by CJ Carver
Which meant she was already late.
She picked up her handbag. She said, ‘I’ll set the alarm.’
‘OK. I’ll see you outside.’
Grace paused at the front door and looked back. The grey space in her chest expanded. She couldn’t remember standing here without her mother. They would always leave the house together to walk to the shops or a restaurant, or her mother would stand in the doorway to kiss her goodbye. She could see her mother’s clear brown eyes, her firm mouth that only smiled when she was genuinely amused, her determined chin. She’d brought Grace up on her own. No man to lean on, no husband. Grace’s father had gone missing – assumed drowned while sailing off the Norfolk coast – when his daughter had been barely a year old. His body was never found. Her mother had erected a memorial headstone in the local cemetery and continued to work and bring up Grace as she’d done before he’d died.
She punched in her mother’s code and pulled the door shut. As she stepped outside, she saw Dan Forrester, her mother’s amnesiac friend, standing on the other side of the road, watching her. His posture was weary, as though he’d walked a long way and had further to go. He half raised a hand then let it fall. She waited for him to come across and speak to her, and when he didn’t, let Ross take her hand, slip her arm through his and walk her to the church.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Dan watched Grace walk up the street. He assumed the tall, angular man in the perfectly tailored suit was Grace’s partner, Ross. He liked the way they walked together. Grace was a strong woman but now she was debilitated, laid flat by the death of her mother, she leaned against Ross and Ross was supporting her. Just as it should be.
His mind switched to Jenny. Had she supported him similarly in hospital? Had he leaned against her as Grace did against Ross? He closed his eyes briefly, trying to imagine what had happened. He hated not remembering so much. He could stand in Starbucks and look at the drinks menu and say, I’d like to try a Chocolate Cookie Crumble Frappuccino and Jenny would look at him and say, but you’d much prefer an Iced Caffe Latte. And he’d say but I’ve never had a Chocolate Cookie Crumble and she’d get that look on her face that he now knew meant: YES YOU HAVE BUT YOU DON’T REMEMBER.
Some days he could scream with wanting his memory back. Tear the walls apart looking for snatches of Luke, glimpses of his past life, his old job that remained a perfect blank. He could remember university – Bristol, engineering – as well as school and all the holidays in between. He could remember meeting Jenny – at Glastonbury Festival along with a gang of uni friends – but thereafter his memory went awry and the job he’d had from leaving university, the one he’d stayed in until Luke died, didn’t exist. Not in his mind.
Apparently he’d been a civil servant working for the Home Office in the Immigration Department. He couldn’t think why he’d joined that particular section but oddly enough every time the subject of immigration popped up on the news, from illegals to terrorists to asylum seekers, he tuned in. He laid his hand over the scar on his stomach that Stella had said came from a firefight. Stella, Stella, Stella. He could see her bright hazelnut eyes, see the humour there, and the hurt when he didn’t recognise her.
He wished he could have resuscitated Stella, saved her life. Saved Grace her sorrow. He’d come here today wanting to help in some way, half-thinking he might attend Stella’s funeral, but seeing Grace and Ross together made him realise his presence wasn’t appropriate. He didn’t know them.
A loud tchook-tchook burst from the tree behind him, a blackbird’s alarm call. He turned to see a cat prowling through the undergrowth. The hum of traffic drifted, children’s voices, music from a radio. Sounds of suburbia. He felt a moment of happiness and realised it reminded him of when they’d lived in London. Now, the sounds of home were more rural; sheep bleating, tractors rumbling, the moan of the wind off the moors. He wasn’t sure which he preferred. What about Jenny? Was she happier in town? Two days ago he would have said not, but things had changed and he wasn’t sure he knew her any more. Last night, over a supper of fishcakes and peas, she had tried to find out what Stella had said to him.
‘You didn’t go for a dawn raid, then.’
‘No.’
‘You went to see this woman, Stella Reavey.’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
He put down his knife and fork. Looked at his wife, her glossy waves of blond hair that he loved to wind around his fingers. The lush mouth that he loved to kiss. Her high breasts and narrow waist, and those blue eyes that could twinkle with merriment but were now gazing resolutely at him.
