by Rachael Blok
*
Jenny sits back on the sofa to finish Finn’s feed. Picture and glass swept away. She looks out of the window and sees Connor walk past, on his way home from town.
Whatever he had wanted to say will keep. His body is stiff, jerky as he disappears out of view. She will need to apologise for slamming the door. She’s not quite sure why she did.
Still looking out the window, she spills hot coffee; it bites into her hand.
Picking up the phone, she dials.
‘Hello, Dr Klaber’s office. How can I help you?’
‘Hello, this is Jenny Brennan. I’m calling to make a follow-up appointment. He said to call… I’m not sure how long I need to phone in advance?’
‘Mrs Brennan? He said to put you straight through.’
*
‘Mrs Brennan, Jenny. How are you?’
Gesturing to a chair, he makes small talk about the weather. His chair swivels; he smiles.
After a burst of nervous chatter, apologies for the last-minute appointment… it doesn’t take more than a moment to feel as though the fizz has been released, a Coke can settling after having been shaken. The anticipation, tension, seeps away.
‘And how are you?’ he says.
Klaber glances out of window, allowing her to respond, and watches the snow for a second.
She stalls.
‘No let-up from the weather, is there? How’s your week been?’ he says.
Looking down, the list of things she had been planning to say locks within her.
‘Has your sleep been any better? Any more night-walking?’
Playing with Finn and his teether gives her somewhere to look, to focus her hands.
‘Let’s start with something easy again. Tell me what you’re giving Will for Christmas. My wife’s getting me a new wallet; I’m buying her a silver bracelet, with charms. What about Will: a watch? Socks? What will he want?’
Jenny thinks. ‘With everything going on I haven’t got him anything. Maybe…’ She really doesn’t know.
‘What about you? What do you want?’
What does she want? ‘I want this thing, whatever it is, to be over,’ she says, looking up, meaning it. ‘Do you think there’s any chance it will?’
He smiles. ‘You feel involved? Like it depends on you?’
The words come. Pulling. Like cleaning chewing gum, glued into the carpet. They’re embedded. They’re released with something sharp, pinging inside her:
‘When I had Finn, when I gave birth, I was in the water for quite a while. The labour was longish – no longer than normal for a first birth, I suppose, but I began to feel… I felt as though the wetness was part of me.’ She shakes her head. ‘I’m not making sense… I felt, I felt as though the wetness reminded me of a part of me. That I was more myself – but a me I didn’t recognise. I felt something shift.’
Klaber nods.
She looks up. ‘I can’t shake it. Some ghost from my past – like I’ve been not confronting… something. And I’ve no idea what. When I heard about the girl in the lake, for a second, I thought of my mother. It’s a jumble in my head. And I’m just so tired…’
Klaber pours more water. ‘You mentioned the murdered girl last time. Has that been something you’ve been thinking about?’
There is a flash, like a shot of blue, before her eyes. She can see the hair, black on the lake, she feels the cold. The clutch of the water pulls at her waist – the waterwheel…
‘Jenny, are you OK? You’ve gone white.’ He stands and leans forward, placing his hand on her arm.
The shivering in her limbs takes hold. She bends, almost convulsing. Her teeth chatter.
‘Jenny! Jenny, can you hear me?’ He’s standing over her now.
She tips forward. She’s going to fall out of the chair. Her arms are like ice. The sound of water rushes over her. She opens her mouth to scream, but nothing comes out.
Then suddenly she’s lifted. His arms are round her, pulling her over to the sofa near the coffee table. He lifts her, lays her down, pulling a rug over her. Her hand is gripped, and her brow covered, his palm warm.
‘Jenny, listen to me. You’re having a panic attack. You need to breathe; you’re not breathing.’ His voice gathers volume as he speaks. He lifts a paper bag, and pushes it into her hands.
The air is lit by tiny pricks of light. Dots flash before her eyes. Her head spins.
‘Breathe, Jenny. Deep breath in. It feels much worse than it is.’
Sucking, pulling, as though through a thin straw, she inhales.
‘Again.’ His hand is firm on hers.
