‘No, she’s not dead. Both the Heywoods are alive and well, you’ll be pleased to hear. We’ve finally managed to locate them. They’ve been away …’
‘Well, yes …’ I frown. Of course they’ve been away, I want to shout. They’ve been here.
He carries on as if I haven’t spoken. ‘They live in London. Where they’ve been for months.’ He peers at me over the rim of his thick glasses. ‘They have never heard of you or –’ he inclines his head in Jamie’s direction ‘– Mr Hall. They know nothing about the house swap. In fact, they were under the impression that their Cornwall home was empty.’
I can tell by Jamie’s body language that he’s already been told this news. Shock renders me speechless for a few seconds. DS Byrnes assesses me coolly.
‘But … but I don’t understand.’
‘Neither do we,’ he says in the same grave voice. ‘Can you tell me, from the beginning, everything that happened that led to this so-called house swap?’ I notice he has an A4 notepad and pen in front of him. He clicks the end of the pen with his thumb and presses it against the paper, turning to me expectantly.
Jamie leans across the table and gives my hand a reassuring squeeze. ‘Go and get the leaflet, Libs.’
I leap out of my chair and hurry into the hallway. I’d shoved the leaflet in the top drawer of the unit by the door just in case I’d lost Philip’s number or there had been a problem. Not that I’d been expecting anything like this. I rummage through the drawer, taking all the papers out and rifling through them. But the leaflet is nowhere to be found.
With a sinking feeling I return to the kitchen. ‘I can’t find it,’ I say. I can see the dismay written all over Jamie’s features. ‘It said that they were looking for a house swap, that they needed to be near the hospital as their daughter was undergoing life-saving surgery. He gave his phone number. I spoke to him. He was from the north, like me …’
DS Byrnes smiles to himself as though he’s party to a joke nobody else can understand. And that’s when I realise: there’s no proof that the person we spoke to was Philip Heywood.
I sit down with a sigh. ‘Look,’ I begin, trying to remain calm as I reiterate the facts, ‘I spoke to a man on the phone. He said he was called Philip Heywood. I googled him. He seemed respectable. He came to get the key from my neighbour upstairs. You can check with her. Her name’s Evelyn Goodwin. And a woman was seen here too. A glass was left with a lipstick mark on.’ I curse myself for washing it and not keeping it as proof but I’d had no reason to think I’d need to. ‘They had been here.’ I can hear my voice rising in desperation. ‘And they do own the Hideaway because I looked it up before we went, just to be sure.’
He clears his throat. ‘It’s true, they do own that property but they’ve been at their home in London since the end of February. Neighbours have corroborated their story. The Heywoods don’t have a daughter. They don’t have any children.’ He takes his glasses off and leans towards me. ‘I don’t know who was staying in your flat last week, Mrs Hall, but it certainly wasn’t the Heywoods.’
18
I half expect DS Byrnes to arrest us, but instead he stands up and stuffs his notebook back into a briefcase, telling us he’ll be in touch, as though he’s a travelling salesman, not a detective. ‘I’ll be back in the next few days to interview your neighbour,’ he says.
We sit at the table in stunned silence after he leaves, unable to take in what we’ve heard. I can’t get my head around the notion that we’ve been conned, that someone has used Philip and Tara’s home to swap with ours. But why?
Jamie puts his head in his hands and groans. ‘What have we done?’ His head shoots up, his eyes narrowed. ‘We let strangers into our home and we don’t even know their real names. They could have done anything while they were here. Rifled through our personal stuff. They could have bank details, credit card numbers … they were obviously in the study. I could tell that my folder had been moved.’ He throws his arms up into the air. ‘We’re fucked!’
‘No we’re not. We need to cancel all our cards, check any accounts that have been opened in our name,’ I say calmly. ‘We’ve been unlucky, that’s all. Lots of people do house swaps. Maybe the Heywoods are lying to the police. Have you thought about that? Maybe he has killed his wife and is trying to frame us.’
He sighs. ‘Why would he even do that?’
‘I don’t know,’ I admit. ‘He needs someone to pin the blame on?’
