Last Seen Alive

by Claire Douglas

  Jamie and I had agreed before the meal not to mention the disturbing developments and our fears about the Heywoods to Jamie’s family. We still hope there will be a simple explanation for it all. Although as time goes by I’m at a loss to know what that could be. Gerard is staring at me expectantly, another question about our university days already forming on his lips. He opens his mouth. ‘And do you remember …’

  I need to change the subject, quickly. I don’t want to be engaged in conversation with Gerard any longer. ‘Florrie!’ I cut right across him in my best teacher’s voice, clear and confident. ‘I really love that top you’re wearing. Where did you get it?’

  I return to school on Tuesday, welcoming some normality, some routine back into our lives. I’m delighted to be teaching again, to interact with my class and to gossip with Cara. I’m so busy over the next few days that I push everything else to the back of my mind, where it sits there, niggling away at me like an ache.

  I’m tired as I trudge home from work on Friday evening. It’s been a busy day; a Year One child threw up outside the receptionist’s office, a parent came in to complain that her son wasn’t being moved up the reading levels quickly enough, and I’ve had to get to the bottom of why one of the Year Twos deliberately ripped up a library book in a fit of temper. After so many restless nights, I can hardly think straight. The rain begins to fall as I turn into our street, cementing my bad mood. I see Evelyn sitting in her chair by the window. It’s prematurely dark because of the weather but she doesn’t have a lamp on. I wave but she doesn’t wave back. My mind is foggy with tiredness. All I want to do is convince Jamie to get a takeaway and flop in front of the telly to watch The Affair.

  My heart falls when I see DS Byrnes sitting at our kitchen table. He stands when he sees me. He’s wearing the same beige mackintosh and I can see a stain down the front that looks like brown sauce. He has a mug in front of him, the one with a triangular chip at its rim that we should have thrown away years ago. I can’t believe Jamie has given it to him.

  Jamie pushes back his chair, relief on his face. ‘I’ve told DS Byrnes everything we know,’ he says before I’ve even sat down. I drop my bag by my chair and shrug off my jacket. The air in the kitchen feels oppressive, with a faint tang of spicy noodles which Jamie must have cooked for his lunch.

  ‘Right.’ I glance at Byrnes. ‘Jamie’s told you that we think the man at Lizard Point is the same person who pretended to be Philip Heywood?’

  ‘Yes. He’s filled me in on everything. We are trying to ascertain who might have had a key to the Heywoods’ property.’

  ‘Do you think –’ I gulp ‘– that a murder took place there?’

  ‘I can’t reveal that at the moment, I’m afraid, Mrs Hall. Although I can say that the clothing has been examined and it doesn’t belong to Mrs Heywood. The blood isn’t human either.’

  ‘Not human? You mean … it belongs to an animal?’

  ‘Yes. We think it must have been put in the garden to frighten you. We are also trying to discover whether this is something personal against yourself and Mr Hall or whether it’s a scam.’ He clears his throat. ‘Have you noticed anything missing from your property? Jewellery or any other items that could be worth something?’

  I frown. ‘No, nothing.’ It’s one of the first things I did when returning from Cornwall, not that we have much in the way of valuables.

  ‘And you’ve changed your locks?’

  I nod. ‘As soon as our upstairs neighbour told me that Philip Heywood – or who we thought was Philip Heywood – hadn’t returned the key.’

  ‘That’s great. I’ll be in touch when we have any more information.’ He inclines his head towards Jamie. ‘Thank you, Mr Hall, for the updated statement. That’s very helpful.’ I almost expect him to doff his hat at us, if he was wearing one. There is something reassuringly old-fashioned about him.

  Jamie sees him out and I switch the kettle on, smiling to myself when I hear Jamie bounding into the kitchen. ‘Isn’t it good news?’ he asks.

  ‘There didn’t seem to be any news. He just wanted more information from you, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, but I think he believes us. He said he’s going to speak to Evelyn, and she’ll confirm that a man came to pick up the key from her and what he looked like. Honestly, for a while there, Libs, I thought we might get arrested for murder or something.’

