I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. We can talk tonight. Love C.
No throw-away kiss like Cecelia would have used. Straight, neat handwriting slightly sloping to the left. What is it they say about that, those profilers who reckon they can tell everything about you by your scrawl? That it’s a sign of repression, of hidden emotions, of fear and withdrawal? I let out a little laugh and stuff the note in my pocket, thinking that kind of person sounds more like me than Claudia.
Upstairs in Claudia and James’s bedroom, I resume my search, listening for echoing remnants of words. Here, darling, I’ll leave the key in my cufflink box . . . When you need it, the study key is in my bedside drawer . . . Remember, I’m hiding the key under my socks . . .
I hear none.
I stare at the bed made up with white linen. It’s huge. I’m reminded of Cecelia, of her lean body selfishly slicing up the bed. Marble-cold skin on crisp cotton sheets, her hair like a murder in the anaemic scene; me standing in the doorway, watching her, not knowing what to do with her misery.
I turn suddenly, catching my breath. There’s no one there. I close my eyes, take a moment to compose myself.
Everything is fine.
I think carefully, slowly scanning the large bedroom. Vibrant peacock-print wallpaper adorns the chimney-breast wall, while the rest of the room is painted in a pale ochre that probably has a pretentious name. The massive bed, the centrepiece of the room, is carved mahogany with four shoulder-height posts. The bedding is perfectly arranged with vintage lace cushions that would, if I slept in here, get tossed on the floor.
I imagine James packing his holdall. I was surprised at how small it was but I suppose he has to travel light for life on a submarine. I think of him carefully placing starched shirts into the bag on top of crisp pressed trousers, all folded with military precision. They’ll be stowed in the most unlikely of compartments on board the vessel, while the men go about their work in cramped conditions. I see Claudia watching on as her husband prepares to leave, holding her beautiful burgeoning belly, a tear in her eye as she imagines giving birth alone. Does she even remember what he told her about the key’s whereabouts, or was she too upset about his looming departure?
Will I even find anything useful in the study anyway?
Quick as a fox, I’m rifling through every drawer in the room, trying not to mess up the contents. Wafts of sweet-smelling fabric softener fan off the clean clothes and underwear, but there’s no key. Without disturbing a thing, I look on the white-painted dressing table. I carefully lift the lids of a couple of china pots that contain earrings, safety pins, buttons and a couple of baby teeth. No key.
I hold my breath as I lift up each corner of the heavy king-size mattress, praying I’ll see a fob labelled ‘Study’. All I find is a magazine with Japanese writing on the cover and a tiny, virtually nude girl peering over the top of pink sunglasses. It looks old. It looks well used. James must have bought it on one of his overseas missions. I drop the mattress down, betting it’s not the only dirty thing he’s picked up in a foreign port.
Suddenly my heart aches for Claudia and I have a ridiculous desire to warn her about what I’m going to do.
I take a moment, a breather, although it feels a little like lingering in the lions’ den. Claudia could come home from work – perhaps in early labour, needing to fetch her hospital bag. Maybe James’s mission has been cancelled or rescheduled, or he’s had a change of heart about leaving Claudia alone for the birth of their baby. What if he has left the Navy in a fit of regret and is already home? Perhaps he’s silently taking the stairs two at a time and if I turned, if I twisted my head round just a little bit, I’d see the dark shadow of him in the doorway, watching me, reaching for the vase on the landing table, raising it high to bring down on my head.
I see pieces of china shattering around me as I slump to the carpet.
‘The gilet,’ I say, as if the imaginary blow has made me remember. When James locked his study last night, he was wearing beige chinos and a navy body warmer.
I go to his wardrobe. In the foxed mirrors I see myself looking eager, scared, as I swing both doors wide. Inside everything’s arranged neatly, as I would have expected. The scent of old wood and male cologne wafts around me as I bat my hands between the garments. Shirts to the left, then sweaters, and jackets to the right. Among the tweed and pinstripes, the cardigans and sweat tops, I see the gilet. It’s squashed in tight, and when I pull it out a brown zip-up cardigan falls off its hanger. I imagine James wearing it, sipping a brandy beside the fire, a newspaper spread out on his lap.
