I can’t take this in. ‘But who?’
‘Did Beth have any other enemies? Did you? Who else were you travelling with?’
I shrug. ‘I hardly knew the others really.’ Apart from Harry. Although after what he did with Beth maybe I didn’t know him either. He wasn’t the person I thought he was. ‘We travelled together for a few months but why would they do something like this?’
He frowns. ‘Are you sure? What about the guy who got you pregnant?’
His words are sharp, piercing my heart, and I wince. ‘Harry wouldn’t do something like this. Why would he?’
‘You were pregnant with his child. You left him and had an abortion.’
I cast my eyes downwards, fiddling with my wedding band. ‘He never knew. He probably doesn’t even remember my surname. I was probably just one of many.’
He clears his throat and shuffles, avoiding eye contact. ‘There’s something else. Something I haven’t told you yet. I only found out myself on Friday. I was waiting for the right time but then, with Ziggy …’ He pauses, his voice cracking.
‘What? What do you want to tell me?’
‘I don’t want to scare you. But I checked the bank. That money. It was taken after we got back from Cornwall. Sean was already dead then.’
‘What?’ I can’t believe I’m hearing this. ‘Sean didn’t take the money?’
‘He couldn’t have. And the stuff from the catalogue. These things were done afterwards. The website, though, that was done before. That must have been Sean. Plus the website would have taken a while to set up.’
I clutch my head. It feels like it’s spinning. This is supposed to be a happy time; our first year of marriage, expecting a baby. How can it have all gone so wrong?
Jamie fidgets, the way he does when he’s worried about asking me something.
‘What is it?’
‘Is there any way …’ He hesitates and runs a hand over his stubble. ‘Do you think there’s any way Beth didn’t die in that hostel fire?’
I shake my head. ‘Absolutely not.’ I can’t admit to him why I’m so sure. ‘There is no way she could have survived it. I’ve told you before. She was in the room, fast asleep. I only survived because I was already outside.’
‘But you said there were other survivors.’
‘I rang around all the hospitals. I went back to the hostel the next morning. Nothing.’ I wrap my cardigan further around my body, suddenly feeling cold. ‘Look, Jay. I know you’re feeling dreadful about Ziggy. I am too. But we can’t assume Ziggy was poisoned on purpose, that somebody set out to kill him.’ Maybe I don’t want to believe it. I can’t have Ziggy’s death on my conscience too. ‘The other stuff was more opportunistic. Maybe whoever killed Sean had a snoop about our flat and took some bank statements in order to rip us off?’ I reach over and place my hand on his. ‘I just want to put it all behind us, Jay. This has all been so awful; losing Ziggy, my job … but we’re going to have a baby …’
He shakes my hand off and stands up. ‘I can’t. I’m sorry. I need time.’ I’m seized by fear. He seems so angry, so unreachable. I’m losing him.
‘OK,’ I mumble. ‘But I’m sorry. For the lies. I love you. I want to earn your trust back.’
He picks at something on his neck and doesn’t look at me. Instead his eyes are trained on the beige carpet that could do with a clean, his shoulders slumped. He looks broken. I long to put him back together but he won’t let me. ‘I … I don’t want to leave you on your own in the flat. But I need some time by myself. I’m going to work from Mum’s during the day. I’ll come back at night so you’re not alone.’ He folds his hands into his lap. He doesn’t look at me as he says, quietly, ‘But, Libs, I’m not sure I can forgive you for lying to me again.’
Low-level anxiety flutters in my stomach. It feels like grief, at losing Ziggy and Jamie, at losing my life; my lovely, happy life. And OK, it hadn’t been perfect; we’d worried about money, I’d had to contend with his mother, Hannah, Katie. But they seem like such trivial things now. If he tells me our relationship has ended, there is no meaning to anything.
