The Friend: An emotional psychological thriller with a twist

by Teresa Driscoll

  ‘No trouble. I have my book. Just shout if you feel at all unwell.’

  And so I force a small smile, catching Mark’s eye, and I try to pretend that this is just another journey – ta-tum, ta-tum – and that I am just another passenger, whiling away the time when in truth I am chanting a mantra in my head, pleading with a god I am not sure I believe in, to just keep this train moving. Please.

  Nathan has just phoned Mark. He was in Somerset on business but is now en route to the hospital to try to sort out this identity nonsense with the boys. I mean, for Christ’s sake, they’re not that alike. If you put their pictures side by side, you would have no trouble. I’m losing my patience but the medical staff are apparently very stretched and there are protocols. They couldn’t delay the surgery for identification because it was way too urgent but they want someone to positively ID the boys as soon as possible afterwards. It is all such a terrifying muddle still. From the snippets the ward nurse shared before everyone clammed up, it seems one child has a collapsed lung and the other the more serious spleen damage. But the staff are now sticking rigidly to the rules and won’t share any more specific information until the boys’ names are sorted.

  It’s such agony. Do I want my child to be the one with the collapsed lung? Or the damaged spleen? Both sound completely terrible but the spleen sounds so much worse somehow and I feel like some monster, willing the more serious injury on someone else, but I just don’t want it to be Ben. The spleen. I don’t want it to be Ben . . .

  So – yes, we just have to wait. Nathan is on his way to Durndale and has promised to phone if there is any news once they are both out of theatre.

  Mark held the phone out for me and I tried to thank Nathan, but no words would come out of my mouth and so I had to just hand it back. It is as if any gesture of kindness is simply too much. Like the beauty of this stretch of coastline. Which is why I am keeping my eyes down, trying to tune out the doctor glancing at me and the blur of pictures which are much too pretty. Seagulls overhead. The white foam of the rolling waves.

  Instead I am looking at the floor which has some kind of stain – coffee? – making promises that everything in my life will be different from this point, that I will change and learn and be a better person and a much better mother if you will just grant me this one thing.

  CHAPTER 9

  BEFORE

  Detective Inspector Melanie Sanders stared at her housemate across the kitchen table and poured coffee from a large cafetière into two bright pink mugs.

  ‘You been up all night dye-ing again?’ Melanie was rather pleased with the pun so early in the morning, though Cynthia was patently not, groaning and then holding out her hands to confirm palms which alarmingly matched the mugs. ‘I’m supposed to get six rugs finished by Friday. I will never do it.’

  Melanie smiled. Cynthia, like so many artists, seemed to live in a permanent state of self-imposed bipolar chaos. Up or down. Broke or buying all the drinks. Too little work or too much. Never the even keel. Despite all protestations, which Melanie had learned to ignore, this was precisely the way Cynthia liked it; she was addicted to the drama, which matched her outfits – today an interesting choice of lime green boiler suit with black Doc Martins.

  In the early days of their friendship Melanie had made the mistake of challenging her. Why don’t you just get yourself a job, Cynthia? You know – novel concept – you turn up every day and they pay you at the end of the month? But Cynthia’s expression had been so painfully disdainful that Melanie had learned to keep quiet.

  Today she glanced into the utility annex, where three clothes horses were covered in long strips of cotton dyed various shades of pink. Cynthia must have been up most of the night working – her current ‘signature product’ being rag rugs which she made in the traditional style, hand-dyeing cotton which she then wove strand by strand into bright, contemporary patterns. The finished effect was very striking and the current order from a boutique hotel that intended to use them as wall hangings was impressive. The problem was the expanse of wall involved. Two dozen rugs had been ordered, and given Cynthia rarely made more than two or three at a time, the commission was proving problematic.

  ‘Do you think you could help me, Mel?’ She was tilting her head and using the whiny voice of a small child.