Slowly, the blackness lifts, the lights disappear. Her body calms.
She opens her eyes to Klaber, sitting next to her. His hand still on hers, his face smiling, and as she looks at him, still trembling, still in part submerged, he answers his question.
‘I will take that as a yes. How about we start with that again.’
A minute passes. She finds her voice. ‘I feel… not watched, but not entirely alone. There’s a… breath over my shoulder.’
He nods.
‘The police – they’ve asked me to help. Well, the detective. He asked me to walk him to the places I’ve been… think I’ve been. And he said he wants to hear me, to listen to me.’
‘That’s good, isn’t it.’ It was a statement, not really a question.
‘I suppose – I’m too scared, I think. Will, he’s scared. I think he’s scared for me. Having me involved isn’t part of our plan. It’s not really what people like us “do”. Get involved in murders.’
Klaber smiles.
‘And I’ve just lost touch with him. Our neighbour, Erin, seems to see more of him than me.’
‘Is that something that bothers you? You think he might be spending too much time with her?’
The words land heavily. Jenny jolts, thinks for a second. What, would Will stray?
‘You said he’s been home late… is this something that’s making you doubt him?’ Klaber continues.
An affair? How would she feel? Erin? Would it be the end of them? ‘He wouldn’t do that to me…’ Would he? Has she become so blinded she can’t see something in front of her? She glances out of the window. ‘No. I honestly don’t think that’s a possibility. My head is so full. It doesn’t really feel like my head, not any more. But Will… beneath all this, he’s still Will.’ Would he?
The clock ticks and soon they are standing.
‘Come again,’ he says.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says.
‘It’s my job.’ He reaches for a handshake. It’s gentle and he covers her hand briefly with both of his.
His touch is soft.
52
Got a bit of update about your copper. Hollyhocks OK? Half an hour? Or can email you.
The text arrives just as Jenny reaches the top of her road. After Finn’s nap, she had headed into town for a bit of Christmas shopping. A bag of gifts and a few groceries hang off the buggy. It’s a five-minute walk, no biggy, she tells herself. Her stride is quick and easy as she tackles the hill back up to town, her steps light.
‘Here you go,’ Matt says, sitting down across from her. ‘We’ve almost finished. Press release this morning so we’re fucking off back down to London tomorrow. I had a fish around in the notes last night for you.’
She takes a sip of her coffee. He wears a T-shirt with a French slogan scrawled across, and there’s a tiny tattoo on his wrist.
‘Thanks,’ she says.
‘Right, so this Jansen bloke, started out in Rotterdam, then the Met. Something fucked up there and he was suspended for a while. Reinstated, but then moved north. Like I said, no details, no black mark on his file apparently. But you never know. And there was a kid involved…’
‘What do you mean, a kid?’
‘No idea. I’ve only got half the story, but I heard he was suspended over something that happened with a kid. There might be some shady covering up of something shitty.’
&nb
sp; Jenny thinks of Jansen: first there was slickness, now a plea for help. She can’t imagine him under crossfire and yet his presence makes her tense, strained. Is he not what he seems?
‘What do you think?’ she says.
Matt whistles through his teeth and waves his hand in a twist. ‘I’m tainted; I always go dark. I reported on Yewtree and the cover-ups there would blow your fucking mind. All that mess doesn’t help the next generation. There was some statistic bandied about: thirty per cent of abusers have been abused themselves.’
He drinks coffee, still chewing. ‘It’s all about transparency now, but I take that with a pinch of salt.’
‘So, he’s new down here?’
‘He’s been here about eight months. He came out of his last case up in Sunderland with a commendation. There’s some whisper of him moving away again. Could be suspicious? Having to move on? Or maybe he’s just got itchy feet…’
Jenny watches him take a gulp of coffee, and bite into a caramel square. Crumbs scatter on his chin. His eyes glint.
‘However, in the past hour, we’ve heard that the car that was found, the BMW your husband saw… was from fucking Sunderland.’
Holding her cup too long, distracted, Finn swipes at it and it spills hot on her leg. She yelps, putting it down, out of his reach, checking it hasn’t landed on him.
