Nope, can’t do that – first, I promised Joe I wouldn’t say anything and secondly, when I say it like that it sounds so ridiculous – the man was asking permission, after all. He’s not committed any crime or made any threats. Perfectly reasonable when you think about it.
I tap my fingers on the table. It’s Duncan’s birthday next month.
Hey, Martin, I’m organising a surprise birthday party for Duncan. He’s not there with you by any chance, is he? Only I don’t want him to know – was hoping you might suggest a few names for me.
That one’s a bit better. Though I’m really no good at this sort of thing.
I pick up my phone before I lose my nerve and dial the number. He answers straight away.
‘Hey, Martin, it’s Claire. How are you?’
I can hear noise in the background, the distinctive combination of voices, music and the clunk of glasses. Damn – perhaps Duncan was actually telling the truth.
‘Hi, Claire,’ says Martin. ‘I’m fine, thank you.’
‘Sounds like you’re in the pub!’ I give a laugh. ‘Sorry to disturb you.’
‘Not at all, Claire. A few drinks with the lads, you know. Are you after Duncan?’
Oh Lord, Duncan really was telling the truth. I feel a fool now, like Martin knows I’m checking up on my errant husband. I imagine the pair of them laughing with each other about it over a pint: Duncan moaning about his wife, Martin telling him that half the force are dodging their wives. He’s direct with his question too – typical policeman.
‘Actually, no – he’s not there with you, is he? It’s … it’s a bit delicate.’
I’ve got his interest now.
‘No, he’s not with me – this is just work. We’re not due to meet up for a drink until next week. I did try to ring him earlier, as it happens, but they told me he was about to start an emergency operation. He’ll be working late tonight, I think, did he not tell you? Might have been a bit of a rush. What’s up, Claire?’
Phew – I’ve got my answer. How easy was that? Now I have to wriggle out of this call without him realising what I was really after. Unless, that is, Martin is fully appraised of Duncan’s affairs and corroborating. It’s possible, I suppose, but no, I don’t believe that.
‘Well, you know it’s Duncan’s birthday in a few weeks?’ I speed up before he can think too long about the plausibility of my question. ‘I was trying to come up with something different this year, you know, as a gift. And I was thinking maybe a balloon experience. You and Zoe went on one, didn’t you? I wondered if you could recommend someone.’
‘That sounds a great idea. We used Carsington Balloon Flights – they were excellent. We saw the most spectacular views at sunset. It can be a bit unpredictable date-wise, though. They have to cancel if the weather’s not suitable.’
‘I was expecting that – and I’m not worried about dates; it doesn’t have to be on his birthday as such. Want us to make a day of it – you know, a nice pub lunch, a walk and then this as a surprise. Give him something to really remember.’
I bite my lip. Martin will know soon enough that I’ve left Duncan, and he’ll look back on this conversation and twig.
‘I think he’d love it. I can text you the number, if you like?’
‘Brilliant!’ I force myself to smile. ‘Cheers, Martin.’
And then as a final thought, ‘You won’t say anything, will you?’
‘Course not, Claire. Have a good night.’
‘Bye.’
I hang up. I feel elated. I’ve just lied to the police. Ha ha, very funny, Claire. I have a brief fantasy about Martin and a pair of handcuffs. Jeez, I’m blushing now. I’ve never remotely fancied Martin. Never mind the fact that he’s married. My lips twist into a sneer. There’s no way I’d ever go for a man who’s married. I know too well what that means. But then fucking Duncan’s best mate could have its attractions. Imagine Duncan’s face …
I put the phone down on the worktop and pick up a stray spoon. I fidget with it in my hands. I shouldn’t care – about who Duncan is sleeping with. It won’t make any difference when I am leaving him anyway. But hearing him lie to me on the phone earlier, so casually, so easily, so … My hand clenches around the spoon until my knuckles turn yellow then white. I must be a masochist to want to know, but I do.
