‘The advert …’ he says, frowning, suddenly unsure of himself. He lowers his voice. ‘The sex?’
I close the door in his face, my heart pounding. The sex? In the middle of the afternoon? In broad daylight?
‘You bitch!’ he shouts through the door, and then there’s the sound of his boot kicking the wood. Ziggy begins barking furiously.
‘If you don’t leave right now I’ll call the police,’ I scream back, fleeing into the kitchen so that I can watch as he strides up the steps to the pavement above. I see him pause when he reaches the top and then stroll on as if nothing untoward has happened.
Evelyn’s words flash through my mind. I’ve noticed … men. Not always the same man, but different men. Lurking around outside … It’s as if they are waiting …
I open Jamie’s laptop and google his name, already having an idea of what I might find. I have to scroll through numerous Jamie Halls until I find what I’m looking for, and, despite my suspicions, my mouth fills with saliva when I click onto the lurid porn website advertising Jamie’s services.
21
I pace the flat, unable to settle. I ring Jamie’s mobile but there’s no answer. Where the hell is he?
I try to keep busy to ward off my unease. I shower, dress and take Ziggy for a walk via Anya and Martin’s house. It’s a Saturday but Jamie left in such a hurry this morning that I can’t help the flame of suspicion that flickers in my mind. Is there some truth to Martin’s accusations? No smoke without fire, right? Is Jamie with Anya at this moment? As I approach their house I notice Anya in the driveway, pulling dandelions out of the front garden. Martin’s car isn’t on the drive. Even weeding she looks glamorous, a scarf tied around her dark hair and wearing skinny jeans that hug and flatter. I hesitate by the entrance. Dare I approach her? As if sensing my presence, she stands up and turns around, her eyes widening when she notices me.
‘Can I help you?’ she asks, walking towards me. Her voice is soft and well modulated but her eyes are wary. She’s wearing gardening gloves with a pretty floral print. I try to work out her age. She can’t be more than thirty at the most. But the way she holds herself, with a kind of self-assurance, reminds me of some of the mothers at the school.
I can feel myself blushing. ‘Um … I’m Libby. Jamie Hall’s wife.’
Recognition dawns. ‘Ah. I see.’
‘I … actually I don’t think you do. Could we have a quick chat?’
She frowns, her gaze taking in Ziggy, as though worried he’ll mess up her front lawn. I notice she’s wearing red lipstick, which enhances her olive complexion. She reminds me of Nicole Scherzinger.
‘I don’t think there is anything to chat about. Do you?’
‘My husband didn’t send you those cards!’ I exclaim. I don’t know why it’s so important for me to tell her, maybe it’s pride. I don’t want her to think my husband has a crush on her. ‘I don’t know why you think he did …’
A smile plays on her lips. ‘Maybe because he signed them.’
‘Saying what? Jamie Hall? Don’t you think that’s a bit weird, including his surname?’
She looks unconvinced, as if she’s used to being sent romantic cards and mementos from lovesick admirers.
‘Do you even know Jamie?’ I blurt out. I wait, my throat dry, for her response. Ziggy pulls on his lead and I pat his head to reassure him.
Anya appraises me with kohl-rimmed eyes, and then shakes her head. ‘We’ve never spoken,’ she admits, ‘apart from a brief good morning.’ Relief surges through me. Thank God. ‘But,’ she adds, ‘I’ve seen him around quite a bit. He’s cute.’
She watches me for a reaction but I charge on: ‘The thing is, we think we’re victims of some type of scam. The police are investigating. We did a house swap. Now things are missing and weird stuff is happening. Jamie didn’t send you the cards but we don’t know who did. I just …’ I pause, my heart racing. ‘I just wanted you to know that.’
She shrugs. ‘Fine.’ She transfers her secateurs from one hand to the other. ‘Is that all?’ She raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow. They are so perfect, in fact, that they look like they’ve been tattooed on.
‘Yes … thanks …’ I mumble.
‘Good. Nice to meet you,’ she says and then turns on her heels – she’s actually wearing heels to garden in – and struts back down her driveway.
I’ve only been back in the flat half an hour before Jamie walks in. He has a streak of dirt on his face and dark patches on the knees of his jeans. What has he been doing?