I try to keep busy during the day, but it’s hard without the routine of a job to go to. I make an appointment with the GP, find out I’m about nine weeks pregnant. Still so early, she says, the risk of miscarriage raised until after twelve weeks. I try not to think about that as I walk home. It’s a blustery, showery day, which matches my mood, and in the dull light the buildings look dingy, washed with grey. I keep bursting into tears, suddenly overcome with emotion about Ziggy and Jamie. I feel like I’m losing my grip on reality, find I’m unable to stop myself wandering past the school where I used to work. I watch the children in the playground from across the road, an umbrella covering my head and face so that they won’t notice me. I want to run over and comfort little Zac McMurray when he falls over and grazes his knee, or when I see Katrina Simmons standing alone at the friendship stop, bravely trying not to cry, her little face pinched with worry. I miss them all so much that the feeling of hardness in my chest expands like a tumour, so that I have to gasp for air. I remember the panic attack I had in Sylvia’s conservatory and I breathe deeply like she instructed. In through nose. Out through mouth. In. Out.
The flat feels so big and empty and unwelcoming. Every now and again I’ll hear a crash, or a creak of floorboards from the flat above or the echo of voices, and wonder if there are viewings. We had plans to put this flat on the market, but who knows if that will happen now? If Jamie wants us to separate I’ll have to find a flat on my own and when I think of this I have to forcibly push down my panic at the idea of being a single mother, with no money, living on benefits – if I’m able to claim them, that is. Where would I live? The future feels so uncertain.
Days pass, sliding into one another. I only see Jamie in the evenings. We eat dinner together, barely talking, and lie side by side at night, but it feels as though there is an invisible wall between us. He says he needs time and I try to be patient, to not push him. Some days I end up wandering the streets aimlessly, imagining that Ziggy is by my side, his tongue hanging out eagerly as he strains against the lead. I’m tempted to ring Cara but I’m too ashamed to speak to her, to anyone.
One day Florrie pops over with a home-made cottage pie. She sits with me and holds my hand while Jacob is engrossed in CBeebies, and tells me she’ll always be my friend, whatever happens with her brother. Her visit raises my spirits, and for a few days afterwards I don’t feel quite so alone.
I force myself to go out for a walk every day. Sometimes I’m sure that I hear the heavy tread of footsteps behind me, the hairs on the back of my neck instantly springing up, but when I look around the narrow streets are empty, except for a solitary person or an inquisitive tourist glancing up at a historic building, or peering into a shop window.
Jamie asks about the baby every evening. He wants to know if I feel nauseous, if I have any twinges, if I’m eating OK during the day. But when I try and probe him on the state of our relationship the barriers come up and his face goes blank so I give up.
On a Wednesday about ten days into my new routine, the sun is shining, the sky a clear, hazy blue. I can hear the sounds of a drill or a lawnmower as I leave the flat for my regular walk via the school. As I climb the steps I notice Hannah standing on the pavement, staring up at Evelyn’s flat. It always takes me aback, how tall she is, almost as tall as Jamie. She’s wearing a dove-grey jacket and a matching pencil skirt. She looks smart and attractive, her blonde hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders.
‘Hannah,’ I say as I reach the top so that we are level. ‘What are you doing here?’
She looks startled to see me, as though she’s forgotten that I live in the dark depths of the basement flat, my own personal dungeon. She stutters a bit. I notice she has a smudge of lipstick on her teeth and debate whether to tell her, oscillating between wanting to spare her pride but not wanting to embarrass her.
‘Oh … yes, hi, Libby. Are you still
calling yourself Libby?’ she asks, a touch of smugness to her voice.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
She shifts her heavy-looking tote bag further up her shoulder and points to Evelyn’s flat. ‘I’m waiting to show somebody around. But they’re late.’ She looks cross, and I imagine she’d rather be anywhere else than here talking to me. Maybe she feels like a traitor, standing here making small talk with Jamie’s estranged wife. She avoids eye contact; instead she stares straight ahead at Evelyn’s flat. We’ve never had much to say to each other in the past but now the awkwardness sizzles between us as we stand on the uneven pavement. I notice a weed growing in the cracks in the slabs.
I hate myself for asking but I can’t help myself. ‘Have you … have you spoken to Jamie?’
She turns to me then, and looks at me levelly with her cool gaze. ‘He’s told me about the baby. Congratulations.’ She says it through a clenched jaw, like it’s taking all her effort to speak the words.
