‘How do you know what his dying words were?’ I hiss. ‘He was alone. He was alone when I got to the hospital.’
I’m wishing I’d never phoned her now. Ignorance was better. Ignorance was kinder.
‘I was there,’ she says, oh so gently. ‘I went with him in the ambulance. I was with him when he died. And his last words were . . .’
‘That’s why you wouldn’t defend Saul? You were afraid people would think . . . what? That you might be biased because Saul was your lover’s child? Or that you were trying to atone for stealing my husband? I don’t want to hear what his dying words were.’
‘You’ve got it wrong, Holly. We weren’t lovers. I swear.’
I’m crying now. But I’m not going to let her off the hook. ‘I don’t want you to tell me what his dying words were. Not just so it makes you feel better. I’ve suffered enough for the last six years. All this time I believed I’d lost someone who really loved me.’
‘He did love you. It’s possible to love more than one person. Surely you understand that?’
The way she’s talking, it’s as if she knew Archie better than I did. I begin to hate her. With her composed face, her designer haircut and expensive glasses, and her calm insinuation when we’d sat in the cafe that I didn’t know what my own son might be capable of.
‘His last words were “Ask Holly to forgive me.” But I couldn’t tell you. Not without telling you what you had to forgive in the first place. I thought it would be better if you could grieve in peace. I thought it would be better if you never knew.’
‘You want me to thank you for that?’ I spit, and then jab the ‘off’ button on my phone so hard my thumb stings.
Saffie’s accusation hasn’t just changed the present and the future for us all; it’s altering the past as I know it, and I’m not sure which is harder to deal with.
12
JULES
‘I’ve got extra maths after school today,’ Saffie said. ‘Won’t be back till six.’
Jules was putting her make-up on in the mirror, pouting as she applied the Rosebud lipstick Holly had given her all those years ago. She observed her daughter in the mirror. Saffie was plucking at the sleeves of her school blazer again in that nervy, frenzied way she’d recently adopted. Saffie’s own make-up seemed to be getting thicker each day, but did nothing to hide the shadows under her eyes. There was something in her daughter’s expression that had changed since the rape. It wasn’t just that imperceptible thing Jules had noticed before, the loss of innocence. It was as if her brows had dropped a fraction, her eyes were more wary, more . . . world-weary.
‘I’ll give you a lift home,’ Jules said.
‘I don’t need you to. Why do you have to keep going on about lifts?’
‘After all that’s happened, we don’t like you being out there alone after dark.’
‘I’m fine, Mum,’ Saffie said. ‘Gemma will be there. We’ll come back together.’
‘I can ask Dad to pick you both up.’
‘That’s crazy,’ Saffie snapped. ‘I’m going to look like a complete wimp if Dad keeps turning up everywhere to give me lifts. Someone will guess about this . . .’ She put her hand on her belly.
‘OK.’ Jules turned. ‘You don’t want us drawing attention, I understand that. But please make sure you come back with Gemma and that you have your phone with you all the time. Switched on. Not on silent. And don’t be later than six. Oh, and I’m checking with Tess that Gemma’s with you.’
Saffie came over to Jules and kissed her, leaving a sticky residue of lip gloss on her cheek.
‘Stop worrying, Mummy,’ she said. ‘You’re treating me like a baby. I’m over what Saul did. And I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.’
There was something about the forced way Saffie said this that betrayed how troubled she really was. Jules tried to remember whether she’d heard Saffie laugh in the last few weeks and failed. What had happened to the girl who used to get the giggles at the slightest thing? Whose laughter you could hear from miles away as she walked home with her friends? Jules knew very well Saffie was not over what Saul did, either physically or emotionally. But perhaps it was better that Saffie was able to put on a brave front if it enabled her to get through today. Tomorrow they would see Donna and the pregnancy would be dealt with.
Then, perhaps, they could start moving on. Or trying to. Jules knew Saffie was shaken up by Saul’s disappearance and, as her mother, couldn’t help blaming him for that too: he’d hurt her daughter not just once but twice now.
‘Do you need to wear perfume to school?’ Jules asked, nevertheless, catching a waft as Saffie turned from her.
