You Can Trust Me

by Emma Rowley

  “Crack—it echoed. So I went to the window and opened the curtains, but everything was quiet. I remember that: it was a bright night, the moon was out, and everything was still, the fields and the trees and the big house behind them.

  “But I didn’t go back to sleep after that, it gets harder as you get older—you’ll learn. I went downstairs to make myself a cup of tea and sat at the table, keeping Bess and her puppies company. Eventually, I thought, I’ll be shattered in the morning, I’d better head up again. And as I got up, I looked again out of the kitchen window.

  “I thought, how is it morning already—and then I knew. The light was wrong. I called 999 there and then. And, well, you know the rest . . .”

  “Thanks so much.” I can’t think of much more he could add. “Can I ask—what sort of time did you say you heard the explosion?”

  “The explosion? I didn’t say it was an explosion.”

  “But—the bang. That must have been the fuel in the heating tank going off?”

  That was what the articles had said: the tank had exploded in the fire.

  He snorts. “I know what gunshot sounds like. And that was a gun.”

  * * *

  And he won’t be budged: that was what woke him, nothing to do with any poxy fuel tank.

  “Some twerp from the police told me I’d misheard,” he is getting a little indignant now, upset by the memory. “Embarrassed they still hadn’t done anything about the poachers, no doubt. That was my very first thought when I heard it, you know, that someone was poaching in the woods again. Some idiots set snares the year before, and Bess nearly got caught in one. Nasty.”

  I don’t want him to get distracted: but what about the fuel tank, I say, everyone agreed it had blown up . . .

  “No doubt it did, no doubt it did. There were all sorts of noises out of the big house later; glass shattering, things falling—bangs, too. But that was later.”

  I think for a second, pondering all this. “The woodland comes so close to the house,” I say. “A poacher could have been right in there.”

  “Oh certainly,” he says. “They were very bold. Now—what, Ed?” He speaks back in the handset. “I’m going to have to go, dear, it’s getting late.”

  I am about to hang up when something occurs to me. “Just one thing, sorry. You said your first thought was that it was a poacher. But did you think something else after that?”

  “Oh, that.” He sounds a little embarrassed. “Marjorie always said I had an imagination.”

  I wait.

  “Well, I did wonder,” he says. “Vane was a big name round those parts. People don’t like to rock the boat. And how could they tell, really, what had happened to the body, after a fire like that?”

  “What do you mean—what did you think had happened to it?”

  He stops for a second, as if he’s deciding whether to tell me.

  “All right. After I heard they found him in there, the whole place going up in flames, the family out of the way—you want to know what I thought?” He waits a beat. “That he’d run out of money and shot himself.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Well. It was just the things you’d hear. That car of his, that house, the parties they’d have. Big spenders, to keep it all up.”

  “But how would he even have got hold of a gun?”

  He puts on an affected voice—“Huntin’ shootin’ fishin,’ what ho”—then switches back. “Vane was the county type. He could have got hold of a gun.”

  “Then why burn down his house, too?”

  “To cover it up, maybe, to make sure the life insurance paid out for the family? Or he didn’t want the bank to get the house—”

  “But the papers didn’t say anything about any of that,” I insist. “No one, official or otherwise, suggested it was suspicious at all. Even at the inquest.”

  The mention of the inquest, making it all real, seems to make him collect himself.

  “Well, you certainly mustn’t put that in any book—it just crossed my mind. No, I was right the first time,” he says more firmly, “I heard a poacher, whatever the police said.”

  He is quieter now, speaking almost to himself. “All the same, it’s only natural that I of all people would wonder if something else had happened to him . . .”

  “It is?”

  “Because I made the call, you see. I called 999. Oh, I know what they said, about the speed of the fire and smoke and all that. But I always asked myself—why didn’t he?”

  Chapter 22

  I am groggy when I walk into the kitchen on Wednesday morning.

  It is another bright day, and I can smell fresh laundry from the utility room, where Annie is moving around. I call good morning and busy myself making a strong milky coffee. After what I heard last night about a gun . . . well, it took me a long time to fall asleep.

  I take my hot cup into the living room, settling on the sofa. Soon Josh follows me in, a slice of toast in his hand.

  “Liv says she won’t be long, she’s just getting Bea ready.”

  “Sure,” I say lightly, expecting him to go. Instead he sits down, on the sofa with me, clearly intending to wait for his wife.

  “So. All going well with the book?”

  Overnight, I had decided what to do—with regard to Olivia, at least. Fall back on my experience, like I would with any other ghosting job: work on building a rapport, getting things on an even keel, so my subject will open up.

  I don’t need to tell her husband that, though.

  “Yes,” I say, “thanks. We’re getting there. So are you off to the site today?”

  “Mm,” he says. “Probably will head over there.”

  Then we are both silent; last night’s ease, fueled by wine, now gone.

  “That’s beautiful,” I say, gesturing to the painting that had caught my eye before. It really is: the small canvas glowing with oils, showing a silver streak of water among high grass and a young green willow. “That’s your lake, isn’t it? I just realized.”