‘I’m guessing London,’ she said. ‘Am I right?’
He didn’t respond.
‘What did you talk about?’
He continued to study her. She wore a form-fitting jersey top with a silver necklace he’d bought her three birthdays ago, simple but elegant. Her skin was clear and smooth; the only giveaway that she was no longer in her twenties were the fine laughter lines etched at the corners of her eyes. Normally he’d look at her and marvel she was his, love and pride swelling, and he’d smile, but tonight he’d never felt less like smiling because whatever he said would get reported to the man she’d called. The man who had Jenny’s name and number programmed into his phone.
‘Dan?’
‘Are you happy?’ he asked.
‘What?’
‘Are you happy?’ he repeated.
‘Of course I am.’ She looked bewildered. ‘But I’d be happier knowing what you spoke to that woman about. She freaks me out.’
Stella’s voice: Your son Luke didn’t die in a hit-and-run.
He pushed away his plate and got to his feet. ‘I’m going to read to Aimee.’
Jenny looked at his half-eaten meal. She bit her lip. ‘But she’s asleep.’
‘I’ll read very quietly, then.’
‘Dan, please . . .’ Her voice was gentle, pleading as he walked out of the kitchen, but he didn’t turn back.
Upstairs, Aimee was sprawled half-in and half-out of her bed, Neddy squashed in the crook of one arm. He carefully drew her duvet over her shoulders and tucked her and Neddy in. She didn’t wake. He kissed her cheek, inhaling her scents of soap and shampoo, something sweet and fruity that made him think of apricot jam. Carefully, he lay on top of the bedcovers next to her. She murmured and snuggled up to him. He put his arm around her. He fell asleep soon afterwards and when he awoke, it was past 2 a.m. and he was cold, but he didn’t join Jenny in bed. He went and slept in the spare room.
Standing in Stella’s street, Dan felt a moment’s empathy for his wife. If he didn’t think he knew Jenny any more, then how had she coped when he’d undergone his personality change? She said she liked the new him, but did she really? Friends said he retained his innate caution and his analytical approach to things, but he seemed to have lost his overt charm as well as his sense of fun. He now struggled to make small talk at parties, for instance, and found being impulsive and spontaneous almost impossible.
‘You were a bit of a charmer,’ Jenny admitted when he’d returned to the subject in bed, after their supper at Candy’s.
‘And I’m not any more?’ he teased gently.
‘You’re more genuine now,’ she said, rolling over to look at him. ‘You’re more reserved maybe, but you’re more thoughtful too.’
He quite liked the idea of the old him, charming and a bit of a party-goer, but that was all. He was content with the man he was now, and he guessed that was what mattered most.
Dan was still thinking of Jenny, her unwavering cheerfulness that morning, the way she sang to the radio, pretending, perhaps willing herself to believe nothing was wrong, when he became aware of a van drawing up outside Stella’s house.
R.V. Carpet Cleaners.
Two men sat up front. When the van parked, one climbed outside and went to the rear of the vehicle and opened the doors, disgorging another two men. They wore matching blue trousers and blue tops; company uniforms. One
man carried a stubby canister vacuum along Stella’s path while another stood on the pavement glancing up and down the street.
Dan’s skin tightened all over his body. His senses switched to high alert.
The men had triggered a primeval instinct in him. Dr Orvis said any response like this came from the myriad memories that weren’t memories but subliminal associations of what was around him; sounds, colours, body language, actions, incidents. His instinct told him not to let the men notice him.
Dan began walking along the street, away from them. He made his steps easy, unhurried. He reached into his jacket and brought out his phone. He sauntered and pretended to be texting. Casual. Nothing for anyone to worry about.
He reached his car and climbed inside. Drove to the top of the street, turned right, and parked. Googled R.V. Carpet Cleaners on his phone to find a bog-standard single page website that anyone could have posted. He thought things over briefly. Even if he had Grace’s mobile number, he wouldn’t ring her, not when she was at her mother’s funeral. Were they really carpet cleaners? Was he paranoid? Instinct said no. And Dr Orvis was all for instinct.