He takes a deep breath and I can see he’s making an effort to control his frustration. He spreads his hands out in front of him on the table. ‘OK, here’s what we know. Somebody – either the Heywoods or someone else – posted a leaflet through our door asking to swap homes. Were we targeted on purpose or did they do a leaflet drop along this road and we were the only ones to bite?’
I frown. ‘I don’t know. Does it make a difference?’
‘Of course it does, Libs. Don’t you see? If we were the only ones to receive a leaflet, then they wanted our particular flat. And if that’s the case it’s obviously personal.’
I’m appalled at the thought. ‘I can’t get my head around any of this. It doesn’t make sense. Why would somebody want to use our flat? You think they used the Heywoods’ house to get us out the way? And if it wasn’t Philip and Tara it must be someone they know, someone who has a key!’
His eyes light up. ‘Or someone who knew they were away a lot. Maybe they had a key cut without Philip and Tara knowing?’
‘Like that Jim? He was really weird, following us about, or that other bloke at Lizard Point. He was definitely acting odd.’
‘Or maybe Philip and Tara aren’t as innocent in all this as they make out? Maybe their neighbours are covering for them and Philip killed his wife. Or they’ve both killed someone else?’
Despite our situation I smile at Jamie, feeling closer to him than I have since Cornwall. Because he’s finally admitting that something is very wrong. He’s not dismissing me as paranoid. This is actually happening to us.
He smiles back, a little uncertainly. Then he stands up, pushing his chair away in a sudden fit of frustration. ‘We’re just going around in circles, aren’t we?’
We are. I have to do something constructive. I can’t sit here ruminating any longer. ‘I’m going upstairs to see Evelyn,’ I say, also standing up. It’s only 5.30 p.m. Not too late to go calling.
Jamie looks quizzical. ‘Why?’
‘Because she handed our key over to the man who called himself Philip Heywood and I also want to see if she received a leaflet too. I never thought to ask before.’
He pulls me into his arms. ‘It will be all right, please don’t worry, Libs. I know what you’re like. After everything …’ He trails off. He doesn’t have to finish. I know what he’s trying to say. It has been a traumatic few months, and now this. He brushes my hair back from my face and I lean against his chest. I’ve always felt safe before, wrapped in Jamie’s arms, but this time I’m not sure if even Jamie can stop the unease that has settled like dust into every layer of my being. I fear I’ll never feel safe again.
Evelyn opens her front door cautiously, peering out with round, frightened eyes. When she sees it’s me standing there she visibly relaxes. But even as she ushers me into the hallway, urging me to get out of the rain, she still wears that pinched, worried look on her face.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask.
She nods and waves her hand dismissively. ‘I’m fine, don’t worry about me. Just a hint of indigestion.’ She rubs her floral blouse with a fist to illustrate her point, although that doesn’t explain her fearful expression when she opened the door.
I follow her into the drawing room and watch as she makes herself comfortable in her usual seat by the window. I sit opposite her. I don’t want to worry her, but I fill her in on what the detective told us earlier.
‘So the man who came to get the key? What did he look like?’ I ask her gently.
She has a cup of tea next to her, which she brings to her lips with an
unsteady hand. ‘Like I said before, he was mid-thirties. He looked a bit older than your Jamie, but not much.’
I recall the photo of Philip Heywood on Google, his dark hair flecked with grey and neatly combed into a side parting, his trim moustache, the shoulders of a pinstriped suit visible in the shot. He looked to be in his late forties, at least.
‘Did he have dark hair and a moustache?’ I can barely keep still; my whole body jangles with anticipation like the bracelets on Sylvia’s wrists.
She frowns, replacing her teacup on the side table carefully. ‘No … no, definitely not a moustache.’ She picks up her knitting – it looks like the beginnings of baby booties in a soft lemon wool and the sight of them fills me with longing. I’d only just begun telling people I was pregnant, before the miscarriage. The twelve-week scan had been days away. We’d been so excited, Jamie and I, so looking forward to being parents. We had such plans. And the pregnancy had gone well. I’d experienced no side effects, no nausea. I cradle my stomach. There is still a slight bulge. My periods aren’t back to normal, my body out of sorts and hormonal. It has only been five weeks, after all. Evelyn was so kind to me afterwards. She’d been a midwife when she was young, she told me, and had seen it all before. I wonder who she’s knitting them for before my mind snaps back to thoughts of Philip. Evelyn pauses from her knitting and assesses me, eyebrows raised. ‘It was hard to tell, really, because he was wearing a hat.’