There are so many pockets. I shove my hand in each of them and am about to give up hope when my fingers stumble upon something cold, something metal, something that makes me think I’m a tiny step further forward.
Downstairs I slip the key into the lock. It slides in beautifully and the brass knob turns and gives.
My heart bruises in my chest. Someone is ringing the doorbell.
*
‘I thought we could walk to school together, to fetch the children,’ she says. Her face tells me she thinks it’s the idea of the century.
I stand there, dumb, wringing my hands.
I locked the study and pressed the key deep into my jeans pocket in immediate response to the bell. I made out her shape through the stained glass before I even opened the door – she was standing sideways so her massive bump wasn’t hard to miss – and my first thought was not to answer it, to let her ring again and again before she tramped sullenly off down the path. But that would raise suspicion with Claudia when they gossiped. Where was she? What was she doing? I can’t risk getting fired yet.
‘That would be lovely,’ I lie. I don’t like the way Pip has latched on to me, as if I’m a newer, younger version of her bump-buddy, available whenever suits her. Except I don’t have a bump. ‘I hadn’t realised it was that time already.’
Pip glances at her watch. ‘Quarter to three,’ she sings, but then leans forward with her hands on the outside wall. She blows out through pursed lips.
‘Oh, Pip. Do come in. I’m sorry. Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine,’ she says, straightening at my invitation. A pregnant woman can get anything she wants – a seat on the bus, a foot rub, supper in bed, or worm her way into my business when she’s not wanted.
‘Time for tea?’ I offer when we are in the kitchen. She’s timed her arrival perfectly.
‘Thanks,’ she says, and then I’m clattering mugs and getting the milk from the fridge and not doing what I need to do in the study at all.
‘Look,’ Pip says eventually. I turn. The kettle judders on the Aga. ‘I actually came to talk to you about Claudia.’
I fight to keep from blushing, from twitching or breaking out in a sweat. ‘Oh?’ I take the kettle off the hotplate and close the lid. I slosh boiling water into the mugs. ‘Milk, sugar?’ I ask with my back to Pip.
‘Two, please,’ she replies. ‘Truth is, I’m a bit worried about her.’
I give her a mug of tea and sit beside her at the kitchen table when all I really want to do is run away. ‘Why?’
Pip sighs and thinks. ‘She seems different, unusually stressed. That’s hard for you to gauge, I suppose, given that you’ve not known her long and have nothing to compare it to.’
I pull a thoughtful face, as if I’m really trying to help. ‘It’s no wonder she’s stressed, though, is it? She’s probably got one of the most demanding jobs going, and I know for a fact there are a couple of really troublesome families in her caseload at the moment. And, of course, she’s eight and a half months pregnant.’ I take a sip of tea. ‘Plus James has just gone away. I know she has me to help, but having a virtual stranger move into your home must be quite . . . unsettling.’ I leave it at that, hoping that describing my presence as unsettling doesn’t make her suspicious.
‘She’s really lucky to have found you,’ Pip says, and I believe she means it. She stares unwaveringly at me with an almost longing smil
e, as if she wants one of me too.
‘I hope to make her life a lot easier.’ I take another sip of tea but almost choke. I hate lying, but it has to be done.
‘I’m very fond of Claudia, although she’s one stubborn woman. I don’t think she realises just how much stress she’s under. I’ve tried to tell her.’
‘My mum was a bit like that. Everything had to be perfect. She expected everyone else to be, too. I was a huge disappointment.’
Pip laughs. ‘Nonsense. I’m sure your mum is very proud of you.’
‘Was,’ I correct. ‘And she wasn’t.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
I shrug, inwardly kicking myself for talking about my personal life. ‘I’m over it.’ I imagine my mother examining my scrawny, un-pregnant body, tut-tutting at my love life, narrowing her eyes with disdain every time I mentioned my work. No grandchildren for me then. I still hear her mocking laugh reverberating through my dreams.