  I laugh, although it sticks in my throat. All I can think about is that someone deliberately soaked a woman’s underwear in animal’s blood to scare us.

  About twenty minutes later, Jamie is ordering a takeaway and I’m pottering in the kitchen when I hear the sound of knuckles rapping urgently on our front door. I can see from the kitchen window a flash of DS Byrnes’ beige coat, the rain falling heavily onto his head and shoulders. I curse under my breath, wondering why he’s back again so soon. Maybe Evelyn has revealed something he needs to ask us about? I shuffle to the door in my too-large slippers, my dressing gown wrapped around me. I’d changed out of my suit the minute the detective left. I feel bloated and uncomfortable.

  I open the door and let him in out of the rain, a gust of cold air in his wake. He stands in the hallway, his eyes narrowed, making them look even smaller behind his thick glasses. ‘I’m so sorry to bother you again, Mrs Hall, but I can’t get hold of your neighbour. I’ve been knocking for ages and I can see her in the window. But she’s obviously too scared to answer. I was wondering if you would come with me. Maybe if she sees you then she’ll answer. I know some old people don’t like to open the door when it starts getting dark.’

  I swallow down a sigh and grab my raincoat from its peg, kicking off my slippers and shoving my feet into a pair of wellies. I don’t get the chance to tell Jamie where I’m going as I follow DS Byrnes to Evelyn’s door.

  Most windows along the street are illuminated by the soft glow of lamps or overhead lights, but Evelyn’s flat is shrouded in darkness. I can see her in the window. I lean over the railings to tap on the glass, careful not to fall onto the sharp spikes or to lose my balance. I imagine landing with a sickening thud outside our kitchen window, Jamie finding me prostrate on the pavement outside our front door.

  ‘Evelyn, it’s only me,’ I call, but my voice drifts away into the rush-hour traffic building up along the main road.

  ‘Who lives above Mrs Goodwin?’ says DS Byrnes.

  ‘Nobody.’ I tap the glass again, trying not to lose my footing. ‘It’s a two-storey house. The basement where we live was converted and sold separately.’

  Why isn’t Evelyn answering me? And why is her head slumped back against the headrest of her favourite chair? ‘She can barely make the stairs any more but she’s lived here more than forty years.’ I turn to him, trying to quell the worry lodged heavily in the pit of my stomach. ‘I think something’s wrong. I can’t see properly over the railings but she doesn’t look like she’s moving. She could be asleep? But she’s eighty …’

  ‘Understood. I’m going to have to break in.’

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ Jamie is suddenly standing on the pavement, in the rain, watching us. ‘You’d disappeared. I was worried.’

  I fight back tears. ‘Evelyn’s not answering the door, Jay. Can you go and get the spare key?’

  DS Byrne looks relieved not to have to break the door down. ‘You have a key? Why didn’t you say?’

  ‘You didn’t ask.’ We’d swapped keys just in case either of us ever got locked out. Although she doesn’t go very far nowadays. I pull the coat around me, shivering.

  Jamie’s back within seconds. He darts up the stairs to join us, turning the key in the lock deftly, the heavy front door swinging open. I run past him, the others close behind.

  I know, before I even enter the room, that she’s dead. But I rush to her anyway, my insides twisting with grief to see her sitting in her favourite chair, the yellow baby booties she’d been knitting on the floor by her feet, her beautiful blue eyes staring into nothing, her hand on her ches
t as though, as death approached, she’d been willing her heart to keep beating.

  20

  I spend most of Saturday in bed, crying; Jamie can’t understand why I’ve taken her death so hard. How can he when he is constantly in the bosom of his heaving, loving family? He only knows what it’s like to be loved unconditionally. I haven’t experienced that type of maternal love in a long time – and it wasn’t as though Evelyn loved me, we only knew each other for two years, but I could tell she cared about me, that she was on my side. She was the closest thing I had to a grandmother and now she’s gone.

