by Ruth Dugdall
A flush of colour rose to Janet’s cheeks and something occurred to Holly, a premonition of sorts, a gut feeling she’d had before. Yes, Janet was protecting someone, but it wasn’t her son.
‘Janet, when I was at the hospital last night, Hector said he was going to the police station. Do you know what he told them?’
Tears welled in Janet’s eyes and Holly saw love there, and fear. She remembered that Janet had fallen pregnant after a one-night stand and for the first time she wondered if Hector was Ash’s father.
‘Janet? What do you think Hector told the police?’
The housekeeper looked up, and her face revealed such protection and fierce love that Holly knew she wouldn’t get an answer. Janet jutted her chin towards Holly.
‘I don’t need to tell you anythin’. You have no right to be here, or to ask me any questions. You left this village twenty years ago – you don’t belong here no more.’
23
Cassandra
I can smell the flowers.
I can hear the air coming through my mouth, into me. A whoosh of freedom like, oh, like breathing.
I’m breathing, and I hear it, and it’s wonderful.
And then I feel the shot, sinking into my flesh just above my heart. I’m just twelve years old and someone has shot me. I tell myself it’s a memory, that it’s over, but the pain is intense and my breathing isn’t easy any more.
‘Cass!’
There are hands on me, someone is talking from a long way off. It’s me, the voice is talking about me. I’m awake and in a bed and I can breathe.
I fall down the stairs, the gun under my neck. I have to tell them. I open my eyes, but I can’t speak. I’m on the wet grass, I’m cold. It’s not safe and I begin to scream.
‘Cass! It’s okay. You were dreaming.’
Daniel. Pale yellow light is cast from the morning sun and I can make out his face, I smell him. He’s fully dressed, but dishevelled, and then I remember: he left me last night, he went with Dad to the police station.
‘What’s happened, Dan?’
‘You need to be strong, love. Your dad won’t be coming home.’
It was just a bad dream. No, it was a memory.
And then Daniel tells me what’s happened. What Dad has told the police, that he’s been locked up.
I am awake and the nightmare isn’t over after all.
24
Holly
Holly was woken by an insistent rapping on her front door. She reached for her alarm clock and saw it was midday, she had only slept for four hours. She pulled herself from the warmth of her bed and padded to the front door. Leif stood there, in his police uniform.
‘I know who shot Maya,’ he said, before he’d even got inside her flat. ‘I’ve just done a morning’s shift and it’s all anyone is talking about.’
She needed to breathe, space to think through all that Janet had told her, but here was Leif with more news, any fears he’d had of breaching confidentiality gone with his enthusiasm.
‘He confessed. It’ll be in the evening papers so I don’t tell you anything that you won’t know in a few hours.’
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Tell me.’
Late yesterday evening Hector and Daniel had arrived at the police station, determined to see the officer in charge. Bedraggled and bowed, his left hand nursing his right, Hector had waited patiently for the police detective to find him and lead him down to an interview room. Gone, Leif said, was the farmer’s physical toughness. Without his bluster, he simply looked like a man out of his mind with worry.
Leif said that the room had been crowded, everyone watching the screen as the interview played out.
‘Would you like to speak with a solicitor, Mr Hawke?’ he was asked.
‘Nope. You can just listen.’
‘First, I’m going to read you your rights.’
As he was cautioned, Hector seemed to straighten up, to push his shoulders back, as though preparing himself for battle.
‘Okay, Mr Hawke,’ the detective asked. ‘What is it you’d like to say?’
Hector crossed his arms on the table and leaned forward, pushing his bad hand into his chest as if hiding it. Leif said Hector hadn’t looked like he’d had much sleep recently.
‘You interviewed my boy and you’ve had Janet in here too – you think one of ’em shot Maya. But you’re wrong. Janet keeps the farmhouse goin’, as she allus has, especially back when the kids were babies. The blood on the gun is Janet’s. But not because she’s guilty.’
‘How did it get there, then?’ the detective asked.
