Last Seen Alive

by Claire Douglas

  The Buddha. What’s that doing here? I haven’t laid eyes on it for years but I couldn’t bring myself to part with it so kept it hidden away. Did Jamie find it and put it out? I study the Buddha’s calm face, his relaxed pose, turning it over in my hands. I can’t look at it without thinking of everything that happened. It has to go. The door to the spare room is firmly shut and I can hear Jamie talking on the phone, something about infrastructure and databases. I still don’t really understand what he does, even though he’s always trying to explain it to me. I carry the Buddha into the bedroom and shove it to the back of my wardrobe, underneath a pile of summer clothes.

  When I return to the kitchen I switch the kettle on, desperate for a cup of tea and still missing the instant tap at The Hideaway.

  Ziggy springs up from his bed. ‘Sorry, boy, I’ve not said hello yet,’ I say, enjoying the freedom of hugging him. I bury my face in his fur. He needs a bath. In fact, I think as I stand up, this whole flat smells of dog. I light the candle on the pine sideboard at the dining-room end of the kitchen, taking deep breaths of the mandarin scent. The candle really cheers up the room with its flicker and crackle. It doesn’t have quite the same effect as it did in The Hideaway, but the smell reminds me of the Cornwall house: expensive and exotic.

  Jamie pads into the kitchen. He hasn’t shaved for a few days, the stress that had lingered around him like bad aftershave before Cornwall is back, and not for the first time I worry that becoming self-employed is too much pressure for him. He’s holding a parcel by the tips of his fingers, as though he’s loath to touch it. It knocks against his leg as he walks.

  I wave my right arm at him. ‘The cast’s gone!’ I say, feeling euphoric.

  ‘That’s great news,’ he replies, beaming at me, his eyes twinkling.

  ‘What have you got there?’

  His face closes up. ‘It’s for you. What have you been ordering? I haven’t made my first million yet,’ he jokes. His eyes go to the candle. ‘And where did that come from?’

  ‘I, um … I bought it cheap from the charity shop,’ I lie. ‘Must have been an unused gift or something …’ He won’t approve if I tell him the truth, that I took it from The Hideaway. I’d justified it to myself that, as we’d used it when we were on holiday, Tara wouldn’t have expected us to leave it behind. Jamie might not see it that way though.

  ‘I’ve not ordered anything.’ I take the parcel from him. It’s large and heavy, the name of a well-known catalogue company emblazoned down the side of the orange plastic envelope. ‘I don’t even have any catalogues.’ I rip it open.

  ‘What is it?’ he asks, going over to the kettle and pouring the boiling water into two mugs.

  I frown. ‘It looks like some kind of bag,’ I say as it slides from its packaging. It’s large, ugly, the type of backpack a student might take travelling. ‘I definitely didn’t order this.’ I double-check the name on the front, hoping there has been some mistake and it’s meant for one of the neighbours, but it’s definitely addressed to me.

  Jamie places a mug of tea on the table in front of me. ‘Going somewhere, Libs?’ he laughs. But it’s not funny. Cold fingers creep down my back. Why have I been sent this? I dump it on the table and then ferret inside the packaging to find the order form.

  ‘This is weird, Jay. It appears I have an account with them. Look …’ I wave the piece of paper under his nose. He narrows his eyes and takes it from me. ‘I’ve never set up an account.’

  ‘It’s obviously some sort of error,’ he says with a dismissive shrug, handing me back the form. ‘Just ring them and tell them. Send the bag back.’

  I sigh. ‘But it’s such a faff.’

  ‘I know, Libs, but these things happen.’ Cradling his mug, he wanders out of the room. I stuff the bag back into its packaging and refasten it.

  The sky darkens and it starts to rain as I walk to the post office. The niggling feeling about the bag stalks me. Does it mean something? Is it personal? I remember walking those dusty, sun-baked streets in Thailand with a similar bag on my back weighing me down. I’m so distracted I almost bump into a woman with a baby strapped to her front. I apologise and she smiles in that tired yet euphoric way that new mothers do and my heart twists. I would have been nearly four months pregnant by now. Would I have had a bump? A glow? And the other one. The first.

