It’s so quiet in my kitchen. You can hear the softest things— Will’s breath, the creak of his chair when he shifts a little, the velvet fall of a petal from a flower. I don’t want to say anything, don’t want to break the silence. As though if I keep completely still, nothing will happen, nothing will change—nobody will leave me. I look at him, drink him in, his graying hair, his dark eyes with the red flecks in them: his skin and mouth and hands. I know that I’m learning him again, imprinting him on my memory. I’m storing these things away inside me and keeping them safe.
“I’m glad I met you,” I say, in the end. “I’m glad I had that.”
“Even after what happened?”
“Even after everything.”
I can see the river house in my mind. I think of the way I pictured it, the long-ago summer evening, the lovers who step down into the boat and move briefly through the brightness: then off into the shadow, leaving no trail but a wake of broken gold.
He takes his hand away and gulps down the rest of his coffee.
“I really ought to go now.”
“But you hurt your leg. I could drive you …”
He shakes his head.
“I’ll manage. You stay here with Amber. She needs you to be here. I’ll send the clothes when I’ve washed them.”
“Perhaps you should go to the hospital—get yourself checked over. Don’t they say you should do that if you fall into the Thames?”
“I think I’ll just leave it,” he says.
He leans toward me across the table: his eyes holding mine.
“I hope it all works out OK. Whatever you want. You know, with Greg and everything.”
So I know that he is going finally, irrevocably, now.
“Thanks,” I say. “And for you. Bradford and—the baby.”
He gets up and picks up his bag of wet clothes.
I follow him to the door. My throat hurts with the things that will never be said now. I open the door, but he doesn’t go for a moment, just stands there looking at me. I press my mouth into his: We kiss for a long time. In the end, he pulls away from me. He has his hands on my shoulders, looking into my eyes.
“Ginnie.”
He says my name as though it is the answer to a question. Then he turns away and walks off into the night.
CHAPTER 46
IT’S COLD IN THE COURTROOM. Outside in the streets it’s a blazing July day, but in here the air-conditioning is icy. Yet my hands still seem to be slippery with sweat. As I hand the Bible back to the usher, I see that I have left wet fingerprints on its plastic cover.
The prosecution barrister shuffles his papers and stands. I glance around the court. Sean Faulkner is in the dock at the back of the room, his face without expression; now and then he chews at his lower lip. Over the barrister’s shoulder I can see the jury; a woman in the front row sips from a fruit-juice carton. The judge has his chin propped on his hands, and you’d think he was on the edge of sleep, except for the acuteness of his gaze. I look to my left. The public gallery is full. I see Karen and Ray, and Roger leaning forward with an intent look. So many people, all staring straight at me. In the front row of the public gallery, there is a woman about my age who immediately reminds me of the photo of Maria— Italian-looking, black hair pulled back, dark eyes. Her hands, in her lap, are never still, moving together as though she is wringing out wet linen, the gesture speaking of her unguessable grief. There are lines scored deep in her face. I know that this must be Maria’s mother. The courtroom seems to shift and sway around me. I turn back to the barrister.
“You are Virginia Holmes?”
“Yes.”
He’s built like a rugby player, with bits of rumpled fair hair poking from under his wig. His voice is ponderous, every consonant clear.
“I believe you are a child psychologist at the Westcotes Clinic. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And how long have you worked there, Mrs. Holmes?”
“Fifteen years,” I tell him.
“Now, on February the twelfth, the day after Maria Faulkner disappeared, you were on the bank of the Thames, roughly opposite Eel Pie Island?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me what time this was?”
“It was about one thirty in the afternoon.”
“And you were where exactly?”
“I was in a broken-down house on the riverbank. The river path goes past it.”
“Were you there on your own, Mrs. Holmes?”
“I was there with a friend.”
“Mrs. Holmes, could you please tell me exactly what you saw on the river path?”
