by Cohen, Tammy
Leanne stared at Pete. Leaving no stone unturned. When had he started talking like Desmond?
‘Anyway, we were hoping to keep this information under wraps for a little longer, but now it’s out there it’s only fair that you should all be told so that it doesn’t come as a shock. The latest victim – and please remember that at this stage there’s no proof that the cases are connected – but the latest victim, Poppy Glover, was found in slightly different circumstances to the last two, Leila and Tilly.’
Pete took a deep breath that Leanne only noticed because she knew what was coming next and how little he wanted to say it. ‘I’m sorry to say that in this instance the body was partially unclothed and there seems to be some indication of a sexual motive, just as with Megan. I can’t tell you any more than that.’
The silence that greeted Pete’s announcement had that loaded quality where the lack of noise seems to be covering up the din of things unsaid.
Emma Reid was the first to break it, removing the hand that had been clasped to her mouth since Pete first spoke.
‘Oh, that poor girl. Those poor parents. That’s too much. Really too much.’
Tears were filling her black-lashed eyes, but Leanne noticed that Emma’s husband, Guy, sitting just inches to her right, made no attempt to comfort her. Things were not right between those two. Leanne ought to be able to recognize the signs by now.
‘Was she raped?’
A gasp followed Mark Botsford’s question. Leanne stiffened. Sometimes that man was too direct. Not for the first time she wondered if he might be somewhere on the autistic spectrum.
‘I’m afraid I can’t give you details.’ Pete shrugged helplessly and Leanne remembered that he and Mark had become friends, despite them appearing to have so little in common. Sometimes it could be hard in those situations to draw a line, despite what they were taught in training. Pete would miss them, she supposed, when they moved away.
‘But it doesn’t make any sense.’ Now Guy Reid was talking over the top of everyone else. ‘Surely it doesn’t fit with his pattern. After Megan none of them were interfered with, were they?’
He was looking straight at Leanne now, and she realized he was looking for reassurance that they hadn’t been lied to all this time, that Tilly had really been untouched. Obviously they knew the police were working on the theory that the girls had been filmed or photographed, but it wasn’t something they ever talked about directly.
‘We are convinced that’s the case with Tilly and with Leila. We haven’t kept anything from you.’
‘Then why would he suddenly revert to his old pattern? Are you sure it’s definitely him?’
The families all knew about the ‘SORRY’, in the latest case smudged to a biro bruise on Poppy Glover’s skin, but had been sworn to secrecy so effectively that they never mentioned it out loud.
Pete nodded. ‘All signs so far indicate this is the same—’
The cry was so sudden and so reed-thin that at first Leanne didn’t even register what it was and looked towards the window, expecting to hear a car alarm on the road outside. It was only when there was a kerfuffle by the door that she grasped the noise was coming from inside the room, and specifically from Helen Purvis. When Leanne leapt up she could see that the older woman was deathly white. Her hand, resting on her husband’s arm, was shaking.
‘I don’t understand,’ she was saying. ‘I just don’t understand.’
‘It’s brought it all back,’ Simon said to the rest of the room. ‘It’s very distressing.’
Leanne hadn’t much taken to Simon Hewitt over the years, but now she felt sorry for him. How awful it must be to keep having to rake over the worst thing that had ever happened to them, again and again, every time there was a new victim. How impossible to move on with your life when you were trapped in this endless agonizing Groundhog Day scenario.
The afternoon limped on after that, but never quite recovered the cosy camaraderie of the first half-hour. Leanne felt uncomfortable, unsure of whether or not they should really be there, but when she suggested to Jo, Pete and Kieren they leave the families to it, Emma and Fiona turned to her with such fervent entreaties to stay that she had found herself sitting back down again. She couldn’t help comparing her relationship with Emma to Pete’s with the Botsfords and again she felt she’d let the Reids down. Not that she necessarily wanted to be their friend, but she’d have liked there to be more of a connection. She’d have liked to know she did them some good. It had just been such poor timing for her. When they’d first met she’d been dealing with the aftermath of the infertility blow and her imploding marriage, and the next time, the following year, she’d still been reeling from the split. Sometimes, she thought, life was all about timing. It was a miracle, really, that any of them ever managed to connect.