I let my hand relax. The spoon drops onto the worktop with a clang. I pick it up and let it drop again. Again, and again. The sound is satisfying. Then I grasp it between finger and thumb. It bends at the neck. I push harder and the metal bends some more. I push until it’s a twisted thing, like the broken head of a doll washed up against the sewage grate under the kerb of a street. It’s like something out of one of Duncan’s horror movies, its jaw slewed to one side, peering through the bars.
Laughing at me.
CHAPTER 44
CLAIRE – BEFORE
I ring the surgery next. The voice that picks up is warm and friendly. I feel the tension in me retreat – Imogen is happily married. There’s no way it could be her. I hate the fact that I could have even suspected it was her.
‘Is that Imogen?’
‘Hi, Claire. If you’re after Duncan, he’s in the midst of surgery. We’ve had an RTA and the poor animal’s a mess. He’ll be in there for at least another hour. Did you need anything?’
‘No, it’s fine, nothing urgent. I was just wondering when he would be home for tea.’
Oh, the joys of wifely deception. I know Imogen’s not lying, even if it were her, since Martin’s already told me the same story. It can’t be that all three of them are in cahoots. But I need to know roughly what time Duncan will leave the surgery.
‘I would guess another two hours, allowing time for speaking to the owner and updating the records after.’
‘That’s great. Don’t disturb him, I’ll catch him when he gets home. Have a good evening, Imogen, when you finally get away.’
‘Thanks, Claire, you too.’
I hang up.
Now I bite my lip. What if Imogen mentions my call to Duncan? He’ll think it odd. I rub my head. I know it’s unlikely, but I’m really no good at this. Deception, lies. I hate that Duncan has reduced me to this.
A couple of hours later, I park on the side road, behind the garages that belong to a row of terraced houses next to the surgery. It’s on a slope and there’s a gap in the buildings through which I get a good view of the staff car park.
It’s bitterly cold and I’m grateful to be inside as the wind buffets the side of the car and sleet slides drunkenly against the windows. Most of the cars have gone. I wait until only two are left, one of them Duncan’s, parked in his usual spot not far from the stockroom door.
There he is. The door out to the car park slams backwards in the wind and Duncan emerges in a thigh-length woollen coat and neatly arranged scarf. Behind him is Sally, the receptionist, her pale blonde hair bright against her faux fur-clad shoulders.
Sally?
Why would Sally have stayed late for a road traffic accident?
He stops a moment and she bumps into him. He catches her with his arms to steady her and they both pull a little closer. She pulls away. I catch my breath.
God in heaven above! It can’t be her?
But he nods and they make their way to separate cars. That’s when the penny drops. Because I know Sally lives in a flat-share just around the corner – she doesn’t need a car to get to work. So what’s this business about two cars except if they have plans to go somewhere, separately but together?
My heart thunders beneath my ribs. Sally – oh God, it is Sally. But she’s so nice. She’s always been so sweet on the phone or when I go in. And she’s young. Far too young, still in her early twenties, let alone … I feel my stomach do a gut-wrenching somersault. The bastard!
The two cars turn onto the main road. Duncan goes first and Sally follows. I start the engine and wrench the gears into first. I pull out from behind the garages, moments later slipping into the slow-moving traffic a few
vehicles behind. I still can’t take it in. How could Sally even conceive of sleeping with my husband? She’s beautiful, vital, full of life. She could have any young man, why on earth would she go for her married boss? I feel my throat contract. Perhaps that’s the very attraction.
It’s not hard to follow them, despite the darkening night – her car is a distinctive red-and-white Mini and she’s driving it right behind him.
He takes the road out of Belston, the one that goes to Derby. My car almost catches up, so I slow down, dawdling behind with several cars and a big truck between us. After a few miles Duncan brakes. He turns off at the cattle grid which leads to the southern road alongside the reservoir. It’s the one that ultimately passes the bottom of the old village and along to the dam. It’s not the usual way home; it takes much longer. She ignores the turning and drives on. I follow her.