‘A hat?’
‘Yes, one of those ugly ones you young people like to wear nowadays.’ She gives a short, sharp laugh. ‘Like a tea cosy.’
‘Do you mean a beanie?’ I manage.
‘Yes, that’s it, a beanie. He had one of those on. And a woolly, fleecy thing.’
It’s the same man, it has to be – the man from Lizard Point, the man who had been watching us on the beach near The Hideaway. Who was he and what did he want?
Evelyn carries on knitting, the needles clacking. Radio 2 is on in the background and Simon Mayo is chatting to a guest.
I swallow down my nausea. ‘Did you … did you ever receive a leaflet through the post? Asking if you’d do a house swap?’
She glances up at me over her needles, which are still moving at speed. ‘No. I didn’t get anything like that.’ She stops knitting and looks serious. ‘Do you think this man is responsible for all those strange things that happened to you on holiday?’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t know. I think so. He’s obviously not Philip Heywood. I don’t know who he is.’
‘Like I said before, I didn’t get the sense he stayed very long in your flat.’
That’s probably right. After all, he couldn’t have been in Bath for very long if he’d followed us down to Cornwall.
‘Long enough to do something,’ I admit with a regretful sigh. ‘I just wish I knew what.’ I stand up to leave. ‘I’d better get back. But please promise me, Evelyn, if you notice anything weird … anyone hanging around our flat, will you let me know?’
She stands up too. I’m short but she only reaches my shoulder. ‘There is something …’
‘What? What is it?’
‘I’ve noticed … men. Not always the same man, but different men. Lurking around outside. They’ve not done anything. It’s as if they are waiting …’
‘Waiting?’
‘Yes. I’m not sure what for. But it has frightened me a little bit.’
Was that why she’d been so reluctant to open the door earlier?
‘You know,’ she says, folding her knitting away and placing it on the side table. ‘I do see some strange things sometimes, sitting here all day.’ She takes one of my hands; her skin feels like tissue paper, thin and fragile. ‘Please be careful, Libby, my love. You’ve always been so good to me.’
‘Evelyn, you’re scaring me now. What strange things do you see?’
She blinks, as though inwardly debating whether to tell me. And then, ‘I’ve also seen a woman hanging around outside.’
‘A woman?’
‘It might be nothing. I’m not sure. It’s probably just a coincidence …’ She sighs. ‘Just be careful, be aware, that’s all I’m saying. When you get to my age you realise there are a lot of strange people out there, people who think nothing of hurting others. And some of them can be the closest person to us.’ She smiles regretfully. ‘My husband didn’t always tell me the truth. I wasted so many years with him. Just make sure you get the truth, Libby, my dear.’
As I return to my flat, looking over my shoulder for the shadowy, nameless men or the faceless woman that she talked about, I have the distinct, unnerving impression that she’d been trying to warn me about Jamie.
19
As I close the shutters before bed that evening, I see a figure on the other side of the road. It’s too dark and too far away to tell if it’s a man or a woman, but by their height I think they must be female. Their features are masked by the dull light but I can make out that they’re leaning against the garden wall of the house opposite and smoking a cigarette. Who would be hanging around at this time of night? Is this the woman Evelyn was talking about?
When I look again, ten minutes later, the person has gone.
I hardly sleep. Evelyn’s words spin around and around in my head, refusing to be dislodged, like a wayward sock in a washing machine. Every time a shadow passes across our Roman blind, or the sound of a bin clatters in the street, I wake up with a start, my heart pounding, my nightwear clinging to my sweaty skin. What was Evelyn trying to tell me? Was she insinuating that Jamie wasn’t to be trusted?
Suspicion swells inside me. I so desperately want to think the best of Jamie but I can’t stop the nagging voice in my head telling me that Anya is beautiful, that Jamie’s by himself in the house all day and has plenty of opportunity for an affair, that he’s cheated before. How would it have started? Had they bumped into each other while he was out walking Ziggy? Most people stop to stroke or coo over our dog, and Jamie is handsome, friendly. And we’ve had our problems these past few months. Has Jamie’s head been turned by Anya? Had they got talking and then realised their mutual attraction? Did they fall into bed together, unable to stop themselves?
