Ask No Questions

by Claire Allan

  They’ve succeeded.

  I want to leave. I want to rewind ten minutes, come back and find that this is all a figment of my imagination. I don’t want to stay here, like a sitting duck, on my own waiting for the police to come. The tightness in my chest ramps up – it feels like someone is squeezing my heart and lungs and I’m struggling to gasp at the air around me.

  I wish my mother hadn’t moved away. That my father wasn’t dead. That I could run to the family home that had provided me with such comfort when I was small. I wish I could run to Trina’s, but we’re not that close – not close enough for Saturday night break-ins and breakdowns. I mentally scan through a list of friends and acquaintances and realise, with a thud, that there aren’t many – if any – I can call on right now.

  The sensible part of me screams at me to call the police. The part of me that feels fear and wants comfort screams at me to run to somewhere I feel safe and cared for.

  My hands sweaty, my fingers still clumsy and shaking, I scroll through my phone and hit the call button.

  I’m almost weak with relief when I hear his voice.

  ‘Can I come round to your place? Jen and the boys are away, aren’t they?’

  ‘They are and of course you can.’

  ‘Good, I’ll be there as soon as I can get a taxi over.’

  ‘Are you okay? You sound shaken?’

  That question. Suddenly, I’m not sure I want to tell him the truth. I don’t want him to know just how shaken I am. I don’t want to see pity in his face, hear the undertones of ‘I told you so’ in his voice.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I lie. ‘I just fancied some company.’

  It’s a huge understatement. What I want is a distraction. Something to lift me out of this scary, dark place. It doesn’t matter if that distraction is good for me or not.

  ‘Good. Okay. See you soon.’

  He sounds cynical. He probably doesn’t believe me, but he’ll forget that when I get there. He is easily distracted.

  ‘Yes, see you soon, Ryan,’ I say, hanging up and already feeling ashamed of what I’m about to do. I’m not the kind of mistress who feels devoid of shame at sleeping with another woman’s husband.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ingrid

  ‘This is a nice surprise,’ Ryan says, helping me out of my still-damp coat. ‘Were you out walking in the rain?’

  I’m shivering and my teeth are chattering, but I don’t think it’s with the cold. I can’t deny it. I’m glad to see him. To hear his voice – it’s comforting.

  ‘Sure, I got the taxi to drop me at the bottom of the street. Can’t be seen pulling up outside. What would the neighbours think?’ I reply, turning to face him.

  ‘Stuff the neighbours,’ he says, putting one hand to my face and brushing my hair back. ‘I don’t care what they think.’

  His breath is warm and smells of beer as he presses his lips against mine. I pull him close. I want to feel the weight of his body tight against mine. I want to block out the noise and the fear. I want to block out my guilt at needing him – a married man – so badly.

  Because I do need him. Right now, I need him – and I know if he can hold me so close that I can feel what I do to him, then I can forget it all for a time. I can become lost in the most basic of instincts and the most animal of feelings.

  I won’t even think about who he is – how we have promised each other time and time again that we aren’t going to do this any more. That it’s not good for either of us. Not professional. Not fair to Jen and the boys. Not fair to each other. Because this is not love. This is not even ‘like’. This is sex. This is scratching an itch for both of us and nothing more.

  It’s angry, physical sex that distracts and makes my nerve endings tingle, to the point that all I can focus on are the sensations coursing through my body. The wrongness of it is part of what makes it so irresistible, even though each time I find myself alone with Ryan, his hands groping at me, making me melt time and time again, I swear it will be the last time. I swear I won’t ever show him how weak I am again. Because this, this need for something animalistic on a wet Saturday night when his wife and children are out of town, and I’m trying to block out how scared I am, this is very much a sign of my weakness.

  I lose myself in it as he groans, moves inside me until he calls my name and gasps, his body juddering then stilling, his breathing heavy. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he mutters. We’ve not even made it out of the hall this time.

