He flashes a look of frustration at me. Then he’s off again, detailing different measurements, his hands animated, his body leaning over the kitchen island, gulping down his milk in between long, rambling fact-filled sentences.
It’s a boy thing, I tell myself, all that data and statistics, the kind of information overload that makes me want to walk away but sets Joe on fire. All I can think is, at least he’s doing something constructive, active, and he’s communicating with me. I feel the guilt of my disinterest wash over me. It’s nice to see him on fire.
‘Come on, Joe, that’s enough for now, tea’s ready. If you drink too much of that milk you won’t be hungry. Help me take this through to the table.’
I shouldn’t begrudge him the milk. As a teenager, he guzzles the stuff. Listen to me, I sound so much like the mother that I am. Joe goes to the fridge for more milk and I text Duncan upstairs to say that tea is ready.
We eat in silence. Duncan pushes the pasta into neat piles before scooping it into his mouth and Joe shovels it like a farmhand clearing out the stables. I glance between the two of them, the one with too little hair, the other with too much, and then Duncan’s mobile beeps.
His fingers tap twice and inch towards the phone, then he pulls back.
It beeps again. He looks at me. I refuse to look at him and Joe keeps on eating. After a few minutes, I push my plate away, all pretence at hunger gone.
Then the stupid thing beeps again.
‘Can’t you switch it off?’ I say.
My voice is quiet but sharp and the pulse at my neck is racing. Duncan’s eyes meet mine then slide away. He carries on eating as if I haven’t spoken.
Lo and behold, the phone beeps again. I feel my cheeks suck in and taste the blood on my tongue. I reach for his phone and he grabs it just in time.
‘No phones at the table, we said. Remember?’ I let my voice twist into a sneer.
‘I’m on call,’ he says.
‘Like hell.’
Joe stops in mid-forkful.
‘It’s only work, Claire. You know that.’ Duncan’s tone is smooth and appeasing.
I hate him when he’s like this. As if I’m a child, playing up, or a fool, easily deluded.
‘No, it’s not,’ I say. ‘We both know it’s not.’
‘That’s nonsense, Claire, you’re being paranoid.’
He arranges another pile of pasta.
‘Oh, really?’
Joe is watching us both, eyes wide and unblinking. It reminds me of when he was little, still trying to make sense of the world. Like when we shared a bedtime story, his gaze glued to me as I read, not the book. He’d follow the cadence of each word on my face. I drop my eyes, curling my fingers and breathing long and slow, trying hard to keep it in. But my eyes are drawn back to the phone and then Duncan. He’s actually smiling, like it’s a game.
‘How can you sit there and pretend?’ I say. ‘Day in, day out. How can you do this?’
He doesn’t answer. His fingers tap again and he stands. He picks up his plate and turns round, his back stiff and unyielding. He moves into the kitchen. I hear the click of the automatic bin and the clunk of the dishwasher. A few minutes later there’s the swoosh of the front door. He’s gone. And Joe goes back to eating.
I think of the papers hidden in the folds of the magazine by my bed. The appointment I’ve made for tomorrow. Duncan thinks that nothing’s changed. That I’ll stay, like I always have. But our son is eighteen now; he left school months ago. He’s all grown up, a legally independent, responsible adult.
And I’m the one in control here, not Duncan.
CHAPTER 3
DUNCAN – SIX WEEKS AFTER
Duncan’s gloved hands were stained with blood. The dog’s skin was peeled back, revealing the bloodied bone and yellow subcutaneous fat. The radio played softly in the background and the monitors beeped with a reassuring regularity as he dabbed at the opening with a swab.
There were three of them: Duncan and Paula, the newest vet at the practice, and Frances, the senior nurse. Their legs and hips were pressed against the operating table and the light blazed a harsh white over their heads, picking up a glint of red hair from beneath Paula’s surgical cap.
‘Okay,’ said Duncan. ‘Let’s get this little chap put together again.’
He tugged gently on the flaps of skin, pulling them towards each other. It was a struggle; the dog was barely a year old and the metal pins holding the leg bones left little space for the original skin to meet. Duncan shifted the skin a little higher.
