The Suspects

by Katharine Johnson

  I brushed a hand across my face and he pulled me towards him. He was kissing my hair and it felt nice, but I had to remind myself that this had nothing to do with love or even desire and we were never going to get back to where we once were.

  He was very considerate in the next few days, stopping by my desk to check how I was and jumping up to take a chair from me when he saw me carrying it across the office. He refused a drink when I did and ate a brie sandwich Xanthe had made me. But I knew it was going through his head all the time to ask if I’d made a decision.

  I felt Chiara looking at me suspiciously as we played Scruples that evening and wondered if he’d told her. Better to wait because he might never have to, but I knew Zak. He found it hard to keep secrets. Which was a concern in other ways.

  But in the next few days whether by accident or design he kept Chiara away from the house, going over to hers or meeting her at the pub. They went to see Scandal at the local cinema and the rest of us saw The Waterboys at the Colston Hall. Zak seemed a bit shy of mentioning her name in front of me as I guessed he probably was of saying mine to her.

  Before the sickness started it was relatively easy to keep it under wraps but there’s a limit to how many trips to the bathroom you can laugh off as the result of a dodgy curry.

  “You’re like a cat on a hot tin roof this morning,” said Imogen. “Where did you go in the middle of shorthand?”

  “I had to go to the bathroom.” It was lunch time and we were wandering around the maze of stalls at St Nick’s Market, with their hand-made jewellery, quirky clothes and street food that would normally have tempted me, but that day was making me nauseous. I must have complained about the food smells once too often because Imogen swung round, her hand flying to her mouth. “Oh God, you’re not.”

  “That’s right, tell the whole world.”

  I hadn’t planned on telling anyone else until I’d decided what to do about it, but her suspicions were clear, and I felt guilty enough lying to her about the Bob thing without concealing this too.

  “Not Zak?” She winced when I said it was.

  “At least I think so. It might have been that man from the Brussels press trip, but I don’t think it will be because he used a condom.”

  Her eyes stretched even wider. “And Zak didn’t? Didn’t you ask?”

  I threw my hands out. “It wasn’t a planned thing.”

  “Surely you had some idea when you got into bed together?” Put like that it did sound stupid, but I could hardly tell her the circumstances. We went down the steps and along the cobbled quay back towards the office.

  “One night?” she kept saying. “What are the chances? Are you sure you only slept with him that one time?”

  I bit back my annoyance. “I’m pretty sure I’d have remembered.”

  “But how could you be so unlucky?”

  “It happens.”

  She had to concede that. “Does he know?”

  “Yes – he says he’ll support me either way.”

  The quay was busy with office workers out for some lunch and sea gulls hoping to get some scraps. The air was thick with the smell of hops from the brewery across the river. Sun spiked our eyes and flashed off the boats.

  She laughed. “Support? What does that mean exactly? He doesn’t have a bean and he’s not even slightly reliable. You’ll wake up one day and he’ll have disappeared on that stupid little bike to God-knows-where. And what about Chiara?”

  “What about Chiara? It’s got nothing to do with her.”

  “Hmm, not sure she’ll see it like that. She isn’t going to be over the moon about Zak and you having a child together.”

  “I know that but I’m not going to do something just because it’s convenient for them.” We sat down on a bench. Imogen started eating the sandwich she’d just bought. I dropped my face into my hands. “I know, I know, you’re right. It’s a mess.”

  She put a hand on my arm, then drew me into a hug. “It’ll be all right,” she said in a softer tone. “We’ll sort this out.”

  Her voice changed again as she said, “You’re not thinking of keeping it?”

  “I haven’t decided.”

  She drew back. “What? You must be out of your mind.”

  “I said I haven’t decided.”

  Between bites she said, “God, Emily, it would be career suicide. What’s Donald going to say? How are you going to afford childcare when you can barely pay the mortgage? You realise you won’t get maternity leave? You’ve only been in the company five minutes.”