  ‘Ooooh nooo. We’ve been here before, Cynthia. You say you want help. You may even believe you want help, but the reality, as I have discovered to my cost, is you cannot bear anyone near any of your work. Anyway, I’ve got this new Tedbury case. I’m going to be busy.’ Melanie tried to make this sound challenging. She was not ready to admit, even to Cynthia, that this first case since her much-longed-for promotion was clearly a wind-up in the department. A domestic.

  ‘But I thought we already know who did it?’

  ‘Yes, well. We can’t assume it’s that simple.’ Melanie’s defensive tone gave her away. ‘I’m still waiting on the forensics. And the phone records. Also we haven’t confirmed motive.’

  ‘Er, excuse me. I saw his picture.’

  ‘Well, the word is they were devoted.’

  ‘Yeah right.’

  ‘I thought it was my job to be cynical.’

  ‘So is she going to make it, then? The wife? Otherwise there doesn’t seem to be a whole lot of point.’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m going to the hospital now, actually. Do you want anything in town?’

  ‘Homity pie.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Homity pie.’

  ‘And what, in God’s name, is homity pie?’

  ‘You really are a lost cause, Melanie. I blame all that canteen food.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No, you’re not. And for your information, homity pie is a delicate fusion of potato, onions and garlic in a light shortcrust pastry.’

  ‘A pasty.’

  ‘I give up.’

  And now Melanie was grinning. She had found the house share in the small ads when she first moved to Plymouth. She hadn’t expected to stay – especially once she confirmed Cynthia actually owned the Victorian terrace overlooking Peverell Park, though clearly with no spare funds for upgrades. No central heating in the bedrooms. No power shower. And yet Melanie had very quickly grown fond of the contrast: the lentil-soaking, cotton-dyeing craziness which could not be further from her own working life, with its drunks and its violence, its prostitutes and its seedy, nasty and – on this patch – mostly petty crimes. Murders were, in truth, pretty rare, which was why she was so peeved to be assigned the Tedbury job. Cynthia was right. It wasn’t a proper murder inquiry at all. If Gill died, there would be no one to charge.

  ‘I’ll see you this evening, then.’

  ‘Drowned in a vat of beetroot dye, most likely.’

  Durndale Hospital, like many of its high-rise contemporaries, was externally as depressing as the misery it contained. Just outside the main entrance, overweight patients in cheap dressing gowns were hiding from staff, choking on cigarettes – their expressions, to Melanie at least, showing no acknowledgement of the irony of their behaviour. Inside was little better. She stopped momentarily at the snack bar and glanced at the offerings. There was talk of it being replaced by a salad bar, but meantime she was confronted by more irony in the form of cream cakes, doughnuts and sausage rolls.

  ‘Do you have homity pie?’ The server, a middle-aged woman of rotund proportions and cheeks rosy from proximity to the grills, shrugged blankly. Melanie eyed the pastries and the pasties and made her excuses.

  Gill Hartley remained in intensive care on the fourth floor. There was, in truth, no need for this visit, but Melanie wanted to take another look at the woman who was at the centre of the first inquiry she had been allowed to head up since her promotion and transfer to Devon. Also, she had been promised a chat with the consultant in charge of Gill’s care, who should be doing his rounds very shortly. Melanie badly needed this woman to wake up, otherwise Cynthia was absolutely right. The preliminary forensics did not suggest a
third party.

  Gill’s coma, Melanie had learned, had nothing to do with the knife wound and everything to do with the popularity of marble worktops. She had smashed the back of her head quite spectacularly as she collapsed to the floor. Apparently a piece of her brain was exposed – hence the medically induced coma to try to give the swelling time to reduce. Heaven knows what real damage had been done. The stomach wound also involved heavy blood loss but major organs had been missed. She had been lucky in that respect.

  Or perhaps not, Melanie was thinking as she stared through the blinds into the room, imagining what the wretched woman had to wake up to. Possible brain damage? Prison, almost certainly. She could hear nothing from the corridor but could imagine perfectly the eerie sounds of the ventilator and the profusion of other machinery. Alongside the bed was a grey-haired woman, wearing a black cardigan to match the circles under her eyes.

