‘I was in love with Andrew,’ she blurts out.
I’m so shocked that I nearly swerve into an oncoming car. ‘What?’ I turn to her, expecting her to be laughing, but her face is composed, serious.
‘We were having an affair. It was me. Not Lucinda.’
‘You? But … I … No, that can’t be right …’ My mouth is so dry I can hardly get the words out. ‘Is this a joke?’
She shakes her long mane. ‘No. I’m sorry, Em. I should have told you. But we keep secrets from each other, don’t we? I never knew what you were going through with Stu. And you never knew I was in love with a married man.’
A thought so terrible enters my head that I can feel all the blood draining from my face. ‘Did you … did you kill him?’
Her laugh is sharp and cynical. ‘Of course not. I loved him. He loved me. He’d left his wife for me. The night he died … I was with him at my place. And then he went home and … and …’ Her voice is strained as though she’s holding back tears.
And with those words a gulf opens up between us, so huge that we’d need a cruise ship to cross it. Yasmin, my best mate, was shagging that arsehole. I feel like I don’t know her at all.
‘How could you?’ I snap, fury building in my chest. ‘How could you be in love with a man so terrible, a man who’s a bully, who has such little respect for women …’
Her words cut across the space between us, as sharp as the knife I imagine killed Andrew. ‘And how could you?’ she says coldly. ‘How could you?’
‘I’ve decided not to go on the Edinburgh trip this weekend,’ I say to Stuart later that evening. I can’t bring myself to tell him that my best mate was having an affair with my boss.
He is reading a newspaper at the dining table, a mug of coffee by his side. He always enjoys an instant coffee this time of night; it never keeps him awake like it does with me. I’d miss these little things about him if I left, I think as I watch him. I’d miss the way he licks his forefinger as he turns the page, the way his dark hair falls over his forehead, how his cheeks dimple when he’s reading something funny. He looks up, shocked. ‘What? Why? I mean, that’s great, but what made you change your mind?’
‘My friends,’ I say glumly. ‘I don’t want to spend time with Yasmin, or Lucinda. Not after everything that’s happened.’
He folds up his paper and comes to sit beside me. ‘Well, I’m glad. Of course. I never liked the thought of you going anyway. I mean, we’re practically married. You can’t go off cavorting with single girls, like a bunch of slags …’
Yasmin’s words haunt me. The words she’d thrown back at me when I’d asked how she could have loved such a cruel, cold man. ‘And how could you?’ she’d said. How could I indeed.
I ring in sick the next day. I can’t face going into the office with the daily reminder of Andrew’s brutal murder. And I can’t face Yasmin or Seth.
All night I tossed and turned while I thought of Yasmin and Andrew together. Did she go to his flat that night? Maybe he told her he wasn’t willing to leave his wife for her after all? Maybe he revealed he was also seeing Lucinda? She could have flipped, stabbing him in a jealous rage. After all, I’ve seen the effects that jealousy has on a person, the violent temper, the black moods. Would Yas be capable of that? Maybe we all are, if pushed?
Stuart is still on his best behaviour after our row, mollified by the fact that I’m no longer planning on going to Edinburgh for my ‘slutty’ girls’ weekend. I feel depressed as I waft around the house. I flick through the paper, wondering if I should look for a new job. A new start. Where would I live if we split up? This house belongs to Stuart after all. Could I go back and live at Mum and Dad’s at the age of twenty-six?
I bag up the rubbish ready to put out for the bin men. They don’t usually turn up until lunch time. The black bag is so full that I take ages trying to heave it from the bin, wiggling it until it’s free of its plastic casing. Just as I go to tie a knot in the top my eye catches something familiar, something that makes my scalp prickle … a flash of white, a scribble of blue. I delve into the bag. It’s a slip of paper, lined, ripped from a notebook. I pull at the corner and lift it from the debris. It’s stained with teabags and baked beans but I can still read the first few words in block capitals. HE’S DEAD …
I’m seized by horror. I drop the bag of rubbish and lay the note carefully on the worktop. Then I get some paper towel and carefully sponge the food away. The rest of the sentence isn’t there. I realize that this must have been Stuart’s practice note – the one he didn’t want, never finished. A prototype while he worked out exactly what he was going to say. Did he kill Andrew? Is that where he went after our row? He’d read the text too. He’s capable of being violent, I know that only too well. Did he kill Andrew thinking that’s what I wanted? But he knows I’d mistyped the message, that it was all a mistake.