  “Yes, I know. But I was thinking possibly we could sort something out between us…”

  Her voice rose. “Us? Oh, wait a minute, you mean like we did with the dog? Because that worked a treat didn’t it?”

  “Zak’s not allergic to children,” I pointed out.

  The trouble was, I’d already started imagining what the child would look like when she was five or six. I tried not to, but I couldn’t help it. I knew that if I ended the pregnancy I’d always be thinking “this would be her birthday, this would have been her first day at school, this would have been the day she got her exam results, got married…

  Imogen balled the empty sandwich bag and offered me half a Twix, but I didn’t feel like eating. Brandishing a stick of the chocolate at me she said, “You’d better be sure it’s Zak’s baby. If he and Chiara split up over this and then it’s born and it’s obvious from the colouring it was the Belgian…”

  She stopped. “Oh God, Em, no don’t cry. Look. It’s bad but it’s not the end of the world. Well, not quite anyway.”

  She promised at any rate not to tell Stuart because it would send him into a panic which, if I decided not to keep the baby, would be needless. He was so worked-up these days you never knew if something like this might just tip him over the edge.

  ***

  The identification of Bob as Oskar would have received a lot more attention if an awful thing hadn’t happened in April. The front pages of all the papers were full of pictures of football fans crushed against the fence at a football match in Hillsborough. It was unimaginably awful – a family day out which had ended in tragedy.

  But seeing a father talk about his son dying in such a pointless way brought back the shame and guilt about what we’d done.

  Whoever he was and whatever his reason for being there, Oskar had deserved a better end and so had his family. For weeks they must have been in agony clinging onto the hope, however small, that he would one day be found alive. In that situation people always seemed to say the hardest thing is the not-knowing. But when they did know surely, they must wish they could unknow it again?

  And Oskar’s family still had no idea how he’d died. The most likely reason would be suicide and that must cause them pain because it was a type of rejection. They must carry a sense of guilt and shame because they hadn’t spotted the signs and they hadn’t been able to stop him. They hadn’t understood him well enough to help him. These things played on my mind the whole time like background noise.

  The postcard was waiting for us on the mat one evening when we got in from work. Xanthe picked it up, questioning why someone would bother to send a card when they hadn’t even written on it. My stomach squeezed as I glimpsed the seaside photo on the front. The words said Cornish Greetings.

  Xanthe dropped the card in horror. “That’s too much of a coincidence, isn’t it?”

  Zak took it from her. “No stamp.”

  A few days later Imogen walked into the living room holding a postcard of Leeds. “Who sent this?”

  We managed blank faces but after she’d gone Xanthe asked, “Do you think she’s doing this? To make us come out and say it?”

  I couldn’t believe Imogen would do that, but it was hard to think straight.

  “Whoever it is wants to scare us,” said Zak.

  “But what if it’s more than that?” I said. “What if they’re doing this as a warning? To make it look as though we’re the ones who killed Bob?”

/>   Someone was playing with us, biding their time.

  ***

  Zak tapped on my door later that evening and brought me in a coffee. The smell of it made me nauseous but I didn’t want to seem ungrateful. For several minutes he attempted to make conversation about other things but eventually came out with, “So, have you thought any more about…you know?”

  I blew out my cheeks. “I’ve thought of nothing else.”

  “And have you made a decision?”

  “I’ve made an appointment. Friday afternoon. I’ll have to take a sickie.”

  I could tell he was relieved although he did his best to keep his features neutral. “I’ll take one too. I’ll go with you.”

  “No, you don’t have to do that.”

  “I want to.”

  I probably should have said no. Imogen had already said she’d come with me but, petty as it might sound, I felt Zak ought to share in some of what I was going through.

  ***

  He borrowed Xanthe’s car to take me to the clinic. There was nowhere to park, but he stopped by the entrance to let me out.