  Her last words to me play on a loop in my mind. She’d implied that I shouldn’t trust my husband. Why would she say that? I think again of those cards Martin accused Jamie of sending to Anya. The secret he shares with Hannah. What had Evelyn been alluding to? I dismiss the thought straight away, feeling disloyal to Jamie for even entertaining the idea, but it keeps creeping back into my head, needling away at me. I’ve always been so sure that Jamie would never cheat on me, that he takes our marriage vows seriously. He is a black and white kind of guy, no grey areas for him. It can be infuriating sometimes but that’s why I love him. Yet what if I’m wrong? What if I’m one of those women who’s blind to what’s going on under her nose?

  Is everything that’s happening to us now because of Jamie? What’s that saying? Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Who has Jamie scorned?

  The thought of losing him is so painful it makes me feel sick. He’s the only person I have left.

  He walks into the room, carrying a tray of tea and toast. Would he be so kind to me, I reason, if he was having an affair? Guilt, insists the voice inside my head. Guilt is why he’s bringing you breakfast in bed. I’d read a book only the other week, about a marriage where the woman finds out that her husband has a secret life; that he isn’t what he’d seemed. It’s too common, there are always stories about it in newspapers and magazines under screaming headlines of ‘Love Rat’ or ‘Love Cheat’.

  And Jamie has kept things from me before.

  The loan from his mother for one thing. He doesn’t think I know about that, but I overheard them talking in low voices. He’d been unable to set up the business without her help. I still don’t understand why he couldn’t just tell me. Pride, I suppose. And he knows I’d hate the thought of owing his mother anything.

  ‘Are you all right, Libs?’ he says now, placing the tray across my lap as though I’m a patient in hospital. He sits on the edge of the bed. ‘I’m so sorry about Evelyn.’

  A tear snakes out the corner of my eye and I grab the tissue from beneath my pyjama sleeve. After constantly sniffing as a child due to hay fever, my mum always made me carry a tissue. It’s a habit I can’t break, and in a strange way it makes me think of her, knowing that she cared about me in her own way. ‘Thank you for this,’ I say, indicating the breakfast, the tissue damp and starting to break up between my fingers. He opens his mouth as if to say something but then closes it again. I know what he’s thinking; that this isn’t just about Evelyn, it’s about losing my mum too. I sense him contemplating whether to bring up counselling again.

  I take a sip of tea, assessing him over the rim of my mug. He rubs his eyes. His blond hair is damp from the rain and he looks ruggedly handsome in his old Primal Scream T-shirt and jeans. I yearn to reach over and kiss him but something stops me. He’s smiling at me but it’s too set, too fake.

  I put the cup down. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  His smile slips. ‘It’s been a stressful few weeks and I didn’t want to worry you with this,’ he says, looking down into his lap. It’s then that I notice the bank statement in his hand. ‘But I’ve spoken to DS Byrnes and we think it must be the same person who’s responsible for opening the catalogue accounts under your name. And all those annoying pamphlets and circulars you keep receiving.’

  I’m angry that he went straight to DS Byrnes instead of talking to me about it first. The tips of my fingers tingle and I resist the urge to snatch the letter out of his hand. ‘What does it say?’

  His voice is strained when he replies. ‘Our bank account has been emptied. And someone has opened a four-thousand pound credit card in your name and spent all the money.’

  I fall back onto the pillows, fresh tears forming in my eyes. ‘Oh God.’

  ‘I know. Luckily our account wasn’t that flush at the time. They only took seven hundred pounds.’

  ‘Only!’

  ‘It could have been worse.’

  ‘And the credit card?’

  ‘That’s a bit more difficult. We’re going to have to prove you didn’t open it. They had all your details. National Insurance number. Bank account numbers.’

  I push the tray aside, suddenly losing my appetite, and jump out of bed, pulling my dressing gown on. ‘Who would do this to us, Jamie? Why go to such lengths?’

  ‘Someone seriously fucked up, that’s who,’ says Jamie darkly. ‘Do you know anyone like that, Libby? Anyone from your past?’

  I round on him, my cheeks burning. ‘Do you?’

  ‘The bag, Libby. It was a backpack. Could it mean something?’

  ‘Why? Why does this have to be something to do with me? This could be about you. A woman who you’ve scorned, perhaps? There seem to be a few.’