  I pull away from him, go to the bathroom to freshen up. Looking in the mirror, I stare at my flushed face. A sheen of sweat covers my forehead. What remained of my lipstick is gone, my hair is frizzing from the rain, my eyes are tired. I try to catch my breath because it still hasn’t settled. I try to fight back the urge to cry or scream. I don’t want to be scared. I don’t want to tell Ryan I’m scared. That will just show him even more of my weakness. In this moment, I wish this could be something more. He could be someone else. That he is someone who loves me and that I love him. But he isn’t someone else and we don’t love each other.

  I stand and breathe in and out in this lovely family bathroom. There are traces of Jen everywhere. Soft grey towels against the polished white tiles. A reed diffuser from Next, a bottle of Jo Malone Lime Basil & Mandarin handwash, with accompanying hand cream. One of those faux cool signs on the wall, black frame, words in black print: Wash your hands, you filthy animal.

  Jen is a nice woman. Friendly. Stylish but not overdone. Quiet. A good mother, by all accounts. I have eaten dinner, prepared by her, at her table. I have drunk her wine and laughed with her sons. I have discussed my favourite TV programmes with her, sitting on her sofa, drinking a cup of tea she has made.

  But I have also fucked her husband. And not because I love him, because I don’t. I admire him, for the journalist he is. For the life he has led. He can make me laugh and he can infuriate me. He can challenge me and inspire me. But I don’t love him. There is little point. He has made it clear, always, that he will never leave Jen. Not now. Not when the children have grown up and moved out. Not ever.

  Not that I want him to. Maybe there was a time when I entertained that little fantasy, but that’s long gone.

  I wash my hands, using Jen’s expensive soap, and I dry them on her perfectly fluffed towel.

  My breathing is no calmer. I’m horrified to find that the fear I’d felt at home hasn’t eased. It’s not become any clearer to me what I should or shouldn’t do. Whether or not I should call the police. Actually, I know I should call the police. I just don’t want to.

  I walk back to the living room, which is as tastefully decorated as the rest of the house. A picture of Ryan, Jen and their two teenage boys smiles down at me from the wall. It’s one of those arty ‘look at us in our jeans and white T-shirts’ shots that screams ‘happy family’.

  Ryan is sitting, smiling like the cat that got the cream, on his sofa. Two glasses of a rich red Malbec are poured and sitting on the coffee table in front of the fire.

  I sit down on the other end of the sofa. My itch has been scratched and I have no desire at all to be close to him physically any more. Lifting the glass, I fight the urge to down the wine in one go. I don’t want to do anything that will belie my emotional state.

  ‘Jesus, Ingrid. You’re like a woman possessed. Not that I’m complaining,’ he says with a satisfied grin.

  I cringe internally at my own neediness but do my best to keep my expression neutral.

  ‘Things were so tense between us all week at work, I never thought you’d be up for meeting this weekend,’ he adds. ‘I thought I’d give you some space to calm down.’

  I look at him, drink deeply from my wine glass, shrug my shoulders. I can play this part. I’m well-practised at it.

  ‘I didn’t intend to come here. But, you know, Saturday night and I was bored …’ I lie. It surprises me how easily it trips off my tongue.

  ‘Well, I’m happy to provide a distraction, and I’m definitely happy to see you.
Will you stay over? You can, you know. Jen and the boys won’t be back until tomorrow dinner time at the earliest, so you know, we could make the most of it. It’s not often we get the opportunity.’

  ‘I didn’t think this was a stay-the-night kind of arrangement,’ I say, staring down into my glass.

  ‘It can be,’ he says, and there’s a longing in his eyes.

  Whether it’s for another shag or something more meaningful, I don’t know. I don’t want to consider the latter scenario. There is no good that can come out of developing anything more than a colleagues-with-benefits relationship with him. Even if I wanted to continue to hide here, it would only be a temporary fix. I would be fooling myself.

  I shake my head. ‘We’ve been over this before. Why it’s a bad idea. Jen doesn’t deserve this.’

  ‘I hate to burst your bubble, but if by “this” you mean us sleeping together, then that has already happened,’ he says. ‘Many times. Not least twenty minutes ago when you threw yourself at me.’

