The Sudden Departure of the Frasers

by Louise Candlish

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said, my breath quickening. ‘The clinic said we were in perfect health.’

  ‘They said that you were, yes.’ Jeremy closed his eyes, rubbed his fingers into the sockets so violently I worried he’d drive his eyeballs right into his brain. He reopened them only with reluctance, the whites startlingly bloodshot, and made fleeting contact with my gaze. ‘But I lied about my results. The fact is they showed that there is no possibility of my fathering a child.’

  ‘Then they must have made a mistake,’ I said, with all the bravado I could muster. But he did not consider this, and nor had I realistically expected him to. We looked at each other, silent, stricken. ‘Why didn’t they bring us back in to talk about it?’ I added.

  Jeremy fingered the stem of his glass on the counter, eyeing the fizzing liquid as if it had been concocted expressly to mock him. ‘They tried to. They strongly recommended a consultation to discuss next steps, and I said we’d call when we had absorbed the news. I haven’t called back.’

  I stared. All the joy of the last few days had been lost in a catastrophic nosedive and now my thoughts were tearing away, deserting the scene of the crash. ‘So they didn’t say take another six months?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ My voice cracked. For all my own sins, I still felt sinned against – and by the one person who had never done anything but adore me. But as Jeremy looked straight at me, new emotions crossed his face, dark, terminal ones never before expressed towards me. As long as I live, I never want to repeat that feeling, the feeling of watching your own fall from grace in the eyes of your most ardent champion.

  And in his voice: not disappointment, nothing so mundane, but defeat, annihilation. ‘I think that pales into insignificance compared with what you didn’t tell me. You’ve slept with someone else, clearly.’

  I didn’t reply. The partition was rising once more, freeing the terrible memory of what had happened at my final meeting with him. In gushed the pain, as relentless and searching as liquid, until at last I bit into my lower lip and lowered my eyes in affirmation.

  ‘Am I allowed to know who?’ Jeremy asked, his tone dismal.

  I gave a whimper. ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘I think I ought to know who the father of your child will be.’

  He was speaking as if I belonged to this other man now, as if I were no longer his. It frightened me, it wasn’t what I wanted, it wasn’t what I’d ever wanted, even when in the grip of my fever for Rob. I imagined divorce, destitution, a rock-bottom life. I began to cry.

  ‘I can’t,’ I repeated, weakly.

  ‘Do I know him?’ Jeremy asked, cold, desolate, out of reach. Barren. ‘At least tell me that.’

  ‘It’s not what you think,’ I said.

  ‘How can it not be what I think, Amber?’ The way he said my name, it was almost with nostalgia; he was already in mourning for the woman he’d loved.

  I was sobbing hard by now, tears spilling hot on my skin, and I knew I was going to have to tell him. I took a step forward and reached for him with a feeble, shaking hand that no longer felt like my own.

  ‘Because it’s not,’ I said.

  Chapter 27

  Christy, October 2013

  She was about to commit a crime. She didn’t know what the penalty was for opening a letter addressed to someone else, but whatever it was it couldn’t be worse than the ceaseless, itching torment of not knowing.

  As she sprinted home from number 46, tripping in her haste, her certainty that the letter she’d salted away was a replica of the one Kenny had held in his hands, withheld from forbidden eyes, took on an evangelical intensity and within thirty seconds of entering the house she had torn upstairs to the office and snatched it from its hiding place.

  Trembling, she took a last look at the name on the envelope – Amber Fraser – and spoke the words aloud, caught off guard by the romantic wonder in her own voice.

  Amber Fraser: one half of the couple who’d lived here before, the half who’d had beauty and charisma in such measure that she’d been worshipped when she was here and mourned now she was gone. The half who’d been a breath of fresh air in a street lauded for its fragrant breezes.

  But something had happened on this street that was not so fragrant: was she finally going to find out what?

