Amy had been worried that Mike was suicidal?
‘So the insurance was her idea?
‘Yes!’ he wailed. ‘She was worried about how much I’d borrowed and how much I owed, and that she wouldn’t be able to pay it back on her own if I wasn’t there.’
‘But why did she have such a big policy on her life, too? If it was you that she was worried about?’
‘I don’t know, it just made sense at the time. All our assets are shared, anyway.’
Something still didn’t quite make sense. The payout was way more than they had ever borrowed. And why had she changed her will without telling him?
‘You don’t think I… did something to hurt Amy, do you?’ He looked up at me with red-rimmed eyes and I saw his terror.
‘No, of course I don’t,’ I said, unconvincingly.
‘Because I would never hurt her. I would never hurt Amy, you should know that.’
I knew no such thing. Mike’s financial problems and the insurance payout were huge red flags to me. But he looked exhausted, and his devastation was plain to see. I would have to give him the benefit of the doubt for now, even if I knew I still wasn’t getting the whole story.
‘That’s why I had to go to Amsterdam,’ he continued. ‘I’m talking to one of our project’s creditors about holding off the repayments for a while. I’ve got a deal that will pay out soon, and then I’ll be back on track.’ His words were hollow.
‘I want to help you. We’re in this together. But please, don’t hide things, you have to be honest with me,’ I said, not believing that he would.
‘I know,’ he said, sniffing as he poured himself a glass of water. ‘I promise, I’ll do better from now on.’
‘Oh, there was one more thing,’ I said, trying to sound casual. ‘Apparently the police signed over Amy’s personal belongings to you. I was wondering if I could take a look? I don’t think I’ve seen them yet…’
Mike looked confused and then remembered something.
‘Yeah, they did give us a box of things. Two days after the accident. I was too upset to open it. Your mum took it home with her.’
It was a chilly evening, but the cold was invigorating, so I walked the long way home to make the most of the fresh air. It was just beginning to get dark and I caught a flash of the lighthouse perched on top of the Farnes.
Walking back into Puffin Cottage was like coming home. I raced upstairs and changed straightaway into my grey cashmere pyjamas. With the fire lit, I poured myself a glass of wine. My phone pinged. Hannah:
Thanks for looking after us this week. It’s nice having you here. H
Why couldn’t she have said that to me tonight? I found it tough to match up the sullen teenager who was absorbed by her phone with the sweet girl who sent me the loveliest texts.
After finishing the bottle, I climbed the stairs to bed. That night, I had horrible dreams. I was sitting beside Amy in her car, with her asleep at the wheel. The tyres screeched around a bend and the engine burst into flames, and the shadow of an enormous tree loomed towards us through the smoke. Amy slept on as I screamed.
I woke in a cold sweat, panting, and whispered a silent prayer that Amy had felt neither pain nor fear. I sobbed myself back to sleep.
It was already light outside by the time I woke up. I grabbed my phone and pulled the duvet back over my head, planning on half an hour of catching up with social media – but I had a text from Mum:
Auntie Sue baked bread this morning. We’ll be over at 9.30 for breakfast.
It was already ten past. There goes my idle scrolling, I thought, rushing to get ready.
When they arrived, Auntie Sue made a pot of tea as I set the table with a mishmash of some of the fabulous vintage crockery I’d found in the cupboard. The bread was still warm and steaming as I unwrapped it from the cloth Auntie Sue had carried it in.
After we’d eaten, Mum started to fumble about in her handbag, finally retrieving an incense burner and pack of joss sticks.
‘Oh Mum, seriously?’ I said in protest.
‘It’s just a quick meditation, dear. I thought it did you some good last week and you could use a little more practice,’ she said, her eyes pleading.
‘Go on,’ Auntie Sue said as she nudged me. ‘I’ll wash the dishes while you can go and do your ohm-shanti-whatevers.’
Mum elegantly folded herself into a sitting lotus position and motioned for me to do the same opposite her. Despite my regular Saturday morning Power Pilates sessions and her being thirty years older than me, she was way more flexible. I grumbled as my joints refused to bend any further and huffed as my knees made worrying cracking noises.