I lift up the note carefully and place it into a clear sandwich bag. And then I head for the police station.
DC Grey is sympathetic as he glances at the letter still in its plastic bag.
‘It looks like the same writing to me, but I can safely assure you that your partner didn’t kill Andrew Burton. We have a suspect in custody. She’s confessed …’
She?
Yasmin. It has to be. She must have felt guilty and handed herself in. Oh, Yas.
Tears spring to my eyes. I don’t know what’s worse, my boyfriend being the murderer or my best friend.
‘Yasmin loved him. I’m sure she didn’t mean to kill him,’ I say.
Grey frowns. ‘Yasmin? No, it’s his wife who has confessed. Years of abuse apparently. That’s her defence anyway.’ He sounds bitter, cynical. ‘I can’t say any more because we’re about to charge her. I don’t know why your boyfriend sent you the note, that’s something the two of you will have to sort out. However, you can rest assured that he didn’t kill Andrew Burton.’
I know why Stuart sent the note. He wanted me to start distrusting my friends and to drive a wedge between me and Seth. Another way to control me. For someone so clever he’s been incredibly stupid. And so have I. A kick, a shove, a twist of the wrist … it’s abuse, whichever way you look at it. I’ve been making excuses for him for far too long.
It doesn’t take me long to pack my belongings. It’s funny how little of everything here is mine. The furniture, the crockery, the kitchen utensils. Everything is Stuart’s. I have nothing, which is the way he liked it. He wanted me to rely on him for everything. But now I’m free of him. Because I don’t want to be like Andrew Burton’s wife. Caroline or Carolyn. Abused and controlled by a misogynistic bully until I’m the one who finally flips and plunges a knife in to his chest.
I need to get out now. While I still can.
Later that night I send Stuart a text message from the safety of my parents’ house.
I know about the note and so do the police. I never want to see you again. It’s over.
Dumping by text. That’s the most he deserves.
Prologue
He had such pretty eyes; they were his best feature, the colour of the ocean. Now they are as glassy and lifeless as a china doll’s, staring up at the darkening sky, empty, unseeing. The stone ornament falls from my open palm and spins towards his body, where it lands heavily against his thigh.
Fear takes hold of me so that, for a few moments, I’m rooted to the spot, staring at the dent in his skull and the arc of blood that has sprayed from the back of his head, staining the grass red. Then I kneel down beside him, my knees sinking into the damp lawn. I’m careful not to touch him. I can leave no evidence.
I glance up furtively. The building is over two hundred feet away, the windows opaque, some with curtains hanging open, others with the blinds rolled up. Was anybody watching? I’m already starting to think like a criminal. Was I seen at the bottom of the garden among the weeds and overgrown grass?
Was I seen killing my husband?
1
Jamie twists the dial on the rad
io up to full volume so we can hear the Stone Roses over the wind whistling past our ears. He looks like one of those nodding dogs as he moves his head to the music.
‘God, I love this song.’
‘You don’t say,’ I tease, and then grimace when he starts singing along.
He notices. ‘What? I was the lead singer in a band when I was eighteen.’ But he squeezes my thigh, a playful gesture that shows me he’s not offended. ‘You could’ve been our groupie.’
I’m tempted to remind him that he was with Hannah then. She would have been his groupie. But I don’t want to dampen his mood. He seems happier than he’s been in ages. I turn to appraise him, to admire his sharp jaw that curves into his long neck, the fine blond hair just visible above the buttons of his polo shirt, and I feel a flicker of desire. I place my hand where his still rests lightly on my thigh and we interlock our fingers. He catches my eye and smiles before his gaze snaps back to the empty lane that stretches ahead of us.
