by A J Waines
‘…So I want to know why you don’t like me,’ she said, glaring at me.
‘What? What’s happened? What makes you say that?’ I said, hurrying to catch up with her.
‘You don’t, do you? You want to get rid of me.’
Where had this sudden outburst come from? ‘That’s not true,’ I said. ‘I want to do my very best to help you.’
‘That’s not the same,’ she retorted, eyeballing me. ‘It’s always like this. People never like me and I don’t know why.’
I swallowed back a weighty sigh. We were in for a long haul.
‘I was bullied at school for being fat and weird,’ she went on, ‘and an orphan – let’s not forget that.’ She gave a spluttery laugh. ‘Everyone thought that was a terrific reason to poke fun at me. When I grew up, people avoided me. Men only take any interest if they want sex and women aren’t proper friends at all. When I try to get to know them better, they make excuses. Like Dawn, from upstairs. I don’t know why. If I knew why, I’d fix it.’ She clapped her hands. ‘There you are – that’s Rosie Chandler, Miss Personality of the Year, in a nutshell.’
I let my eyes settle on hers. ‘Shall I tell you what I think?’ I said.
‘That’s the idea,’ she huffed.
I was too tired to beat about the bush. ‘I think you’ve never been part of a healthy family. You’ve never seen proper love for yourself. Your father wasn’t a good role model and your mother was too busy keeping your father at bay to give you the attention you deserved.’
Her eyes started to well up, but she didn’t direct them away from me. ‘You’ve been pushed from pillar to post growing up,’ I went on, ‘one foster family to the next, neglected and overlooked.’
The trickle of tears turned into full, body-shaking sobs.
‘You don’t really know how to have deep relationships,’ I told her, ‘you don’t really know what love is all about.’
‘You see, that’s why I come here,’ she whimpered. ‘Because you understand.’ She wiped her nose on the back of her hand. ‘How come you “get” it, when other people don’t? They don’t give me a chance.’
I held the tissue box out for her. She wrapped her arms around herself and rocked back and forth, glancing up at me as if hoping I’d offer her a hug. I was determined not to, this time. It was too easy for Rosie to misinterpret those responses. She’d initiated several embraces before, ‘accidentally’ touched me on a few occasions; brushed her hand against mine or patted my arm as she’d left. I needed to keep my distance. Finally she sat back and the tears dried up.
‘Did you cover this kind of issue with your last therapist?’ I said, without taking my eyes off her.
‘Not really. She was older, for a start.’ She began tracing a pattern on the chair arm with her finger. ‘She wasn’t as smart as you.’
I’d finally heard from Professor Dean earlier in the week to say that half of Erica’s notes were missing. He didn’t want to hand over an incomplete record, so he was checking with Guy’s Hospital and Erica’s husband, to see if she’d kept any at home. He said he’d get back to me.
Rosie wiped her cheek with the cuff of her blouse and sighed several times. Then she changed the subject.
‘I’ve brought the DVD of the party like you asked me to.’ She placed it on the table in front of her, sounding flat, disinterested.
We watched it from the beginning, in silence. Several scenes in, I pressed pause.
‘There…’ I said, staring at a figure near a parlour palm, twitching in the freeze-frame. I shifted forward and pointed. ‘Him. The tall, thin guy, standing on his own behind Karl Hinds?’
‘Yeah?’ She looked nonplussed.
‘Didn’t you say last time that you knew him? I can’t remember his name.’
‘Him?’ Her finger hovered over the shape. ‘Oh…no, I don’t think so. I only knew a few people – mostly the Hinds’ family.’
‘Let’s rewind and see it again. Watch his jerky mannerisms,’ I said.
She peered at the screen as it ran again and shook her head. ‘No – I don’t know who that is.’
‘I think it could be the guy from the auction house who tried to sell the watch,’ I said. ‘You remember that bit of phone footage you showed me?’
‘You mean Teddy Spense?’
‘Yes, that was his name. Look at his posture.’