She guided me through a breathing exercise and I began to relax. It was true that my mind was racing these days, my questions about Amy keeping me awake at night, and this did help to quiet the voices in my head. It pained me to say Mum was right, but meditation was doing me some good. By the time we finished, I felt almost serene.
As Mum packed away her props – including a tiny drum that I didn’t want to know the backstory to – I asked her about Amy’s possessions from the police.
‘Yes, they did give us a box. It’s at home.’
I was anxious to get Amy’s phone, but didn’t want to sound desperate – the last thing Mum needed was a slice of my anxiety. ‘Mind if I come over to take a look?’
I waved off Mum and Auntie Sue, after making arrangements for me to call over mid-afternoon. Rachel was coming over for our girls’ night, and I wanted to impress her with something fancy. I had just enough time to squeeze in a beach run before shopping for the ingredients.
I got dressed and threw Amy’s fleece on. I instinctively sniffed the collar for any trace of my sister but all I could smell was fabric softener.
Before I reached the end of the street, my phone started ringing.
‘Isabelle? It’s Richard Pringle here.’
He was doing his serious, I’m-the-headteacher voice.
‘Sorry to bother you, but I’m unable to get hold of Mike. We’ve had an issue at the school with Betsy. Can you come and pick her up please?’
‘Oh my god! Is she all right?’
‘Betsy is fine. But Mrs Neeply will need her blouse to be replaced and Katie McGee – well, let’s just say I’ll have some explaining to do to her mother. Betsy can tell you all about it during her three-day suspension.’
‘You’re suspending her? What am I supposed to do with her?’ The panic was rising in my chest.
Richard cleared his throat. ‘You can bring her back to school on Friday,’ he said, before adding, ‘I’m so sorry.’
I clicked off the phone and ran back to the house to grab my car keys.
Betsy sulked the entire way home, insisting that she had been set up and that Katie had consented to having a moustache and glasses drawn on her face. It wasn’t quite the same version of the story I’d heard from Richard, nor from Mrs Neeply – the teacher that Betsy had attacked with a felt-tip pen when she’d tried to pull the fighting girls apart.
Betsy didn’t strike me as a bully, just a very angry little girl. I didn’t want to be too lenient with her, but she had just lost her mum and probably felt that the world was against her right now. Richard had given her homework and had promised to email me more stuff for her to do tomorrow. Great – so everyone just automatically assumed I’d be the one to watch her.
By the time I’d collected her, there was just enough time to dash to Mum’s and do the shopping for that evening’s dinner. We pulled up outside the house.
‘You wait here. And stay quiet.’
I shuffled on the doorstep, refusing to come in and fighting off Auntie Sue’s questions about why Betsy had been sent home from school. Mum finally handed me the small brown cardboard box of Amy’s things and I tucked it under my arm. I’d have to deal with Betsy and dinner first, but hopefully I’d have a chance to look through it before Rachel arrived. Between her and the phone, I was sure that I’d have answers by the end of the e
vening.
Betsy sulked around the supermarket, trailing behind me like an annoying shadow as my blood pressure crept up by the second. The supper I had imagined wasn’t going to plan – I’d found a recipe for miso mushroom polenta with a side of steamed kale, but the store was tiny and I struggled to find any of my main ingredients. When I asked the cashier if they sold polenta, all she could offer was a blank stare.
Making the best of a challenging situation, I picked up some broccoli, some blue cheese and sliced ham. Maybe one of Amy’s special recipes could save the day.
I’d left Mike a message to let him know what happened. Hopefully he wouldn’t be too hard on Betsy. She did her work at the kitchen table while I made a start on supper, keeping one eye on the clock and counting down the time until Mike would arrive to collect her – and until I could take the nice bottle of wine out the fridge.
