by A J McDine
‘I think we should call it quits.’ My voice sounds high and hard.
He flinches, as if I’ve struck him. Which, in a way, I suppose I have. But I plough on, showing no mercy. I’m pitiless, I have to be. ‘It was fun, but now it’s over.’
‘But I don’t understand. We love each other.’
I roll my eyes with practised scorn. ‘We’re seventeen. We should be out having fun, not tied down like an old married couple.’
His brow furrows. ‘Have you met someone else?’
‘No!’ It bursts out of me before I can stop it. ‘No, I haven’t. But I don’t want to go out with you anymore, OK? We’re finished. Over.’
‘You don’t mean it.’
‘Ed -’
‘Whatever I’ve done wrong, I’m sorry, OK? I can make it right.’
‘You haven’t done anything wrong. It’s not you, it’s me.’
He shakes his head. ‘Don’t resort to clichés. Tell me the truth.’
I so very nearly give in and tell him everything. But I remember in the nick of time. Just because I’ve fucked up doesn’t mean he has to. I can protect him and I will. I will not screw up his life.
I hold my head up and meet his eyes. ‘You want the truth? I don’t love you anymore.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Now
I take a step backwards. ‘I’m sorry, are you accusing me of setting Angela’s house on fire?’
The two police officers exchange a glance. PC Grant smiles. ‘Of course not, Mrs Saunders. We’re making routine enquiries so we can establish the circumstances.’
‘Right.’ I don’t believe them, but I have nothing to hide. I take a moment to compose myself and smile back. ‘I met a friend for a drink after work. I left her at about nine, walked home, watched some TV and went to bed. I was fast asleep by eleven. I’m afraid there’s no-one who can vouch for me - my husband works away in the week so I was on my own. You’ll have to take my word for it.’
‘Of course,’ says DC Bennett, her voice as smooth as chocolate. ‘Who was the friend you met for a drink?’
‘Roz Beaumont. I can give you her number if you want to check.’
‘What can you tell us about Martin Miller?’
If I’m surprised by the change of tack I try not to show it. ‘Martin? He’s one of our gardeners. Why?’
‘According to Mrs Platt he’s been suffering from manic episodes, the most recent of which happened on Monday when he threatened you.’
‘That’s not quite true. He was a bit agitated, but he didn’t threaten me. Martin’s harmless.’
‘Mrs Platt is of the opinion that he should have been sectioned.’
‘She’s wrong. He’s fine now he’s had his meds adjusted. In fact, he’s out there with the other gardeners now.’ I point towards the window. ‘Which is where I should be. Is there anything else?’
‘No, that’ll be all for now. We’ll be in touch if we need to interview you under caution down at the station. In the meantime, let us know if you’re taking any trips abroad. Just in case we need to check anything with you,’ says DC Bennett.
I lay a hand on my bump. ‘Do I look as though I’m planning to go anywhere other than the maternity unit anytime soon?’
She smiles thinly. ‘Probably not.’
Martin and Maureen have disappeared when I rejoin the others. When I ask why they left so soon, Nancy drops the eyelet pliers with a clatter and Rosie turns to me, her eyes as wide as saucers.
‘Martin thinks you told the police on him, even though his mum said he was being silly. He said she was the silly one for trusting you. Then he said he was going to… ’ she pauses, screwing her face in concentration, ‘scarper before the coppers nicked him. And he was gone,’ she clicks her fingers, ‘just like that.’
‘What did they want?’ Geoff asks.
‘Someone tried to torch Angela’s house last night. She’s in hospital but she’s fine.’ Too late, I realise I shouldn’t have said anything in front of Rosie and Nancy. Rosie’s eyes grow even wider.
‘Why would she be in hospital if someone shone a torch at her house?’
I give Rosie what I hope is a reassuring smile. ‘She had a bit of a funny turn. She’s fine. Now, this bunting isn’t going to make itself. Shall we get on with it?’
Rosie nods and picks up the pinking shears. I pass Nancy a pile of flags and mouth to Geoff, ‘Talk later.’