  “It’s getting a bit wild down there. Cav needs to do something about it.”

  “Well, the painting’s gorgeous, at least.”

  “Doubt it’s worth anything. But Liv likes it.”

  There’s so much loveliness in this house, despite its past.

  “Sorry to interrupt.” Olivia has one hand on the frame of the arch into the living room. “But I’ve got to go to Mansford with Bea this morning. Nicky, I thought you could interview me as I drive. Save a bit of time.”

  “Uh, sure,” I say. She is already dressed to go out, in a buttery soft leather jacket. “I’ll just grab my bag.”

  * * *

  As we leave the house, Bea in her mother’s arms, I see another car parked next to Olivia’s gleaming silver 4x4.

  “Is that Annie’s?” I ask. I can’t quite picture the housekeeper driving the mud-splattered Land Rover.

  “No.” Olivia pauses, before politeness presses an explanation out of her. “It’s Sabrina’s. She didn’t want to drive after drinking.”

  I nod. I thought I heard noises in the corridor outside my door last night; Sabrina must have stayed in one of the rooms near me.

  Olivia drives in silence down the driveway. No small talk, then.

  “OK,” I say, as she clicks a button on her key fob to open the gates. “I thought we could cover relationships today, starting with the workplace?” An innocuous opening.

  She checks for traffic as she pulls out, turning right for Mansford. “Sure.”

  * * *

  Half an hour later, we are still barreling through the countryside. I am trying to focus on the question prompts I’ve written in my notebook, my recorder balanced on my lap.

  To be fair, Olivia has talked fluently all the way, covering everything from her first boss to how to deal with tricky colleagues.

  Even Bea, as immaculate as her mother in a soft gray dress and pink socks, has been quiet after Olivia gave her a box of raisins: strapped in her seat behind
us, she has been contentedly dropping them on the floor one by one.

  The problem is me—after bombing down the winding roads, breathing in that sickly-sweet new car smell of plastic and air freshener, I am fighting the urge to throw up.

  I focus my gaze on the white line in the road in front of us, and force out my next question.

  “How about romantic relationships? I thought we could do a section on how to choose a good man. Or partner, of course.”

  “I suppose.” She straightens slightly in her seat. “Well, it’s about communication, isn’t it? Respect and trust . . .” She trails off. “You can do something with that, can’t you?”

  It wouldn’t be the first time an author has expected me to magic up a book out of nowhere.

  “Yes, that’s great. I wonder if we can get just a bit more personal detail. Your followers are so interested in your relationship with Josh, how you make it work.”

  She lifts her eyebrows a little, waiting for me to ask a specific question.

  “So,” I say, annoyed—this is supposed to be a collaboration; she doesn’t need to act like a politician cornered on TV—“how did you know that he was the man for you?”

  “How did I know . . .” she muses. “Because he made me feel safe. Like nothing could go wrong.” She glances at me. “Does that make sense?”

  I nod. “You know, it really does. And what else?”

  But the shutters are up again.

  “Oh gosh,” she says politely. “Why don’t you have a look at the website? I’ve written a little bit about it on there. When I used to blog.”

  I’ve read that blog: beautiful pictures strung together by sugary captions as short as they are sweet. I’m not going to get anything from that.

  “What about . . . nightmare boyfriends,” I say chummily. “Any horror stories?”

  “I’m afraid not. Josh was my first serious boyfriend.”

  “The first?”

  “I went to a girls’ school,” she says flatly.

  “Would you send Bea to one?” I ask, curious.

  “Depends what she wants.” She checks in the mirror on her daughter, now singing to herself quietly. “It was my home from home after . . . But no, not if she didn’t want to.”

  “And do you want Bea to have a similar childhood to yours? I mean”—I add hurriedly, of course she doesn’t want a repeat of what happened—“a countryside upbringing?”

  “I do. I loved growing up here, all the space to run about in. Swimming in the lake, playing hide-and-seek in the meadow. That’s what I like to remember.”

  I see my chance to get at what’s on my mind. “What about the other side of country life—foxhunting and all that. Would you ever have gone on, say, a shoot, growing up?”

  Even as I say it, it sounds clumsy, and I worry I’m giving my secret interest in her background away, but she just glances at me. “God no. I had my pony phase, but I never tried anything like that. Bea won’t, either.”

  I see her eyes flick down at my list of questions: her answers are so short that we tend to whizz through them. “And would you like a big family?”

  “We’ll see. Josh is the youngest of four, there’s a whole tribe of them. But it’s just me. And I’m fine.”

  I’m still absorbing that—that she’s calling herself an only child though I know that’s not true—when something makes me look up. We are heading over a small humped bridge, too fast. My stomach lifts and swoops, and I close my eyes as a cold wave of nausea washes through me.

  When I open them again she is looking at me, amused, before her gaze flicks away, her face wiped clean of expression.

  Anger flashes through me. She’s driving like this on purpose.

  “So, I wanted to talk about your parents,” I say smoothly.

  Her attention is now fixed on the road. “I said, I’m not talking about what happened.”