‘I can’t wait to see the house,’ I say. ‘I wonder what it’s going to be like. I hope it isn’t some kind of dive.’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘A dive? I doubt that. Didn’t Philip Heywood describe it as –’ he puts on his telephone voice ‘– “an imposing seaside pile with panoramic views of the bay”, or some such …’
I laugh. ‘I don’t think so.’
He takes his hand away and places it back on the steering wheel to navigate a bend. ‘The Roseland Peninsula is supposed to be stunning.’
‘The name certainly suggests so.’
‘Apparently it’s derived from rhos, Celtic for heath.’
‘How do you know this stuff?’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘Because I’m a geek.’
‘You are.’ But I’m smiling as I say it. I tug the collar of my coat further up my bare neck. It’s been years since I’ve had long hair but I occasionally miss the warmth of it against my skin, especially in the colder months. The sunshine bounces off the bonnet of the car yet there is a chill in the air, despite the blue skies, reminding us that the threat of an April shower is ever present. I don’t have the heart to tell Jamie to put the roof up. He needs this holiday just as much as I do. Our first nine months of married life haven’t been easy.
I catch sight of our golden retriever Ziggy in the rear-view mirror, lounging across the back seat, his eyes closed, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth. It’d been a last-minute decision to bring the dog. Katie, Jamie’s younger sister, had promised to look after him for us, but, as usual, she’d let us down at the eleventh hour.
I feel the drag of car sickness in the pit of my stomach as Jamie navigates another bend and I concentrate on breathing deeply, trying to push the nausea away, my nostrils desperately searching for the sea air that we’d been promised but instead finding the pungent scent of rapeseed from the yellow fields. My right arm feels heavy and itches beneath its cast, but at least it’s given me a good excuse not to have to drive. Not that Jamie encourages me to get behind the wheel any more. Not since early on in our relationship, when I nearly killed us both by pulling onto a busy A-road and narrowly missing an oncoming lorry.
Eventually, a speck in the distance grows bigger, breaking up the monotonous country road; a tiny petrol station stands forlornly, like a lost child amongst the wild foliage.
‘That must be the one,’ I say, pointing at it in excitement, trying to remember the instructions that Philip Heywood had given me on the phone two days before.
Jamie pulls into the forecourt and switches off the engine, and the world appears to fall quiet for a moment. It’s a welcome silence after the constant din of loud music and buffeting wind. Too much noise has always made me feel stressed and on edge, but Jamie loves to play music as loud as he can get away with.
He reaches over into the back seat and clips the lead onto Ziggy’s collar. ‘Do you want to go and get the key then, Libs? I’ll fill her up as we’re here. Then I’ll take Ziggy over there so he can do his ablutions.’ He indicates a patch of unruly grass to the side of the shop. I agree, relieved to get out and stand on solid ground for a bit.
The guy behind the counter is barely out of his teens. He stares at me with a nonplussed expression on his acne-scarred face when I ask about the key to the Hideaway. ‘I don’t know nothing about a key,’ he says while scratching a pimple on his neck. ‘I’ll get my manager. Name?’
‘Pardon?’
He tuts, not bothering to hide his annoyance. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Oh. Libby …’
‘Surname?’
‘Elliot … I mean, Hall. Mrs.’ I’m so used to calling myself by my maiden name at work that I sometimes forget I’m now part of someone else’s family.
He slopes off to the back of the shop, his long arms swinging like an ape’s, and disappears through a grey door. The shop is small, the shelves piled high with cans of tuna, beans and plum tomatoes. I’m the only customer. I pick up some mints from the rack in front of me and scan the confectionery for something for Jamie. Something with coconut, his favourite. Then I watch out of the window as Jamie coaxes a reluctant Ziggy back into the car. Our Mini Cooper is the only vehicle on the forecourt.
The guy doesn’t re-emerge and I feel the fluttering of panic that this is all some elaborate con and there is no key or house by the sea. Then a buxom woman with a mop of dyed blonde hair barrels through the door, key dangling enticingly from her chubby fingers.