“I saw a man running along by the river. He stopped a few yards from the house and turned and went off into the trees.”
“Could you describe this man?”
“He was wearing office clothes. He was tall and fair.”
“And there was something about this man that concerned you, was there not?”
“The way he kept looking around. He seemed to be looking for someone. I thought at the time it was odd. When I saw Mr. Faulkner make the TV appeal, I realized it was him I’d seen.”
“Can we just spell this out, Mrs. Holmes? You saw the defendant, Mr. Sean Faulkner, on television, appealing for witnesses to assist the investigation into his wife’s murder?”
“Yes.”
“And you recognized Sean Faulkner as the man you saw on February the twelfth on the river path?”
“Yes, I recognized him.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Holmes. No more questions, Your Honor.”
The defense barrister stands. He’s rather short and round, apple-cheeked, with an affable look. A man who would charm you. He smiles warmly at me. My heart pounds.
“Could I first just ask your age, Mrs. Holmes?”
“I’m forty-six.”
“And I believe you are married?”
“Yes.”
“Now, do you and your husband have children?”
“Two daughters.”
“And perhaps you could tell me the ages of your daughters?”
“Nineteen and sixteen.”
He smiles appreciatively at me, as though this is an achievement.
“Thank you.” He leaves a little pause. “Now, on February the twelfth, you were on the river path opposite Eel Pie Island. You were there with a friend, you say, Mrs. Holmes?”
Just the slightest, delicate emphasis on the Mrs.
“Yes.”
“You were in a derelict hut on the river path?”
“Yes.”
“A place you had doubtless chosen because you were in need of privacy?” His voice is glycerine smooth.
“Yes.”
“Am I correct in assuming that you were there for the purpose of conducting a clandestine affair?”
I feel my face flare red.
“Yes.”
I clasp my hands tight together. My mouth is completely dry.
“Thank you. Now, can I ask why you chose to come forward, Mrs. Holmes? Why exactly you went to the police with your information?”
“I wanted to help. I felt I should tell the truth about what I’d seen.”
“So, Mrs. Holmes, you would say that generally you are someone who seeks to tell the truth? Someone who values truthfulness?”
“Yes.” I see where he is taking this. I can’t go back now. I have to do what I came to do. I bite my tongue to try to moisten my mouth.
A little gap, a little smile.
“But we have already heard, Mrs. Holmes, that you were in this place on the riverbank in order to conduct a clandestine affair. Did your husband know where you were on February the twelfth?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Or who you were with?”
“No.”
“Did your children know where you were?”
“No.”
He gives his head a sad little shake, as though this is all much to be regretted.
“You lied to your husband and
you lied to your children about your affair—so why should this court believe anything you say? Why should we believe you about what you claim to have seen?”
I can hear my heart—its hard, dull thuds.
“I know what I saw,” I tell him. “I’m telling the truth about what I saw.”
He rubs a finger along his jaw, a questioning, perplexed gesture. He has plump fingers, white as dough, and a glinting signet ring.
“Now, you were in a derelict hut, you say. But how did you gain access to this hut?”
“We untwisted the wire on the door.”
“So you were in fact trespassing, Mrs. Holmes?”
“Maybe. I suppose.”
“You were trespassing. Yes or no?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you. Now, I’d like to take you through the precise sequence of events, if I may, Mrs. Holmes. This man you saw, or thought you saw—was this before or after you had intercourse?”
The question shocks me. My instinct is to say I don’t remember. But I know he’d use that to invalidate everything I’ve said.
“It was before.”
The judge leans forward.
“Mrs. Holmes, I’d be grateful if you could speak up a bit,” he says. “We can hardly hear you.”
“Yes, I’m sorry,” I say.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” says the barrister. He rests his fingers lightly together, like somebody praying. “So, Mrs. Holmes, you saw this man who you felt was involved in some sort of criminal activity—whose behavior troubled you, you say—and you then went on to have sexual intercourse with your lover?”