By the time Rachel arrived at seven, dinner was in the oven and I was already one glass of wine in. She was quite dressed up in a knitted dress and knee-high boots, and I felt lousy – I’d gone for a cosy-night-in look. I blushed, hoping that my casual outfit of jeans and cashmere sweater didn’t give the impression I didn’t care.
Rachel had brought a bottle of wine with her too, which instantly sent her soaring in my estimation. Dad always said you should never turn up at someone’s house empty-handed, and it was a lesson that had stayed with me my whole life.
I was certain that Rachel knew more than she was letting on, probably from some misguided loyalty to Mike, or to protect my feelings. My plan was to get her drunk and see if it loosened her up. It wasn’t the most sophisticated plan, but it was the only one I had.
It was no mushroom polenta, but my Amy special of blue-cheese broccoli had turned out well. Rachel and I raised a glass to her memory. I’d lit candles that cast us both in warm glow, and the wine softened the sharp edges of our loss.
We reminisced over Amy, swapping stories of the woman we had both loved. Rachel had known a different Amy to mine, or at least another side of her, and for hours we traded anecdotes, talking about nothing else. It felt deliciously indulgent, and for once, I didn’t drown under a wave of sadness at the mere mention of Amy’s name.
I refilled our glasses with the last of the bottle. The candles had burned down to flickering pools of molten wax.
‘So that day when you said that Amy might not have been happy… What exactly did you mean?’
Rachel’s shoulders sank. ‘We’ve been over this. I just said, sometimes it was like she wanted more—’
I cut her off. ‘Because Richard agrees with you. He thinks that something was troubling Amy. Something to do with Mike.’ That wasn’t exactly what he had said, but I was entitled to some artistic license.
Rachel raised an eyebrow. ‘Richard Pringle? What did he say?’
‘He thinks that Amy could have done better than Mike. Maybe that’s got something to do with whatever was bothering her…?’
‘And how would he have an opinion on a thing like that?’
‘He and Amy… They were good friends.’
Rachel swirled the wine in her glass, then sighed and took a sip. ‘Your sister was a kind person, you know that. Maybe Richard thought she was his friend. I’m just saying, I don’t think Amy saw it in quite the same way. Sometimes, to be frank, I find him a bit creepy. But maybe that’s just me.’
Had I misunderstood Richard?
‘My god, look at the time! I should get home, I’m on the early shift tomorrow.’ Rachel stood up to leave.
‘Don’t go yet, please stay.’ I could hear the desperation in my voice. ‘Are you sure Amy said nothing about being unhappy, or stressed?’
Rachel looked at me with pity in her eyes. ‘She had everything. Her and Mike – they had it all. I just worried sometimes that she was missing something or wanted more. You know, like we all do from time to time.’
She gave me a hug, thanking me for supper and promising to call me tomorrow, and left.
So, that had got me nowhere. At least she was gone, and I could finally go through Amy’s phone. Her best friend might not have answers, but there had to be some clues in her messages.
I dug into my bag and set the box of Amy’s possessions on the table, taking a deep breath as I opened it.
There was no phone.
Chapter Eleven
Where was Amy’s phone? It was meant to be here! I frantically raked among the stuff in the box – definitely no phone. I’d have to follow the trail back again, starting with Mum – someone else must have had access to Amy’s things before I’d been able to get them.
My mind was racing and I needed space to think clearly. Mike must have taken the phone, but when would he have had a chance to do it? He hadn’t been over to Mum’s since he got back, as far as I knew. And if not Mike, then who? And on top of all this, Rachel’s view of Richard was confusing me. He’d seemed so nice. How had I got him so wrong?
As much as I wanted to prioritise finding Amy’s phone, my first point of call the next morning was to collect Betsy. Mike had given her hell the night before, and she was much more sheepish than she’d been yesterday afternoon.
She was mature for her eight years, but I could still see glimpses of the little girl who adored her mum and loved to be tucked up in bed or have snuggles in the sofa. I knew it was the hardest thing to suddenly lose a parent, and Betsy was so young – it broke my heart and took all my strength not to cry over it in front of her. I prayed she could stay innocent for as long as possible and I wanted to do everything in my power to make that happen.