Saffie frowned. ‘You wear perfume to work.’
‘Yes, but I’m forty-three; you’re thirteen.’
‘It’s better than smelling like a rancid trout.’
‘You could just smell like your lovely natural self,’ Jules said. ‘But never mind – you’re going to be late. Off you go.’
*
That afternoon, Jules got home from work early, to make sure she was there for Saffie. Saul’s disappearance was unsettling on two levels, she thought. In addition to the fact it had upset Saffie. It was quite possible he might be out there, lurking, wanting to get at Saffie for revealing what he’d done. On the other hand, who knew what had happened to him? They all assumed his disappearance was linked to his guilt about the rape. But it might have nothing to do with it. There might be someone out there, a serial killer stabbing young solitary teenagers, or . . . Jules wasn’t usually given to flights of fancy, but everything lately had been turned on its head. The Fens, so open and calm and bright when she had first moved here, now seemed full of menace.
Rowan came downstairs as Jules stood at the counter, texting Tess: ‘Is Gemma at extra maths this afternoon? Just checking she and Saffie are coming home together on the bus?’
There were other unread texts – requests for repeat orders on stock for the shop, and invitations from Jenny and Tess – that she had failed to answer. She closed them and looked at her husband. Since being made redundant, Rowan had tried to occupy his time with golf and bird-watching, but it got more difficult when the days were short, and today it had been dark for almost an hour by the time she got in and bird-watching was out of the question, as was golf.
‘Where’s Saff?’ he asked.
‘She went to extra maths. She’s getting the bus back.’
‘In the dark? With that boy out there, roaming about?’
‘Yes, Rowan. She doesn’t want to be treated like a kid. She’s with Gemma. It’s all fine.’
‘I’ll go and pick her up.’
‘There’s no need. Honestly, she won’t like it.’
He sighed, looked at Jules. ‘I feel so pent-up since all this,’ he said. ‘I can’t relax.’
‘I do understand. But it’s important we let her continue as normal.’
Jules put her arms round her husband. She squeezed him to her. It was a relief to know Rowan was worried about Saff being out after dark. Rowan wouldn’t be afraid that Saul was still a threat if he had done anything to him. Would he?
‘I was going through pictures of Saffie on the laptop,’ Rowan said, freeing himself from Jules’s embrace. Jules looked at her husband. There was nothing strange about looking at pictures of your own child on the computer. All parents did it.
‘There were ones of her in her ballet dress. She was always the prettiest girl wherever we took her,’ he said. ‘I was always so proud of her.’
‘I know you were, darling. I was too. Still am.’
‘Yes, but now it’s as if her looks are backfiring. It’s as if because she’s so good-looking, other men think they have the right to touch her.’
This was what Jules sometimes found odd. The fact Rowan thought about men touching Saffie at all. And it wasn’t just since the rape. Rowan had always been like this about Saffie. It was as if he thought about her as an object for men to ogle at. He liked his daughter to look pretty, but dis
liked it when this drew attention. She wondered if his attitude to Saffie was healthy. And yet he adored her, would do anything for her.
‘I hate to think of anybody else putting their sweaty hands on her. I hate to think that she’s going to have more and more men groping at her as she gets older. And to think . . . to think of anyone forcing their filthy flesh inside her perfect body.’
‘I do know how you feel,’ Jules said. ‘But, Rowan, she’s all right. We have to put up a united front and show her we’re fine too.’
Jules congratulated herself on the rational front she was presenting. Because it wasn’t how she felt. The pregnancy nagged at her mind. If only they’d been able to go to Donna sooner. Every day made it more likely Rowan would discover that Saffie was dealing with an unwanted pregnancy on top of the rape. Had she made the right decision? To do as Saffie had begged her to do? Should she have taken Saffie straight to a clinic somewhere?
‘The way Saul’s gone off,’ Rowan went on. ‘It’s like he’s guilt-tripping her. For telling us what he did to her.’