I fumble with the button on my jacket. ‘Thank you … it’s … well, it’s difficult. You know, the worry after the first miscarriage. We promised we wouldn’t tell anyone until the twelve weeks have passed. Things with me and Jamie aren’t great …’
She purses her lips together. ‘Yes, he’s told me everything. We have lunch together when he’s working from his mum’s house. I’m just happy that I can be there for him. With Ziggy and everything.’
It niggles me that he’s told her. I can imagine the cosy lunches in her coach house, Hannah fluttering her eyelashes as he tells her how unhappily married he is.
‘I suppose if you do decide to separate, then you won’t need to divorce. He says he doesn’t think you’re even legally married, considering you were using a fake name.’
It’s like I’ve been kicked hard in the stomach. Divorce? Are things really that bad? I’m hoping that Jamie will forgive me eventually. She continues relentlessly, ‘And I can’t deny, it’s hard being a single mother. Felix is very full on, you know. But his father doesn’t want anything to do with him.’ I’ve never heard her talk so much.
My face grows hot. ‘Yes, well, Jamie won’t be like that. Even if we do split up,’ I say.
‘Oh, I know. Jamie will be an excellent father. I’ve always thought so. Devoted.’ She smiles to herself as if reliving a private memory. ‘Anyway, where are you off to?’ She appraises me and I’m sure she’s finding me lacking, in my denim jacket that I’ve had for at least seven years, my cotton trousers with the zebra print, my battered Birkenstocks and my chipped pink nail varnish.
‘Just for a walk.’
‘Yes, it’s sad, what happened about your job. Suspended because those parents complained. Awful,’ she says. I wonder how she knows. I’ve never told anyone apart from Jamie that some parents complained about me. Unless Jamie’s told Hannah, of course. It wasn’t a secret, after all, and it’s beginning to sound like he confides in her a lot. ‘Have you told them yet that you’re not really Elizabeth Elliot?’
‘Yes. I resigned.’
‘They must have been disappointed. But they would have had to sack you otherwise, wouldn’t they? And you, head of English or something, weren’t you?’ She’s enjoying this too much and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself retaliating.
I nod. ‘I’ve made some stupid mistakes. Haven’t we all?’ I say and then, to change the subject, I ask how the viewings are going.
She frowns and brushes a wayward curl out of her face. ‘Not great. We’ve only had one or two. The place needs a lot of work. Rewiring and so forth. Now that the summer’s coming though we hope to get a few more.’
‘Shame, the place standing empty like that.’
She narrows her eyes at me. ‘Oh no, it’s not empty. Mrs Goodwin’s niece is staying there. Just until it sells.’
‘Oh … right …’ Niece? I don’t remember Evelyn mentioning a niece.
She glances at a chunky gold watch on her wrist. ‘Anyway, must get on. I think my potential clients have arrived.’ She shields her eyes from the sun as she squints down the street. A young couple are strolling arm in arm towards us.
I’m just about to turn and walk off in the opposite direction when I remember. ‘Oh, Hannah,’ I say in a loud whisper. ‘You have lipstick on your teeth.’ She looks rattled, reaching into her cavernous handbag to retrieve a mirror, and then she’s all fake smiles, talking in exclamation marks as she’s joined by the young couple, and I slink away, more determined than ever to win Jamie back.
38
I call Jamie’s mobile while I’m walking. He answers on the second ring. ‘Is everything OK with the baby?’
‘Everything’s fine. I just bumped into Hannah. She’s showing people around Evelyn’s flat. Apparently a niece is staying there. Evelyn never said she had a niece. A nephew, yes, but not a niece.’ Talking while thundering along makes me pant and I slow down.
‘So that’s the noises you’ve been hearing?’ he asks, but he sounds distracted, and I know I’ve probably interrupted his work flow.
I take a deep breath of fresh air. I can smell cut grass and petrol, the newly laid tarmac from a driveway that I pass. An old lady is weeding in her garden. The curve of her back and her silver hair reminds me of Evelyn and I feel a fresh pang of grief. ‘Hannah said you’ve told her everything. About us. Our problems.’
There is a stunned silence and then, ‘Have you only called for a row? Because we can do that tonight.’