  Christy turned the envelope and slipped a thumbnail under the flap, in one decisive motion slicing the paper like a blade. The tear was jagged, irreparable; there was no going back now.

  Extracting the single A4 sheet – Kenny’s had been two or three – she noticed at once the blue insignia familiar to all Londoners: The Metropolitan Police: Working Together for a Safer London. The assumption that it was no more than a mailshot about Neighbourhood Watch deflated her almost to the point of paralysis – until her eyes settled on the signature and she understood that this was in fact private correspondence to Amber Fraser from a named CID officer.

  Detective Sergeant Marcus Graham. His signature was large and legible; you could see it had been made with deliberation, as if he had lingered over this letter for reasons he could not quite explain.

  Christy’s eye swept downwards to the date – 19 March 2013, six and a half months ago, evidence in black and white of the length of her hoarding – and she felt her pulse surge.

  Dear Mrs Fraser,

  Following your recent retraction of your witness statement, I am writing to let you know that our inquiry into the events of 15th January is closed.

  Given the nature of the original allegation, please be assured that you are free to contact me at any time if you have anything additional to report or if you have any concerns about your safety.

  Yours faithfully,

  Marcus Graham

  Detective Sergeant

  CID

  Christy stared at the short text, processing the phrases – witness statement, inquiry, allegation, concerns for your safety – and felt them meld in her mind with others:

  Seriously, Christy, promise me you’ll look out for yourself …

  My mum won’t tell me what he did …

  I’d like nothing better than to tell you what I know …

  If certain of nothing else, she was of this: Rob Whalen was the criminal in this investigation. The reason Amber Fraser feared for her personal safety was to do with the ‘falsehoods’ about his actions that he sought to suppress, and those actions had to have been something violent or threatening, something that had got him banned from working in a school and had inspired overprotective attitudes among Lime Park mothers towards an age group you’d reasonably expect to be given greater freedom. Something so awful it had impelled the Frasers – and Felicity – to pack their bags and flee.

  She fished in her pocket for her phone, holding the letter in her shaking hand as she dialled the number for DS Graham. He was not available, but the officer who fielded the call offered to hear her enquiry.

  ‘I’ve discovered that the person who used to live in my house was involved in a police investigation and I wondered if I could get details of it.’

  ‘Can I take a name, please?’

  ‘Amber Fraser. I know she retracted her statement and the case was closed in March. I have a case number,’ Christy added with an air of confidence, and quoted it before she could be stopped.

  ‘What is your connection with the incident?’

  ‘Just that I live in the same house and I need to know if the investigation has any repercussions for me. If I might be in danger myself.’

  ‘I see.’ There was an unnaturally generous pause, doubtless a holding strategy deployed with more overwrought callers. ‘I’m not sure I understand why you think you might be in danger.’

  ‘Because I’m fairly certain it also involved my next-door neighbour. Robert Whalen, he’s called.’

  ‘Hold the line, please.’ There passed a few moments when the officer consulted either computer or colleague, but whichever it was the result was not in Christy’
s favour. ‘I’m afraid this information can’t be given over the phone.’

  ‘I could go into my local police station in Lime Park,’ she suggested. ‘They must have been involved?’

  ‘It’s not that simple. You’ll need to apply in writing and prove you have a good reason to be given access to the case notes.’

  Christy knew what that meant: weeks of waiting and, likely, an unfavourable verdict. ‘But it’s not like it’s classified information,’ she protested. ‘Everyone around here seems to know what happened, even the children.’

  ‘Perhaps then you might find out what you need to know from someone in the community. An adult whose advice you trust.’

  Christy floundered. She could hardly explain that the adults had been gagged and she alone was foolhardy enough to pursue this. ‘I could, but I want to know the proper facts from the authorities. I could be at risk here.’

  ‘We would need to judge for ourselves that there is an imminent risk to you,’ the officer said.

  ‘What about the Freedom of Information Act?’ Christy was grasping at straws now. ‘Don’t I have a legal right to know if there’s been a criminal investigation involving people living at my address?’