‘But, this was fifteen years ago,’ she said. ‘Surely he’d have changed a lot by now?’
‘Look at the way he’s shifting from one leg to the other, playing with his hair, fiddling with his pockets. Have you got your phone handy?’
She looked unconvinced, but reached for her mobile. She played me the few seconds of blurred footage.
‘See? The way he tips his head to one side, the hunch of his shoulders?’ I reiterated. There was definitely more than a similarity. It’s part of my job to tune in to people’s body language; something I can’t help but pay attention to.
‘If I’m right, you’ll need to take it to the police,’ I said. ‘It looks like this “Teddy” bloke was there in 2001 and at the roadside just after the crash collecting his pickings. Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?’
She was shaking her head. ‘Sorry, Sam. It’s not ringing any bells for me. I don’t think it’s the same person.’
‘Wouldn’t Cameron Hinds know who this guy is?’ I said, pointing to the TV screen. Her expression didn’t change. ‘It’s worth a try, isn’t it?’
‘I can contact him, I suppose, see what he says. I want to get to the bottom of this more than anyone, but that’s not the guy who tried to sell the watch. I’m certain.’
Pity. It was the one tenuous thread we had linking the party to the crash, the one single overlap, but perhaps she was right; the images were fuzzy and lots of people shared similar mannerisms.
Was I trying to find a link where there wasn’t one? Was I engineering a breakthrough so Rosie could find closure and our sessions could end?
‘We’re still stuck,’ she said despondently, as if she’d heard my thoughts.
She had a point. There was so little to go on. Nothing concrete pointing to where her viola was, who had sabotaged the seat belts, why someone had wanted the van to go into the lake.
‘But we’ve got six more sessions left,’ I said, trying to sound buoyant, but also reminding her of our agreement. ‘We can make a lot more headway in that time.’ I cleared my throat to make sure I had her attention. ‘I’ll give you a list of people I can recommend in a week or two,’ I added. There was no way I was going to get caught out this time.
Rosie didn’t look up, didn’t react.
When our time was up, she shuffled towards the door, like a dog being sent out into the rain.
‘I’ll see you next week,’ I said softly.
She didn’t answer as she slunk off down the stairs.
Chapter 34
Rosie
I’ve been in the shower too long. When I look down my skin is red and inflamed; in my agitation I’ve rubbed it raw with a loofah.
Only six more sessions. That’s nothing. The end is coming for certain this time, I can tell, and I’m anxious as hell. Sam’s going to put her foot down and that will be that. She’ll shut the door and I won’t be able to get back in again – at least, not while she’s there. I can’t let her do that to me. We’ve come too far.
People have always let me down and I’m sick of it. Mum was the first to do it. When I turned six, she said there was going to be an open day at the factory where she worked and that she’d take me. She always smelled of soap when she came home from work and I longed to visit. She said they sometimes set aside misshapen soaps or broken boxes of talcum powder and if I was lucky, the manageress might let me have one. I was beside myself with excitement, marking off the days on my calendar. We were all set to go and then Mum said they’d changed the rules at the factory and I couldn’t go.
Then she promised she’d take me to the Isle of Wight. It was the reason the
bad thing happened. We were supposed to catch the ferry from Portsmouth Harbour for a trip over the water, just the two of us. It was a secret and I wasn’t to tell Dad, which wasn’t difficult, because I never told him anything. Mum helped me pack my suitcase. It looked, from all the pairs of pants and socks we put in, that we were going to be away for a long time, but it was school holidays, so it didn’t matter. We pushed our cases under the bed when they were full, so Dad wouldn’t see them.
But on the day we were meant to go, Dad got to her with his air rifle before we were ready. He came back early from the pub and must have caught her putting her final clothes into the case. She’d had her hair done and was wearing her shiny blue shoes, all set to go. We were so close to running away together.