“Yes.”
He raises his eyebrows very slightly.
“You can’t have been so very troubled then, can you, Mrs. Holmes?”
I don’t say anything. I don’t know what I can say.
“Now, this affair that you were involved in—would you say this was a passionate relationship?”
“I suppose so.”
His voice is sleek, emollient.
“Would you say you were in love with this man?”
My throat is thick.
“Yes, I would,” I say.
“So, Mrs. Holmes,” says the barrister, “you were there to engage in illicit sexual intercourse with this man whom you were passionately in love with. I put it to you that this is a situation in which a woman’s powers of observation might be less than acute.” Again that regretful shake of the head. “You were completely distracted, weren’t you? You can’t possibly remember with any accuracy what you saw on the river path.”
“I know it was Sean Faulkner I saw,” I say.
He has his head on one side now, with the perplexed air of someone who genuinely seeks to be enlightened.
“There are just one or two other things that puzzle me,” he says. “Why has the friend you were with not come forward, Mrs. Holmes? Presumably if there was something strange to be seen on the river path, he would have seen it also?”
“He had his back to the path. He didn’t see.”
“And did you always conduct your liaison on the riverbank?”
“Yes.”
“You never went anywhere rather more conventional—a hotel room, for instance?”
“We just went to the river.”
He gives a deep sigh.
“You are a married woman,” he says, “a woman with two daughters aged nineteen and sixteen. You are a woman who, at an age when many women are contentedly helping out with their grandchildren, conducts an illicit affair in a semipublic place. You like excitement. You’re something of a thrill seeker.”
“No. Not really.”
“Coming to the police was just another thrill, wasn’t it? A way of getting attention?”
“No. It wasn’t,” I say. But I can scarcely form the words.
He waits for a moment. He straightens up. He’s looking sternly at me.
“Mrs. Holmes, you were on property where you shouldn’t have been, with a man you shouldn’t have been with.” There’s a new severity in his voice. “You were about to have sexual intercourse with this man who is not your husband, and you’d lied about this relationship to your husband and your children. Yet you ask this court to believe what you say you saw. You ask us to believe that you can remember clearly a man you’d never seen before, whom you glimpsed for a second or two in the distance, when you were in the embrace of your illicit lover. The river path is a right of way. Anyone can go there. The man you saw could have been anyone. I put it to you that it wasn’t Sean Faulkner that you saw.”
I take a deep breath.
“I saw him clearly,” I say again. “I’m sure it was Mr. Faulkner.”
“That will be all, Your Honor.”
The judge nods in my direction.
“Thank you, Mrs. Holmes. You are free to stay in court, or to go about your business.”
After the hush of the court, the noise in the street slams in my face. I stand at the top of the white curved steps that lead down to the pavement. I cling to the handrail like somebody blind. I feel worn away, hammered thin. I stand there for a long time. People pass on the pavement below me—a worried woman with a baby in a buggy, a boy with his arm around his girlfriend—ordinary people, busy, preoccupied, getting on with their lives. There’s a smell of smoke and petrol, but I breathe in gratefully, taking big gulps of air.
After a while, I start to notice the heat of the sun on my arms. I turn my face to the sun. I breathe more deeply. I think, I am free to go. I think, That will be all. I tell myself this, over and over. I am free to go now.
With my hand tight around the rail, I walk carefully down to the street.
Ten days later, on Saturday, it’s in the national press: The jury has reached its verdict. Amber points it out to me. I read it over her shoulder.
An estate agent who murdered his wife and dumped her body in a river was jailed for life yesterday. Sean Faulkner, thirty-two, strangled his wife, Maria, at their home in Caterham, and then dumped her body in the Thames. A jury at Kingston Crown Court heard how Sean Faulkner calmly reported the disappearance of his wife from their home in February of this year. … The senior investigating officer, Detective Chief Inspector Roger Prior, said after the trial, “This was a ruthless and cruel act, probably motivated by pathological jealousy.”