  The streets are busy with families enjoying the last week of the Easter holidays, wrapped up in waterproofs, the streets a sea of umbrellas. The traffic is starting to build up as I get closer to the high street and lights are coming on in the windows I pass, despite it only being 4 p.m.

  The amount of post I’d received that morning plays on my mind as I queue at the post office. All those advertising round-robins and promises of 15 per cent off from companies that I’ve never even bought anything from. Why would they suddenly send me stuff?

  Just getting rid of the bag makes me feel lighter. As I round the corner to our street I sense somebody close behind me. I stop and turn abruptly. A woman is snapping at my heels. Her face is obscured by her umbrella, but I see long straggly hair and clunky biker boots. I walk on more slowly, but she doesn’t go around me, she slows too. Is she following me? I stop and stand aside to let her pass, annoyed that she’s invading my space. She strides past, not giving me a second glance.

  When I arrive back at the flat, Jamie is out with Ziggy so I retrieve my laptop from the living room to conduct what has become a daily ritual of scrolling through Cornish websites for news. As usual there is nothing.

  It’s dusk by the time I’ve finished and Jamie is still out with Ziggy, so I put a pan of pasta on the hob. I feel jittery and anxious, the parcel and letters still at the back of my mind. I can hear Evelyn’s radio on upstairs. She always has it turned up too loud but I find it comforting. Later in the evening the radio will be replaced by the TV and it won’t be long before I’ll hear the theme tune to one of the many soaps she watches.

  I strain the pasta over the sink, my gaze going to the window and the pavement above. Ziggy’s sitting under the street lamp and I can just make out a pair of legs next to him. I lean over the sink to get a better view. Jamie’s talking to a man in a pinstriped suit and dark overcoat. I vaguely recognise him from one of the big houses further down the road, a three-storey detached home with its own driveway. I’ve seen him getting into a flashy sports car. His wife is an attractive woman, younger than him and very glamorous, never without lipstick and several coats of mascara on her long lashes, her glossy dark hair always blow-dried in loose waves. The glow of the lamp-post illuminates the fine rain that falls softly onto Ziggy’s coat. Why is Jamie standing there talking in the rain? I can see that the man looks furious and he’s waving something in Jamie’s face.

  I run to the front door and open it just in time to see the man striding away. Jamie’s expression is closed as he descends the steps with Ziggy lolloping close behind. The rain has darkened Ziggy’s golden coat and his fur is furrowed between the eyes so that it looks as though he’s frowning.

  ‘Was that the guy from down the road? What did he want?’ I ask as soon as Jamie steps over the threshold. He shrugs off his coat and hangs it on the peg while I rub Ziggy down with an old towel.

  ‘Yep. Martin. Such a twat.’

  ‘What did he want?’ I repeat when it’s obvious Jamie isn’t going to volunteer any more information.

  ‘Oh, it was nothing.’

  I feel my hackles rising. ‘It didn’t look like nothing.’

  He stalks off into the kitchen and I follow. The sieved pasta sits on the side, growing cold. I return it to the saucepan and add some of the tomato sauce I’d defrosted earlier. I begin stirring the pasta so vigorously that sauce spits over the side and onto the hob with a sizzle.

  Jamie comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. ‘Don’t be mad, Libs.’

  ‘Then why can’t you tell me what it’s about?’

  He sighs, his breath hot on my neck. ‘It’s actually a bit embarrass
ing. Crossed wires, it has to be.’

  I swivel on my heels to face him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Martin accosted me as I was walking home with Ziggy. Said I’d been sending his wife love letters …’ He has the good grace to blush.

  ‘What?’ I drop the wooden spoon in shock and we both watch as it clatters to the floor, splashing tomato sauce onto the cabinets. I tut heavily and grab a dishcloth from the sink, wiping the floor and the cupboards.