When Leanne finally extricated herself from the meeting, Pete insisted on leaving too. Together they made their way down the wide tree-lined road, flanked on both sides by huge, red-brick Victorian houses with neat front gardens. At the nineteenth-century clocktower, which stood on its own on an island amidst the traffic, they stopped, trying to remember which way to go.
‘If I was going to pay millions of pounds to live somewhere, I’d make damn sure it had a tube station,’ Pete grumbled.
‘If you were going to pay millions of pounds to live somewhere, I’d make damn sure I pressed for alimony.’
They half smiled at each other, but the comment was too near the bone and Leanne immediately wished it unsaid. Why, after all this time, did Pete still make her feel so wound up? He was still living with her, wasn’t he? Leanne still could rarely bring herself to use the name of the twenty-seven-year-old who’d wrecked her marriage. Kelly, that was it. She’d once asked Pete what she did and instantly forgot. Corporate sponsorship, blah blah blah, the kind of nothing job where you put on heels to go to work and have brain-storming meetings and go to the gym at lunchtime.
‘You know they’re going to think it’s you, don’t you?’ asked Pete as they waited at the bus stop. They’d already agreed that if a taxi came past they’d flag it down, but it didn’t look likely.
‘What’s me?’
‘The leak. Who else has connections to the press?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘What? Your live-in boyfriend is a journo and you don’t suppose they’re going to put two and two together and think he could make a nice little extra in his back pocket?’
‘For one thing, he’s not “living in”, and for another, you’re being a dick.’
But Leanne could feel her face burning. Could that really be what people were thinking? And why did Pete have to use that tone to say ‘boyfriend’, like it was something nasty on the bottom of his shoe?
A taxi came along on the other side of the road and Leanne instinctively waved her arm.
‘Doesn’t make any sense for us to share, with you living south and me east,’ she said, not looking at his face. Not looking at his eyes. Especially his eyes. ‘So I’m going to love you and leave you.’
Climbing into the cab her cheeks were still stinging with heat. As she leaned forward to close the door, Pete put his foot in the way.
‘Are you?’
She screwed up her eyes questioningly. ‘Am I what?’
‘What you just said? Going to love me and leave me?’
‘Oh, give over.’ She pulled the door to and his foot slid out of the way. ‘See ya,’ she trilled out of the open window, avoiding his face.
All the way home to Stoke Newington she heaped loathing upon herself. Why had she said that thing about loving and leaving? Since when did she use the phrase ‘see ya’? And was Pete right that people would suspect her of being the source of the leak? The thought that others might be looking at her and doubting her commitment and loyalty gave her an uncomfortable tugging sensation in the pit of her stomach.
She closed the window and leaned her forehead against the glass, hoping to cool her still-burning skin. She tho
ught about the awkward afternoon at the Purvises’ house, remembering how anxiously Helen had offered around the drinks and the bowls of crisps and peanuts, and she felt a rush of sympathy for the grieving mother. It had clearly been a huge blow to find out the group was to lose the Botsfords. And then the news about the circumstances in which the Glover girl had been found, which must have brought back such terrible memories of Megan’s own death.
Every now and then Leanne was thankful she hadn’t been able to have children, so she’d never risk knowing the pain of losing one.
13
For the two days since the Megan’s Angels meeting, Emma had been in the grip of despondency.
‘For God’s sake, Mum, can’t you at least pretend to be interested?’ Jemima had yelled the night before after she’d broken off from a long story about her maths teacher to ask Emma what she thought, and her mother had just blinked at her, her face and mind completely blank.