  But it was clear the officer was not going to change her mind. ‘We have to respect the rights of everyone. When an inquiry is closed and no prosecution brought, there is a duty to the party or parties involved.’

  ‘I don’t know what that means,’ Christy said, frustration making her shrill. How many more times would she have to speak to a person who knew but who would not share that knowledge with her?

  ‘It means that if you had done nothing wrong and you’d gone through an investigation that did not raise enough evidence to prosecute you, you’d be entitled to go about your business without everyone knowing your private history.’

  ‘But I’m not “everyone”, I’m living in the same house as someone who witnessed something so serious she went into hiding! I need to know what it is so I can protect myself.’

  This was starting to sound like a nuisance call even to her, but the officer remained admirably even-tempered. ‘As I say, write to us here, quoting the case number and stating your reasons, and you have my word we will give your request the proper consideration.’

  The discussion was over. As she ended the call, her thumb moved at once to dial Joe, who picked up with his customary harried air: ‘Christy, I’m –’

  ‘Don’t hang up,’ she interrupted, her breath short. ‘I know you’re busy, but this is important.’

  ‘I don’t –’

  ‘Please, Joe, just listen!’ She told him first what the St Luke’s pupils had said, before recounting her conversation with Kenny. Then she read the letter aloud to him, skirting the issue of how she had come to recover it and open it. ‘Do you know anyone in the police? I bet this is on a database that they can all access.’

  ‘What, the Police National Computer?’

  ‘That’ll be it, can you get into it?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Joe said. ‘I’m an M&A lawyer, Christy, I never work with the police, and even if I did I wouldn’t have the right clearance. I think we should follow Kenny’s advice and not get involved in this. If Rob’s got some defamation lawyer on their case, then he’ll have no hesitation in getting him on ours as well.’

  But Christy had come too far to be cowed now. ‘I don’t agree. Unless he’s tapped this phone, I don’t see how he can possibly discover that we’re making our own investigations.’

  ‘No one’s tapping our phone,’ Joe sighed.

  ‘And just because the inquiry was closed, it doesn’t mean he didn’t do whatever it was,’ she continued, ‘it just means they didn’t have enough evidence to prosecute him. He could strike again, couldn’t he?’

  ‘“Strike again”? He’s not a serial killer in an eighties cop drama!’ To her aggravation, Joe was laughing at her; after months of his refusing to take seriously her speculation about there being something dark and rotten about Rob, here he was with evidence to hand and still he mocked her. ‘We don’t even know for sure it’s him who’s involved. He’s not mentioned in the letter from the police, is he?’

  ‘They mustn’t have released his name. But it is him. It’s got to be. Why else would he have a lawyer send out warning letters? Joe, we have to find out what we’re dealing with. You must know someone. What about Henry? He’s a criminal barrister, isn’t he?’

  ‘That doesn’t mean he’s going to be happy to ask a police officer to abuse his position for the wife of a friend of a friend. We’d be better just paying some private investigator to do it.’

  ‘Private investigator? We haven’t got the money for that!’

  ‘We haven’t got any money to defend a defamation charge either, have we?’

  But she could tell that he was finally taking this seriously.

  ‘Let me ask around, OK, and find out how we can get this information. Try to avoid Rob until we know what we’re dealing with.’

  It was impossible to do anything else that afternoon but drift from room to room in search of clarity. They’d been Amber’s rooms, were still painted in colours she’d chosen, and yet she’d never felt more elusive to Christy, so far beyond reach. Had she known when she left that the investigation had been closed? Had the police been apprised of her change of address and sent her a duplicate?

  As for Felicity, she must have been receiving mail for at least a month after the Frasers’ departure; had she too been a witness and received notification of the case’s closure? Had she retracted her statement? And if it was indeed Rob’s alleged crime that had caused their respective flights, hadn’t both parties been duty-bound to report their concerns to their solicitors? Yet the Frasers had not disclosed a word of it and nor, presumably, had Felicity, or surely Steph and Felix, a couple expecting a baby, would not have touched the place with a bargepole.