‘No, of course not. It’s private though, Jay, what’s happening with us.’
His tone softens. ‘I know that, Libs. I’ve not said anything to Hannah. I wouldn’t. It’s no one else’s business.’
He sounds sincere. But then how does she know about the baby?
‘I miss you. What we had.’ My eyes pool with tears, blinding me for an instant so that I have to stop and lean against the wall.
A pause. ‘I just wish I could …’
‘Forgive me?’
He doesn’t answer, he doesn’t need to. His silence says everything.
The flat feels different when I get back, as though somebody has been here. A chair has been pulled out from under the kitchen table, there is a glass on the side that wasn’t there when I left. Has Jamie been here while I was out? I call his name while wandering in and out of the rooms, but the flat is empty. And he would have said when we spoke. There is a strange smell in the air. The same scent I recognised after getting back from Cornwall. Spicy, like someone recently lit a scented candle, although I have no candles with this specific smell.
Puzzled, I go into the bedroom and stare out onto Evelyn’s overgrown garden. It’s even worse now than it was the day we found Sean. The leaves of the neighbouring trees poke through the broken fence, ivy has wound itself around some of the plants, strangling them, clusters of weeds sprout from the ground and the lawn looks muddy and churned up thanks to the feet of all those policemen. And then I notice it: a dirty footprint on one of the cream patio slabs right outside my bedroom window. I feel a flutter of panic. It looks fresh, as though it has only been there a matter of hours. It rained last night, a sudden, violent downpour that had woken me about midnight. The print would have been washed away if it had been made yesterday.
Maybe it was the couple looking around Evelyn’s flat earlier. Or Hannah? Perhaps she’d nosed through the window, to see the room where Jamie and I slept. Or maybe it was this mysterious niece who’s living in Evelyn’s flat.
I don’t know what makes me do it. Maybe it’s the absence of any mention of a niece, or the way Hannah behaved earlier, but I suddenly find myself rooting around in the kitchen drawer for the spare key to Evelyn’s place.
Before I can change my mind I’m running upstairs to Evelyn’s flat with the excuse of hearing a noise at the ready, just in case the niece is there. She doesn’t need to know that I saw Hannah this morning. Feeling reassured, I turn the key in the lock and the door swings open. My heart is heavy as I walk into Evelyn’s hallway,
remembering the last time I was here, half expecting to see Evelyn in her chair by the window, knitting. Always knitting.
It’s not until I reach the living room that I’m hit by the same smell that was in my flat earlier. A scented candle? Incense? Where have I smelt that before?
I scan the room. It’s just as Evelyn left it, although there is now a layer of dust covering her ornaments, her mahogany coffee table and the picture rail. I wander into the kitchen. It’s not like ours, which is open plan and encompasses our dining room; it’s long and narrow, with units down either side and a single back door in the middle. I open the cupboards. Nothing looks out of place; a few tins of tomatoes and a can of tuna in one, a row of cups and glasses in another. I go back into the living room. It’s all too tidy, too unlived in. Surely nobody is staying here?
With trepidation I make my way up the stairs and check the rooms that Evelyn hardly ever used. I pause on the landing. It’s creepy up here and old-fashioned, with dark painted walls and wood panelling. The incense hasn’t reached this level; instead the rooms smell of mould and damp. I check each bedroom. Where is this ‘niece’ staying? When I get to the box room I realise this is where she must be sleeping. The duvet is wrinkled and there is a book on the bedside table. I pick it up – it’s a novel with a strapline promising a dark and twisted thriller – and a crumpled and well-thumbed photo falls out onto the brown patterned carpet. I pick it up and study it. It’s a picture of a man with kind, dark eyes, but what strikes me most about him is the sorrow etched on his face. It’s emanating from the photograph in such a way that it’s almost tangible. He’s holding a baby with a crop of dark hair in his arms, wrapped in a yellow blanket. The baby’s eyes are tightly closed and by the waxy texture of the skin and the unnaturally pale colour I realise, with a sickening thud, that the baby is dead. I slip the photograph back inside the book, my heart heavy, and hurry back downstairs.
Last Seen Alive Page 24