My thoughts are running away from me like an excitable toddler. I know, deep down, that Jamie loves me. And he’s too disorganised, too moralistic to conduct a double life. But then Hannah’s text message pops into my head along with the little voice reminding me that he is keeping something from me; something Hannah doesn’t want me to know.
Is Hannah behind the house swap? Did she send me the backpack and the wig? That doesn’t make sense. Why would she? And what about the bloodied clothing we found in the Heywoods’ garden? If it doesn’t belong to Tara then whose was it?
On Saturday I offer to take Ziggy for his morning walk. Jamie pauses from tying the laces on his trainers to look up at me. ‘It’s the only exercise I get,’ he says, sounding disappointed. ‘I sometimes run with him. I’m stuck behind a desk all day.’ Is that the only reason he’s so desperate to go? Or is he hoping to bump into Anya?
‘Let’s go together then,’ I suggest. He seems surprised but he doesn’t object as we amble down the street. In fact, he seems happy to take my hand in his. It’s a sunny day, unusually warm for April, and I’m only wearing a thin jacket over a T-shirt and jeans. I purposefully lead him past Anya’s house, hoping to spot her. I’m not sure why. Maybe I want to see how Jamie reacts if we bump into her. If he really has sent her romantic cards, if he really does have a schoolboy crush on her, I will know by the way he acts around her. Martin’s car is in the driveway – a black, shiny BMW – but there is no sign of either of them, much to my disappointment. I wonder, as we head to the park, whether Martin actually believes his wife has been unfaithful. Maybe she really is having an affair. Maybe there’s another Jamie and he’d jumped to the wrong conclusions?
We spend Easter Sunday with Jamie’s family, like we always do. It’s times like this that I miss having a family of my own to spend the holida
ys with. I watch Hannah, noting the many times she tries to engage Jamie in a private conversation. Could she have hired some man to pretend to be Philip Heywood to drive a wedge between me and Jamie? But that’s just too bizarre. Surely she’s not capable of that kind of manipulation?
I observe her bustling around Sylvia, helping set the table and placing pretty, ditsy napkins on plates. My offers of help were batted away earlier by Sylvia, with a slightly harried expression.
I also study Katie as she flits around the house in her too-skimpy clothes, acting like the teenager she still thinks she is, her hair in ropes around her shoulders, a strand woven around one of her fingers. She has a new boyfriend with her, someone else to squeeze in around the oval dining table and for Sylvia to fuss over. He’s older, handsome in an obvious kind of way, with too-white teeth, dark hair and a square Desperate Dan jaw. His name’s Gerard and they’d met ‘through friends’, apparently. ‘He went to Sheffield uni, didn’t you, Gerard?’ Katie says over the roast duck. ‘Like you, Libby.’
Gerard, who’s sitting between Katie and Hannah and opposite me, Florrie and Jamie, grins inanely. ‘I certainly did.’
There’s something about him I don’t like. He seems too pleased with himself, with his top-of-the-range car and his job in ‘events management’. He assesses me then with his hooded eyes. He resembles a crow. ‘What year did you graduate?’
‘Um.’ I prod a roast potato with my fork. ‘Two thousand and eight.’
‘Ah. Two thousand for me. I’m a little older than you.’ That made him ten years older than Katie. He looks like the type of man who thinks it’s a status symbol to have a younger woman on his arm, as though Katie is a flash motor to brag about. ‘What course did you do?’
‘English Lit.’ My mouth has gone dry. Gerard’s too nosy for my liking.
‘Me too. Do you remember Professor Peterson? He was a right one, wasn’t he? I’m sure he had narcolepsy, because he seemed to fall asleep as he talked. Either that or his lectures were so soporific he bored himself.’ He laughs at his own joke and I grin along, chewing my potato. Katie can’t stop stroking his arm and gazing adoringly at him. Richard, who’s sitting at the head of the table opposite Sylvia, watches them with interest over his glass of red wine, as though he hopes they’ll start having sex right there and then.
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