Each memory has an emotional core. You might find yourself instinctively responding positively or negatively to someone or something you think is new, but it may be your subconscious recognising them. I’d suggest you start trusting this instinct and let it become your guide to what you like and don’t like, who you trust and who you don’t.
Pulse humming, Dan returned on foot. Looked back down the street.
The man on the pavement was still checking the street. He wasn’t behaving like a carpet cleaner. He was behaving more like a lookout.
The driver remained in the van with a newspaper he wasn’t reading. This one was definitely a lookout.
Senses alert, Dan stayed where he was.
He watched the third man open Stella’s front door and disappear inside her house, closing the door behind him.
A minute later, no more, the two men, one carrying the vacuum cleaner, joined him.
Dan watched as the curtains were drawn.
This time, he didn’t call the police but walked back down the street. He kept his pace relaxed, his head down, pretending to text as he approached Stella’s gate. The lookout in the van was pretending to read his newspaper but Dan knew he was watching him. At the last second, Dan swung into Stella’s front yard. Immediately, the lookout was on the phone.
Dan knocked on the front door. He couldn’t hear anything coming from inside. Certainly no sounds of carpets being cleaned.
He knocked again.
Finally, the door opened. ‘Yes?’ The man had sandy hair and pale eyes. A mole sat on his right cheekbone, another on his chin. His nose was narrow, and slightly skewed to the left. Small earlobes. Very slightly receding chin. Small mouth with a fuller upper lip.
‘I’m a neighbour,’ Dan said. ‘I want to know what you’re doing in my neighbour’s house.’
The man tapped the logo on his chest where R.V. Carpet Cleaners was stitched in yellow. ‘What do you think?’
‘She died,’ Dan continued. ‘Her daughter’s at her funeral. Which as we all know, is the perfect time to execute a burglary.’
The man raised his eyes skywards before bringing out a card. ‘Ring the office and check, if you want.’
Dan pulled out his phone and dialled. A cheerful woman’s voice answered. ‘R.V. Cleaners, can I help you?’
‘Your managing director, please.’
‘I’ll put you through,’ she said brightly.
Another woman’s voice. ‘Mr Fetzer’s office.’ Not quite such a bright tone.
Dan said, ‘Can I speak with Mr Fetzer, please.’
‘I’m sorry, but he’s in meetings for most of the day. Who can I say is calling?’
‘How long has your company been in business for?’ he asked.
‘Oooh, around twenty-odd years or so.’
‘Who started the company?’
‘That would be Mr Fetzer’s father.’
‘Bill Fetzer?’
‘No, Jim,’ she responded without a beat. ‘Can I take a message for you?’
Dan hung up.
The sandy-haired man raised his eyebrows. Dan raised his back. ‘Very good,’ he said. Then he turned and walked away. He heard Stella’s door click shut behind him. As he turned on to the street, he looked at the man in the van, who looked straight back. Raising his hand, Dan gave him a flick-salute with his forefinger, which immediately reminded him of the man in the camel coat who’d tipped his hat to him outside Stella’s. The lookout gazed back stonily.
Dan walked to the end of the street and out of sight. They were professionals, but what sort? Pulling out his phone, he called the police.
‘It’s an emergency,’ he said calmly, a part of him amazed he was calling 999 for the second time within a week. ‘I’m witnessing a break-in. Four men going into a neighbour’s house. She’s a single woman, who lives on her own. What should I do?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Grace wasn’t sure what she’d expected from her mother’s funeral, but it wasn’t this great throng of people spilling over the path and on to the grass and for a moment she thought she’d come to the wrong church. ‘Who are they all?’ she said, bewildered.
‘I couldn’t tell you,’ Ross replied. ‘I’ll try and find out if you like.’
‘No.’ She gripped his arm. ‘Stay with me.’
‘Of course.’