‘What does that mean?’
Matt shrugs. ‘Too soon to be thinking anything really. It throws out all sorts of questions – the father, he’s from the north. Or it could just have been nicked and sold on down here – it doesn’t mean anything in particular.’ His eyes flash a grin at her. ‘But it’s fucking interesting.’
Nodding, Jenny thinks of Jansen. Of her initial dislike of him, of whether he might be capable…
‘How are you feeling about it? Jumping at the shadows?’
‘No,’ Jenny says, automatically, too quickly.
‘It’s a great town,’ Matt says. ‘I’ll miss it. Makes a change from trying to avoid the dog shit around Wood Green.’
She smiles. ‘Thanks for looking into it.’
‘No problem. We’ll be down for a follow-up in a few weeks. That teacher I told you about has bitten his fucking bullet. Sweaty perv. Took a beating and resigned when he woke up. No loss to the school there.’
‘There are no new suspects?’
‘One. I’ve heard the name, but if I tell you, you can’t say. Seriously, it would cost me my job.’
‘You can’t tell me then!’
‘Yes, yes I can,’ he says. He eyes her appraisingly, holding her gaze.
Jenny can feel herself hot under his look.
‘You’ve got an interest in this girl… there’s something you know.’
‘What do you mean?’ Flustered, embarrassed, on the spot; she rubs furiously at her spill on her leg with a tissue.
‘Well, I’ve got a fucking good nose for this shit, and if I tell you something, then I think you might be able to tell me something. Not now, but at some point?’
She thinks. Would she tell him? He’s far enough removed. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘If I knew something, I would say.’
‘Connor Whitehouse. That’s the name. I got it on the quiet though, so seriously, tell no one.’
The name carries a sting, sharp. Shocked, she leans forward.
‘Connor? Connor Whitehouse? You’re sure?’
Matt nods, eyebrows raised. ‘I had an inkling you’d know him… Tell you what. I’ll ask you nothing now, but I’m heading down to the cathedral later. I’m doing some shots for the story. How about you come with me and give me a few local quotes? I’ll buy you a beer afterwards for your help, for the insight.’
The mention of Connor has thrown her in a spin – does that have anything to do with his visit the other day? – and going to the cathedral and park later, in the dark, leaves her cold. But a beer, just for half an hour. To be someone else…
‘Let me know. I’ve got a couple of interviews to do this afternoon so I better get going.’
Jenny watches as Finn stuffs handfuls of tissue paper into his mouth, and then she leans forward and pulls them out again, making him cry. She’s not sure what to say.
‘I’ll be in touch. Shit, is that the time?’ He glances at his flashing lime watch, and jumps up. ‘I’ve got to do another visit to the station too – best be fucking off. Take care, yeah? Might see you later.’ He taps Finn on the head. ‘See ya, dude.’
53
Knocking hard on the door, Maarten’s hungry. He wishes he’d thought about lunch before heading out to follow up with the questioning. It is almost three thirty, and he’s eaten nothing since breakfast.
‘Mr Whitehouse? Are you inside?’ There’s no movement. ‘Go round the back, Imogen. Let’s just check before we head home.’
Waiting for Imogen to return, he sees Jenny, walking up the lanes, pushing the buggy. He stops himself calling out to her. He’s still watching her when the door opens before him. Could it be the two of them? Deceit laced between the stone walls of the cottages?
‘Hello,’ says the man he recognises from their first meeting. ‘Is it about a delivery?
‘Police, sir,’ Jansen says, showing his badge. ‘Can we come in?’
*
Connor Whitehouse is unshaven and wearing a dressing gown over a pair of boxer shorts. He yawns unapologetically, and bangs the kettle down.
‘You caught me on the hop. I’ve only just got up from a nap. Can I get you tea? Coffee?’ He bangs cups, sloshes water.
Maarten sees Imogen give the man a glance. He’s attractive, young, must be almost thirty. He has dark hair and can get away with being caught in his boxer shorts and not feel at a disadvantage.
‘Mr Whitehouse, we’re here about your alibi for the time of the murder,’ Maarten says. ‘Playing golf, I think you said?’