As I insert eyelets and thread twine through the holes I wonder who the hell hates Angela so much they would pour petrol through her letterbox and set light to it, knowing she was inside. What if her neighbours hadn’t heard her smoke alarm? The whoosh of flames as the petrol caught light would have turned Angela’s narrow hallway into a death trap. Acrid smoke curling up the stairs as she slept. Maybe the fire alarm would have woken her. More likely the smoke would have killed her first, burning a path through her respiratory system. I shiver. Someone wanted her dead, but who?
Angela has the kind of abrasive personality that must have rubbed a few people up the wrong way over the years, but that’s not exactly grounds for murder. DC Bennett told me before they left that they were following a number of lines of enquiry. With a jolt I realise I’m one of them. But who else might the police think had a motive?
Not Mary, I can’t believe that. She’s one of the kindest, gentlest, most unassuming people I know. She’s a volunteer at Age Concern when she’s not here. She troops around the city selling poppies every November, for God’s sake. But if the police hear about her husband’s affair with Angela they might take a different view and treat her as a possible suspect. What is it they say? Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Even so, the thought of her creeping down Angela’s road with a can of petrol is laughable.
Martin will be a ‘line of enquiry’, of course. So bloody predictable to point the finger of suspicion at the person with a mental illness. Especially someone with the prefix ‘schizo’ stamped on their medical notes. Martin has been unstable lately, but his anger was directed at me today. Why would he want to harm Angela? Yet he was really rattled when the two officers turned up. And then he ran away. If that’s not a sign of guilt, what is? And he’s small for a man. Not much taller than me…
‘Sophie!’ calls Rosie, waving her hand in front of my face as if she’s hailing a taxi. ‘I said I’ve finished. There’s no material left.’
‘Sorry, I was miles away. Great job. Do you know what I think this calls for?’
‘Another cuppa and a choccie bicky?’
I smile at her, marvelling that she can stay so innocent in such a fucked-up world. If only all life’s problems could be solved with tea and biscuits.
‘Sure,’ I say, and her round face lights up. ‘Why not?’
I’m so preoccupied with the fire and the visit from the police that I clean forget to stop off at the farm shop on my way home. It’s not until I let myself in the front door that I remember I was going to make an extra effort tonight. I can’t face Sainsbury’s so I rummage through the freezer to see what I can find. Lurking in the bottom drawer are a couple of steak and ale pies. I’ll serve them with rosemary potatoes and the runner beans I brought home from Cam. I can still open the Chateauneuf Du Pape. It’ll have to do.
After I’ve showered and put on my favourite maternity dress, soft jersey in patterned turquoise with a flared skirt and a tie under the bust, I wander into the garden to pick some sweet peas for the kitchen table. The dewy grass feels soothing on my bare feet and the sweet peas smell delicious. I snip away, shaking off the hordes of tiny black pollen beetles, feeling a stab of guilt as I interrupt their feast. As I walk back to the house I tread on something hard. With difficulty I bend down to see what it is.
A small rectangle of plastic is nestled in the grass.
At first it doesn’t even occur to me that it might be a lighter, because neither Matt or I have ever smoked. However, when I look closer I realise that’s exactly what it is. Perhaps Lou snuck out for a quick fag when s
he came over for dinner. But my sense of smell has been razor sharp since I fell pregnant. I would have smelt the smoke on her. So how did it get here? I’m about to pick it up and throw it in the bin when I pause, my arm outstretched. DC Bennett said whoever set the fire at Angela’s used a lighter. What if they were coming for me, too, and were interrupted?
I straighten slowly, one hand on the small of my back, the other still curled around the rough stalks of the sweet peas. Should I call the police? But what would I tell them - that I’d found a lighter in my garden? Imagine the disbelief in the call taker’s voice. It’s hardly the crime of the century. DC Bennett might think it’s relevant to her enquiries, but how do I get a message to her? She didn’t leave a contact number.
