was lying without even meaning to. Shit.
Another look between them. I almost envied that, the ability to communicate without saying anything, to be that in sync with someone. I’d had that with you for a while, or at least I’d thought I had. Not like Nick and I. Our conversations had run dry long ago, and when we went out for a meal both of us would leap on our phones, after we’d agreed not to have them out. I felt your loss in so many small ways.
‘Alright, thank you for your help.’
Was it over? Had they any more nasty shocks in store?
‘I hope you find out what happened,’ I said, ushering them to the door. ‘His poor wife, what a terrible thing to happen.’
They were out the door and at their car when I realised, with a sickening plunge of the stomach, that they hadn’t mentioned a wife.
Rage was coursing in my veins. Fucking Damian, telling the police that! As if I would bash up his poxy car!
I shouldn’t have done what I did next. It was yet another really stupid thing, to pile on top of the last few months of very stupid things. I seized my phone and called up the secret email account, dashed off a message to him.
You never mentioned you gave the police my name! FFS Damian. I never even thought about you after I left work. I was glad to get away from you, alright? I want nothing more to do with you. So if you tell them anything more about me, they’ll find out a few things about you too.
I had pressed send before I had time to realise quite how stupid it was. I was threatening him – but with what? An accusation that what happened in the alley was not consensual? I regretted that night, of course, and I would not have done it sober, but was that really what I meant? I thought of having to go to court if it all came out. Nick’s face. The shame of it, claiming I was a victim, when I’d gone there willingly with Damian, kissed him greedily, flirted with him for months. Even if I hadn’t wanted it to go further, who would have any sympathy for me?
A cold terror slushed through me, and I jumped to my feet, almost crying with frustration. What was I going to do? There was no one who could help me. Nora was your wife – she must hate me, even if she hadn’t told Nick the truth yet. Something terrible had happened in her past, I was sure, and she was taking medication for severe mental illness. I had to get away from her, but where could I turn? Nick at least suspected I had done something with Damian. Someone, maybe Nora, was watching me, perhaps had stolen my dog. I wasn’t safe, and I was pregnant, and I was fairly sure I’d made several large mistakes in my interview with the police, tripped myself up on my own lies. What if they came back?
I was trembling, standing in the middle of my expensive kitchen, listening to the house click and whir about me. Machines to set the temperature, and play music, and make the blinds go up and down, and switch the lights on. To lock the door and keep me in here for ever. I was like a bird in a cage, with a cat sitting just outside my door, watching my every move.
Eleanor
The man who’d found me in Patrick’s office – Dr Andrew Holt, he told me, who ran the IVF unit here – had a kind face, I thought. I imagined it would be reassuring for the pregnant ladies to have him around. His voice was soothing, his eyes gentle. All the same, when he saw me reading the notebook in the office, he looked worried. ‘Mrs Sullivan, is it? Gemma told me you were here.’
‘Eleanor, yes.’
‘Right.’ His brow knitted further. ‘I’m sorry for your loss. Is there something we can help you with? I’m afraid I didn’t know Patrick all that well.’
Neither did I, I wanted to say. ‘Dr Holt, I don’t really know how to say this. I’ve been having trouble accepting it, the death. It just makes no sense to me, that he could crash like that.’
He nodded sympathetically. ‘That’s quite common.’
‘Maybe if I understood what happened when he was brought here, after the accident. Would they have taken him to A&E? I know you wouldn’t have treated him, I just – didn’t know who else to ask.’
‘I have a patient . . .’ He looked at his watch, and seemed to come to some decision. ‘I can find out, I’m sure. Why don’t you come to my office? It’s just along here.’
I followed him down several corridors, each painted identical shades of puce and lemon. His own office was larger than Patrick’s, but much more untidy, with a jacket heaped on the chair and the desk covered in paper, half-drunk cups of coffee, medical journals with pages folded over. ‘Let me see.’ He pulled his chair over to the computer, and began to stab at the keys, two-fingered. ‘Here we are. Your husband was responsive in the ambulance, told paramedics he’d hit his head. He was first seen at A&E, yes, then because he complained of blurred vision and memory loss, transferred to the neurology ward for observation. Unfortunately, he then worsened and passed away, very quickly. Head injuries can be like that.’
‘Wouldn’t I have been called, once he turned up at hospital?’ I still didn’t understand that, why I hadn’t found out until the police came to my door. They knew it was him by then – I hadn’t been asked to identify the body. That terrible moment of seeing the blue light flicker on my windows. Knowing something life-shattering was about to happen, that I would never recover from. The deep regret that had crushed me later, imagining him in the hours before, dying, while I sat at home drinking wine, oblivious.
‘Ordinarily, yes.’ He squinted at the screen. ‘It’s possible they couldn’t find your number. Or if he was confused, he might have given the wrong name, even. You live in town here, I see?’
It would be the old address on the medical records, most likely. ‘I’ve moved,’ I said, distracted. ‘What doctors would have seen him? I mean, who would have noticed that he was . . . dead?’