‘I hardly think he’d go to those lengths,’ Jules said. She swallowed back the urge to tell him she’d had the same thought. ‘It’s obviously upsetting for Saff that Saul’s gone missing, but she mustn’t be made to feel the two things are linked any more than she already does. We have to play it down. We have to communicate that the two incidents are not necessarily related. And if they are, it isn’t her fault. Saul is a troubled boy and it’s being played out in all kinds of ways, some very unacceptable.’
‘Understatement.’
‘OK. But she needs to feel she was right to tell us about the rape. You accusing Saul of guilt-tripping her doesn’t help. If anything nasty has happened to him, she’ll think she shouldn’t have told us.’
‘Fact is, he deserves everything that’s come to him,’ Rowan muttered.
Jules was about to reply when the doorbell rang. It sounded louder than usual, making them both jump. Saffie had her own key. She never rang the bell.
Jules shivered. Rowan’s last sentence had unsettled her. But she was more concerned that Saffie was home safely. She glanced at her mobile to see if Tess had replied to her text. There was nothing yet. So her heart plummeted as she saw that it was DC Shimwell back with DI Venesuela outlined through the misted glass of the front door.
‘Oh God, please don’t say . . .’ Jules began, opening the door. ‘Is Saffie all right?’
‘She’s not home?’ Maria Shimwell asked, and Jules felt her head spin.
*
The police hadn’t come to report that Saffie had had an accident, or been assaulted again, or any of the scenarios that flashed through Jules’s head, but to ask Rowan to accompany them to the police station for a second time.
‘We’d like another little chat,’ they told him. ‘About the missing boy. We’d also like our forensics team to examine your car, if you wouldn’t mind handing over the keys?’
‘Rowan?’ Jules turned to him, her eyes questioning.
He gave her a resigned look, grabbed his coat from the cloakroom and followed them, his bulky form, Jules thought, oddly passive as he trod behind the slight figure of Shimwell to the police car. Rowan’s shape had changed, Jules noticed. There was less definition between his ribcage and his hips; it was all one line now. He was ageing, she realized. She wanted to chase after him, hold on to him, tell him it was all going to be all right. Because she was there for him and always had been.
Then, as if from nowhere, a truck appeared, and the Audi, Rowan’s pride and joy, was lifted onto the back of it. She watched the truck follow the police car up the road. She felt as if her life as she knew it was disappearing along with the red tail lights receding into the darkness.
Jules shut the door at last and went into the kitchen. She looked at her mobile. Still nothing from Tess. It was a quarter to seven. Where was Saffie? She texted her daughter, her fingers slippery on the keys. Her heart racing. She should have insisted on picking her up after all.
‘You OK? Sure you don’t want a lift?’
The reply came quickly, reassuring her. ‘On the bus. Home in 20.’
Jules looked around the hall. If Rowan had done something to Saul on Monday morning, there must be evidence somewhere. She had to know. She had to be one step ahead of the police and those spooky-looking forensics people in the truck. Police got things wrong sometimes. Often. If they decided Rowan was guilty when he wasn’t, she would have to defend him. On the other hand, if he had done something, she had to know before the police did, so she could work out what to do about it.
She stood still. She went over in her mind what had happened when she had come in on Monday evening, the day Saul had disappeared. She’d found Rowan cooking, which was unusual but not unheard of. She remembered he had snatched the potato peelings from Saffie, wanting to take them out to the wheelie bins himself. Why? Why hadn’t he wanted Saffie to do that for him, since he was so busy cooking? Was Rowan covering something up? Trying to divert her attention from something by playing the good husband? Although part of her felt it was crazy, Jules was driven to check.
The bin men hadn’t been yet. They were due in the morning. She pulled on her wellies, which she kept by the shoe rack in the lobby by the back door. She stopped, looked down. Rowan had worn his Timberland boots on Monday morning, she remembered; she’d noticed because they seemed a bit cumbersome to wear just to drive to the bus stop with Saffie. They were here on the rack, caked in mud. He said he’d gone to Ely. To buy food. A city. No mud there. But he might have gone for a walk at the same time, in the countryside. It was muddy in the Fens at this time of year, especially after all the rain they’d had. There was nothing odd about having mud on his boots. He often had mud on his boots. And yet he hadn’t mentioned a walk. Heat swept over Jules, making her head prickle, her palms clammy. Everything seemed significant suddenly.