  Jamie side-steps me and turns down the hob. ‘I know. It’s ridiculous. Well, they weren’t really letters. More like cards. Romantic cards.’ He gives a disbelieving laugh. ‘I don’t even know his wife. Didn’t even know her name until today. It’s Anya, apparently.’

  ‘But you’ve seen her? This Anya? Even you can’t have failed to notice how attractive she is.’

  ‘Well … yes,’ he says helplessly. ‘I suppose she is attractive. But I’ve only ever said hello. Sometimes we pass each other when she’s out running and I’m walking Ziggy.’

  I can feel the heat flood my face. I think of Jamie cosying up to Ruth at Lizard Point or chatting with Hannah, their bodies touching. He’s a bit of a flirt, I’ve always thought so. ‘So he showed you one of the cards?’ I say, still scrubbing the floor.

  ‘He practically shoved it in my face.’

  I stand up to rinse the cloth under the tap, trying to remain calm. I think of Katie’s swan analogy. She’s right. That’s me. Beneath it all I’m kicking furiously, trying not to drown. ‘And was it your writing?’

  ‘Of course it wasn’t. Libs …’ He grabs my arm and swings me around to face him. ‘You don’t think I’d do anything like that, do you?’

  ‘No … no, of course not …’ I look past his shoulder.

  ‘You don’t sound too sure.’

  ‘I am. It’s just …’

  ‘It’s just what?’

  I raise my eyes to his. We’ve been married for nine months. That’s all. And together four years before that. Long enough, surely? But how well do you ever really know someone? And he’d cheated on Hannah.

  I can’t help the words that slip from my lips. ‘I saw the text Hannah sent you.’

  ‘The text Hannah sent?’

  ‘When you were in hospital. I didn’t read it all. It popped up on your phone.’

  ‘I thought you were cool about Hannah now. I thought you understood. She’s just a friend …’

  My face grows hot with anger. ‘You know how she feels about you and guess what? I think you like it.’

  His eyes widen in surprise. ‘What?’

  ‘You like the attention. Would you be so understanding if my ex-boyfriend was invited to every fucking family dinner? If I stood next to him in the garden having cosy little chats, if he sent me texts asking me to keep secrets?’ I’m so angry that spittle is flying from my mouth. I’m usually careful to control my temper in front of Jamie – in front of everyone – but all the fear, the resentment, that’s been building up is erupting out of me.

  Surprise registers on his face but I’m on a roll now. ‘And don’t say I’m paranoid or bloody irrational. I can’t stand it when you say that. It’s so patronising. And yes, I am jealous. I’m jealous of the fact that you put her feelings before mine. That your family seem to like her more than me, that when we’re around your mum’s house I feel so redundant, so unwelcome –’

  ‘My family have always welcomed you.’

  ‘No they haven’t. The only one who is nice to me is Florrie.’

  There is a stunned silence. I’ve run out of steam now so I throw the wet cloth into the sink.

  Eventually Jamie speaks. ‘Libs, I’m sorry. But you have to trust me. I trust you.’

  A pang of guilt rips through me. ‘I’ve not given you any reason not to,’ I mumble.

  ‘There’s lots I don’t know about you. You never talk about your childhood. You never even want to go to Yorkshire. You never tell me anything about your parents. You keep everything bottled up, even what happened in Thailand. I know you haven’t told me the full story there.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’ I glare at him, my hands on my hips.

  ‘I think you were badly hurt by someone. Someone you loved.’ He moves towards me, his eyes soft. ‘I think your friend’s death has really affected you, has made you anxious about taking risks, trying anything new. You try to hide from anything that you deem dangerous, like flying, or driving a car. But you can’t … look what happened at the school. An accident that you couldn’t have prevented even though you spend your life trying to assess risk.’

  ‘Don’t try and psychoanalyse me, you sound like your mother. All I want to know is, did you send Anya those letters?’

  He backs away from me, his body heavy with disappointment, the softness in his eyes gone. I watch his face carefully to see if he’s lying.