‘Frances – can you hold it there?’
She took the clamps into her hands.
‘Left a bit. Hold it … wait …’
Duncan pursed his lips and pulled again, reaching in with a suture needle, feeding the thread between his gloved fingers to make the first stitch.
‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘And another. Paula, can you clean around here?’
They worked together in silence. Ten minutes later, the opening had been closed. Frances gave a relieved smile and Duncan took a step back.
‘That’s it. Thank you, both. I’m glad to see that one done.’
‘She’s looking good,’ Frances replied. ‘You should go and ring the owner. You’ve earned that. We’ll finish off and resuscitate. I’ll see this one to the ward.’
Frances smiled again. She was older than Duncan, her darker skin and years of experience warming her features, the lines around her eyes creasing above her mask.
Duncan pulled the gloves from his hands, dropping them into the refuse bucket. He tugged the mask from his face and left the room, pushing the door with his shoulder and reaching up to rub his neck. Three hours on one dog – the smaller animals were often the most difficult. But it had been a success. He headed for his consulting room to make the call.
‘Duncan!’
It was Sally on reception. Her usually straight blonde hair was falling unkempt about her shoulders. A collection of dirty coffee mugs stood by the phone and the printer was spewing out blank sheets of paper. As ever, the room was busy with people and animals. Duncan nodded briskly at the man who lifted one hand in greeting.
‘Yes?’ Duncan responded to Sally.
‘Call for you – urgent, they said. I’ll put it through.’
He mouthed a question and Sally shrugged her shoulders. Her lips said police. He glared at her and she jabbed one finger towards his consulting room.
‘Okay,’ he said, biting down his emotions.
‘Duncan Henderson, here.’
He sank into his chair and swung round to face the window.
‘Duncan, it’s Martin. Very sorry to disturb you at work. I’m afraid I have to ask you to come back to your house.’
One phone call, that’s all it took to hijack all those appointments. Duncan turned his car up the drive to his house. The constant slash of rain against the windscreen had left him with a painful furrow of concentration on his forehead and a thick spray of black mud on the paintwork of his car. The vehicle slowed on the deep gravel, cruising between the pink cherry trees that lined the drive. Spring had been interrupted by a blast of cold, stormy weather, and wet leaves and translucent blossom clung like damp butterflies to the big sheet window. The barn glowed a peachy flushed red.
Duncan felt his heart contract, his jaw tighten. There were cars and vans slewed every which way they could, blocking his usual turning circle. Beyond the perimeter fencing, where the fields tipped towards the silver bowl of the reservoir, already a double line of blue-and-white plastic tape rippled down the slope.
He squeezed his car into a gap, in the corner where Claire used to park. He got out. The grumbling blast of a generator assailed his ears. A pair of uniformed officers stood by the top gate, stiff and upright like tin soldiers. By the garage, a tent had been pitched up, and in the distance, at the bottom, were more tents, slick with wet. Grey sheets of rain blustered across the valley and figures in white hooded overalls ran across the scrub. The whole scene
had the surreal air of an alien landing site.
Duncan approached his front door.
‘Excuse me, sir. Can I see some ID?’ An officer appeared at his shoulder.
Duncan swung round to face him.
‘I live here,’ he snapped.
‘Even so, if you don’t mind.’
Duncan scowled and fished out his driving licence. There was an awkward pause as the officer scanned the photograph.
‘Mr Henderson, thank you. The boss said to have a word with you as soon as you arrived.’ The man gestured towards the first tent. ‘If you don’t mind.’
The boss. DCI Martin White. They’d known each other since their first day at school.
‘This way, please, sir.’
The tent opening thrashed in the wind. Inside a huddle of officers stood around a table with several computers, and their papers scattered upwards as the flap fell back into place.
‘Duncan?’
A man looked up, his hands holding down the papers. He wore a green waxed jacket, his grey suit loosely buttoned underneath. His hair was cut close to his head, black peppered with white, and a broad platinum wedding ring glinted from the back of his hand.