She flicked the switch that operated the patio light, went outside and pulled the black bin bags from the wheelie bins they kept behind the shed. She tipped out the contents, not knowing what she was looking for. But if Rowan had harmed Saul, there would be evidence. There would be something he might have used. There was definitely some reason he didn’t want Saffie going out to the bins that evening.
Jules knew suddenly how Rowan must have felt when he became suspicious that she was having an affair all those years ago. The compulsion to know. She was driven to turn each piece of rubbish over, shine the torch on it, sniff it. Examine every receipt, every ticket. She wouldn’t be able to rest until she had reassured herself that there was no clue, no incriminating piece of evidence to show Rowan had harmed Saul. Made him run off. Some piece of evidence that Rowan had wanted to hide on Monday evening.
Then she found it. Torn, screwed up. A scrap of a petrol receipt. She rummaged through the rest of the rubbish until she found more scraps. The receipt was dated that Monday. It was as if she knew. It wasn’t even a surprise. Rather than shock, she felt a kind of perverse relief that she no longer had to wonder. Her heartbeat slowed so much she had to hold on to the top of the wheelie bin and put her head between her knees to stop herself fainting. Rowan had filled up the car with petrol at a service station in Downham Market, way north of Ely. On Monday morning. He’d said he’d gone to Ely. He’d never mentioned driving into the remoter part of the Fens.
When the blood had returned to her head, Jules stuffed the scraps of receipt in her pocket to look at again later. To think about later. (To show the police later? Or to hide from them?)
She took one more cursory look in the bin and stopped. The Peacocks bag was odd. Who in their house bought clothes from Peacocks? Peacocks was in Ely. A cut-price clothing shop. Jules felt the bag. There was something soft inside it. A lurid scene flashed up, as if it had been waiting there, in her mind’s eye. Rowan using some cheap polyester scarf he’d got hold of from somewhere he never usually shopped, to strangle Saul – his daughter’s rapist – to death.
Jules remembere
d a trip she had taken not too long ago to the Museum of London, to see the crime exhibits. She was struck by the evidence left behind that led to a conviction of murder, how banal it often was. How obvious. How easily overlooked by the murderer. As if a part of them had wanted to be caught. A train ticket that didn’t tally with the times the suspect had given. A smudge of lipstick on a sleeve. A woman’s patterned silk scarf found in the wrong place.
She was about to put her hand inside the bag when the security light at the front of the house flashed on, there was the crunch of footsteps on the gravel and Jules realized Saffie was home. She would have a look at the contents of the bag and the receipt indoors later on. She stuffed the bag into her coat pocket and went inside to greet her daughter.
‘Hi,’ she called out to Saffie. ‘How was your day?’
‘OK.’
Jules could hear Saffie’s footsteps bang up the stairs. Her daughter had always had a heavy step; it was surprising to think she had ever done ballet. Jules took the bag with the fabric in it into the kitchen. She needed to hide it somewhere. She put it at the back of the cupboard where they kept used carrier bags since no one but her bothered to take them out when they went shopping. She could hear the shower water running. Saffie never used to have a shower after school unless she’d had netball or football, which she hadn’t today. It had been extra maths, as far as Jules remembered. But Saffie had become obsessed lately with her personal hygiene. Another symptom of her newly teenage, self-conscious self? Or a result of having had her body violated? An obsessive need to wash away the contamination of Saul’s body in hers?
Jules tried to concentrate on making supper. She’d got a chicken fajita kit, which Saffie usually loved, and was easy to assemble. As she put the chicken in the oven, she tried to concoct a story for Saffie to explain why Rowan was out. In the end, she said he had gone to the pub and Saffie didn’t seem very interested anyway. She toyed with her food for a while, then went upstairs saying there were some exercises she had to do for the extra maths class. She was certainly working hard lately. Trying to placate Rowan by showing him she was doing her best? That she hadn’t been adversely affected by the rape?
I Thought I Knew You Page 22