It’s probably nothing. Perhaps one of the teenage boys from next door hurled it over the fence to avoid being caught smoking by his parents. But the little voice inside my head disagrees. What if it was meant for you? What if you’re next? My hand flies to my bump. It’s not just me anymore, is it? I can’t take the chance. I glance behind me, as if the culprit is hiding in the shadow of the flowering cherry. The hairs on the back of my neck stiffen as I peer into the gloom. But there’s no-one there. I stoop down to pick up the lighter. Back in the kitchen I look for somewhere safe to keep it, settling on the untidy drawer where we horde spent batteries, old chargers and keys that no longer have locks to fit.
I don’t usually pull the curtains downstairs but tonight I sweep through the house, dragging them closed, then check the smoke detectors on the hall and landing ceilings. They both emit an ear-piercing siren when I press the test button but I replace the batteries anyway and test them again, just to be sure.
I’m about to double lock the front door when I realise Matt will be home soon. Instead I busy myself putting the pies in the oven, peeling and chopping potatoes and topping, tailing and stringing the runner beans. The house feels eerily quiet, so I turn on the radio and half-listen to The Archers. When the familiar theme tune heralds the end of the show and Matt’s still not home I call him.
‘Hey babe, everything OK?’ he says, his voice distorted by static.
I want to let rip, remind him that he promised he’d be home by seven at the latest. But I don’t want to start a fight. Instead I keep my voice conciliatory. ‘All good. How are you getting on?’
‘OK. I was stuck on the M26 for ages after some twat ploughed into the central reservation. But the traffic’s fine now. I should be home by half past. Can you wait that long?’ he asks playfully, and I think, oh Christ, he’s going to want sex tonight and I’m not in the mood. Not after everything that’s happened today.
‘I love you, Sophie Saunders. You know that, don’t you?’
I’m surprised. Matt isn’t given to declarations of love unless he’s three sheets to the wind.
‘I love you, too,’ I say. ‘Drive safely.’
Call over, I check on dinner, pour myself a glass of elderflower cordial and sit at the kitchen table with my phone. I scroll through my Facebook and Instagram feeds, then, on a whim, open Kent Online and type Canterbury into the search box.
The story about Angela’s fire is the third news story down.
Fire crews tackle house blaze in Bridge
Fire crews were sent to the scene of a house fire in Bridge last night.
Kent Fire and Rescue Service was called to the blaze in Union Road shortly after midnight.
Two crews used breathing apparatus and a hose reel to tackle the fire, which started in the hallway of the terraced house.
A KFRS spokesman said one woman inside the address was taken to hospital suffering from smoke inhalation.
He confirmed fire investigators were currently treating the cause of the blaze as ‘unexplained’.
The brief story is accompanied by a generic photo of a fire engine. I scroll back up to the top story. It’s about a lorry which collided with the central reservation on the M2 just before the rush-hour causing ‘misery’ for commuters. It must be the traffic jam Matt was caught in. I click on the story and skim-read the report. Something is niggling me, though I can’t work out what. And then I realise.
Matt said his crash was on the M26. This one happened on the M2 at the Bean interchange, yet both involved someone hitting the central reservation. Surely there can’t have been two such similar collisions on major routes in Kent on the same evening?
Wondering if Kent Online has made an error I check the rival Kent Live website, but the crash was definitely on the M2. Matt’s journey home takes him nowhere near it.
So why did he tell me he was stuck in it?
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Now
I pace the landing, watching for Matt’s car. I’m about to give up and phone him again when I catch sight of it reversing into a space halfway down the road. It’s at least five minutes before the driver’s door opens and my husband’s long legs swing out, followed by the rest of him. What was he doing in those five minutes? Calling his lover? Telling her how much he misses her, how he’s dreading spending the weekend in the company of his fat, hormonal wife?
He reaches in the boot for his holdall. He looks hot and crumpled. Even from this distance I can sense the tightness in his shoulders. He glances up the street towards our house and I shrink back. It’s grubby, spying on him like this. I head downstairs to the kitchen, picking up a magazine on the way so I can pretend I was reading that, not snooping on him.