Disappointment sinks like a weight in my stomach as I realise it’s not her. Of course not. He wouldn’t be so crass as to sleep with Sally. I’ve got it all wrong. Relief floods through me and guilt too, that I could even for a moment have thought it was her. Maybe Sally parks her car in the staff car park because it’s conveniently close. You have to pay for daytime on-street parking in that part of town. Of course she parks her car at work; it’s probably there semi-permanently. And he’s gone home after all, hasn’t he? Albeit taking the scenic route.
But then, at the garage on the crossroads about a mile further down, Sally pulls in, parks up and goes into the shop on the forecourt. I see her head bobbing down the aisle and then she pays for something at the till. A minute later, she’s in her car again. She fusses with her hair, pulling it into a loose but charming ponytail. It makes her look bright and young. She sets the car in motion and loops back onto the road, the way we’ve just been. I follow again, two or three cars behind, wide-eyed and furious as the realisation floods me. Has she just bought what I think she’s bought? Condoms?
At the cattle grid, she too turns up, bumping along the road beside the water.
I can’t follow her down there – it’s too quiet, she’d see me. So I drive on and pull onto the next layby to wait. I know the road doesn’t go anywhere. After wending its way around the full length of the reservoir and back again, it pops out just a few yards from this layby. I wait and wait, but nobody comes out.
I rev the engine and pull out onto the road, turning around so that I, too, can pass over the cattle grid. It seems highly unlikely that either one of them has gone this way to the Barn. Which leaves only the abandoned village or the old Hall. The sleet is back, falling a little thicker now, white against the evening sky. A wet slush lines the verges and gathers in the nook of my slowly batting windscreen wipers. The darkness enfolds me and a red snowflake light is showing on the dashboard to warn me of the icy conditions. My hands are damp with sweat.
I take the road that leaves the side of the reservoir and enters the village. Trees loom across the lane. My headlamps pick up the growing layer of white gathering loosely on the tarmac. It’s so fresh there are only two other sets of tyre marks – Duncan’s and then Sally. At the entrance to the old Hall, both sets of tracks turn in through the gates. I halt the car. Wet clings to the elaborate iron frame and the gates are wide open, half-cocked on their hinges like the folded wings of a white butterfly. The engine of my car thrums. Steam from the exhaust pipe blows up against the rear window.
I try to find legitimate reasons why they might have come here. But there’s not one. I feel a surge of anger as the realisation spreads. He’s brought her here, to the heart of our valley, so close to the reservoir that was always our place. I feel the blood rushing to my neck, my cheeks. I feel disgust, pain, betrayal – a deepening sense of the surreal.
The tyre marks are already melting, but I can see they travel up the drive, where they disappear into the deep shadows of the trees.
I’m unwilling to take the car down there. If they’ve parked outside the house, they’ll hear my engine. A confrontation is not what I’m after. Not yet. I reverse out of the entrance, backing onto the lane, where I park out of sight by one of the empty cottages. I close the car door as quietly as I can and pull my coat tight around me. I pick my way along the verge before clambering through a gap in the fencing by the side wall to head under the trees and walk unseen but parallel to the Hall driveway.
When I get to the end of the drive, there are no cars outside the house.
That leaves only the stables.
CHAPTER 45
CLAIRE – BEFORE
The stable complex lies to the side and rear of the Hall. It’s a quadrangle of buildings adjoining the servants’ quarters. One huge archway leads into a cobbled courtyard. I duck out of sight into a doorway that I know leads into the tack room where a ladder goes up into the roof. The rungs bend queasily beneath my feet. My hands grip the sides of the ladder, wary that it might suddenly give way. A burning need to know for sure drives me on.
My mobile phone sits in my pocket. I’ve turned it to silent, but I have a vague idea of photographing them, evidence for my day in court, should I need it. Or maybe I’ll sell it to the local paper: Veterinary superstar caught in flagrante delicto in old abandoned Hall. Duncan would have a fit. I’m not sure the Belston Times is up to in flagrante delicto.
I clamber along the floorboards to crouch at a small round window under the top gable. It looks out across the internal courtyard. The panes of glass are intact but loose, smothered in dirt and cobwebs and the cold whistles through the gaps in the old wooden frame. The courtyard is lit only by an unearthly shade of white where the artificial light from two sets of headlamps splays out across the cobbles. Both vehicles are clearly visible, parked in the middle of the yard, their engines off, one behind the other. Duncan’s car is lit up from within.