  ‘No, I didn’t. But it hurts me that you even have to ask.’

  He looks sincere. I move towards him, my hand outstretched, a sorry on my lips, but he walks out of the room.

  I can’t sleep that night. I toss and turn, the sheets twisting beneath me, hot with anxiety. All I can think about is Martin accusing Jamie. After we rowed I apologised over slightly burnt pasta, and he’d reassured me it was a case of mistaken identity, that he would never cheat on me or hurt me. But Martin must have a reason to think it was Jamie. And even though I believe Jamie when he says he hasn’t sent them, it unnerves me to think that someone wants Martin – and possibly me – to think that Jamie has.

  17

  The next day another parcel is hanging out of our letterbox from the same catalogue company. I recognise the garish orange wrapping instantly.

  ‘Don’t open it,’ warns Jamie as I sit with it in front of me at the kitchen table. He’s standing by the kettle. His eyes are tired. He was up until 1 a.m. working. ‘You know you didn’t order it so just return it.’

  ‘I need to know what it is. I can’t help but think these parcels are personal.’

  He hands me a mug of tea. ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. But the Heywoods … they stayed here. They had access to our information. How do I know this isn’t down to them?’

  He opens his mouth to tell me not to be paranoid, but when he notices my expression he shuts it again. I tentatively tear open the plastic. It looks like some kind of wig, long and golden-brown. What can this mean?

  ‘What is it?’ Jamie peers over my shoulder.

  ‘A wig. Why would anyone send me a wig?’ I touch my own hair self-consciously to check that it hasn’t started falling out.

  He doesn’t say anything and when I swivel around in my chair I notice he’s moved away from me and is looking out the window. He has his back to me so I can’t see his face but from the rigidness of his body I can tell he’s tense. ‘Jamie? Are you OK?’ It’s then I notice the phone pressed to his ear. I didn’t hear it ring. He walks out of the room and to his office, phone clamped to his ear. It must be a work call, I think, as I pick up my own phone and dial the catalogue company. Or Hannah? I push this thought away.

  The woman I speak to is helpful, informing me I’d opened an account last Thursday at 10 a.m. – the day we were returning from Cornwall – and had ordered the bag and the wig online twenty minutes later. I try to keep the frustration out of my voice as I inform her that there is some mistake, that I haven’t opened an account or ordered anything. ‘Please can you close it?’ I ask. ‘And if someone tries to open another account under my name can you let me know? It’s very important.’ She assures me she’ll do as I ask but I feel unsettled as I put the phone down. Why would someone do this to me?

  When I return from the post office – soaked through from a downpour because I’d forgotten my umbrella – a man I don’t recognise is sitting drinking tea at the kitchen table with Jamie. He’s wearing a Columbo-style mackintosh, with dark patches on the shoulders and back where he’s been pelted with rain. He looks to be in his late fifties with a stern face and thick bifoca
l glasses perched on his nose.

  ‘Libby.’ Jamie pushes back his chair when he sees me. His face is devoid of colour, making his stubble look more prominent. His whole demeanour is tense. ‘This is DS Byrnes. He’s got some news. About the Heywoods.’

  I slide into a chair wordlessly. My eyes dart to Jamie to try and ascertain his emotions, but his face is closed, his lips pressed together so tightly that they turn white. I brace myself for news of Tara’s murder. Spending time in her home, amongst the decor that she had chosen, the photographs on her wall, with her beautiful clothes hanging in the wardrobe, I feel her loss even though I’ve never known her.

  I can’t bear the tension any longer. ‘Is she dead?’ I blurt out.

  ‘Who?’ asks DS Byrnes, frowning.

  ‘Tara Heywood?’

  ‘Why would you think that she’s dead, Mrs Hall?’ His voice is calm but I can hear the note of suspicion. Is it directed at us? Does he think we have something to do with Tara’s death?

  ‘Because … because of the clothing. That we found in the garden … the blood …’

  He stares at me in a way that makes me feel on edge, as though I’ve done something wrong.