‘Well?’ I demand. ‘Isn’t it possible?’
Grudgingly, Kit concedes that it is. ‘Please tell me you’re not going to spend the rest of the day sitting through the tour a thousand times,’ he says. ‘Please.’
‘Can I have a look at the laptop?’ Sam K asks.
While Kit takes him upstairs, I pace up and down, picturing 11 Bentley Grove’s lounge, trying to uncover the missing detail. The woman disappeared. The blood disappeared. And something else . . .
I’m so wrapped up in my thoughts that I don’t notice Kit has returned, and I jump when he says, ‘I know everyone hates estate agents, but you’ve taken it to a whole new level. What you haven’t done is considered the why. Why would some evil genius estate agent, sitting in his office in Cambridge, want to include an elusive dead woman complete with own pool of blood on the virtual tour of a house he’s trying to sell? Is it, what, a daring new marketing technique? Maybe you should see which agent the house is on with, ring up and ask them.’
‘No,’ I say, feeling calmer as he loses his cool. ‘It’s the police who ought to do that.’ I won’t let him turn this into something to be laughed at.
‘You say she was murdered. Most murderers want to cover up what they’ve done, not broadcast it via one of the country’s most popular websites.’
‘I’m aware of that, Kit. I also know what I saw.’ I need to ask him something, but every question I ask is another opportunity for him to lie. ‘Why didn’t you tell him?’
‘Tell him?’
‘Sam. That I was obsessed with 11 Bentley Grove long before last night. The whole story.’
Kit looks caught out. ‘Why didn’t you tell him? I assumed you didn’t want him to know, because . . .’ He stops himself, looks away.
‘Because?’
‘You know damn well why! If I’d told him what’s been going on since January, he wouldn’t have given your dead woman the time of day – he’d have assumed the vanishing body was a figment of your imagination, just like the rest of it’s a figment of your imagination!’
‘Would he? Mightn’t he have assumed the opposite – that something must be going on, something involving 11 Bentley Grove and you?’ I wasn’t willing to take the risk; perhaps Kit wasn’t either.
His eyes fill with tears. ‘I can’t take much more of this, Con. I keep telling you, and you don’t listen.’ He falls into a chair, rubs his temples with his fingers. He looks so much older than he did six months ago. His face has new lines; there’s more grey in his hair; his eyes are duller. Have I done that to him? The alternatives are too horrible to contemplate: either he’s the kind, funny, loyal, honourable man I fell in love with and I’m slowly but surely destroying him, or he’s a stranger who has been wearing a disguise for months, maybe years – a stranger who will eventually destroy me.
‘I love you, Con,’ he says in a hollow voice. I start to cry. His love for me is his most effective weapon. ‘I always will, even if you succeed in driving me out of this house and out of your life. That’s why I didn’t tell’ – he gestures towards upstairs – ‘the whole story. If you want the police to take you seriously, if you want them to go to 11 Bentley Grove and check there’s no dead woman lying on the carpet, then, however crazy it is, that’s what I want too. I want you to feel better.’
‘I know,’ I say, numb inside. I don’t know what I know any more.
‘Do you have any idea how hard it is, living under a cloud of suspicion when you’ve done nothing wrong? You think I don’t know what you’re thinking? “Kit’s a computer geek. Maybe he can make a body appear and disappear in a matter of seconds. Maybe he killed the body himself.” ’
‘I don’t think that!’ I sob. Because I didn’t let myself go that far. ‘I hate being suspicious of you, I hate it. If 11 Bentley Grove was anywhere but Cambridge . . .’
Sam K is back, standing in the doorway. How much has he overheard? ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ he says. ‘I’m going to speak to Cambridge police myself. They’re more likely to pay attention if I make the initial contact.’
My heart jolts. ‘Did you . . . ?’ I point upwards, towards our office.
‘I didn’t see a body, no. Or any blood.’
‘But . . .’