‘Where have you been? I rang your mobile, you didn’t answer.’
He can’t meet my eye. He snaps the kettle on and then leans against the counter, playing with his phone. ‘Helping out a friend. Why?’
‘Because while you were out a man turned up here. Asking for you. He wanted sex?’
His head whips up so fast it’s actually comical. ‘What?’
‘Yes, that’s right. He was looking to have sex with you. And then I realised why.’ I lift the lid of his laptop. The porn site is still on the screen. Jamie rushes towards it, his face ashen. The website is explicit, advertising ‘bisexual Jamie Hall’ who is ‘up for anything with either sex, particularly hard-core bondage’. In the photo he looks so young and handsome, in jeans and a white shirt. He must have been about nineteen. Hannah. The photo would have been taken around the time they’d been going out. Has she done this? I dismiss the thought immediately. Hannah loves Jamie. Why would she do something so horrendous?
‘I’ve never seen this website, you do know that, don’t you?’ he says, gripping the edge of the table as if to moor himself to the room.
‘Of course I do,’ I say, shocked that he could think I’d doubt him about this.
‘Where did they get my picture?’ He shakes his head. ‘I can’t believe a guy turned up here. Christ, Libs, anything could have happened to you.’ He turns to me, his eyes full of fear. It upsets me to see him like this. It’s usually me who’s afraid. ‘I don’t think we should stay here at the moment.’
I sigh. Ever since that man turned up I’ve been thinking the same. I’ve googled my name and nothing has come up. But that doesn’t mean I’m not somewhere on the web, offering my services. ‘But where would we go? We can’t afford to stay in a hotel. Especially now.’
‘I think we should move in with my mum. Just for a bit …’
My heart sinks. ‘Or we could stay in the coach house at the bottom of the garden?’ I say, liking the idea much more than sharing a house with Sylvia and Katie, regardless of how much space they have.
His cheeks colour. ‘Ah, well Hannah and Felix are staying there at the moment. She couldn’t afford the rent on her place any more and … don’t look at me like that, Libby.’
I swallow down my anger. ‘What?’
‘She’s been having financial trouble. That’s what she didn’t want me to tell you. She’s embarrassed. Her ex isn’t paying child support, she’s only got that part-time job in the estate agent’s. It doesn’t pay much. She couldn’t keep up the payments on the flat she was renting. And … well, I’ve been trying to help her.’
‘Financially? Jamie, we haven’t got much money ourselves.’
He sighs. ‘I know that. But I said I’d have a word with Mum, who then offered Hannah the coach house rent-free.’
‘That’s incredibly generous of Sylvia. But why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Because I knew that you wouldn’t like it.’
‘Is that your philosophy on our marriage then? You keep things from me that you know I won’t like? What else are you keeping from me?’
He runs a hand over his face and groans. ‘We can’t keep going over this again … we’ve got more pressing things to worry about. Like this fucking website with my name and our address all over it.’
‘Just get it taken down then,’ I hiss. ‘You’re in IT. I’m sure you can find a way.’ I push my chair back so hard that it crashes to the floor. We both stare at it in surpris
e. I’m about to flounce off but Jamie stands and grabs my arm.
‘Libs. Please don’t …’
I burst into tears. ‘This is a nightmare, Jamie. I feel like we’re in a nightmare.’
He cradles me to him. ‘I know.’
‘And Evelyn’s dead,’ I sob into his T-shirt. ‘I can’t believe she’s dead.’ Then a thought strikes me. I stand back; the neck of his top is wet with my tears. ‘Is that where you were this morning? Helping Hannah move?’
He nods sheepishly.
‘So you left me here, crying over Evelyn, to go and help Hannah move?’
‘I’m sorry. I’d promised, and I didn’t know Evelyn was going to die. I was only gone for a few hours. She just needed some help moving the heavier stuff.’
‘And she couldn’t get a removal van?’
‘She couldn’t afford it.’
‘You should have told me, Jay. I could have helped too. But Hannah wouldn’t have wanted that, would she? She wants you all to herself.’
