The Unwelcome Guest

by Amanda Robson

  Jono.

  See you tonight?

  Sorry. Busy.

  I’m not in the mood for Jono right now, I think as I step into the kitchen to fetch the keys to Saffron’s Merc. I grab a bottle of San Pellegrino from the fridge to drink as I drive to the RAC Club. Saffron’s membership has temporarily been assigned to me.

  155

  Miles

  PC Jenifer Tomlinson is sitting in the drawing room opposite me; back straight, hands neatly on her lap. Every time I see her, there is something beetle-like about her: scurrying, shiny, neat.

  ‘We’ve received the full autopsy report. Your mother had cancer.’

  My heart stops.

  I shake my head. ‘I didn’t know.’

  Jenifer Tomlinson’s mouth grimaces slightly, but not enough to spoil the shape of her pert little lips. She shakes her head, sadly. ‘It had metastasised throughout her whole body.’

  ‘But … but … what sort of cancer?’ I splutter.

  She frowns. ‘They think the primary site was her breasts.’

  I want to scream. I want to cry. Why didn’t she tell us? Her own mother died of breast cancer. Maybe it was hereditary.

  Jenifer Tomlinson crosses her legs and adjusts the angle of her back in the antique chair she is sitting in. ‘Do you think your mother knew she was ill?’

  I raise my palms to the ceiling. ‘Who knows. She was tired, lacking in energy. Whenever we expressed concern, she blamed her age. We should have guessed. Sent her for a check-up. She was only sixty-eight. That’s not old in the scheme of things.’

  Jenifer Tomlinson’s dark eyes soften. ‘No, it isn’t, and I am very sorry for your loss.’

  She pauses. ‘We need to find out as much as we can about her medical condition and her mental state around the time of her death. Are you willing to come to the police station to make another statement?’

  ‘I’ll do anything to help find out what happened,’ I reply, sighing inside. Last time the statement took seven hours to make. Seven hours on eggshells, not wanting to mislead in any way. Another day of torture, but how can I refuse to help?

  ‘Two p.m. tomorrow?’

  ‘Fine.’

  Jenifer Tomlinson stands up. ‘Did your mother have a laptop?’ she asks.

  I stand up and hover by the drawing room door. ‘Yes, but she only used it occasionally.’

  ‘Have you still got it?’

  My stomach tightens. I have been too upset to touch her things. I know I need to sort them out, but it’s still too soon. Too painful.

  I nod. ‘Yes. All her possessions are still in her bedroom and in the annexe. The laptop will be in her bedroom. She kept it on her bedside table.’

  ‘We would like to have a look at it. It might clarify a few details about her illness.’

  ‘Do you want me to get it?’

  ‘No. We don’t want anyone touching the objects in her bedroom. I’ll go and put it into an evidence bag. We need to check your mother’s possessions forensically again. I’m going to cordon her room off with police tape. No one must go in.’

  A crime scene again. Will this nightmare I am living in ever end?

  156

  Hayley

  Low lights. Mood music. Silk underwear. No. No. No. It’ll frighten you if I come on too strong again. Should I just try and snog you by the swimming pool? By the dishwasher? Slide too close to you on the sofa when we’re watching a film?

  Or should I wait until the middle of the night and burst into your bedroom? I know Caprice was right. I’ve seen you looking at me with glimmering eyes. Glimmering more brightly now Saffron is out of the way. It really turns me on when your gaze meets mine.

  Late at night I step into the kitchen. You are sitting at the table, drinking red wine.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I ask.

  You hadn’t realised I was in the room. You turn towards me, startled, and shake your head, slowly, sadly.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll ever be all right again. Did you know my mother had cancer?’

  I step towards you, and shake my head. ‘No.’ I pause and think about it. ‘But it makes sense actually,’ I continue. ‘I was worried about her because she was often really tired. She had a lot of back pain. And back pain can be caused by cancer secondaries.’

  Your face stiffens. ‘Why didn’t you say something?’ you ask, voice sharp. ‘We let her soldier on. We didn’t take her to the doctor. I can’t stop blaming myself. You were the only one who ever asked her how she was feeling.’