  Melanie watched the woman’s face change as she walked over to show her badge. There were times when her job and her duty made her feel important, all the intrusion justified . . .

  ‘We still can’t believe it.’

  . . . but not today. Always toughest with the mothers.

  ‘No. It must have been a terrible shock for you – Mrs . . . ?’

  ‘Baines.’

  ‘Mrs Baines.’

  ‘They were so happy.’

  Melanie did not reply.

  ‘At least they always seemed so happy.’ Gill’s mother shifted in her seat.

  ‘Look – we don’t have to do this now but if you feel well enough to answer a few more questions?’

  ‘Sorry? Oh, right. Yes, of course.’ And then she was agitated, glancing at her daughter. ‘Though not here, please. They say she may be able to hear.’

  They stood awkwardly in the corridor for a time with visitors brushing past, many of them appearing entirely lost. Excuse me, but do you know the way to the cafeteria?

  ‘So you didn’t pick up on any problems, Mrs Baines? Anything worrying your daughter recently?’

  Sorry. Is this the same floor as X-ray?

  Look. We’re having a private conversation, OK?

  So that in the end they had to move into a little alcove by the lifts.

  ‘You think one of them was cheating, don’t you? Or up to something illegal. Affairs. Drugs. Gambling. That’s what everyone’s whispering back in Tedbury, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t think it helps to speculate, Mrs Baines. We’re just trying to find out what happened.’

  No reply, and so Melanie decided to quietly withdraw, allowing Mrs Baines to return to her daughter’s side and to pick up a book from beside the bed.

  She watched the familiar and comforting sight of a mother reading to her child, remembering how her own mother used to climb right into bed for their story time; the echo of her many ridiculous voices. Seeing it made her feel embarrassed. An intruder. As Mrs Baines turned the page, Melanie turned away also, grateful for the flurry of activity along the corridor – the consultant, complete with student entourage.

  She was just preparing to approach him, fumbling for her notebook – still using a large one because she couldn’t find her glasses – when, looking up from her handbag, she caught a flash of something else way back along the same corridor. Red coat. A glimpse of long, dark hair. Enough. The woman, carrying a child on her hip, spun through 180 degrees and turned the corner, but something in Melanie’s stomach, something which she had never been able to define but in her job had learned never to ignore, made her bolt along the corridor.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  The woman turned, feigning surprise. The child tilted his head, apparently shy.

  ‘Miss Carter, isn’t it?’

  Emma stood rigid, clutching a small basket of mixed fruit with her free hand.

  ‘Inspector. I was just . . .’ She looked about her then, at the signposts for the different wards and departments as if for inspiration, and finally back at Melanie who noted again what peculiar eyes she had. Strange streaks of different colours. ‘I was just bringing something for Gill. To see how she’s doing.’

  ‘That’s very nice of you. Her mother’s with her. I didn’t realise you two were close. You didn’t mention that when we spoke before.’

  And then Melanie adopted the expression and the silence which had served her so well during her time in uniform – and did so now, out of it. She waited, keeping her face neutral. Waiting for Emma Carter to speak again.

  To say something which might explain the decidedly odd expression this strange and striking woman was now wearing on her own face.

  CHAPTER 10

  BEFORE

  I was unsure at first about coming here. Mark felt it would be the best place – our favourite part of Cornwall – to try to somehow process what had happened. But . . . me?

  I was worried it might spoil this place forever.

  Ask me last week about the Lizard, I would have beamed and bored you; I would have said that driving here always made my shoulders relax, like unbuttoning a shirt too tight at the neck. Like a secret; a discovery best kept quiet from the hordes who trek further north to the more familiar and obvious destinations of Rock and Padstow.