‘Janet and Ash, they both held the rifle that mornin’. There was a struggle and Janet got scratched. That’s how she came to bleed. But she was protectin’ Maya from me. I pushed Maya down the stairs, then I got the rifle from the cupboard, which was already open on account of me not lockin’ it after the shoot. I went down the stairs, loadin’ the gun as I did. Then I put the muzzle under her chin and I shot her. And I didn’t know what I’d done until Daniel woke me.’
The detective, Leif said, was puzzled. So was everyone watching. ‘Until he woke you?’
‘I was sleepwalkin’, see. I shot Maya, but I was asleep.’
Having told her his burning news, Leif moved into her kitchen like it was his own. ‘Shall I make us some lunch?’ he asked, then noticed her pyjamas. ‘Or, in your case, breakfast?’
‘That’d be great,’ she said, trying to sound normal, though her thoughts were reeling. Hector shot Maya, but in his sleep. She certainly hadn’t seen that coming, but her instincts with Janet had been right: she and Ash had worked together to protect someone they loved. It was over then, the mystery was solved.
Relief made her giddy, lack of sleep made her impulsive. As Leif stood at the hob scrambling eggs, she wrapped her arms around him, wanting to lose herself in the moment, relying on only her most basic human senses and forgetting all else.
Later, physical appetites sated, they lay together on the bed, arms and legs entwined in the relaxing aftermath of sex, Holly felt contentment calm her senses like balm. She stroked the side of Leif ’s face and snuggled closer to kiss him. It was his acceptance of her, the ease she felt with him, that made her open up in a way she never had before.
‘Leif, there’s something I need to tell you, something that’s wrong with me. You might want to run a mile . . .’ she began, as his eyes registered alarm.
He sat up, so he could see her face, and said so tenderly she wanted to cry, ‘Are you ill, Sötnos?’
‘No, nothing like that. It’s more a way I have of seeing things.’
She told him, as well as she could, of how the world seemed to her; how he was the colour yellow. She felt lighter, as if a burden had been removed from her shoulders.
‘For certain you’re lucky!’ he said. ‘Your senses are completely attuned – this is what I try to do with films. I try and engage all my senses, but often I fail.’
Although she knew her synaesthesia could sometimes be a gift, she was still surprised at how positively Leif viewed it. ‘It’s not all roses, Leif. I sometimes can’t stand it . . . I avoid the news, and TV. Some days all I want to do is sit in this flat and stare at a blank wall.’
‘Ja, you need some time off from it, of course. It sounds intense,’ agreed Leif. ‘But this also makes you very special, Sötnos. You could be an artist or a film-maker, seeing the world in such an extraordinary way.’
She was silent for a moment. ‘One of my supervisors at work said he could arrange for me to have an MRI scan so they can look at how my brain reacts to stimuli. I’ve said no.’
Leif sat up on one elbow. ‘Why, Holly? It’s exciting to know more about ourselves. And you are a rare specimen. Let them study you.’
And he began, then, to study her himself, with his gentle hands and warm lips, and all she saw was the colour yellow.
When Leif left, Holly switched on her mobile and saw she’d had several missed calls, all from the same number. She
listened to her voice messages, and realised they were all from Alfie Avon. He too had heard about Hector’s confession – the police had just released a statement. And he wanted to know what more she knew, what she could add. Unsure herself, given the police had his confession, she sent a text saying she would come to his office.
Alfie Avon led Holly through a room packed with reporters, their desks divided off by screens. Now Hector had confessed and been charged, the atmosphere was electric with hard-won sweat and the sweet anticipation of success. Small groups of adrenaline-fuelled journalists huddled together, their urgent conversations buzzing around the room. For a town like Ipswich, a case like this was big news.
Alfie’s cubicle was lined with clippings about the shooting on Innocence Lane and, she saw with surprise, features on Daniel when he’d been discussing Samphire Studios or his radio show. Alfie was as obsessed by the case as she was. On his desk lay a line of photos. ‘Bit of a surprise, this,’ he said, his hands deep in his pockets as he leaned back on battered Converse baseball boots, ‘but then it usually is the husband.’