  “Wait while I find a space, then I’ll come in with you.”

  “No,” I said. “Thanks, but honestly I need to do this myself.”

  We sat for a few moments without speaking. He looked at his watch and cleared his throat but just stopped himself from asking if I was intending to get out. I reached for the door, but it swept in, the enormity of what I was doing. I couldn’t make myself move.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t think I can do this.”

  I expected him to look angry or frightened but all I saw was relief and at the same time he was saying, “Is this really what you want?” And then “Good. It’s a good decision.”

  He pressed a tear away with his thumb, drew me towards him and somehow we ended up kissing – not like the last time when he was just kissing my hair. I wanted it to go on although I knew it wasn’t real. We were both emotional – and look where that had got us last time.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” I asked him. As soon as I said it I wished I hadn’t.

  He pulled back, leant over the wheel and mumbled, “You’re right. No, I shouldn’t have done that. Sorry.”

  Neither of us spoke on the way back. I suppose he felt guilty and we were both overwhelmed by the decision we’d made.

  When we got back to the house Chiara was waiting for Zak. She threw her arms around him and gave me an odd look over his shoulder. I couldn’t tell if she knew about the pregnancy or if she somehow suspected about the kiss. I felt a bit sorry for her – she was going to feel a lot worse when she found out I was keeping the baby. And I felt frightened for the future because it was impossible to imagine, and I’d just made it even more complicated. But mostly I felt relieved.

  Chapter Thirteen

  May

  “They’ve found my car.”

  Stuart was standing in the hallway, still holding the telephone receiver although the dull tone told us the call had already ended some moments before. We’d not long got in from work.

  Zak popped his head out of the kitchen with a half-eaten sandwich in his hand. “Found it? Where?”

  Stuart managed to keep his voice level as he said, “A place called Sandy. It’s in Bedfordshire. They want me to come and identify some stuff that was in it.”

  But despite the casual tone, his eyes flickered with fear. I thought we’d checked to see nothing was left in the car. My insides turned to liquid. What had we missed? Zak was nodding but didn’t seem to be able to trust himself to speak.

  “They’ve found it after all this time?” said Imogen throwing her bag down by the door and shuffling through some post. “Better not get your hopes up though. It’ll be a wreck by now, won’t it?”

  “Yes, probably.”

  “Sandy? That’s miles away, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is. Well…I’d better go.”

  And it was obvious that he didn’t expect to see us again or at least not this side of a prison gate. I tried to make my ‘Bye’ sound as casual as it should be, but he caught my eye as I said it and managed a small smile. Xanthe jumped up from the sofa where she’d probably spent the day and threw her arms around him. She clung to his neck until he cleared his throat and disentangled himself.

  “Aw,” said Chiara wonderingly at what she evidently saw as a touching farewell. She crept up behind Zak and helped herself to a bite of his sandwich which he surrendered to her with a forced smile, but I doubt he had any appetite now anyway.

  “Catch you later,” he murmured to Stuart, but he looked away.

  For the next few hours the four of us sat waiting for the phone to ring or Stuart’s name to pop up on the TV news. A game of Scruples helped take our minds off it a little bit but it was hard to get worked up about whether you’d go back and pay for a meal you’d forgotten to get the bill for or tell your friend you didn’t like their outfit when your real friend was being interrogated down at the police station.

  When Stuart came back several hours later he looked done-in. “They let you go, then,” said Zak in a low voice, nodding his head towards the kitchen to signal that Imogen was in there.

  “For now.” Stuart slumped into a chair. “Christ, I never want to go through that again. I very much doubt this is the end. They’ll want to talk to all of you – I think we need to warn Imogen.”

  Zak frowned. “On the other hand, she’ll be more convincing if she doesn’t know anything.”

  “But what if she drops us in it without meaning to?” I asked.

  “How can she? She doesn’t know enough. Even if she remembers Oskar Bramley being at the party she doesn’t know he died here or anything about us moving the body.”