The courtyard is silent, the brick walls too tall to see the trees outside. The small, high windows and grey painted carriage doors, what’s left of them, seem to me to mimic the monochrome mood of the night. Weeds grow in swathes of grey between the cobbles and the wet snow half settles in between – not enough to give any depth, but enough to whiten the ground. Through the open doors of each building and the cracks in the brickwork on either side of me, the stables reek of centuries of urine-soaked slabs. I think of all the insects that must be living within, burrowed in the wooden stable dividers, cocooned against the walls, hiding between the floorboards under my knees. My hands pull away and I feel the hairs on my skin contract. I try to hold my breath so I don’t panic or give myself away. I won’t let this whole thing get to me, I won’t.
Duncan has wound his window down, leaving a small gap for ventilation. It’s a habit of his, whatever the weather. The driver’s seat has been lowered and I see his long body lying back. He’s waiting.
Sally is still in her car. She’s taken her coat off and is fiddling with something in her handbag. Now she’s getting out of her car. She must have been sat in there for a while. I wonder why. Her car sits a few metres from his and the door, when it slams to, echoes against the walls. A flurry of pigeons sweeps up from the roof tiles and her face lifts towards the sky. I pull back from the window, fearful that she will see me, but it’s too small and too high up, and with her evident preoccupation, it seems unlikely that I’ll be discovered.
I reach forwards again to look. Duncan’s front passenger door is flung open and she slides onto the seat.
‘You took your time,’ Duncan says, sitting up.
Thanks to the unique acoustics of the quadrangle, I can hear his voice despite the distance.
‘I know you like to wait,’ she says.
There’s an edge to her voice, like something else is going on. Is she angry? No, it must be raw anticipation. Revving that engine, Duncan? She closes the car door and I don’t hear what either of them says next.
Then Sally crosses her arms and pulls her top over her head. She flings it onto the back seat and Duncan leans back again to watch. Her hair had been dragged loose from its binding and i
t falls down around her shoulders. Keeping her bra on, she wriggles in her seat. I see her drop something in the car well between them and with her skirt riding up over her hips, she climbs onto his lap.
I can’t watch. I close my eyes and taste the bile in my throat. How long has this been going on? I think back, before the conversation with those women at the supermarket. The times when Sally rang to say Duncan was working late, the times I called by and she’d smile an apology from behind the desk – He’s in theatre, Mrs Henderson. The times I sat at home thinking of the other women that he’s had, imagining unknown faces flirting with him at the gym, the bars and clubs he went drinking at. The anonymous texts on his phone.
I adjust my position. It’s painful here on my knees by the window. If I’m going to take a photograph, I need to look. I scrabble for the phone in my pocket, my hands shaking as I check that the flash is off. I’m not sure if it will even work in this poor light, but I can’t risk a flash being seen.
Now she’s taking her bra off, slowly as a tease. One shoulder strap after another until each breast hangs loose before him. I can see that Duncan wants to touch, but her eyes hold him fixed against his seat. He’s letting her have control. He’s never done that with me. Her hands fold around his neck and she presses her body closer. I juggle the phone, taking as many pictures as I can, fumbling with the settings to get a better picture. Adrenalin has kicked in. And anger. Pure raging anger.
Outside, the night is deepening. The sleet has changed back into rain and it slices down against the car windows. I zoom in with the camera. The water rattles on the car roof, trickling through the gap in the window. I see Duncan’s face, the way his eyes have rolled back, the sigh that hovers on his slightly parted lips. Sally’s fingers have moved out of sight and I can’t look at what happens next.
I pull back. The rain is filling the gaps and dips between the stones outside, driving against the glass in front of me. I take a peek and Sally’s arms have reached for the headrest behind Duncan’s head, bracing herself. Their rhythm grows and outside, the skies have darkened almost to a solid pitch-black.
The House of Secrets Page 19