  ‘Not this again,’ he mumbles, his face crestfallen. ‘Why won’t you believe me?’

  My anger vanishes as quickly as it arrived. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, going over to him. ‘It just doesn’t make sense, Jay. None of this makes sense.’

  Has someone organised this whole house swap just so they can get into our flat and rifle through our things to steal enough details to get a credit card in my name? I’ve read newspaper articles about the elaborate lengths scam artists sometimes go to. But why us? Why not one of the bigger houses down the street? There are many more valuable houses in Bath, like Martin and Anya’s, for example. Why choose our small basement flat?

  Unless it was personal.

  Jamie plants a kiss on my mouth. It feels perfunctory rather than loving. Why do I feel that these events are forcing us apart rather than together? He stands up and stretches his long legs. ‘You’ve had a shock with Evelyn’s death, I’ll sort this out. It will be all right.’

  I’m touched by his optimism; it’s like having the old Jamie back, the one I’d first met, who had taken a broken, defensive girl with enough baggage for a year’s holiday around the world, and breathed life back into her as though he were a paramedic. I can’t reconcile that Jamie with the one that Evelyn warned me about; the one who keeps secrets, and tells lies, who maybe has affairs with a married neighbour. But our personalities are multi-faceted, aren’t they? Maybe those traits are part of him and I’m only beginning to realise.

  I can hear him clattering around the kitchen, emptying the dishwasher and putting the crockery and glasses away. Usually he has to be reminded to empty the dishwasher. He obviously wants to keep busy, I tell myself, pushing away any disloyal thoughts that it’s guilt galvanising him.

  ‘I’m popping out, Libs,’ he calls from the kitchen. ‘I’ll be a few hours. See you later.’ Before I can answer I hear the front door slam. Where’s he going? I rush to the kitchen window and pull aside the blinds, but there is no sign of him, the pavement above empty and slick with rain. Ziggy whines and I turn to see him lying despondently on the wooden floor, his head between his paws, looking up at me with his big brown eyes. Jamie usually takes Ziggy when he goes out. I crouch down to comfort him. ‘I’ll take you for a walk. Let me just have a shower,’ I say, kissing the top of his fluffy head, inhaling his comforting, doggy scent.

  I’m just about to go back into the bedroom when I notice Jamie’s laptop on the kitchen table. He usually keeps it in the study. He very rarely works weekends. He’s still starting out, so he doesn’t have that many clients. In fact, he complained only a few nights ago that he isn’t as busy now that two potential clients have pulled out, deciding to go ‘another way’. It worried
him; I could tell by the creases in his forehead as he told me, trying to appear casual with his legs stretched out in front of him and his laptop resting on his knees, yet his voice gave it away. It had been tinged with panic; questions of how would we cope financially left unspoken.

  I don’t know what makes me do it. It’s something I’d never have considered in the past. Maybe it’s what Evelyn said, her last words to me still fresh in my mind. I lift the lid of his laptop. He has a picture of the two of us as his wallpaper, Ziggy squashed between us, our arms around his neck. It was taken last summer, a few weeks before we got married, in his mum’s garden. It’s the same photo I have on my phone. We both look tanned, my dark fringe swept to the side, a contrast to his dirty blond mop, our eyes shining with happiness, our smiles wide and sappy with love, the top of Ziggy’s fluffy head reaching to just under our chins. A lump forms in my throat. I snap the lid shut. What am I thinking? I can’t spy on my husband.

  A knock at the door shatters the silence and Ziggy leaps to his feet, emitting a deep bark. I go to the door, opening it halfway, conscious that I’m still in my dressing gown. A man is standing in front of me, good-looking, in his early twenties.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m looking for a Jamie Hall,’ he says in a foreign accent I can’t quite place.

  ‘He’s not here at the moment. Can I help?’

  There is something about the man’s expression that unnerves me: cocky, arrogant, his body language too familiar. ‘He said he would meet me here. But he didn’t say anything about a three-way.’ His eyes travel to my bare legs as though following an invisible line, stopping where the velour dressing gown meets my calves.

  ‘What are you talking about?’