  After some discussion we agreed that she shouldn’t be told unless the situation changed – which happened sooner than we imagined.

  The following day Xanthe phoned me at work.

  “They’re in the house,” she whispered barely loud enough for me to hear.

  “Who are?”

  But I already knew. “The police. They said they wanted a look round. I had to let them in. I should have insisted on them getting a warrant but he said it wouldn’t make any difference, it would just take a bit longer. And I didn’t want them to think we had something to hide.”

  Stuart saw my expression and was by my side in an instant. I could tell he was itching to take the phone off me.

  “Are you okay? Do you want me to come back?” I asked Xanthe. “I think I might be going down with something – something I ate.”

  Stuart frowned and shook his head. He was mouthing something. I made out the word “suspicious”.

  “Better not,” whispered Xanthe. “I’ll be all right.” She took a shaky breath. “They’re in the kitchen at the moment.”

  Stuart was making cutting motions through the air. He wrote STOP on a piece of paper and held it under my nose. I waved it away.

  “Probably better not give me a running commentary,” I said.

  “How many of them are there? Do they have dogs with them?” So many more questions crowded my brain but Stuart leaned over and pressed down the little button on the phone cutting the line.

  He insisted we carry on as normal but it was agony trying to carry out our work knowing they were going through our things. Daft things go through your mind, like how you wish you hadn’t left that heap of laundry on your bedroom floor but nothing compared to them lifting away the boxes and bikes in the cellar and examining the new floor, perhaps finding Oskar Bramley’s finger prints or a stain we hadn’t noticed. The day passed in a blur.

  When we got back to the house after work Xanthe said they hadn’t taken long and were polite enough but they gave no indication of what they were looking for or if they had found anything. They had ways of detecting blood spots you couldn’t see with the naked eye, didn’t they? I kept thinking back to that time Rick had noticed the redecoration in the basement and wondering what Xanthe would say if they ask
ed about it and how convincing she’d be.

  The first thing Zak did when we got in was take apart the telephone handset.

  “Maybe they weren’t looking for something so much as bugging the place,” he said.

  “Are you sure?” It all sounded a bit paranoid, but I had to agree it was possible.

  We all knew how easy it was to bug a phone – we’d installed little microphones inside our handsets at work, so we could prove we’d quoted someone accurately if, as quite often happened, they denied it afterwards when confronted by their words in print and threatened us with court action. It was officially banned by the company, but they turned a blind eye to it for their own sake. Whether it would have been admissible in court is another matter, but it seemed to do the trick.

  There was nothing inside the phone. We went a little crazy checking all the light fittings, crawling under furniture, lifting rugs, turning the house upside down but didn’t find anything.

  “But we’d better be on the safe side – if you want to talk about Bob save it for when we’re out of the house,” Stuart said.

  ***

  Even after Oskar Bramley had been identified it sometimes still felt like we were normal housemates, going to work, sharing the chores, splitting the bills. Money worries generally took priority because they were more immediate and in an odd way they were a welcome distraction.

  It was Imogen who noticed Xanthe’s new shoes. “She says her sister gave her the money to buy them. If her sister really wants to help why doesn’t she let Xanthe stay with her? Then we could rent out her room to help with our repayments.”

  I shrugged. “She prefers it here. Anyway, apparently her sister’s joining a convent. Perhaps she’s giving Xanthe her worldly wealth, so she doesn’t give in to temptation although I don’t suppose she can have much. She’s only been working a couple of years, hasn’t she?”

  “So where else is Xanthe getting the money from?” Imogen asked.

  We speculated, naturally. I thought the most likely explanation was that she’d become an escort, something she’d cheerfully admitted she’d do during one of our evenings playing The Truth Game; or failing that a drugs mule, whereas Imogen was convinced Xanthe was running a sex chat line from the house while we were at work. Determined to find the answer she went searching for evidence.