  You sit in front of me, shoulders rounded, cheeks wet with tears. I step towards you and put my arms around you. You cling on to me, body trembling. A platonic bear hug. Nothing more for now. One step at a time.

  157

  Aiden

  I ring the doorbell of Wellbeck House, and Hayley answers, hair coiffed, make-up lathered exuberantly across her usually natural face. Strangely artificial. Eyelashes like spider’s legs. Slugs for eyebrows.

  ‘You don’t usually wear a dress,’ I comment on her pale blue chemise. ‘It’s the first time I’ve seen your legs. Wasn’t sure you had any.’

  ‘Legs or dresses?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘Ha, ha. Thought I’d make an effort. What are you doing here? What are you after?’

  I grimace. ‘After? Is that your opinion of me, that every time I come here, I have to be after something?’

  She smiles, her warm wide smile. ‘Everyone’s after something in life.’

  I raise my eyebrows. ‘And what exactly are you after, Hayley?’

  She laughs. ‘Right now all I’m after is a coffee to perk me up. Would you like one?’

  ‘Yes.’

  We move into the kitchen. A large arrangement of lilies and orchids bristles from the central station. The family photographs have been rearranged. Less of Saffron. More of Mother. Miles must be adding them because of his grief. My favourite one of Mother takes centre stage. It was taken at her sixtieth birthday party. A sideways view of her sitting in a chair reading a book. Miles’ idea. He said if she wasn’t staring straight into the camera it would be more natural.

  ‘Where’s Miles?’ I ask. ‘I was hoping to see him.’

  She moves towards the coffee machine. ‘He’s gone to the police station to make another witness statement. Didn’t he let you know?’ Hayley bustles about pressing buttons on the coffee machine. ‘They want to speak to us all again, now they know Caprice was ill.’

  I sit down and tap my fingers on the pine table. ‘No. He just rang me distraught because he hadn’t been able to take her to a doctor. I didn’t realise he was having to give more evidence.’

  The coffee machine spits and hisses.

  Hayley raises her voice above it. ‘I expect he’ll phone you about it later. It sounds as if we’ll all have to.’

  Not again. I groan inside. Giving a statement to the police when Saffron was arrested was a long-winded and painful process, far more long-winded and painful than I had imagined.

  I notice a pink leather diary on the counter, with a biro next to it. ‘Are you keeping a diary?’ I ask.

  Her face lights up. ‘Yes. I promised my mum I would do while I was on my trip. She so wants to read all about the UK when I get back. She said if I didn’t write down the details of what I’ve seen I would forget.’

  I envy Hayley her closeness to her mother. I feel empty inside. Caprice believed in Miles but not in me. If I could turn the clock back, what could I have done that would have impressed my mother more?

  Hayley places a large Americano in front of me and a miniature jug of hot milk. And a plate of homemade cookies. She sits opposite me.

  ‘Thanks. Are you playing domestic goddess?’

  ‘Well, I could have been a barista or a baker, in another life,’ she says with a smile. ‘Even a barrister.’

  ‘And I could have been less of a disappointment to my mother.’

  She leans across the table and puts her hand on my arm. ‘Don’t speak like that A
iden. We’ve all got to stay positive after the loss of your mother. Your mother loved you very much. She was very proud of your success.’

  ‘She loved Miles more. She was always in awe of his academics.’

  She frowns. ‘A mother’s love is not a competition. And neither is life. We need to enjoy it as much as we can. Envy and resentment won’t help.’

  I bite my lip to stop myself from crying. I sip my coffee.

  ‘Go on, have a cookie,’ she insists, handing me the plate.

  ‘Thanks.’

  I help myself to a crumbling mass of soft biscuit and white chocolate. I take a bite. It is buttery and delicious. When I have finished eating I wipe the crumbs from my mouth with my hankie.

  ‘Have you been to see Saffron? Do you know how she is?’ I ask hesitantly.

  She shakes her head. ‘No. Only Miles is visiting.’

  I take a deep breath. ‘What does he say about her?’ I ask.

  Her face stiffens. ‘Very little. He is very tight. Very closed in right now.’