Pip takes my hand. She’s being very nice to me. In fact, that’s Pip all over. Plain nice. She cares about Claudia and she cares about me. I bet she hand-knits scarves and hats for everyone at Christmas and makes oodles of homemade jam for the school fête. As a teacher herself, she’s done the sensible thing and taken a full year’s maternity leave. She’s the kind of woman to get things right in life, the type to follow ‘Ten Ways To Please Your Man’ magazine articles to the letter, the sort who sends hand-stamped thank-you notes following dinner parties; and I’d bet anything that she digs a small veggie patch in the spring, is saving up for a hybrid car, and washes on thirty degrees just to show she fucking cares.
‘Parents, eh?’ Pip says as a tactful closer to the subject. She rubs her bump. ‘What am I letting you in for?’ she says sweetly to her unborn baby.
‘They have a knack of screwing you up,’ I say, harsher than I’d intended.
‘Just promise me one thing,’ Pip says. She rummages in her bag and pulls out a pen and notebook. ‘If you get worried about Claudia at all, day or night, promise me you’ll call me. I always have my phone with me. You know, in case.’ She taps her bump again. She jots down her number and rips out the page. ‘I was hoping perhaps you could have a word with her, maybe persuade her to finish work now.’
‘Me?’ I doubt she’d listen to anything I have to say. I glance at the note and stuff it in my jeans pocket. I feel the key against my fingers. ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Of course.’
We finish our tea and walk to the primary school. The playground is humming with wrapped-up mothers, grizzling toddlers in pushchairs and pre-schoolers hanging from the ice-glazed climbing frame. Pip introduces me to some of her friends, but there’s no point in me remembering their names or getting to know them. It won’t be long before I’m gone, just a nasty memory, a bad taste, rumours flying. How shocking! How did she get away with it?
Back home, I settle the boys in front of a DVD. I give them a glass of milk and a slice of cake each. That should keep them quiet for half an hour at least. I click the sitting-room door shut and, across the hall, insert the key into the study door.
Once inside, I begin my meticulous, methodical work. I soon discover this could take a very long time. Dozens of files need to be inspected, pored over, read. At every stage, photographs need to be taken and everything logged. How else am I going to build up a clear picture? How else will I get what I want from them?
The telephone rings. The extension on James’s desk emits a shrill echo of the main bell in the hall. The caller ID tells me it’s Claudia. ‘Hello,’ I say brightly even though my hand is shaking and my banging heart is making my throat close up. The timing of her call – it makes me wonder if she knows exactly what I’m doing.
19
AMANDA SIMKINS LIVED in a brand-new house on an estate where roads ended in gravel tracks with juddering JCBs and half-built houses. Flags drooped in front of corner-plot show homes as Adam and Lorraine drove in what seemed like an interminable loop before finally locating the correct cul-de-sac within the warren-like development.
‘Number thirteen,’ Lorraine said, changing down into second gear as they peered at the house numbers. In truth, neither of them believed that speaking to Amanda would prove particularly fruitful, but they had to go through the motions.
Adam was sipping on a Starbucks coffee. He’d been late back the previous night, by which time his entire family was asleep. He’d only had about four hours in bed, Lorraine worked out as he readily accepted the strong coffee she’d made him at breakfast. She grinned inwardly at his resignation to caffeine, to the crash he would no doubt suffer by lunchtime now that he was on his second – a large Americano with an extra shot. So much for healthy living.
Lorraine wrenched on the handbrake and they got out of the car. Adam slugged back the remaining coffee and chucked the empty cup into the footwell.
‘A well-cared-for front garden,’ Lorraine noted as they approached the door. Even in winter, the small area was spotted with colour from pansies perfectly arranged either side of the gritted path. A basket of trailing ivy and bright red cyclamen hung to the left of the door; still dusted with the night’s frost, it reminded Lorraine of Christmas. Her stomach lurched. Would everything be normal again by then?
She rang the bell.
A woman in a pink dressing gown answered the door. Her long dark hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail, and she had yesterday’s mascara smudged under her cheeks. There were red marks – bruises, Lorraine wondered? – on one side of her neck. She appeared the antithesis of her tidy front garden. ‘I’m not religious, sorry.’
She made to close the door, but Lorraine already had her ID out. ‘CID,’ she said. Door-stopping words. ‘Amanda Simkins? I’m Detective Inspector Lorraine Fisher and this is Detective Inspector Adam Scott.’