‘The strong likelihood is that you were tired and had some kind of . . . transitory hallucination. What did you call it before? A trick of perception. But, at the same time, I don’t want to dismiss what you’ve told me, because . . .’ He sighs. ‘Because you rang Simon Waterhouse, not me. Simon’s the one you wanted. I can’t turn myself into him, but I can do the next best thing, do what I know he’d do: take you seriously.’
‘Thank you,’ I say.
‘Don’t thank me – I’m only the stand-in.’ Sam K smiles. ‘You can thank Simon, the next time you see him.’
It’s only once he’s gone that it occurs to me what those words must mean: he knows I’ve met Simon before.
*
POLICE EXHIBIT REF: CB13345/432/20IG
CAVENDISH LODGE PRIMARY SCHOOL
BULLETIN NO. 586
Date: Monday 30th November 2009
Kittens at Cavendish Lodge!
We had an assembly with a difference on Wednesday in Class 1! Marcus’s cat Bess has had five kittens, and his mum and dad brought them all into school! We had a marvellous time playing with these cute furry visitors, and a very interesting talk afterwards about pets and how to care for them, so huge thanks to Marcus and his family for allowing us to have this super treat! Below are two lovely write-ups from Class 1 children . . .
yesterday afternoon Marcus kittens came into school. They looked so cute they were black with white patches. I got to hold one of them they were lovely and furry but they had very sarp pink claws. One of them runed of beind the piona. I herd one of them purring. They had little blue eyes. It was a lovely afternoon.
by Harry Bradshaw
yesterday Marcus and his mummy brought some kittens to our asembaly we were talking about how to look after pets they were so lovely some were black with wight patches. The mummy cat Bess was not there. I got to hold four of them they felt soft just like fethers.
by Tilly Gilpatrick
Chapter 4
17/07/10
Charlie didn’t know what to do about her surname. It hadn’t occurred to her that it was an issue until Simon had brought it up at the airport. He’d nodded at her passport and said, ‘I suppose you’ll have to get a new one now.’ She hadn’t known what he’d meant, and must have done a dismal job of concealing her shock when he’d explained. Simon had laughed at her. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I assumed you’d be changing your name to mine, but if you don’t want to, I don’t mind.’
‘Really?’ Charlie had asked, immediately anxious about his happiness, which she perceived as fragile and endangered at the best of times. She had assumed the opposite: that she would remain Charlie Zailer; frankly, she was amazed Simon hadn’t also. Annoyed with herself for being unprepared for such an important discussion, she’d decided on the spot that she would do whatever he wanted. There were worse names than Waterhouse.
It seemed, though, that for once Simon’s feelings were uncomplicated. ‘Really,’ he’d assured her. ‘What does it matter what you’re called? It’s only a label, isn’t it?’
‘Exactly,’ she’d replied, straight-faced. ‘I mean, thinking about it, I could just be called Female Police Sergeant number 54,437, couldn’t I?’
The matter of her surname had been preoccupying her ever since. What did other married women do? Charlie’s next-door neighbour Marion Gregory, Kate Kombothekra, Stacey Sellers, Debbie Gibbs – they had all changed their names. Olivia, Charlie’s sister, who was getting married next year, was trying to persuade Dominic, her husband-to-be, that they should become the Zailer-Lunds. ‘Or he can stay as he is, and I’ll be Zailer-Lund on my own,’ she’d told Charlie defiantly. ‘If Dom wants to wrap himself in the mouldering fetters of outmoded tradition, that’s up to him. He can’
t stop me from adopting a more progressive approach.’ Knowing Olivia as she did, Charlie suspected her determination had less to do with principle and more to do with a desire to be double-barrelled.
Charlie Zailer-Waterhouse. No, it was out of the question. Unlike Liv, Charlie did not hanker after the trappings of aristocracy; a double-barrelled surname would be an embarrassment to her, as well as an opportunity for everyone at the nick to take the piss.
‘Why don’t we pick a new name?’ she called out to Simon, who was in the pool – or, rather, on it, lying in an inflatable boat that they’d found bobbing on the surface when they arrived. His arms and legs trailed in the water as he drifted aimlessly. Sometimes he used his hands as oars to turn himself round or push himself along; once or twice he’d kicked back from the edge, to see if he could propel himself all the way to the other side. He couldn’t; the pool was too big.