They left me behind – both of them. From then on I learnt never to trust a promise. Mrs Tanner said she’d buy me a rabbit, Mrs Crabbe said I could get a bike, Auntie Margaret was going to buy me a better viola. None of them did what they said they would. I got all worked up and excited for nothing. Like fireworks in the rain, their words would plop down into the damp grass and fizzle out.
Now Sam is trying to get rid of me. I thought we were getting on brilliantly…I can’t understand it.
I can’t settle in my pokey, damp flat, so I head for the main road and hop on the first bus to Clapham Junction. It’s after six when I get there and everything is dark in her flat from outside. I know from her diary that she goes to a spin class after work sometimes. If I’m quick, I might just do it.
Once I’m inside, I search for the ring binder again and find it under a book in her bedroom. Last time, I read just a bit of it and stopped when it made me angry. Now I want to read every word, check in case I’ve missed something important. There may not be many more chances if she stops our appointments and my notes get filed away.
I want to know everything she feels about me.
I turn to the first page and start at the beginning.
Ah…this is better. It’s clear she feels my pain. She’s desperately sad about what’s happened to me. She says she has great sympathy and warmth for me.
A stampede of goose pimples gallop across my whole body.
After a few pages, however, her tone definitely changes. Her words turn sour shortly after I start coming for sessions at her flat. She starts banging on about me being ‘clingy’ and ‘pushy’. Where’s that coming from? What’s she talking about? I don’t get it.
I want to throw the file against the wall, but I need to know more. Why did she change her mind about me?
As I skim the next section, I’m surprised to come across the occasional comment about another patient. Someone Sam worked with months ago. There’s no name, but it was a young woman in a bad way by the sounds of it. Sam writes about doing the ‘wrong thing’ as her therapist, about being slated by this woman’s parents for whatever happened. About not wanting to make the same mistake with me…
What did Sam do? Did she cross the line with a patient? Was she unprofessional?
I sit on the bed and think. What if Sam daren’t write down how she really feels about me, because it’s a professional document and other people might read it? Maybe her notes about a patient got her into trouble once before. Perhaps these records are a front to hide what she actually feels.
A tingle runs up the back of my neck. What if she secretly hopes we can move on and become proper friends? Could that be why it feels like she’s trying to push me away? It would explain why she’s written this rubbish about me; it’s all about covering her back.
I flick back a page to where she’s said something nice and stroke her words. Is this how you really feel, Sam? Do you want to bring our consultations to an end, all above board, so that you can change things between us? Start afresh as really great companions – or have I got it wrong? I’m not certain at all. Do you like me or not? Which one is it? Are you my enemy or my friend?
I know which way I want it to be, but it makes me feel uptight and restless not knowing for sure, so I strip off, dropping my clothes in the hall and switch on the bath taps. I don’t need a soak, but I want to feel close to her, I want to be where she’s been, personal and private places. I slide into the steamy water and allow it to wrap around me; I use her soap, her nail brush, her flannel.
Just as I’m getting out, patting myself down with one of Sam’s fluffy purple towels, my mobile rings. It’s DS Eric Fischer calling from Cumbria. I’m practically on first name terms with him now.
‘We’ve found another body,’ he says.
I sink down onto the bathmat and hold my breath. Max or Richard, Max or Richard – which one? I want it to be Max.
‘We found Max Raeger this morning,’ he says. ‘Under the packhorse bridge at the northern most point of the lake.’ He doesn’t wait for me to say anything. I let out the breath I’ve been holding. ‘We’ll let you know if there’s anything more to report after the post-mortem.’
I’m barely listening. This means I didn’t see Max on Oxford Street, after all. It means there’s only Richard left. Is he behind it all, or is his corpse going to surface any day now, too? I shudder and pull Sam’s towel tight around my shoulders.
It seems callous to ask about my viola so I give it a miss. I’m sure the DS would have mentioned it if there was any news. Once the call ends, another idea comes into my head, and it won’t leave me alone. I hurriedly get changed and check round to make sure the flat looks tidy.