  To know the Lizard is to drive past the flat and unpromising landscape of the RNAS base, smiling inwardly at the trick of it. For, just a few miles in any of several directions from the neatly fenced but unlovely facility, there is this feast of the unexpected and unspoilt. The breath-taking Helford River, best explored by boat; the pale sands of umpteen perfect coves with space for cricket even in the summer months; and all around the coast, communities with proud, whitewashed cottages tumbling down steep hills to tiny working harbours.

  For me this place smells always of the past, too; of the days when a holiday bedroom reeked not of playdough and nappies and Sudocrem, but of croissants, good coffee. And sex. Yes. The days of that different Sophie, before we were married, when me and Mark worked hard – both of us – and played hard too. Daytime sex. Imagine that. Coffee and toast, naked in bed with butter licked from fingers. The days when holidays and weekends away from London had that almost desperate edge of being so deserved. Necessary. Precious.

  And yet there I sat, on the front step of this familiar cottage, hands clenched tight between my thighs, worrying that this was the year the spell would be broken. The magic ruined.

  In the car this time I came close to a panic attack – a sudden urge to turn around and hole up at home, but then in the mirror I could see Ben sitting in the back, his new fishing rod across his lap, so I wound down the window instead, feigning a coughing fit to choke in the air, to try to calm myself.

  I have no idea how much you are supposed to tell a small child when something terrible happens. Ideally nothing, but the trouble is they pick up vibes and they notice whispering – and they certainly notice police cars and blue-and-white tape. All we have told Ben so far is that something very sad happened in the village but he was not to worry and we were having a surprise holiday while it was all sorted out.

  What happened, Mummy?

  An accident. Antony died in an accident which is very, very sad. But it is nothing for you to worry about, Ben.

  Are we going to die in an accident?

  No. Of course not.

  He was certainly pleased to be here. A rare treat at such short notice and one of the few places we truly relax as a family. Holidays are always a challenge for Mark as he has to juggle time off around his staff, who always want the peak summer months. That’s why July and August have always stretched so very long and hard in Tedbury since I had Ben. How shameful to admit that, until Emma arrived with Theo, I had rather come to dread the summers in Devon. Crowds of tourists everywhere and the paradox of me feeling lonely with Mark always overloaded at work.

  So this was unusual – to make it here during peak season. We normally come in the spring or autumn. Mark only managed to swing this late booking because we know the owners so well. A relative was supposed to be here this
week but bailed at the eleventh hour; we got lucky.

  Lucky?

  No. Surreal was how it felt to be here – everything so shockingly different at home, and yet in this place?

  I looked up.

  Completely unchanged. The same old view from the cottage. The same trees climbing in giant strides up the hill opposite. The smell of the hedgerow flowers, sweeter than at home and mingled with the salt on the wind.

  Yes. I closed my eyes to take it in properly. It was what we always noticed and appreciated most when we arrived, and missed more than anything when we returned home.

  The smell of the sea.

  ‘You OK?’ I could hear clinking as Mark placed a glass of wine on the step beside me, and so opened my eyes and raised my left hand to shield them from the evening sun.

  ‘Think so. Still shell-shocked but I think you were right.’ I stretched out my right hand, which he took and held tightly. ‘It’s not a fix, coming away. I mean, I keep seeing it all every time I close my eyes . . . but you’re right; if we’d stayed at home, it would probably have been worse. I would have gone completely mad back there.’

  He sat alongside me, still squeezing my fingers but picking moss from the stone step with his other hand. ‘Look – Sophie. I know I can be a bit, well, a bit hopeless, never really knowing what to say. But you do know you can talk to me? Or at least try.’

  I tilted my head. I hadn’t shared much detail. That’s what he meant. His face revealed he was out of his comfort zone; he looked afraid and I wondered if he was worried this could tip me back to that awful place after Ben was born. I held his stare and tried to find a small smile.

  ‘And I want to listen. To help. No rush and no pressure. When you’re ready to talk a bit more – properly about this, I mean.’

  ‘Thank you. And I will try but I just need to, I don’t know, process it first? It still feels so . . .’ I paused. ‘I can’t find the right words, Mark.’

  ‘P45.’