Holly edged into the cubicle, and Alfie slid a buttock onto the one part of the table that was clear of papers, gallantly offering her the only chair. He watched her sit, then said, ‘I’ve seen your face before. You were one of the paramedics at the farm that morning – one of the team took a snap of you as you drove away with Cassandra.’
Whatever criticisms people might level against Alfie, inattention was surely not one. ‘That’s right, though I’m only a student. Not qualified yet.’
‘Still,’ he said, leaning forward and showing too much teeth and gums, ‘you were actually in the house with the victim. What was that like?’
‘Bloody,’ she said, not thinking this was giving too much away.
From where she sat, she had a direct view of the information tacked to Alfie’s noticeboard, which also served as a divider between desks. Everything on the board, all six feet square of it, related to Innocence Lane. Dominating it was a line of photos, presumably taken by Alfie or his colleagues. The first showed Janet emerging from the police station: her brown hair was scraped back and her face was pale; she looked like a startled mouse. Next came a distance shot of Ash, driving his tractor, blissfully unaware he was being photographed: lanky hair, brown puppy eyes, slightly vacant. In this photo, Hector and Cassandra were walking together towards the hospital. Together, maybe, but they weren’t talking, and their bodies were slightly turned away from each other. It was like seeing a picture of two people heading to the same meeting, yet they were father and daughter – surely they should have been supporting each other?
Her eyes drifted to the next image, which wasn’t a photo at all, but a postcard – one designed to hand out to fans with an autograph; it had the Radio Suffolk logo in the corner. Here was Daniel, handsome and confident, local celebrity and healer. Daniel had groomed hair, skin that glowed from many facials, a smile that was warm and generous. She’d been in close proximity with him many times now, yet the photo shifted something in her thoughts. Fixated by that smile, she was aware that her body temperature was cooling. She wrapped her arms around herself, wishing she’d worn a jumper over her shirt. Her senses crowded in on her, rotten smells and unpleasant static in her ears. She just wanted it to stop.
Alfie followed her gaze. ‘That cunt. Have you met him?’
She nodded, unwilling to be drawn into conversation and be distracted from her chattering senses. She tried to rationalise her growing unease, which made no sense.
Breaking into her thoughts, Alfie said, ‘So, what is it you have to tell me? In strict confidence, of course. Think of me as a very badly paid doctor.’
She didn’t answer, couldn’t: she wanted to feel the relief she had experienced earlier, when she first heard that Hector had confessed. But somehow it had ebbed away and instead her senses were pinging with doubts, what she felt about Daniel especially couldn’t be articulated. It was her synaesthesia guiding her, not evidence.
‘Come on, love, you know something or you wouldn’t be here. You don’t think the old man did it, do you?’
He gave himself an indulgent moment to study her face, though she steeled herself not to reveal anything. She shouldn’t have come – what did she think she was playing at? Contacting Alfie Avon, the most notorious reporter on the local paper, relentless in his quest for news, and vicious with it. He was something of a local hero, and prided himself on exposing scandals.
‘Okay,’ he said, with a theatrical sigh, ‘since you can’t bring yourself to talk, I’ll tell you something. Hector Hawke didn’t shoot his wife, I’d stake my life on it. I’ve been onto The Samphire Master for three years now, and I think he’s as crook as they come. Claims he can cure people, persuading them to quit conventional treatment – and no one else seems to see through him. But now there’s this shooting of his mother-in-law, the very woman he uses to prove what a miracle-worker he is.’
Holly couldn’t help seeing the photos as a badly shuffled deck of cards – with Daniel’s photo as the joker in the pack. ‘Why do you hate him so much?’ she asked.
Alfie fell silent, the anger around him evaporated and sadness took over. Stronger, harder to control, she felt him buckle under its weight as he tried to locate his fury, where he felt happier. Then he pointed to a photo she hadn’t noticed before: an old family picture, dog-eared at the corners but lovingly straightened and pinned to the board. It showed a toddler taking early steps. She was reaching out as she walked, gummy-mouthed, but with the most gorgeous mass of black hair springing around her sweet face. Behind her, a pretty black woman was poised to support her daughter, her face lit with happiness at the special moment that the camera had captured.