The woman stared at them. Her eyes became as frosty as the garden. She swallowed.
‘Could we have a word?’
Suddenly, she reanimated. ‘Yes, yes, I’m Amanda. Sorry, please come in. You must be freezing.’ She held the door wide and wrapped her gown further around her. ‘Sorry I’m not dressed. I’m not feeling well.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Lorraine said. They were shown into a living room with two cream sofas. The floor was wooden, shiny and immaculate. Lorraine was conscious that her thick-soled shoes might leave marks. ‘We’ll try not to keep you long.’
‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’ Amanda asked.
Lorraine accepted on behalf of them both before Adam could protest. He twitched at the thought but didn’t say anything. It would give them a moment alone at least.
They studied the framed photographs set out on the white mantelpiece. A large group of children stood in an awkward arrangement, a couple of the older ones, teenagers, holding a baby each. There were toddlers, school-age kids and young adults. Some were grinning, some looked fed up, and one clearly needed a wee. Judging by the smart clothing they were all wearing, it was a wedding or christening or similar gathering.
‘Happy families,’ Adam commented sourly. He picked up another photograph and turned it over. It was a baby in a lilac dress lying on a sheepskin rug with a cloudy blue background. ‘Bit cheesy.’ Once their girls had left pri-
mary school, they’d given up on the annual guilt purchase of the school portrait. ‘Nothing we couldn’t do better ourselves,’ Adam had griped, though he’d never followed it up with the digital SLR Lorraine had bought him for his next birthday.
‘Here you go,’ Amanda said, returning with a tray of mugs. ‘Sugar and milk here if you want it.’ Lorraine added both, while Adam took neither. He eyed the mug suspiciously.
‘Well,’ Amanda continued, ‘I never thought I’d be entertaining two detectives this morning.’ She’d let down her hair, which covered the marks on her neck. Lorraine also noticed she’d wiped under her eyes while in the kitchen because the old make-up wasn’t as obvious now. ‘I hope it’s nothing too serious.’
Most people, Lorraine thought, wou
ld want to know what was wrong before they bothered making drinks.
‘We’ve come to chat with you about Sally-Ann Frith,’ Adam began. Lorraine wanted to scowl at him but didn’t. His voice was choppy, accusing, not right for Amanda. Already Lorraine could see that she was the type of woman who liked to be in control, to have her thoughts and ideas accepted without question. It was obvious from her perfect house – the neatly tied-back curtains, the combed fringe of the small rug beside the fake fireplace, the dust-free surfaces – that she didn’t accept chaos well. Apart from her own appearance this morning, it would seem.
‘Oh yes, Sally-Ann.’ Amanda smiled fondly. ‘Is she OK?’ Her face gradually crinkled into a worried expression. ‘She’s going to have a baby soon.’
‘No, she’s not OK at all, I’m afraid.’ Lorraine got in before Adam could deliver a coffee-fuelled blow. ‘There’s bad news.’ She paused. Had Amanda really not seen the newspapers, the television? ‘Sally-Ann was discovered dead several days ago. I’m so sorry. We assumed someone would have told you, or that perhaps you’d have seen it on the telly.’
Amanda immediately turned a very pale colour. Lorraine watched her intently, almost convinced her white-grey pallor meant she would faint. ‘Oh . . . my . . . God,’ she whispered. Her cheeks suddenly burned scarlet and then she broke down into fits of sobs. Any remaining clumps of mascara on her eyelashes coursed down her cheeks again.
‘I know it’s shocking. Just take a moment if you need it,’ Adam said, surprisingly sympathetically.
‘She was in your antenatal yoga group, I believe,’ Lorraine added. ‘Were you very good friends?’
Amanda broke off from weeping. She wiped her face on her gown sleeve. ‘Yes, kind of,’ she whimpered. ‘We used to spend time together, usually after the class. She is . . . was . . . lovely. Such a good person. How did it happen? Was she ill?’
‘That’s what we were hoping you could help us find out,’ Lorraine said. ‘Had you known her long?’
‘Since the first time she came to Mary’s classes about five or six months ago. I’d already been going for eighteen months. We really hit it off.’
Until You're Mine Page 14