It must have been a strange question, because his sandy eyebrows went up. ‘Well, if he was under observation, the neurology registrar would have seen him. Plus some nurses. If he went downhill quickly, it’s possible they didn’t notice. We’re so short-staffed at the moment. When he stopped breathing they would have rushed in to help, but been too late. I think that’s probably what happened. I’m very sorry.’
‘Right.’ My mind clicked and whirred. In that time he was left alone, apparently fine, that was when something must have happened. Could someone have killed him? But why? I thought of what I’d found in the office, the coded notes in the book, and the word blackmail rose to my mind, absurdly melodramatic. Was it even possible? If Conway was in on it, and maybe one or even two other people, could they have killed him and made it look like an accident? ‘Dr Holt . . . have you ever heard of doctors in this hospital having secrets? Things they wanted to hide?’
He really thought I was crazy now.
‘Gosh, I don’t know. Everyone has secrets, don’t they?’ He looked at me. ‘Mrs Sullivan . . . there are people you can talk to, you know. It’s very normal to be struggling. To be . . . confused about things.’
Was that what I was, confused? Or was I seeing clearly for the first time in years?
He went on, ‘You could always stay here, if you like. Have a rest.’
I frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
He stood up, his shadow falling over me. ‘Just that – you seem a little distressed. There are people who can help. You don’t have to go home alone.’
‘I’m not alone,’ I lied. Did he mean I was crazy? He wanted to admit me as a patient? No way. It was just like with Patrick, and after the fire when I was younger. People kept trying to tell me this, that I was somehow unhinged, but I knew now that I wasn’t. In fact, the problem was that I was all too sane. I stirred, gathering my coat and bag. ‘Thank you for your time.’
‘That’s – if you’re sure, Mrs Sullivan.’
‘Very sure.’
He clicked out of the screen on his computer, and for a second I saw that his Gmail account was open on there, and in it were several messages from a Suzanne Matthews.
I walked back to my car, my head so full it felt like an over-brimming glass, like it might spill and run out of my ears if I didn’t keep very still. Dr Holt knew Suzi – he must have been the doctor she spoke to when she went to the hospital in search of Patrick. But why was he emailing her? I wished I’d taken the notebook from Patrick’s desk. I hadn’t liked to do it with him watching me, but would I find Dr Holt’s name in there, among so many others? Had he been part of whatever Patrick was up to?
On my way out I passed a doctor in a white coat, handsome with greying hair. He was on the phone by the coffee machines, a teasing, smiling tone in his voice. ‘OK. But I’ll only have an hour, alright?’
Arranging an affair? Meeting his mistress? He wore a wedding ring, and I thought about his wife, maybe at home wrangling children to bed, wondering why he hadn’t come back yet. Pouring herself another glass of wine, when she really shouldn’t. Watching some crime drama on Netflix, the kind about cheating husbands, when her own was out flirting with other women. When you hear stories about women who are married to serial killers – Sonia Sutcliffe, for example – or whose husbands turn out to have four other families stashed away, you always say, how could she not know? She must have known. But I realised now that some people were just so good at lying that you not only believed them, you actually did your best to. You so much want to believe that what they tell you is true, you do the lying for them.
Suzi
‘Hello, Suzi?’
When my phone rang about an hour after the police left, my heart rate went through the roof. So many different things that could ruin me right now. I didn’t understand who it was, from the name that came up. I answered with shaking hands, recognising Dr Holt’s voice. Of course. I had saved him under a fake name, because that was the kind of person I was now. A liar.
‘Oh! Hello.’ I wondered why he was calling me, and what might have happened if Nick was here. How I would explain myself.
‘Are you alright?’
‘Not really.’ Where to start – the police, Damian, Nora? ‘You know what I was telling you about my neighbour, that I thought she was – that she’d been married to Patrick?’ I still couldn’t think of you by that name. ‘Well, I was doing more research and I think she might have done something bad in her childhood. Something violent. I’m scared, you see, for my baby.’
‘Right.’ His tone was cautious. Wondering where I was going with this probably, as well he might. Then he said, ‘Listen, I think you might be right. About your neighbour, who she is.’ He explained that an Eleanor Sullivan had come to the hospital, asking about her husband. ‘She had all these questions – were doctors open to blackmail, what happens when an accident victim comes in. Is your neighbour a dark-haired woman, lovely hands?’
‘That’s her. Did she say why she was there?’
‘No.’ I heard his sigh down the phone and suddenly, irrationally, wished to be wherever he was. I imagined a cosy bachelor flat, with some hearty food, a bottle of good red wine. I had no idea if he was married or not. Maybe he didn’t wear a wedding ring, or maybe he had a live-in girlfriend, or even boyfriend. I reminded myself I knew nothing about him. ‘I was worried. She seemed . . . not entirely stable.’