‘Because my wife was one of his clients.’
The door to Clive’s office was open. He acknowledged her with a warm smile. ‘Afternoon, Holly. Everything okay?’
She took the seat opposite him, and folded her arms on his desk, desperate for some clarity. ‘I want you to explain to me, how can someone fire a gun in their sleep?’
‘Ah, so you’ve heard the news too?’ Clive said. ‘Well, the legal definition is non-insane automatism, when someone has no conscious knowledge of their actions.’ He was wearing a slightly smarter jacket than usual, in brown tweed, but it was still baggy at the elbows and his red-and-yellow-striped school-style tie had what looked like a toothpaste stain. Behind his round glasses, his eyes were bright with intelligence and understanding. ‘Sleepwalkers have been known to commit violent attacks – there are several documented cases – but whether that’s happened here would need to be assessed.’
‘Oh.’ Holly appraised him anew: not only did he look smarter, there was an energy about him. ‘Will you be doing that?’
‘Hector Hawke has been remanded into custody and it’s likely court will ask for a medical report. I’m the duty psychiatrist for the court. So, Holly, does this bring you some peace?’
She almost flinched, it was so far from the sensations she was feeling. ‘Why would it?’
‘Because yesterday you were worried that the police weren’t doing their jobs. They obviously were.’
Holly wished she could find peace, but her synaesthesia wouldn’t let her be. First it had told her this wasn’t a suicide attempt, now she wasn’t convinced by Hector’s sleepwalking explanation. She felt that the only way to control her senses, and to find relief, was to find answers.
‘Clive, you’re right: this case really has interested me. I was thinking sleep disorders may be what I choose to focus on for my final case study. I’d like to know more about it.’
‘That seems a good idea. If Hector Hawke’s report comes my way, you could shadow me. Would you like that?’
What could she say, but yes?
DAY 7
FRIDAY 7 NOVEMBER
25
Cassandra
I don’t want Daniel to leave me, especially after what’s happened, but he has to go to work. I’m still
trying to make sense of Dad’s confession when the phone makes me jump.
‘Miss Hawke?’
The voice is unfamiliar, plummy and exaggerating every vowel and consonant. I’m immediately wary.
‘Speaking.’
‘This is Rupert Jackson, your father’s solicitor. As you probably know, your father has been remanded to custody. I’ve got a slot on Monday for a hearing, so I’ll be asking the court to bail him so he can attend the necessary sleep tests. It’ll be damned awkward if they have to take him to hospital in a prison van, cuffed to an officer. I can rely on you to attend, to support his bail application? I don’t think I have a hope in hell without you.’
Even if he was asleep, he’s still guilty of shooting you and he was prepared to let everyone think you’d tried to kill yourself. ‘No, I won’t be there.’
‘Hmm, your father thought you’d say that. The old boy wants to talk to you, wants you to go to Norwich Prison today. A visiting order is waiting at the gate.’
Norwich Prison. To see that bastard. I remember him sleepwalking, moving around the house at night, him walking in the woods in only pyjamas. But loading a gun, firing it, and all while asleep . . . I don’t believe it’s possible. ‘No. I won’t do it. He shot my mum – he could have killed her.’
‘Miss Hawke, if I may? Your parents have been married for a long time. I’ve met a lot of cold-hearted men who hurt their wives and, believe me, I don’t think your father is one of them. A man like him doesn’t belong in prison. He’d be best at home with you. Please go and see him. He’s on the hospital wing at Norwich Prison.’
‘Why isn’t he on a normal wing?’ He didn’t seem ill to me when I saw him marching out of your hospital room. He’s strong and fit – even the stroke didn’t slow him down.
‘He’s a good three decades older than the average inmate and he had a stroke last year, plus there’s the strain he’s under. Oh yes, he gave me a message to pass on. Could you take in a suit for him to wear in court? And some money for cigarettes.’