  ‘He must be so worried about her. I don’t know how he’s coping.’

  I feel empty inside. I don’t know how I’m coping. I’m worried too. But there is no point in telling Hayley that. All she ever does is think about Miles.

  ‘They both must be going through hell.’

  ‘Saffron being in prison is hell for all of us,’ I say. ‘We’ve been friends most of my adult life.’

  We sit in silence. After a while I cut through it. ‘I’m a bit stressed that Saffron won’t let me visit her.’

  Hayley shrugs. ‘I expect she just wants to see Miles.’

  Miles. Miles. Miles. Everyone’s favourite. Fucking Miles. My stomach coagulates with envy.

  ‘What about the children? Haven’t they been to see her?’ I ask, voice bristling.

  ‘No. She misses them like mad, but she doesn’t want them to see her in there. Maybe she feels the same about you. She would find it upsetting for you to see her in such a degrading environment.’

  She leans across and puts her hand on my arm. ‘I’ve told you before, I am sure she has feelings for you.’

  My heart pulses with anger at the trouble she has caused me. I know she is wrong this time. ‘Every time I’ve approached her she’s pushed me away,’ I insist in a stony voice.

  She smiles condescendingly. It annoys me. ‘Watch a few romantic films on Netflix. The heroine always pushes her lover away to begin with. It’s part of the game.’ She pauses. ‘Trust me.’

  Trust her? How can I?

  Her mobile phone rings. She picks up and listens, head on one side. ‘OK, OK, I’ll come and have a look right away.’

  She ends the call and stands up. ‘I’ve just got to go and speak to the gardener. He’s worried about the crab apple tree. He thinks it has a fungal disease.’

  ‘Hayley Smith, mistress of the house.’

  ‘One day, perhaps.’ She smiles. ‘I won’t be long with the gardener. Make yourself at home, while I make sure he does everything I want. He’s a good worker as long as I keep an eye on him.’

  One day perhaps? What does she mean? Is she making progress with Miles? Is that what trying to stitch me up with Saffron is all about? To make Miles mistrust Saffron again? To give her more of a chance?

  She steps through the back door. I stand up and watch her through the kitchen window, marching down the pathway past the tennis court and the swimming pool. Towards my mother’s beloved back garden, which I know will be at its best this time of year. Mother was more interested in her garden than she was in me. Now she has gone I know it’s over. I will never be able to please her, to impress her. I feel angry. I feel disappointed. I always imagined we would be closer by the time she passed.

  I turn my head. My eyes rest on Hayley’s diary. I pick it up and flick through it. She has written about me and I do not like what I read.

  158

  Saffron

  I sit alone in the prison canteen at lunchtime. The women in this prison are not too keen on Oxbridge-educated solicitors, and they seem to think the name Saffron is a laugh a minute. So I try to keep my head down. Fortunately, so far, I have been considered too green to have to put up with a cell-mate.

  Loneliness is better than emotional cruelty or physical injury. So here I am, sitting solo at the edge of a table, picking at my food, ignoring everyone, eyes down. Pushing a hotdog, shiny with grease, to the side of my plate. I contemplate the vegetables. Frozen peas and broccoli, so overcooked they look like early-stage compost. Khaki, with a hint of brown. They smell of sulphur. A scent that floats on the edge of the wind if you live near a sewage works.

  I look up. A prison officer is approaching me, face flushed with determination. A middle-aged woman with grey hair and large round glasses. Her hair falls around her face in grizzled curls. She leans towards me across the plastic dining table.

  ‘Are you Saffron Jackson?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Or at least I used to be, in another life.’

  She pushes her face closer. ‘I need you to come with me. Do you want your food taken to your cell to finish later?’

  I look down at the greasy sausage, that looks like a turd on my plate, and the vegetable compost. ‘I reckon I can manage without it.’

  Eyes slide towards us as we leave the canteen. I tremble inside. What is coming now? Has my trial date been moved forwards? Are Ben and Harry OK? Does Miles want a divorce? Miles. He seems so distant at the moment. Hardly says anything when he visits.

  I breathe deeply, in an attempt to calm myself, as the prison officer leads me, not towards a meeting room, but back towards my cell. Winding along white corridors, door after door locking behind us. No one else is moving about the prison right now. We arrive.