  Shaking my head, I say, ‘I mean this as in us sharing a bed, your marital bed, in your home. You’ve made it clear you’re not going to leave her – and I don’t want you to, either. So, let’s not make it more than what it is.’

  ‘Don’t you ever get lonely?’ Ryan asks, putting his wine glass down on the floor, sitting forwards so that he can look in my eyes.

  Those big blue eyes, searching my face, trying to read me. I break the stare. Look down at my glass.

  ‘We all get lonely, Ryan. Even those of us in big houses with partners and children.’

  This is all starting to feel a little claustrophobic now. He wants to have a big chat. One of those deep and meaningfuls, and God, it’s the very last thing on my mind. I came here to escape my worries, not add to them.

  The thought of the red paint sliding down my wall in long, skinny drips comes back into my head.

  ‘Actually, I think I should probably go. I’m going to call a taxi.’

  I put my glass down, fish in my bag for my phone.

  ‘Are you serious?’ he asks, incredulous. ‘You’ve not even been here an hour and you’re off again?’

  ‘You got what you wanted, didn’t you?’ I ask him.

  ‘You’re a total bitch at times, Ingrid,’ he says.

  ‘Maybe. But I’m also right. Look, I’ll wait for the taxi at the bottom of the street.’

  ‘But it’s lashing it down.’

  ‘I’m not made of sugar and I won’t melt,’ I tell him as I put my coat back on and lift my bag. ‘Thanks for the wine.’

  I hear him swear as I pull closed the front door, but I walk on anyway. When the taxi pulls up, not only am I soaking, but I’m also shaking again – a mixture of anger, fear and exhaustion coursing through my veins. I don’t want to go home. Not tonight. Not in the dark. But nor do I want to land on the doorstep of family or friends. I don’t want to answer questions.

  I ask the driver to drop me off at the Maldron Hotel in the city centre, praying they aren’t fully booked. I’ll deal with everything else in the morning.

  I toss and turn. My head is too full to allow me to sleep, even in the comfort of a super king-size bed. I’m not sure what I should do next. Clear up the mess in my flat? Add some more security measures? Look for somewhere new to live? None of the options are ideal. Some are not even possible. I can’t add to the communal security of the block, and I sure as hell can’t afford to move right now.

  Massaging my temples and giving up on sleep, I accept that I really shouldn’t waste any more time before I call the police. I should’ve called them straight away. No doubt they’ll ask all sorts of questions about why I didn’t, about where I went instead. I’ll have to lie. Fuck. I can’t have them landing at Ryan’s door asking questions. What if Jen is back?

  What will Ryan say if he finds out the real reason for my unexpected visit?

  I sit up, make a cup of tea in the hotel room, trying not to think about all those stories that fly around the Internet about people boiling their underwear in hotel kettles.

  I run the power shower, stand under the pulsing stream, grateful beyond words to feel the thrum of the water pummel my skin and reinvigorate me.

  I remind myself that I’m only doing my job and sometimes my job gets a bit scary. Not everyone wants the truth to come out, but that doesn’t mean we stop trying to find it. I don’t bow to intimidation – no matter how intimidating – although it does strike me as odd that it seems to be the case that someone knows I’m in contact with Jamesy Harte.

  After talking to him yesterday, I’ve no reason to think I shouldn’t be speaking to him. He made quite a compelling case and I’m even more of the mind that he wouldn’t have had the wherewithal to commit such a crime, never mind try to hide it.

  He has as much of a right to have his voice heard as the Doherty family – more even, if he is telling the truth.

  I turn the shower off, wrap a towel around me and play back the interview with Jamesy on my phone while I dry off and get dressed. His voice. His naivety. His pain.

  He’s either telling the truth, or he’s as good a liar as they come.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ingrid

  Sunday, 20 October 2019

  Detective Sergeant Eve King arrives at my flat just over an hour after I call the police. In the cold light of day, as the early winter sun streams in through the window, I feel less spooked. Not much less spooked, but enough that I don’t want to throw up every time I look at the paint on the wall.