  And where did Pippa fit into all of this? How could the crime be so bad that two neighbouring households had sold up and vanished, and yet not be bad enough for his girlfriend to have left him? Yes, she had moved out, but she hadn’t stopped seeing him – he had been the one to call time on the relationship in the end, to her distress.

  Unable to sit still any longer, she decided to call on Steph, slipping through the hedge between their doorsteps to avoid being spotted by Rob, should he happen to be idling at his window. But there was no answer from the lower flat. Steph often decamped to her parents on weekdays for help with Matilda, and it appeared that this was one of those occasions. Christy stood on the doorstep, paralysed with indecision. Where could she turn? It was three-thirty by now. Caroline and Joanne would still be on the school trip; Liz, she knew, was working part-time and even if she happened to be free that afternoon would surely be at the school picking up the boys.

  To her horror the question was answered by the least desirable turn of events imaginable: the sound of heavy footfall on the stairs inside, the sight of the door swinging inwards, a male figure materializing in front of her. In her turmoil, she’d forgotten he’d changed his appearance, and could not stop herself from gasping out loud.

  Rob’s fingers flew to his chin. ‘Oh, yeah, the beard. I’m the plain Jane who’s whipped off her glasses, eh? So what are you doing, malingering on the doorstep like this?’ His tone held its customary sardonic edge, but he had an affable expression on his face that reflected their fledgling friendship – until he registered her obvious emotional commotion. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I … I was looking for Steph.’ She was panicking, breath catching in her windpipe and smothering her voice.

  ‘I think she’s away for a few days. Are you feeling all right?’

  ‘No, I’m not … I need to show you this.’

  ‘Show me what?’ Still he emitted only concern, a once-coveted neighbourliness that would last only seconds longer, never again to be offered. The sense of crisis was acute, almost claustrophobic.

  She held out the letter to him. Right
on the doorstep he took it from her, his quizzical expression hardening to a grimace as he read the words.

  ‘You have to tell me what this is about,’ she said, swallowing hard. ‘I can’t go on feeling like I’m in the middle of some awful drama, it’s driving me out of my mind.’

  Rob looked from the text in front of him to her face, his expression, as she’d expected, radically altered and utterly unambiguous on his newly exposed features: sheer dislike, rank distaste. ‘This letter is addressed to Amber Fraser. What are you doing with her mail?’ He gestured abruptly, stirring the air between them, and she sensed the controlled rage, the harm a man of his height and strength could do.

  Instinctively, she took a step back, broadening the gap between them. ‘I opened it by mistake.’

  ‘It’s dated from March. That’s over six months ago.’

  ‘I was planning to forward it, but I haven’t got around to it.’

  ‘“Haven’t got around to it”? You’ve got to be kidding me, after half a year?’ Rob’s gaze was sour with displeasure. ‘Fine. Whatever you say. So why are you bringing it to me?’

  Christy felt her body start to tremble. ‘Because I know you were involved. You were the subject of the inquiry.’

  He glanced again at the body of the letter, raising his eyebrows at her. ‘And how do you “know” that, exactly? I don’t see my name anywhere here.’

  ‘I overheard something at St Luke’s. The kids said a few things they weren’t supposed to.’

  He jeered at this, a jeer that seemed to animate his whole body: ‘So you’re getting your information from nine-year-olds, are you? Jesus, did you not listen to a word I said when we spoke about this before?’

  But Christy had too many questions of her own to reply to his. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you’d volunteered at St Luke’s before me? You knew I’d been allocated that school, you told me all about the problems they have there, and yet you didn’t say a word about having worked there yourself.’

  ‘Well, if that doesn’t sound like a guilty man, I don’t know what does,’ he sneered.