  ‘Get inside please.’

  In my cell, the aroma of damp air cuts into my nose. What a hovel. A shower with no curtain that sprays water across the plastic flooring. A toilet and a hand basin. But better by far than the custody suite. At least I have soap, paper towels and toilet paper now. I stand by my plank of a bed. She steps inside and pulls the door behind her. But she doesn’t lock it.

  She smiles. The lines around her eyes crinkle. ‘The charges against you have been dropped. You are free to go.’

  The words hang in the air between us and don’t seem real. ‘What …? How …?’ I splutter.

  She shakes her head. ‘Don’t sound surprised. It makes you seem guilty.’

  Guilty. That jars me into action. ‘I didn’t murder my mother-in-law. That isn’t the issue,’ I reply, voice clipped. ‘The case against me was rather entrenched,’ I continue. ‘I’m surprised it’s over so abruptly, and I’m simply curious to know what happened.’

  She doesn’t reply. ‘Pack your things. I’ll escort you to the exit.’

  ‘I want to see my lawyer. I want to know what’s happened before I leave.’

  ‘Are you implying you don’t want to leave?’

  ‘Goddammit. I’m implying I want to see my solicitor, John Thornton,’ I bark.

  Hours later, after collecting my confiscated possessions, and signing a barrage of forms, I am finally shown into the meeting room where John Thornton is waiting for me, dressed in his city suit. He stands up and hugs me, smelling of citrus and musk.

  Brown eyes twinkle into mine. ‘I’m so pleased for you. I knew you’d be OK. But I’m thrilled your ordeal is over.’

  ‘Not as thrilled as I am.’

  He smiles, his cheeky, dimple-assisted smile. ‘Maybe not, but nevertheless, I’m thrilled, believe me.’

  ‘Thank you, John.’

  We sit down opposite one another. I take a deep breath. ‘I want to be armed with the details of why I have been released, before I go home to talk to Miles. He has been so suspicious of me, which has been heart-breaking.’ I pause. ‘I know it has been hard for him, still grieving his mother.’

  ‘OK. First things first. As you suspected, the police found no dirt on your computer.’

&nbs
p; I nod my head. ‘I told you.’

  He leans across the table and puts his hand on my arm. ‘Never mind Miles, this has been very hard on you too.’

  I swallow. ‘Yes. Losing such a close family member has been very painful in itself, never mind being accused of her murder.’

  He takes my hand and squeezes it. ‘As you know, the autopsy discovered that Caprice had cancer.’

  ‘Yes. Poor, poor, Caprice. Miles was so upset she hadn’t told us.’

  Slowly, slowly, he shakes his head. ‘It is really sad. The police confiscated her computer and ran a check on it. They discovered she was ordering the arsenic from the darknet herself, in order to speed up her end. The police now believe she did indeed set you up – as you told them in the first place.’

  I smile inside. Ted’s nerdy friend, Stan, has really come up with the goods. Stan, the chubby man with a pregnant stomach and a hairstyle like a cartoon monk. He has been expensive, but discreet. You were so angry when you couldn’t find your computer, the weekend I removed it and deposited it at Stan’s flat on the Archway Road in Highgate. Your grey eyes turned metallic. Your chin jutted out like a strange, contorted gargoyle. You turned on Harry and Ben. Blamed my children. A week later I returned it to your shed in the garden. You believed you had left it there, and apologised. You took the boys to McDonald’s for a treat. I did this to protect myself. As backup. I never realised you had cancer and that your actions would be so perfectly believable.

  I look across at John Thornton. I widen my eyes in sadness. ‘Poor, poor Caprice.’

  159

  Miles

  You are about to be released. I’m waiting in the prison car park, on a grey, drizzly day, feeling numb and confused. I don’t think you would deliberately poison my mother. Yet I don’t think my mother would poison herself. Then again, I never thought my mother would be riddled with cancer, and not tell her family. Despite being a philosopher, I don’t know what to think. Aristotle and Plato don’t seem to have provided any answers here. My mother’s death has blown our lives apart.