Her teacher had been quite sympathetic, but rules were rules, and the school couldn’t be too lenient with her. I decided that it wasn’t my job to discipline her. I just had to keep her occupied and safe.
We called in on Mum and Auntie Sue and I was determined to keep the visit brief and to the point. Auntie Sue gave Betsy a bit of a telling off, but Mum sent her straight to the biscuit tin – we were anything but consistent. I fidgeted while the two of them fussed around her. Was the phone in here somewhere?
‘About that box of Amy’s things…’
‘I gave it to you yesterday,’ Mum said, with a puzzled expression.
‘I know, it’s just that Amy’s phone should have been there – only it’s not.’
Now she really looked confused. ‘There was definitely a phone in there before.’
‘Yes, an iPhone,’ said Auntie Sue.
Mum shook her head. ‘No, it was one of those other ones. With a silver case.’
‘Are you sure it was silver?’
‘No, you’re right. Hannah’s has a silver case.’
Auntie Sue bit her lip. ‘Come to think of it, I’m not certain I do remember a phone.’
Mum shook her head. ‘Now you mention it…’
‘Okay.’ I held up a hand to stop them. ‘The phone is not there now. Could anyone have taken it from the box?’
‘No,’ said Mum, at the same time as Auntie Sue said, ‘Possibly.’
‘Oh dear.’ Mum looked anxiously at the ceiling. ‘I hope Amy won’t be cross with me.’
I’d figured there were fewer distractions for Betsy at Puffin Cottage, so I took her home with me and set her off on her homework assignment. She stretched out on her tummy on the living room floor and spread her books out in a fan around her.
We needed something for lunch but I didn’t have anything in the fridge, so I told Betsy to not move while I popped out to the shop. I opened the front door and almost fell on Mrs Wheeler holding an enormous basket.
‘Are you going somewhere, dear?’ She smiled up at me.
‘I was just popping out on an errand,’ I said, as she stepped past me into the kitchen and set the basket on the table. ‘I guess that plan is shelved, for now…’ I muttered under my breath.
‘What on earth is going on here?’ Mrs Wheeler asked, motioning to Betsy.
Betsy looked down and hid from her gaze. I wondered which of us looked more sheepish.
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‘Betsy was naughty at school, Mrs Wheeler. She got in a bit of trouble and she has been sent home to think about how she can behave better in future.’
‘Not to worry, dear,’ Mrs Wheeler said, patting Betsy’s head. ‘We all make mistakes, it’s how we make them right that counts.’
Mrs Wheeler had brought quite a spread, with pea and ham soup, home-made scotch eggs and doorstop cheddar sandwiches, with a Victoria sponge for dessert. Betsy licked her lips and I sighed, wondering if I’d ever see my abs again.
‘I’ll have a tea please, Isabelle,’ Mrs Wheeler said, her blue eyes twinkling mischievously.
‘Gosh, right – yes, sorry, coming right up.’
I brought out three of the prettiest plates I’d found in the cupboard, with a pink and gold ribbon design around the edge, and set down some of the green cut-glass wine glasses that I thought were just adorable.
‘Do you mind if I take a photograph?’ I said, whipping out my iPhone.
‘Not at all.’ Mrs Wheeler draped her arm around Betsy and smiled for a portrait.
‘Sorry,’ I laughed, ‘but I meant a photo of the table.’
She looked at me like I was speaking another language. ‘Why would you take a photograph of the table? It’s not for that Instagram, is it?’
‘Mrs Wheeler, I’m impressed!’ I chuckled.
‘I am well aware of the concept of social media, although I can’t help thinking it’s all a dreadful waste of time. I see my friends in real life; I don’t need to see them on the screen. What does one hope to achieve by publishing a photograph of one’s lunch?’
‘It’s beautiful,’ I said, stroking the green glass. ‘I find it very aesthetically pleasing, and so will thousands of people around the world.’
Mrs Wheeler couldn’t hide her glee at the compliment to her taste.
Salt Sisters Page 11