  “No, but there’s no harm in talking about them a little, is there?” I say sweetly. “It’d be strange not to mention them at all. Just whatever you’re comfortable sharing.”

  “What do you want to know?” she says stiffly.

  “Why don’t you tell me about your father?”

  She thinks for a second. “My father—OK. Daddy was great fun, charming, handsome. And generous, too. The life and soul. Everyone liked him.”

  “And your mother?”

  “She had an artistic temperament. Great highs and lows. Fantastic taste.”

  She talks like they’re people she met at a party. “And were you much alike?”

  “I got my eye for color from her, perhaps. She made a beautiful home.”

  I press on. “Are you and your mother close now?”

  “Not exactly.” She checks her side mirror. “She’s dead.”

  “She’s dead?” I echo.

  “Road accident. A while ago now. And that’s not going in the book. It’s not relevant.”

  “Not relevant?”

  Maybe it’s because I’m feeling sick and angry, but something breaks in me: I am filled with frustration—with upset.

  The stories we tell ourselves, about where we’ve come from, who we are, the things that have shaped us, they do matter: without them, we’re just hollow people—ghosts.

  I hear myself saying, aloud: “But you do realize, Olivia, you can’t just erase the past—”

  “Nicky!” She glances over at me, with a shocked little laugh.

  Oh no, did I go too far? Forget myself? Be professional. I take a deep breath. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Mum-meee . . .” Bea’s small voice, cranky with sleep, breaks the silence between us. We must have woken her. “Mum-meee . . .”

  “What is it, darling?” Olivia says. “Do you want the shark song?” She presses something on the steering wheel and music bursts out, too loud for any more talking.

  The conversation’s over, anyway.

  Chapter 23

  I am relieved to step out onto solid ground by the time we reach Mansford, a picturesque market town with narrow roads and the odd black-and-white half-timbered building set among the redbrick shop fronts.

  “The main street is just over there.” Olivia jerks her chin to the exit of the car park, and starts hauling Bea out. “No, Bea, shoes on. We’re going to the shoe shop.” To me: “You’ve got my number, but see you back here in, say, an hour?”

  “Sure, see you in a bit.”

  So that was the essential task that meant we couldn’t have a normal session: new shoes. Annoyed, I don’t wait for them, but head off onto the narrow high street.

  In the fresh air, I soon start to feel better, and my spirits lift. It’s pretty here, little triangles of bunting strung overhead for no obvious reason, and cute twisting side streets that I follow at random.

  Eventually I want to check where I am, and stop to pull up my phone map outside another little stretch of shops: a boutique full of overdecorated knitwear, a tea shop, and an antique place, a single vase spotlit against green velvet in the window.

  Standing on the pavement, I look at the antique shop again: George Rafferton, reads the sign above the glass. Why does that ring a bell?

  Then I realize: it was on that piece of paper from Joey, part of the planning documents. G. Rafferton was one of the names who worked on the rebuild of Annersley House.

  I glance around me. Then I go up the steps and push open the door.

  * * *

  The shop bell tinkles as I walk inside, and a rheumy-eyed Cavalier King Charles spaniel shuffles up for an obligatory pat before heading back to its bed by the register.

  I see no one else in here, among the chests and cabinets and shelves full of objects. In front of me, a pretty wooden box catches my eye, inlaid with—shell? I take a closer look: that stuff looks suspiciously like ivory.

  “Hello hello, can I help you?”

  I straighten up. It’s a neat little man in a cardigan and tie, with white hair and sharp blue eyes behind his glasses.

  “I
was just having a look.”

  “Ah,” he says with a wave. “There’s no price for that.”

  For a moment I admire a chest of drawers.

  “Actually,” I say, “The name on the sign was familiar. I wondered if you are the G. Rafferton involved in the restoration of Annersley House . . .”

  His face lights up. “Annersley House!”

  And he seems genuinely delighted to hear that that I am working with Olivia Hayes, formerly Vane, on a book that will cover her work and life as an “influencer” but also, I add tactfully, address her home, its history . . .

  “Of course,” he says. “Of course. Well, given the extent of the damage, it could never be a true restoration, more a very careful facsimile. In which I played a small part, advising on the cosmetic, rather than structural, questions—plasterwork, wall finishes, furnishings. And yet I do feel my advice was valued, all the same,” he adds modestly.

  I’m sure it was, I tell him, and I would love to hear all about it.

  He blossoms like a hothouse flower under my attention.

  “. . . with listed houses there are obligations, but even so, they aren’t always saved. The expense of it all—the insurance money only goes so far.”

  But soon I am slightly regretting coming in, enthusiastic though he is. I can’t imagine him being interested in any sort of gossip among the builders or in the village.

  “. . . so much was lost, all those beautiful hangings, statuary, rugs—and oils on canvas are so flammable. Then the water from the hoses . . .” He spreads his hands ruefully. “But we did our best to re-create the spirit of the house, just as it was.”

  “Just as it was?”

  “Much of it from her memory, because the photos that might have helped us had been destroyed. But Miss Vane updated the mod cons, and let the style of the house evolve.”

  “Mrs. Vane,” I correct, almost automatically.