‘Martin.’
Duncan wiped the rain from his forehead. The police team wasn’t huge for the area, it was inevitable that Martin would be in charge. Duncan had a brief image of Martin standing by his side in the registry office at Claire and Duncan’s wedding, leaning forwards in his shoes, discreetly scanning the room like some kind of security officer.
‘Thank you for coming back,’ said Martin. Their eyes met. ‘I expect this is a shock.’
Duncan didn’t reply and Martin dipped his head in acknowledgement.
‘I’m sorry to be here in these circumstances. And I apologise for the disruption. But I’m sure you understand why this is necessary.’
Duncan’s eyes were drawn to the table. There was a shallow crate covered in a cloth.
He felt his body sway, unaccountably off balance. He clenched his hands and pushed them down his side, forcing himself to stay upright.
‘Cup of tea, sir?’ A younger man stepped forwards, offering Duncan a mug.
‘Do you think I want a fucking cup of tea?’ Duncan turned on the man, eyes flaring.
A blue light flickered from one of the computer screens and the wind sucked at the canvas over their heads. Silence had fallen on the tent.
‘I’m sorry. I …’ Duncan pushed his hand across his head, rubbing the bare skin, then smoothing down to the closely cropped hair at the back of his neck. His jaw moved and his eyes closed momentarily.
‘It’s alright, Duncan.’ Martin followed his friend’s gaze. He gestured to a chair. ‘Everyone here understands. Why don’t we sit down?’
Duncan shook his head. He stood still, his arms held stiffly by his side.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t want …’ Duncan’s breath heaved in and out and his eyes were pulled once again to that crate.
Martin took a step closer.
‘Duncan, look at me. It’s okay. Look at me!’
Duncan lifted his eyes to Martin. It seemed to him there were just the two of them then, in that tent, all sense of the outside, the weather, the people, the cars on his drive, banished to the edges of his mind.
Then he took control of himself, responding to Martin’s unspoken signal.
‘What exactly have you found?’ He pushed the words out between his lips.
‘Human remains. A body has been found by the shore at the bottom of your land.’
Martin paused, as if unwilling to broach what came next.
‘What kind of body?’ Duncan said.
There was another pause.
‘Come on, man, you can’t not tell me!’
‘We’re not sure yet. I’m sorry, Duncan, that’s all I can tell you right now.’
Duncan made himself move, reaching out one hand to clutch the table, forcing himself to stay focused.
‘I don’t understand … I …’ His body swayed.
‘Duncan, are you alright?’
Martin took a step forwards.
‘Duncan—’
CHAPTER 4
CLAIRE – BEFORE
‘Hey, Becky. How are you this morning?’
I can hear a voice in the background, the clunk of crockery and a tray being set down on a table.
‘Are you up to a visitor around twelve?’ I ask.
‘Yes, please,’ says Becky.
She sounds happy. One of the things I’ve always loved about Becky is her cheeriness. Upbeat and optimistic, despite her circumstances.
‘Great. I’m in town anyway this morning to do some jobs. I’ll bring us some lunch, shall I? Fish from the chippie sound okay?’
‘Sounds perfect,’ she says. ‘It’ll just be me. See you then.’
The phone clicks and she’s gone.
Town is busy. It’s market day and the car park on the small square has been taken over by stalls and vans. Every street is filled with parked cars and the cobbles judder under my wheels then disappear as I turn into the customer car park of the veterinary surgery. I ease the car into a spot furthest away from the front door. One of the advantages of being the boss’s wife is I get to park for free whenever I need to. Through the glass doors I can see the reception desk, the familiar head of Sally bent over the screen. I walk out of the car park, dodging the bus shelter to head towards the main precinct and the estate agents behind the town hall.
‘Hi,’ I say to the young man leaning back on his chair behind the desk nearest to the door. ‘I have an appointment. Claire Henderson.’
My head swings over my shoulder, scanning the street outside. I will the man to speed up and he senses my agitation.
‘Sure. Hold on a minute,’ he says.