Charlie had been secretly watching him, pretending to read her book, for nearly an hour and a half. What was going on in his mind? ‘Simon?’
‘Hm?’
‘You’re miles away.’
‘Did you say something?’
‘Instead of me taking your name, why don’t we choose a new one? For both of us.’
‘Don’t be daft. No one does that.’
‘Charlie and Simon Herrera.’
‘Isn’t that Domingo’s surname?’
‘Exactly. We could start a new tradition: the first person you meet on your honeymoon, their surname becomes your married name.’ Domingo was the villa’s caretaker: a young muscly chain-smoker with a deep tan, who spoke little English and appeared to live in a small wooden chalet-style building at the far end of the garden. He had picked Simon and Charlie up at the airport and driven them to Los Delfines, then given them a tour of the house and grounds without asking – perhaps because he lacked the vocabulary – whether they would prefer to wait until morning. The tour had taken nearly an hour; Domingo had insisted on stopping in front of every appliance and pointing at it, before demonstrating, in total silence, how it ought to be used.
Charlie hadn’t cared. She had walked through the wooden gate set into the high, pantile-topped white wall, smelled the warm, spicy air in the garden, seen the pool lit up like an enormous glowing aquamarine stone, and fallen in love with Los Delfines on the spot. If she had to watch Domingo mime the turning of keys in front of keyholes and the setting and unsetting of the burglar alarm in order to be allowed to stay here for a fortnight, it was a price she was more than happy to pay.
Everything about this place was perfect. So perfect that it made Charlie worry about herself and Simon in comparison. What if the only thing wrong was them? She knew it was stupid to compare oneself with other people – to compare herself and Simon with other married couples – but it was hard to avoid doing so. Charlie knew of no other newlyweds who had approached their honeymoon in the way ex-mobsters-turned-informers might approach entry into the witness protection programme. Kathleen, Simon’s mother, was as terrified of flying as she was of most things in life, and wouldn’t have been able to cope with the thought of her son getting on a plane, so Simon had told her he and Charlie were going to Torquay for their honeymoon – by train. Kathleen had asked where they were staying, in case she needed to contact him in an emergency. He could have named a hotel in Torquay, real or imaginary, but he knew Kathleen would try to reach him there within a couple of days and discover he’d lied, which had left him with no alternative but to refuse to tell her. ‘There won’t be an emergency,’ he’d said firmly. ‘And if there is, it’ll have to wait.’
Kathleen had sulked, wept, begged. At one point, after one of her trademark soggy Sunday lunches, she had fallen to her knees and grabbed Simon’s legs. He’d had to pull her off him. Charlie had been shocked, as much by Simon’s apparent lack of surprise as by anything else. Michael, his dad, hadn’t seemed surprised either. His only verbal contribution had been the occasional muttered, ‘Please, son,’ to Simon. Please, son, give her a way of contacting you. Make my life easier.
To Charlie’s great relief, Simon had stood firm. To her utter bafflement, he had accepted an invitation to lunch at his parents’ house the following Sunday. ‘Are you mental?’ Charlie had snapped at him. ‘It’ll happen again – exactly what happened last week.’ Simon had shrugged and said, ‘Then I’ll walk out like I did last week.’
He liked to believe that his mother didn’t control him, but then he did things like insist they go all the way to Torquay to get married – ‘to make the lie a bit more true,’ he’d said, unwilling to acknowledge the irrationality. Charlie would have preferred to get married at Spilling Register Office; she hated the thought that anything about their wedding was dictated by her pathetic mother-in-law. Simon had shouted her down: ‘I thought you loved Torquay. Isn’t that why we’re pretending to go there for our honeymoon?’
Oddly enough, Kathleen hadn’t tried to impose a church wedding on them, as Charlie had feared she might. She’d voiced no objection when Simon had told her that the wedding would involve only himself, Charlie and two witnesses, neither of whom would be her. ‘She’s relieved,’ he’d explained. ‘Nothing’s expected of her. Think about it: most weddings, the mother of the groom spends the best part of a day being friendly and welcoming to the guests. Mum’d never have managed it. There’d have been a sudden illness, and Dad would have had to stay at home and look after her.’