He looks shamefaced. ‘I’m such a prat. Libby, I’m so sorry. I should have told you. I don’t know why I didn’t. I was going to and then Evelyn died and you’ve got enough on your plate. I just thought …’
I pick the chair up off the floor and sit down on it heavily. I want to hurl abuse at him but I feel so tired that all I can do is sink further into my chair. What is the point in arguing about it now? He’s right, we have more pressing matters to worry about. Like the website. ‘What are you going to do about this?’ I say, pointing at the offending page still showing on the screen.
He sits down next to me. ‘Somebody must really hate us, Libs, to go to all this trouble. That’s what scares me.’
We decide to move in with Sylvia the next day. I don’t relish the idea but agree with Jamie that it’s for the best. Just until this whole nightmare is over.
My heart is heavy as I fold some clothes and belongings into a suitcase. The sunshine of yesterday is forgotten and now rain hammers on the windows outside. Ziggy is turning in circles, desperate for a wee.
‘I don’t fancy taking him out in this,’ says Jamie, watching the downpour out of our bedroom window. ‘Another bloody April shower.’
‘Just take him into Evelyn’s garden,’ I suggest. It’s visible from our window. She’d offered, in the past, for us to take Ziggy out there, but we didn’t like to. It didn’t feel right somehow, even though it’s an eyesore, overgrown with weeds and bushes.
‘Do you think Evelyn would mind?’
Tears spring into my eyes. I can’t get used to the fact that she’s no longer upstairs, sitting in her favourite chair, knitting. I pull a tissue from my sleeve and shake my head, my throat restricted by tears.
‘I’ll take him quickly before he pisses on the carpet,’ says Jamie with a rueful smile.
He calls the dog and I hear the clink of the lead as he snaps it onto Ziggy’s collar and the front door opening and closing. I fold clothes, wondering how long we’ll be away for, when I hear Ziggy bark. I glance up. I can see them outside so I knock on the glass and wave. The garden is on our level which meant Evelyn could only access it from a raised patio area outside her kitchen, or from a side gate at ground level. It would have made more sense for the garden to have been sold along with the basement flat but, if it had, it would have bumped the price up and then we wouldn’t have been able to afford it.
What will happen to Evelyn’s flat now and who will buy it? It won’t be the same having new neighbours, I think sadly as I watch Ziggy bound across the wet lawn. Jamie is standing with his back to me, his hood pulled up. He’s wearing his green parka that makes him look like a student. We need a garden. I touch my stomach. My periods are so irregular that I don’t dare hope I might be pregnant, but the nausea, the heightened sense of smell, makes me determined to do a test to find out. Should we consider putting the flat on the market? With Evelyn’s place up for sale, someone might buy the whole building and turn it back into a house. If we moved further out of Bath we might be able to afford a small house with a garden for the same price we could get for the flat. It would mean a longer commute in the morning, unless I moved schools. Either way it would be a fresh start and a garden for Ziggy and possibly a baby. It’s something to think about.
I’m startled by a cry coming from outside. It’s Jamie, an edge of panic to his voice. I rush to the window. He’s standing towards the end of the garden now, a lone figure, the weeds brushing his knees. He’s bending over, as though winded. Ziggy is by his side, staring down at something. What’s wrong with Jamie? Is he ill again? I run into the hallway, push my feet into my wellies and charge around the side of the building and into the garden, the rain immediately soaking my long-sleeved T-shirt so that it clings to my body.
‘Jamie!’
He stands up, waving his arms. ‘Don’t come over here. Stay there!’ he shouts in alarm. I don’t listen to him of course. Oh, how I wish I’d listened.
I wade through the wet foliage to join him and there, sprawled out amongst the weeds, is a body. It’s almost concealed by the long, wet grass but I can make out that it’s a man, his blotchy face staring up at the colourless sky, his eyes open, unblinking. His head is bare, showing a wound to his temple, his short dark hair matted with blood. Even though his top is soiled with mud I can tell it’s a fleece. My hand flies to my mouth and I grab Jamie’s arm as my legs collapse beneath me.
22
Jamie and I sit on Sylvia’s overstuffed sofa unable to speak, gripping the mugs of tea that she’d thrust into our hands the minute we arrived. The only sounds to be heard are the ticking of the large grandfather clock and the wind that rattles the leaded windows. Hannah is on the other sofa, next to Sylvia and Katie. Their eyes are round with horror as they stare at us. It’s almost funny to see their identical expressions: their slack jaws, arched eyebrows and bloodless pallor.