In the moments before his key turns in the lock I decide against quizzing him about the accident. Not tonight. The front door clicks open and I force a smile.
‘Hey baby,’ he says as he dumps his holdall on the kitchen table and gathers me in his arms. ‘I’ve missed you so much.’
I bury my face in his neck and breathe in deeply, wondering if the tang of his aftershave is laced with another woman’s perfume. If it is, I can’t smell it. He pulls away from me and holds my bump in his hands. ‘And you, Baby Saunders. I’ve missed you, too.’
Here’s my opportunity to confess. To tell him we’re having a boy. I duck the chance, loathing myself for being so weak. But I can’t. Not yet.
I pour him a glass of red and set the table while he takes a shower. He comes back down, flushed and smelling of Head and Shoulders, and puts his phone face down on the table. Settling in his chair, his legs crossed under the table, he takes a sip of wine and sighs in appreciation.
‘Tell me about your week.’
Where to start? Martin’s meltdown? My verbal warning? The arson attack on Angela’s house? The version of the last few days I give him is so diluted it’s insipid, but even so he’s open-mouthed once I’ve finished. And I haven’t even mentioned the discarded lighter I found nestled in the grass in our back garden.
‘Bloody hell. Arson?’
‘That’s what the police said.’
‘Who would let someone burn in their bed? It’s -’ He shakes his head. ‘I don’t know. It’s sadistic.’
‘I think the police reckon it’s Martin. Because of the manic episode.’
Matt pulls a face. He likes Martin. Though he’s never seen him in the grip of his mental illness. ‘I can’t see that myself,’ he says, draining his glass.
‘Neither can I. Not really. It’s all a bit of a mystery.’
I plunge the runner beans into boiling water and swirl them around with a metal spoon. ‘It’s just pies I’m afraid,’ I say over my shoulder.
‘Fine by me.’
He sounds distracted and I glance across. He’s picked up his mobile and is staring hard at the screen, his brow furrowed.
‘Everything alright?’ I ask, and he gives a little start.
‘Fine. Just checking my emails. I’m expecting one from head office.’
‘At eight o’clock on a Friday night?’
For a second our eyes meet. He looks down first and my heart lurches. It’s like someone has plunged their fist through my ribcage and ripped it right out, coronary arteries still attached. He switches the
phone off and slips it into the back pocket of his shorts.
‘You’re right. I shouldn’t even be checking this time of night.’ He shrugs an apology. ‘Force of habit.’
I place his plate on the table with a thud.
‘Perhaps it was Bob,’ he says through a mouthful of flaky pastry a few minutes later.
‘Bob?’
‘Maybe Angela threatened to expose their affair.’
‘What?’
Matt is warming to his theme. ‘He was so worried his reputation would be ruined that he decided to put a stop to it. To her.’
I shake my head. ‘Being banged up for murder would cause a greater slur to his reputation than a bit of extra-marital action. And anyway, Bob’s six-foot tall and at least sixteen stone.’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’
‘The detective said the figure caught on CCTV outside Angela’s house was small and slight. She seemed to insinuate it could have been me.’
I laugh to reinforce just how ridiculous this is, but Matt doesn’t join in. His post-shower flush has paled and his face is pallid.
I touch his arm. ‘Matt?’
‘You haven’t noticed anyone hanging around who shouldn’t be?’ he says.
My eyes slide over to the drawer behind him. I drag them back to my husband’s face. ‘No. Why?’
‘It might be that someone has it in for Cam, not Angela. In which case…’ he leaves the sentence hanging, but we both know where it was headed.
He grips my hand in his. ‘Just be careful, OK? And if you see anyone acting suspiciously, here or at work, call the police.’
‘The police? Isn’t that over-reacting just a little bit?’
He squeezes my hand so tightly my knuckles crunch. I pull back and he lets go.
‘Just promise me you will,’ he says. ‘I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you or the baby.’