It was the bombshell from the Botsfords that had thrown her, Emma thought. The idea that this option existed for them, to choose to exit their lives. It had never crossed her mind that this might be possible, that she might simply leave this life that had become impossible to her and start another one somewhere else where Grieving Mother wasn’t the first thing people saw. The thought of it – of being, just for an hour, a minute even, someone other than who she was – made her giddy.
She mentioned it to Guy only once. It was on the Saturday evening, when they’d been home from the Purvises’ for a few hours, and Caitlin was at a sleepover and Jemima in her room playing angry music loudly and doing whatever she did on her computer.
They were sitting side by side on the sofa and the television was on, although she couldn’t have said what show was playing. She doubted Guy knew either. She used to choose carefully which programmes to watch, arguing her case with Guy if he had other ideas (which he so often did). But now, unwilling to risk any unnecessary interaction, they both gravitated, without speaking, to whatever they felt the other would dislike least, so their television watching was a question of the lowest common denominator – featureless programmes that bled seamlessly from one to the other arousing neither interest nor passion. But on this evening Emma’s mind wasn’t on the screen where a harried nurse was leaning against a hospital wall, sobbing. Instead all she could think of was the Botsfords, and their seemingly miraculous escape.
‘What do you think about Fiona and Mark?’ she asked Guy, turning to face him for the first time in weeks. ‘What’s to stop us doing that? Starting again somewhere new?’
Guy looked at her, shocked, although whether at what she’d said or just the fact that she’d addressed him so directly, she couldn’t have said.
‘Their situation is completely different. They’re self-employed. They run their own business. They have no other children. They have the luxury of simply leaving everything behind. We don’t. What about my job? What about our parents? What about Jemima and Caitlin? They need continuity in their lives after everything that’s happened.’
Emma persevered. ‘But can you imagine it, Guy? The freedom?’
He turned back towards the television, shaking his head as if unable to believe what he’d just heard.
‘Tilly is dead, Emma. Even if we went to the fucking moon we’d still take that knowledge with us. At least here we’re surrounded by things she knew. Her bedroom is here. Her friends are here. We can keep a connection to her through the things and the places and the people she knew and loved. How can you even think of leaving her behind?’
That wasn’t what she’d meant, but when she tried to formulate the words to explain herself, she wasn’t sure they’d ever existed. Still, two days later, she couldn’t stop thinking about the Botsfords’ new bid for freedom. And she wasn’t the only one dwelling on it. Helen had been in touch yesterday, still upset about the break-up of the group.
‘Of course they must do what they think is best for them,’ she kept saying. ‘But I think they’re making a mistake. We need each other, all of us. We need each other’s support. Out there they’ll be completely alone.’
Now it was Monday, mid-afternoon, and Emma was still thinking about the whole thing as she attempted to tidy the kitchen in advance of the girls’ return from school. There was a time she’d have baked cakes or biscuits for them, so that they’d arrive back to the delicious smell of fresh-from-the-oven Victoria Sponge or trays of cookies oozing melted chocolate. But now it was as much as she could do to remember they were due and have a superficial clear-up, quickly stacking breakfast bowls in the dishwasher and wiping milk from the worktops.
She was just folding an empty cereal carton ready for the recycling when the landline rang. Emma hesitated. Usually the landline meant one of their parents, hers or Guy’s, all four of whom still clung to the notion of mobiles being for emergency use only. Either that or a cold-caller. PPI, double-glazing or someone asking if she’d had an accident at work. Still, it might be the school. Something to do with one of the girls. Maybe Ceci’s mum, Nancy, had forgotten it was her turn to do the school run. But when she finally located the phone – why was the cordless never where it was supposed to be – it was Denise, Guy’s Australian PA.
‘I’ve been trying his mobile,’ she apologized, ‘but it’s switched off. And the broker he was supposed to be seeing tomorrow morning has just pitched up. Apparently they changed the time. Only Guy’s obviously forgotten. He said he had to go home to sort out some stuff. Is he there?’
Emma found herself looking around the empty hallway, as if Guy might after all turn out to be at home.