Charlie’s parents had also been thankful to hear that their attendance wouldn’t be required. Her father would rather play golf than do anything else. He’d have taken a day off, for Charlie’s sake, and tried to enjoy her wedding, but he’d soon have found an excuse to sink into a foul mood. Any day that involved no golf was a disastrous day for Howard Zailer, and for all those unlucky enough to encounter him in his golfless state.
‘What about Melville?’ Simon shouted from the swimming pool.
‘Hm?’
‘Our new surname.’
‘Why Melville?’
‘As in Herman Melville.’
‘What about Dick?’
Simon stuck two fingers up at her. Moby Dick was his favourite novel. He read it once a year. He’d brought it with him to Spain; it was supposed to be his honeymoon reading, so why wasn’t he reading it? Why was he content to float aimlessly, as if there was nothing else he wanted to do? The leaves and petals on the pool’s surface looked as if they were making more of an effort.
Why wasn’t he having sex with his wife?
Weren’t you supposed to spend most of your honeymoon in bed? Or was that only if you hadn’t slept together before the wedding?
Charlie sighed. Was she expecting too much? After years of avoiding all physical contact with her, Simon had decided last year that it was time they consummated their relationship. Since then, everything had been fine. Well, fine-ish. Charlie still didn’t dare make the first move; she sensed Simon wouldn’t like it. It was equally clear that talking – during, immediately afterwards, or on the subject of – was forbidden. Or was Charlie imagining barriers that weren’t there? Maybe Simon wanted nothing more than for her to say, ‘Do you like having sex with me, or do you only do it because you feel you have to?’ Physically it seemed to work for him, but he always seemed so removed – eyes closed, silent, almost robotic at times.
The mid-afternoon sun was scorching. Charlie considered telling Simon to go inside and put on more sun-cream. And then she could go in after him and . . . No. The rule of never initiating sex was a good one, and she was determined to stick to it. Once – years ago at a party, long before they were officially together – Simon had rejected her advances in a particularly brutal way. Charlie was determined never to allow it to happen again.
She heard a noise behind her – footsteps. Domingo. She tensed, then exhaled with relief when she saw that he was holding a rake and a hoe; he was here to work, that was all. The garden that surrounded Los Delfines on all sides was evidently somebody’s pride and joy – perhaps Domingo’s,
perhaps the owners’. It was bursting with more colours than Charlie had ever seen together in one place before: flame red, burgundy, purple, lilac, royal blue, orange, yellow, every shade of green. It made most English gardens look anaemic. Charlie’s favourite thing in it was what she thought of as ‘the upside-down lily tree’, from which white lilies hung like little lampshades.
She put down her book and headed for the pool. Not because she wanted to be closer to Simon, but because the heat was blistering and she needed to cool off. She walked down the marble Roman steps into the water. ‘Exactly the right temperature,’ she said. ‘Not cold, but not warm. Like a hot bath someone ran two hours ago.’
Simon didn’t reply.
‘Simon?’ What was he so focused on, that he couldn’t hear her when she was right next to him?
‘Hm? Sorry. What did you say?’
It was hardly worth repeating. It seemed a shame to waste this opportunity; she ought to say something more important while she had his attention. ‘Every time I see Domingo heading in our direction, I panic.’
‘Scared he’s going to try and show us some more light switches?’
‘No, it’s not that, it’s . . . His mobile number’s on the website. That means we’re contactable via him, doesn’t it?’
Simon struggled to sit up in his boat. ‘Are you worried about my mum? She doesn’t know where we are. No one does.’
‘Olivia does.’ Would he be angry that she’d told her sister what was supposed to be their secret? Apparently not. Charlie battled against the urge to ask him if she had his full attention. ‘When I told Liv how much this place cost, she insisted on seeing pictures. I had to show her the website.’
‘She’s not going to tell my mum, is she?’
Lasting Damage Page 5