‘Elizabeth Hall?’ she says in a thick Cornish accent.
I nod and she hands over the key, her face breaking into a smile. ‘Aren’t you lucky, going to stay at the Hideaway. Beautiful views. Not that I’ve ever stayed there myself. I didn’t know they rented it out?’
I take the key gratefully. ‘I don’t know if they do, usually. We’re doing a house swap.’
Her eyes widen. ‘A house swap? What a great idea. So they’re staying in your house while you’re in theirs?’
I push my debit card into the machine. ‘Yes. Although ours is a flat. In Bath.’
‘I’ve heard Bath’s lovely. I’ve never been.’ She rips off the receipt and hands it to me as I retrieve my card. ‘A house swap though. What a great idea.’ Then her eyes sweep over my cast. ‘Recovering from an accident, are you, love?’
I’d like to tell her to mind her own bloody business, and years ago I might have done just that. But those days are behind me; in my job I can’t afford to lose my temper. So I swallow down my irritation. I can’t tell her the truth – I’d be here all day answering questions.
‘I slipped and broke it,’ I say. It’s only a half-lie. ‘In the playground. I’m a teacher.’
She grimaces. ‘Ooh, nasty. Did one of those little blighters push you over?’
I shake my head and force out a laugh, explaining that I’d tripped over a skipping rope which had been left on the tarmac, all the while trying to extricate myself from the conversation by inching further towards the exit. ‘Thanks again,’ I say, waving the key at her and hurrying through the door before she can ask another question.
I spot Jamie through the windscreen, impatiently tapping the steering wheel with his fingers. We’ve had our fair share of rows lately, mostly over money, and I don’t want to upset the fragile equilibrium that we seem to have found since the miscarriage. I slide into the passenger seat. ‘Sorry about that. The woman wouldn’t stop asking me questions.’
His expression darkens. ‘What about?’
‘Oh, my cast. The accident.’
‘You didn’t tell her?’ His voice is unusually sharp.
‘No, of course not.’ I pull the seat belt over my shoulder.
‘Good. We’re supposed to be getting away from it all. Has she given you the key?’
I hold it up to show him. It’s attached to a small glass heart that glints in the sun.
He visibly relaxes. ‘Thank God. I thought it had all been a mistake. You know what they say? If it’s too good to be true …’
I lean ov
er and kiss the side of his face where his jawline meets his ear, his soft stubble grazing my lips. I love that he’s excited about this. That he’s regaining some of his former spark. That’s what I’d loved about him when I first met him, his enthusiasm for life. He’s a pint-half-full kind of man, but being made redundant, setting up on his own and constantly worrying about money has taken its toll, and I’ve noticed, over the last few months, that some of his brightness has started to fade, like a tarnished coin.
As we head down another narrow lane, thick hedgerows sprinkled with white blossom rearing up on either side, Jamie almost shouts, ‘That must be it!’ his eagerness bringing out his slight West Country twang. He points towards a house on the other side of a T-junction. I follow his finger. Surely he’s mistaken? The house is huge, even grander than his mother’s.
‘That can’t be it,’ I reply as Jamie veers off the road and onto the driveway, gravel crunching beneath the tyres just as the nasal voice of the sat-nav informs us that we have reached our destination.
The car draws to a halt and Jamie switches the engine off. We sit and stare at the house in an awed silence, both of us taking in the detached, rectangular building with a round turret at one end; all traditional smoky-coloured stone and glass. A creeper grows halfway up the walls so that it looks like a beard. Trees and bushes in varying shades of green envelop the house as if they are embracing it. Beyond the property is a stretch of clear blue ocean sparkling in the distance. The only sounds are the cheerful chirruping of birds and the faint growl of the sea. I can smell the salt on the breeze, mixed with a trace of horse manure.
‘It’s quite remote,’ I say, suddenly feeling a little overwhelmed. I grew up in the countryside – a little two-up two-down on a small council estate in North Yorkshire – but I’d spent the best part of the last decade in a city. I’m used to having neighbours. Being surrounded by people makes me feel secure, less frightened.
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