‘No, sorry. Did he say what he needed to sort out?’
‘No, I don’t think so, but he left forty minutes ago, so he ought to be there by now.’
‘Sorry,’ Emma said again. It sounded so inadequate.
Still Denise stayed on the line, and Emma got the distinct impression there was something else she wanted to say.
‘Is everything OK?’ Emma asked eventually, unable to stand the silence.
‘Yes, fine, absolutely. It’s just …’
‘Just?’
‘Well, Guy’s been going early a lot recently, and I simply wanted to make sure everything was all right. With Caitlin and Jemima, I mean.’
‘Well, of course it is.’
Emma hadn’t meant for her voice to come out quite so sharp. She found it so hard these days to moderate herself.
‘Thanks, Denise. Guy’s just been finding it easier to work in his study at home at the moment. You know how it is.’
After Denise had hung up, Emma remained with the phone cradled in her hand, staring into space. Since Tilly’s death, Guy had often left the office early, getting home at around five so he could spend time with the girls before catching up on work in the evening. It was one of the perks of being a partner, she supposed. But according to Denise he had now started leaving even earlier – at quarter to three. Yet he wasn’t coming home. So where was he?
For a few seconds, her husband’s lost hours shimmered softly in Emma’s mind like a heat haze. Then reality kicked in. An affair.
At first she couldn’t tell how she felt about this new revelation. She had to turn the thing over and over in her head, searching for a reaction until finally one suggested itself.
She was jealous. But not in the way wives were supposed to be jealous.
Guy had something in his life he felt about strongly enough to lie. He had something outside of all this. Outside of the house with its memories and its oppressive silences that cushioned the airless rooms, outside of this little world where they would always remain The Parents Who’d Lost a Child. He had a separate life that didn’t revolve solely around grief and guilt. For a moment, she was immobilized with longing, just imagining how such a thing might feel.
And then came the crushing despair. Was there to be no one to share with her the burden of living without Tilly? Then she remembered that she and Guy weren’t really sharing it, and that they were each qu
ite alone, despite the other. And now she was enraged rather than despairing. So he had found someone to offload on. No wonder he had been so dismissive when she talked about escaping their lives as the Botsfords were about to do. He had already found his escape right here.
Yet even through her anger she had to acknowledge her own culpability. She had closed herself off from him long before he followed suit. She remembered how he used to beg her to talk to him, to hold him, and how she tried to explain that she couldn’t, that Tilly’s death had opened up a hole inside her through which her feelings had drained out until all she had left was the trickle she kept for Jemima and Caitlin. After that he’d given up trying.
So maybe she shouldn’t blame him, and yet she did. How could he leave her to suffer alone?
Still torn between rage and despondency, she found herself moving towards her handbag.
Reaching into the zipped-up inside pocket, her fingers closed around the photograph. She’d promised herself she’d put it away for good after spending chunks of time lost in a trance, gazing at it with unseeing eyes. But something about it kept pulling her back. The picture of Tilly in her painting overall, her lips rounded into a perfect ‘O’ as if in the act of relating something important, if only Emma could hear it, her hair held in two perfectly symmetrical bunches by the thick yellow, red and orange bands, at exactly the same level.
‘They have to match, Mummy. If things don’t match I feel funny all day …’
Emma put the photograph down on the very same blond-wood table where Tilly had been pictured. Then she leaned forward until her forehead was resting on it and closed her eyes until the world went away.
14
The thing Sally hated about staying in hotels – well, one of the things – was that one got so bored with one’s clothes. She’d packed expecting the weather to break. Well, whoever heard of a whole week of sustained heat in this country? But she’d already been at the hotel five nights and still it was sweltering, with the result that she’d worn to death both the blue shift dress and the lemon-yellow spaghetti-strap one that she usually teamed with a cream jacket to give it a bit of gravitas. And so here she was in the garden of a historic pub by Hampstead Heath, wearing a long-sleeved, oyster-coloured top and feeling like she was being broiled alive.