The duck-egg-blue walls are oddly calming, as is the hypnotic ticking of the clock. I’ve eventually stopped trembling and now I just feel numb. Ziggy is slumped across my feet like a furry pair of slippers.
‘Do they know who this man is?’ says Sylvia eventually, getting up to draw the heavy curtains.
‘Not yet,’ replies Jamie. Both their voices sound far away, as though coming from the next room.
‘And I’m assuming they don’t know how long he’s been there?’
I feel Jamie shrug.
I tilt forward to put my mug down on the glass coffee table, my limbs so heavy that even this small act is a huge effort. ‘I think I’ll go to bed,’ I say, getting to my feet unsteadily. Ziggy jumps up and follows me, as though relieved to get away from the oppressive atmosphere.
I can sense their eyes on me as I leave the room. Sylvia’s voice floats after me in a loud whisper. ‘Poor thing, she’s still in shock, two dead bodies in two days. It’s going to take her a while to get over this.’
The spare room smells musty and has an unused air, although it’s neat and tidy, with a white-painted dressing table in the corner and pale-green flowered curtains at the windows. I crawl in between the crisp, white sheets, still fully clothed. I’m freezing, and feel as though I’m coming down with flu. It isn’t even nine o’clock but I can’t face anyone. I just want to shut my eyes and fall into a deep, oblivious sleep where I don’t keep seeing Evelyn’s face, serene in death, or the man’s bulging, colourless eyes, the gash to the side of his head.
Jamie and I had been frozen for the first few minutes, unable to do anything except stare at the dead man, oblivious to the rain that soaked through our clothes or Ziggy standing quietly next to us. I half expected the man to jump up and tell us this was a sick joke. But of course he hadn’t. The air had been strangely still and quiet; even the rain was soundless, as if the world was holding its breath, waiting to see what we would do next.
Jamie was the first to act, pulling the phone from his pocket and calling the police. Within ten minutes two detectives had turned up. Then it took hours to explain to them
all that had happened. We had to keep repeating every detail: the leaflet, the house swap, how we thought the dead man was the same person at Lizard Point and the Hideaway, and everything that had happened since we came home. Jamie kept telling them to speak to DS Byrnes from Devon and Cornwall police. ‘He knows everything,’ he insisted.
‘I’ll call him,’ said one of the policemen, DC Gardener, who was young, cocky and very unhelpful. He’d taken one look at the suitcase on my bed and decided that we were some modern-day Bonnie and Clyde, about to do a moonlight flit. Eventually, after speaking to Byrnes on the phone, they allowed us to go to Sylvia’s – but not before making sure they knew exactly where they could get hold of us.
I’d been relieved to leave the flat. As we drove away in the Mini, I glanced back once at the building where we had been so happy, where Evelyn had lived for over forty years, and which now looked dark and forlorn, police tape fluttering in the wind.
Days pass. Jamie works from Sylvia’s conservatory and I’m relieved to return to school, despite Sylvia insisting I should take a few days off, that I’m still recovering from the shock. But I want, need, to throw myself back into work, to keep my mind off everything that has happened. I sense Sylvia eyeing me disapprovingly every time I move and I know she’s disappointed that I’m not ‘processing’ my grief and fears. That I’m just burying them instead.
On the Wednesday I’m called into the head teacher’s office. Felicity Ryder is a stern woman, twenty years older than me with small blue eyes in a formidable face. She has dark-red hair that is so stiff it doesn’t move when she walks. I often wonder how much hairspray she must use to keep her hair so intact. When she smiles it transforms her into the warm, witty person she really is underneath her strict facade.
‘Can you sit down please, Libby,’ she says from the other side of her desk. She has glasses that she wears on a cord around her neck as she’s always losing them. She puts them to her face so she can read what’s in front of her. I take a seat opposite. She looks up and stares at me for a couple of seconds as if trying to work me out. Then she closes her eyes and runs her hand over her forehead. I’ve seen her do it countless times when talking to teachers or parents and it’s never normally a good sign. I hold my breath, waiting.
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