He tips forwards and pushes away, standing up to disappear into a conference room. When he comes back, I think how he doesn’t look much older than my Joe, a narrow blue tie swinging against his crisp white shirt. Except these days you’d never catch Joe in a white shirt, let alone a tie.
‘This way,’ he says.
I move too fast into the conference room.
‘Hello, there. Do sit down.’
This agent is older than the lad by the front door. Hungry-looking, like one of those midsized birds of prey hovering over a small animal by the roadside. He’s assessing me.
‘Mrs Henderson, how are you?’ He doesn’t stand up but reaches out a cold hand.
It’s one of those questions you’re not supposed to answer. I contemplate actually telling him. Do you really want to know? says the voice in my head.
‘I think I’ve found the perfect place for you,’ he says. ‘Not too far, like you asked. Though perhaps a little closer than you wanted, but there’s not a lot out there on the market at the moment. It’s near the reservoir with a bit of character and a fantastic view.’
He pulls out a one-page leaflet with a small flourish, pushing it under my nose. My eyes scan the paper and I have a brief impression of a rambling old cottage with a defunct hanging basket blocking the back door and a roof that sags in the middle. Character – that’s one way of putting it. Agent-speak for a house that’s small and run-down and probably expensive to heat. He taps on the rent.
‘It’s four hundred pounds a month.’
That is cheap for round here. The location is doable. It’s on the other side of the dam, so there would be a wall of concrete between me and Duncan. How appropriate, I think. I glance up at the agent’s face.
‘Can I view it?’
‘Of course you can.’ He smiles. ‘Let me check the diary.’
He snaps back to his PC, scrolling down the screen.
‘How about on Thursday, eleven am? My colleague, John Hardcastle, will show you around.’
I nod. He starts to type.
‘Can you remind me of your current address, Mrs Henderson?’
‘Brereton Barn, Hob Lane.’
‘Ah! Yes, of course, l
ovely spot.’
He doesn’t ask why I’m looking for a place to rent. Or why I don’t want to buy. And he doesn’t ask about my financial circumstances. He knows of my husband, the town supervet, with his shiny new practice and growing reputation, living in one of the poshest houses in the district. Why else would his wife be searching for a new home? Instead, the agent looks me briefly up and down, as if speculating if Duncan knows yet. Everyone knows everything about your business in this town. It won’t be long before the gossip spreads.
Which means, now I’ve started this, I’m already running out of time.
‘Ooh, that smells amazing!’
Becky pokes her face into the greasy papers and takes a good long whiff. Her short hair is fluffed up and she gives me one of her big open smiles, freckles creasing on her cheeks. I’ve always envied her that smile – it lights up the room. Duncan has the same smile, when he chooses to use it, it’s one of the things I loved about him when we first met, but that’s where their sibling likeness stops.
‘Sinful, but who cares!’ she says. She grins again and places the package on the table.
‘Where’s Alex?’ I ask, referring to her son.
Becky swings back to the cupboard to pluck out a cheap carton of salt and some vinegar.
‘He’s at the day care centre. Dropped him off earlier. We’ve got a couple of hours.’ She turns back with a plate in each hand and slides onto a chair. ‘Grab us some cutlery, will you?’
I rummage in the drawer behind me and Becky tips the food onto our plates. There’s a moment of silence as we both dive in with the same hungry enthusiasm as Arthur after a long walk.
‘Mmm, this is good. So …’ Becky catches my eye. ‘How was your appointment?’
Appointment? I feel a prickle of alarm; I hadn’t told her I had an appointment. I haven’t told her anything yet. How can I? She’s Duncan’s sister for all she’s my best friend and I don’t know where to begin to explain that I’m about to leave her brother. Besides, I need to finalise things and tell Joe before I tell anyone else. Let alone Duncan. I owe him that at least.
‘It was okay.’ I force myself to relax. Becky’s just interpreting the ‘jobs’ I mentioned on the phone. ‘Boring stuff with the bank.’ I scatter salt on my chips. ‘I had to sign accounts and stuff, what with technically being a director of the business.’
The House of Secrets Page 2