If Nora had been in Guildford today, she would surely come home soon. And then what? Things couldn’t go on as they had. If I spoke to her again, I knew I couldn’t pretend I didn’t know the truth – but what would she do to me then, if there was nothing more to hide? What reason would she have not to execute her plan, whatever that was? I said, ‘I want to go and see where she grew up, find out what I can. But the thing is, I don’t have a car. I’m stuck out here. And I’m afraid.’ I was aware I was playing helpless, appealing to his weaknesses, whatever it was in him that made him want to protect women. I felt a little disgusted with myself. But it worked.
He sighed again. ‘You really think she’s a risk to you?’
‘She moved in next door to me! You’re telling me that’s a coincidence?’
‘No, no, it’s not that. It just seems so crazy is all.’
‘I know that. I just – need some proof.’ I hoped he would understand, the impulse that drove me on to find more – there was no reason he would, he barely knew me. I had no right to ask him for help. And there was no reason for him to help me – his only involvement was that you had, briefly, stolen his conference lanyard – but all the same it seemed he was in.
‘You’re lucky I have a rare day off tomorrow. I’ll come and pick you up. What’s your address?’
It was of course risky to be picked up at the house, what with both Nora and Nick potentially spying on me. I told Dr Holt, as I had once told you, to meet me up the lane a bit, where a passing place widened out the road and a car could pull up. If he found this strange, he didn’t comment, and a few hours later we were driving in his jeep towards Sussex, where Nora was from.
He kept glancing over at me in the passenger seat. ‘You’re sure you’re alright?’
‘Fine.’ I scrabbled to find clear floor space for my feet – the car was like a bin on wheels. Remnants of non-NHS-approved fast food littered the footwells, and the back seat was heaped with trainers, jumpers, fleeces, boxes of tissues, a bike helmet. As if he lived in here most of the time. I found it endearing somehow, after the sterile tidiness of my own home. ‘The place is hard to find, I think – nothing’s coming up on Google Maps.’ From the old news reports, I had worked out the approximate postcode of where the house was, and we were heading there. To find what, I had no idea.
I almost enjoyed the trip. It was warm inside the car, with a slight undertone of old burger, and we listened to Radio 2 and shared a bag of wine gums, which he’d brought along with him. He asked was I alright at least four times. Was I warm or cold. Did I need water. Did I want to stop for the loo. I wondered why Nick’s version of looking after me didn’t feel like this.
After a while, he said, ‘So what are you hoping to find out?’
‘I don’t know. What happened to her family – if she’s dangerous.’ If she might hurt me, or my baby. If I really had no choice but to run, burn my life to the ground. When I wondered what we might learn when we got there, my stomach dipped. I cradled my bump, and the gesture wasn’t lost on him.
‘Suzi, you don’t need to go home after this. If you feel you’re in danger from . . . anyone.’ Meaning Nora, meaning Nick. Both, or either. He was right to think I wasn’t safe at home. But I couldn’t think that far ahead.
‘I know. Thank you.’ We drove the rest of the way in peaceful silence, me turning over my options in my head, not liking any of them.
Steepletops – or what remained of it – had been a large-ish modern house not far from Chichester. New money
, not an ancestral pile, with vulgar gateposts that had once been topped by stone eagles. I guessed it would have had something like ten bedrooms back in the day, had it not been lying in ruins. The outer wall of the garden was crumbling away in places, and the fence that replaced it was sagging, neglected. A sign ordered no trespass, but it was so worn away I hardly believed anyone would care. Who owned it anyway – likely not Nora? She had mentioned a few times that money was tight for her, so surely she would have sold the land if she’d still had a stake in it. We parked in a lay-by. ‘The gates are locked,’ said Dr Holt, glancing at the large iron ones, so dilapidated that the padlock on them was hardly effective. ‘We can’t get in.’
I gave him a look and opened the jeep door, stepped down and over the sagging fence in one bound. He followed, reluctant.
‘Trespass is illegal, just so you know.’
‘There’s no one here!’ I said, and it was true. ‘Come on, live a little.’
‘I’ll have you know I live a lot,’ he grumbled, climbing awkwardly over. I found myself smiling, and quickly wiped it from my face. There was nothing to smile about here.
You could just about discern the remnants of what had been a sizeable house. Red brick, large mullioned windows (I was still upset Nick had pulled out the ones in the cottage to replace them with high-tech versions) almost destroyed.
‘What happened here?’
A cold wind blew through the site, and I huddled my coat round me.
‘I don’t know.’ Dr Holt was uneasy. ‘Since we’re already breaking the law, I guess we should go and look.’
The answer was clear when we got nearer. The inside of the house was blackened like the bottom of my Aga. ‘A fire.’
‘Looks that way, yes.’ He took out his phone, holding it up in the manner of a druid divining for water. ‘No reception.’
It was then that a small, yappy terrier ran up, barking round my ankles. I thought of poor Poppet, lost God knows where.
The Other Wife Page 19