As she walked up the path people came to her to express their sympathy. She knew the small handful of relatives – distant cousins on her mother’s side – and perhaps a dozen or so friends from her childhood, but nobody else. She tried to place them. Some were in their fifties, others in their forties, a handful in their early thirties. Quite a few seemed to know each other. She spotted Joe Talbot, a work colleague of her mother’s who she’d met a couple of times, and when he caught her eye, he came over.
Ross released her as Joe took both her hands and kissed her cheek. ‘Grace, I am so sorry,’ Joe said. She caught the faint scent of aftershave, something warm and spicy that reminded her of Christmas. ‘We had no idea she was so ill.’
‘Neither did I.’ She looked around at the gathering. ‘Who is everyone? I don’t recognise any of them.’ She wanted to exclaim, I didn’t know Mum knew so many people! but refrained.
Joe glanced at Ross. ‘Hi,’ he said. He put out his hand. ‘Joe Talbot. I worked with Stella for the past hundred years.’
Ross shook. ‘I’m Grace’s boyfriend,’ he said.
A jet of panic stabbed through her grief. Could they retain their relationship when he vanished into the Highlands?
‘I can introduce you around, if you like . . .’ Joe subtly gestured for Grace to join him, letting the suggestion hang.
‘I’ll follow.’ Ross gave a nod.
Joe waved at a fifty-something man with wispy white hair, who immediately walked across. He wore a crumpled suit and his tie was crooked. Spots of what looked suspiciously like gravy stained the front of his jacket.
‘Your mum’s boss,’ Joe said.
‘Philip Denton,’ the scruffy man supplied. His voice was soft, his attitude gentle. Grace could imagine him soothing anything from a wild animal to a hysterical child without any trouble. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he added. ‘We’re going to miss Stella enormously; she was such an integral part of our team. Personally, however, I will miss her greatly. She was a very good friend to me over the years.’
Grace frowned. ‘How long have you known her?’
He glanced into the sky briefly. ‘Thirty years or so.’
Grace blinked. ‘Nearly all my life,’ she remarked. She’d turned thirty-two in October. Why hadn’t she met Philip Denton before?
He gave a faint smile as though he’d heard her thoughts. ‘Stella liked compartmentalising. It’s usually a masculine trait, keeping people in separate boxes, but she was particularly good at it. I’ve never met any of her family before, or pers
onal friends.’ He glanced around as though they might suddenly make themselves known, then said vaguely, ‘I mustn’t hold you up . . .’
Joe took his cue and moved Grace on to meet the receptionist at Stella’s office, along with two more colleagues and a personal assistant who looked after Philip and Stella’s admin. Grace followed the flow of people into the church. She said, ‘How many people work at DCA?’
‘Oh, there are about twenty of us, spread around the place.’
She raised her hand to indicate the humanity filling the pews. ‘So who are all these people?’
‘From her previous jobs, probably. She hasn’t worked for the one company the whole time. She had a lot of contacts, business acquaintances . . .’
On impulse, Grace walked up to a young woman in her early thirties and introduced herself. She said, ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but how do you know my mother?’
‘We used to work together,’ the woman replied, smoothing down her suit skirt. ‘I’m really sorry she died. She was like a mentor to me.’
‘Was this at DCA?’
The woman shook her head. ‘We met before.’
‘Where was that?’
The woman flicked a glance at Joe, then away. ‘The Home Office.’
Her mother had been a civil servant for as long as Grace could remember, commuting to and from London daily, until she’d left to work for DCA & Co. – global political analysts – five years ago. She’d been a high-flying interpreter and translator for top businessmen and politicians, in great demand not just in the UK but abroad. At a moment’s notice, she could find herself flying to Brussels or Budapest, Moscow or Washington. When she was a child and her mother had an important meeting in London, she sometimes took Grace with her. She could remember doing her homework upstairs in a strange house once, somewhere in the East End, while downstairs her mother talked to a stranger, a foreign man with fierce yellow eyes. Apparently he’d needed something translated urgently and at the time Grace hadn’t questioned this, but now, looking at all these people, she wondered exactly what her mother had been translating.