I lock up and go straight to the nearest library on Lavender Hill. I book half an hour on a public computer. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before. Bridges have names, don’t they? I’ve been flummoxed by that tiny snatch of conversation I overheard at the Hinds’: It’s worth a fortune and under the bridge. I’m not quite sure how they mentioned my name, but I definitely heard it. Perhaps there is a bridge, not far from where the party was held, that literally has my name on it!
I find a site with a map of the Ullswater area and zoom in. Cote Farm Bridge, Waternook Bridge, Ravenscragg Bridge – there are so many of them. It’s like trying to find a contact lens in a pile of broken glass.
I try the other way around and find the search box. I punch in ‘Rosie Bridge’ – nothing. Then ‘Rosemary Bridge’ – nothing. There is a ‘Rose Bridge’, but it’s near Lake Windemere, much further south. I try ‘Chandler Bridge’, using my surname, and stagger backwards.
It comes up.
It’s just south of Ullswater. My heart is racing at double speed. Then I shake my head. Did any of us go anywhere near there on foot, or in the van? It doesn’t ring any bells when I think back to either visit to the Lakes, and it’s at least a mile from our B&B and the Hinds’ estate. But it is a bridge, with a connection to my name near Ullswater and it could be the bridge the caller was talking about. In any case, it’s all I’ve got.
I know what I have to do next – and I know it’s not going to go down well.
Chapter 35
Sam
It was late and I didn’t hear the letter box click over the rumble of the washing machine. I wiped the suds off my hands and stood over the envelope on the mat. My name was typed on the front. Inside, there was a note printed in small letters:
To set your mind at rest, Conrad Noble wasn’t the father. Ask Miranda where he was three and a half months before she lost the baby. He was filming, in Norway. It was the miscarriage that brought them together – it hasn’t been going on long.
A well-wisher.
No signature. No stamp. I dropped the note on the window ledge by the door, suddenly wary about touching it. Someone must be leaving the communal front door unlocked so all and sundry can get inside. I snatched my keys from the ledge, let myself out and locked the door behind me, before scampering down to the front door to check. Strange – it was locked.
I came back upstairs on high alert, my scalp prickling, listening for the slightest noise, peering into every shadow. I picked up the note again. Who had sent it? Someone who not only knew my sister, but
also my concerns about the situation. Miranda’s friend, Stella? Or Kora, or Sponge from the Project? And was it true?
I picked up the phone.
‘Where were you when Miranda got pregnant?’
‘Sam? Is that you?’
‘Can you please answer the question. Were you filming in Norway?’
‘Mirrie told you…’ he said, sounding disappointed.
‘You weren’t the father, Con. Why didn’t you just come out and say it?’
There was a crackle and an awkward silence. ‘To get back at you, I suppose.’ He sniffed. ‘Probably a bit childish. Sorry.’
I had half expected this would be his reasoning. It was entirely in line with his character. I was cheesed off, however, that Miranda had gone along with it.
‘What else have you done to punish me, Con? Is it you making silent phone calls?’
‘What?’
‘Ringing from call-boxes or hiding your number?’
‘Hey – hang on – no! That’s not me.’
He sounded so convincing, but I had to remind myself that Con was a talented actor. Maybe he’d been rehearsing this particular script, knowing we’d have this conversation one day.
I hadn’t a shred of proof. It was pointless pursuing it any further. ‘I’m sorry…’ he said and put down the phone.
I scrunched up the note and threw it in the bin. Whoever had delivered it, they could damn well go and interfere somewhere else.
A new thought occurred to me. Was someone picking through bits and pieces in my wheelie bin? Or tracking my emails, somehow? Listening into my phone calls? I was starting to feel not just watched, but hunted.
Fuck off! I screamed and ran into my bedroom. I dived onto the bed and buried myself under the duvet.
Rosie was subdued when she came for her next session.
‘I’m frightened,’ she said.
‘Has something happened?’
‘They found Max in the lake.’