Still banging cups, Whitehouse turns towards them, stirring his coffee. His face is expressionless. ‘Yeah?’
‘Sir, the information you gave us wasn’t corroborated.’ Imogen’s voice is firm.
‘Wasn’t it? Can’t remember really. What day are we talking about?’
Maarten’s head is aching. There is a pulse, a pull, just above his right eyebrow. It lifts, or feels as though it’s lifting, every few seconds.
‘Your alibi, Mr Whitehouse. You’ve lied to a police officer.’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean to lie. I’m sure I just got the day wrong. I can’t remember even talking to you… fucking hell.’ The last bit is muttered into his coffee, and he drops his spoon on the table with a clatter.
‘You know it’s an offence to supply incorrect information?’ Imogen says.
Maarten can hear that her voice has gone up in pitch. She’s becoming angry, and usually he would step in and calm the situation down, but he can feel his own blood begin to heat, his teeth to clench.
‘Sir, we’re asking you a question. I’m not sure you understand, but we’re here, asking you to clarify where you were.’
Connor Whitehouse pulls a wry face. He doesn’t look sheepish. He puts down his mug and leans back, appraising Maarten. A packet of biscuits lies half eaten on the table, and he pushes them forward. ‘Here, help yourself. Yes, I’m sorry about that. I thought that might catch up with me…’ It peters out, then he starts again. ‘You kind of caught me at a bad time. I was with my wife, you see, when you asked where I’d been, and so I had to stick with the story I’d told her. I’ve been a bit… well, a bit… you know, naughty, recently.’
‘You’re not in school, Mr Whitehouse. If you want to lie to your wife, that’s your business, but it’s not ours.’ These grown men, dressing up their behaviour as charming, their betrayals, their self-indulgences. Maarten can’t hold it back. He feels his fists clench, his voice become louder. He bangs the table hard with the flat of his hand. One of the mugs falls on the floor, smashing. Imogen sits like stone next to him. He takes a breath, holds it, and releases it. Ignoring the mug, pleased he hadn’t stood up, Maarten fights
for his game face and loses.
‘Where were you?’
‘I was here, at home, with another woman.’ Whitehouse looks frightened now. He doesn’t look at the mug on the floor. ‘I can give you her details. Look, I realise I’ve been stupid, I’m sorry. I realise that you don’t owe me anything, but if you could please not mention it to my wife… We’re having a tough time at the moment, and I’d just let off a bit of steam… I’d be lost without her. She’s struggling… I’ve never done anything like that before.’
Jenny Brennan crosses Maarten’s mind. Could he have been with Jenny Brennan? If so, then this might fall into place. He catches Imogen’s eye.
‘And I believe that Leigh Hoarde visited your place of work? Can you tell us about your relationship with her?’
Connor Whitehouse’s face before him blanches, whitewashed. ‘No… no relationship; she’s never been to my office?’ He bleats now, like a sheep. Like a lamb.
‘She has, Mr Whitehouse,’ Imogen says. ‘She visited Same But Different, your creative agency, over six months ago, with a school group. They had a tour of the office, and took part in some workshops there.’
‘Hang on.’ He collapses into the chair, tapping his fingers on the table, eyebrows moving as he shakes his head. ‘Yes, I remember, the co-owner of the company has a kid here in St Albans and she arranged a day – gave a speech. I had nothing to do with that day – nothing. I’m no good with kids! You have to believe me… I lied because I was with someone else, but the girl… I had nothing to do—’
‘Can we have the details of the woman you were with?’ Imogen takes out a notebook and writes down the name while Maarten stares out of the window. The park lies stretched out behind the house, and behind Jenny Brennan’s house. It would make perfect sense, if you lived here, to lure the girls to a meeting in the park. In winter, the lane is dark from four o’clock. And the park is so easily accessible from here. You could slip out at night, and enter it, and maybe no one need know.
‘And you were here all night? With this other woman?’ Maarten rises and walks to the window. There are people sledging on the hill, down the slope that leads to the lake. ‘You think she will corroborate your version?’