  I’ve just made up a pot of fresh coffee, when the door buzzer sounds, and I let DS King in. She’s accompanied by her tall, gangly colleague, DC Mark Black. All of our paths have crossed before and I know DS King sees me as a thorn in her side. I wonder if she is experiencing a sense of schadenfreude right now.

  ‘Ms Devlin,’ Eve King says as I open the door.

  I spot a uniformed officer further down the corridor. No doubt this will be talk of the whole building.

  ‘I think we know each other well enough that you can call me Ingrid now,’ I reply.

  DS King neither smiles nor tells me I’m okay to use her first name in return; instead she glances around, takes a pair of latex gloves out of her pocket and puts them on.

  ‘You said you had a break-in?’

  ‘That’s right. I did. When I came home last night, just after nine, the door was open. My door, and the door to the complex. I went into my bedroom and saw this …’

  I turn to lead her to my room, but she doesn’t follow. When I reach for the handle to open the door, I hear an intake of breath.

  ‘Try to touch as little as possible,’ she says. ‘In case there is trace evidence.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I mumble. It unnerves me how having the police in my own home makes me feel much more vulnerable.

  ‘So,’ she says, ‘you found the doors open when you got home last night?’

  She has one eyebrow raised when I look at her.

  ‘Yes. About nine. I’d been working all day and came home …’

  She raises a hand to stop me, mid flow. I’m pretty sure she’s enjoying this.

  ‘If you discovered a break-in last night, why are you only calling it in now?’

  DC Black stifles a smile. I glare in his direction and he straightens up. I don’t have to remind him that I know exactly how to land him in deep trouble if I was so inclined.

  Turning my attention back to DS King, I speak, doing my best to be honest, but not too honest.

  ‘I … I freaked out, I suppose. I was tired and scared and I certainly wasn’t thinking straight. I just wanted to get away from here. I know Saturday night is a busy night for the police. I couldn’t stand the thought of waiting around. I just needed to go somewhere else. So I went and checked in at the Maldron for the night.’

  I don’t mention my stop-off at Ryan’s house on the way.

  ‘We could’ve helped. Someone would have been with you as soon as was possible,’ DS King says.

&nbs
p; ‘I’m hoping you can help now,’ I say, turning back towards my bedroom door and opening it.

  DC Black moves around me, walks to the far side of my bed and examines the wall closely.

  ‘This seems to be the only room he, or she, touched,’ I say. ‘Everything else was in its place.’

  ‘Nothing stolen?’

  ‘Not that I have noticed.’

  ‘And that’s paint, isn’t it?’ DS King asks, nodding her head towards the wall.

  ‘Thankfully, yes. It appears to be nothing more sinister.’

  ‘There’s blood on your hands,’ DC Black reads aloud. ‘And do you know what that might be referring to?’ he asks me.

  He speaks to me as if we are total strangers, as if we don’t have our arrangement on the side. As if I’ve not seen him slightly the worse for wear from alcohol.

  I blink. Direct my answer primarily to Eve King.

  ‘I’m not sure, but it could be to do with a story I’m chasing at the moment. It’s the anniversary of a child’s murder. Kelly Doherty. I’m not sure if you’ll remember that … Not everyone is happy about it. Especially now Jamesy Harte is making noises about an appeal.’

  DS King nods. ‘I know the case,’ she says, and of course she does – DS King is the kind of woman who knows everything.

  She takes her phone from her pocket and snaps a picture or two of the wall.

  ‘You do seem to like getting yourself into all sorts of trouble, don’t you?’

  Her tone is friendly, but I believe it to be little more than an act.

  ‘Well, if you mean I’m not afraid to do my job and ask tough questions, then I suppose so,’ I say, my heckles rising.

  ‘Well, that’s not what I meant, but …’ She looks around the room again, turns to DC Black and tells him to call in SOCO and check for any CCTV images at the main entrance.

  ‘Those cameras have been out of action for weeks now,’ I tell her. ‘I’ve complained about it, but nothing’s been done.’