The report traces out the case against Sean Faulkner, much as Roger told it to me. Detectives were suspicious of him from the start. He claimed he hadn’t washed any clothes, but the washing machine had recently been used. Traces of river water were found on his sneakers. A witness on the river path saw him returning to the place where Maria’s body had been dumped, the morning after the murder and several days before the body was discovered. The jury took six hours to reach its verdict.
“See, Mum, that’s you. The witness on the river path,” says Amber.
There’s the photo of Maria that Roger showed to me; the print is grainy and blurred.
“So that’s what she looked like.” Amber stares at the photo. “It’s weird to see a picture of someone and know they’re dead,” she says. “It’s just so hard to believe in.” She runs her finger gently across the photograph. “She was ever so pretty, wasn’t she? I’m glad they got a result.” She looks up at me; her washed blue eyes have a thoughtful look. “I bet you’re glad too, Mum, after being a witness and everything.”
“Yes. I’m glad,” I say.
After lunch Amber goes into town to meet Jamila at Starbucks. I decide I will give my kitchen a comprehensive clean. I scrub away all the smudges of mold from the insides of my cupboards, and wipe my windows with vinegar, and remove a sprouting and rotten potato from underneath the fridge. Then I ring Eva, who last week shocked everyone by telling Ted she thinks they ought to separate. She sounds very tired but otherwise OK. She knows people won’t understand; she doesn’t expect that they would, she scarcely understands it herself—it was just something that she knew she had to do. We talk for a long time.
Amber is back at
three with lots of shopping bags. She comes into the kitchen and dumps her purchases on the table. It’s hot, and she’s tied the sleeves of her sweater around her waist. She’s wearing a flimsy T-shirt that says Oui in sparkly letters.
“There were these builders,” she says. “Sometimes I feel like saying, Would it still be such a lovely day if I was fat and ugly?”
She shows me what she’s bought. A Popsicle maker for Katrine’s birthday. A velvet picture frame. A flippy, silky skirt, because Max is taking her to the ballet. She holds it up against herself. “I thought with my black pointy boots—d’you think that would be OK?” I tell her it will look lovely. And she has a book about Hare Krishna that someone was selling in the street—she isn’t going to read it, she just felt sorry for him—and some earrings like licorice allsorts, and a bunch of freesias in white paper. She’s pink and happy; she loves shopping. The freesias are palest green with a delicate purple veining, and the room is sweet with their scent.
“You’ve bought yourself some flowers.”
“I thought …” She nibbles her lip; she’s a little embarrassed. “It seems silly now, but there was this flower stall, and I thought perhaps we could take them to the river. For Maria. Now it’s all over. D’you think freesias are OK? The roses were pretty too, but I didn’t have enough money.”
“I’ve always loved freesias,” I say.
“Shall we?”
“Yes.”
“We ought to do it now,” she says, “or they’ll go all brown and horrible.”
We drive there through the bright afternoon.
The river path is beautiful in the lavish afternoon light. In the warm summer wind, the river crinkles like silk, holding the colors of the trees and the sky. Cyclists in Lycra pass us, talking in some language I don’t recognize, and then a small helmeted girl, pedaling with great concentration. You can smell the winey sweetness of elder and the fruit-gum scent of balsam, and white dust rises from our feet as we walk. We look across the water to the house on Eel Pie Island and the terra-cotta boy. As always, just for a moment I think he’s a living child.
As we near the place where they found Maria’s body, you can see there’s a woman sitting there, on the grass on the riverbank. She’s in a black splash of shade, so still that I think for a moment that she too is a statue. It’s an odd thing to be doing—perhaps a bit disinhibited: Women don’t usually sit here all alone on the grass. She turns her head as we approach, and I recognize her at once—the Mediterranean coloring, her hair pulled back, the lines driving deep in her face. It’s too late to go back now.
The River House Page 28