‘No.’ Melanie glanced at the door and began to stand, noticing that Matthew was just about to walk in. ‘Actually, I’ll forget the second coffee. It’s later than I realised.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ Melanie put coins from her pocket on to the table. ‘Keep the change.’
‘Thank you. And do you mind me asking where you get your hair done?’
‘Er. A friend does it, actually.’ A lie.
‘Oh, right.’
In the doorway, Melanie grabbed Matthew’s arm and turned him around, steering him right back on to the street.
‘Excuse me? It’s raining out there.’
‘We can’t stay here. Sorry.’
Back out on the pavement now, Matthew, in his trademark parka, pulled a face. ‘What’s up? Coffee not up to scratch?’
‘Promise you won’t laugh?’
‘I promise.’
‘I was recognised in there.’
‘From court?’
‘No. From the television coverage of the Tedbury case.’
He roared with laughter. ‘Sorry. Sorry. Forgot you were a famous DI now.’ His cheeks were wearing the dimples which had prompted so much teasing throughout their police training together.
Matthew had been the star recruit. Everyone thought he was a sure thing for the High Potential Development scheme. He was sharp, funny and distinctive, with his white-blond hair and tall, lanky frame. They had become close friends, and Melanie was gutted when they were immediately transferred to opposite ends of the region. They met up regularly for a drink, and emailed and phoned every week to swap notes. The highs. The lows. And then suddenly Melanie had a panic – worrying that she was sending the wrong signals, because Matthew had begun to look at her in a way which was unsettling. Even though she liked him, really liked him, she had never thought of him in that way. Not at all.
‘You’re going to give me the it’s-not-you-it’s-me speech,’ he had said, clearly wounded at her reaction the one time he tried to kiss her, after a pub crawl in Exeter years back. She had been too drunk to travel home and he had given her his bed, changing the sheets and duvet cover and sleeping on the sofa downstairs, then making perfectly poached eggs on toast for their breakfast. Just runny – exactly the way she liked them.
I’m so sorry, Matthew. It’s not that I don’t think you’re completely lovely. It’s just—
Please, Mel. Don’t make it any worse. We’re fine. It’s fine. Honestly.
They had stayed friends. They’d worked hard. They continued to swap notes and moans and then Matthew suddenly quit the force.
It took Melanie a good while to find out what had really happened. She did everything she could to try to change his mind, but it was no use. Matthew was too competent, too kind and too moral for his own good. He blamed himself for a child getting killed. Matthew had been chasing him after the boy was caught shoplifting. He ran straight on to a live line.
Nothing Melanie or anyone else said could dissuade Matthew from quitting. He set up his own PI agency in Exeter. Such a waste. She had told him so, furious that a man of his ability should go wasting his talent snooping.
Since then he had got lucky. Got married. A really lovely woman called Sally. Melanie liked her and was pleased for Matthew.
But . . .
It was his turn to steer her now, across the road to another café just around the corner, where he ordered more coffee and where Melanie found herself wondering how much of his time he spent watching people from seedy cafés these days. She still wished he would reconsider. Come back into the force. Surely he couldn’t be content with his working life?
‘So, what’s up, Mel? Why the urgency?’
‘It’s the Tedbury case.’
‘I thought that was all done and dusted? Domestic – straight up, straight down.’
‘Who told you that? And why would you even be asking?’
Matthew stared down at his coffee. ‘I was on a routine case there myself for a bit.’
‘So I hear. One of my witnesses spotted you taking photographs.’
‘And how did you know it was me?’
She patted his blond hair and pinged one of the strings at the cuff of his parka. ‘You are going to have to do something about that. Seriously. Especially on local cases.’
He dipped his finger into the froth on the coffee and sucked it, making a smacking sound, then took a deep breath.
‘I like my parka.’
She smiled. ‘So why the photographs?’
‘Just research – checking out some locals. Cars. Number plates.’
‘So you were getting someone to run number plates through the system? Not sure I like the sound of that, Matt.’
‘Oops.’ He pulled a face. He had been checking for any previous convictions for fraud or financial wrongdoing, which was standard for his planning cases. ‘Look – Mel. My case in Tedbury. It was nothing you need to know about. Routine gig. I promise I would have phoned you if I felt I needed to.’
‘So you weren’t working for Gill Hartley? Checking out the husband?’
‘No. Like I said, I would have told you if it was directly linked.’
‘So it was indirectly linked?’
He looked at her. She looked at him.
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘Come on, Matt. I don’t want to do this officially.’
‘Don’t be like that. This is me, Mel.’
‘All right. The CPS aren’t that fussed. Nor’s my boss. Gill Hartley is still in a coma, and chances are she’ll be unplugged at some stage, which means there will be no one to charge.’
‘So where’s your problem?’
‘Emma Carter.’
Matthew’s face changed and he leant in closer. ‘What about her?’
‘So you know the name?’
‘I didn’t say that.’ He sipped his coffee, narrowing his eyes.
‘I have an instinct about her, Matt. She was the last person to see Gill before the meltdown with her husband, and she was snooping around the hospital for no good reason. There’s something not right.’
‘And?’
‘And I’m asking an old friend, who I rate very highly, if they know anything which might help me.’
‘Like I said, I was just on a routine job.’
He looked at her, unblinking now.
‘Will you think about it, Matt? If there’s anything at all I should know.’
He paused. ‘You know this is different for me now, Mel? No police pension. A business to run. A reputation to build. Client confidentiality . . .’
‘Someone died, Matt.’
‘And the forensics said there was no one else involved.’
‘So you were worried enough to check for yourself, then?’
He held her stare then, as if struggling with something. ‘Look. I need to make some more inquiries my end. Soon as I’ve done that, I promise I’ll call you again, Mel.’
‘OK.’ She was happier. ‘Deal. Meantime – how’s the lovely Amelie? She talking yet?’
‘As it happens, she said her first word recently.’
‘Great. So was it dadda, as you hoped?’
‘No.’
‘Bad luck, Matt. So – mamma?’
‘No.’ Matthew’s expression was teasing, and so Melanie frowned.
‘What, then?’
‘Well, she has now deigned to say dadda precisely twice. But when I say no, I mean that we need to be afraid. Very afraid. Because my daughter’s first and absolutely favourite word in the world so far is . . . NO!’
And now Emma and Tedbury were momentarily forgotten as they both laughed and Matthew took out his phone to share the latest photographs of his daughter.
TODAY – 7.15 P.M.
The doctor and his wife are drinking their coffees. Mark is back from the loo, staring into space, when his phone goes.
I physically start. I want news but I don’t want bad news. There is a voice in my head telling him not t
o answer the phone.
Don’t let them say it.
Mark just looks at me and stands to answer the call more privately, walking through to the space between carriages.
The doctor smiles at me. I have put both my hands up to my lips, like I’m praying.
‘I am sure it will be fine. The hospital staff are good people. Excellent people.’
I nod, not trusting my voice.
It feels like an eternity but at last Mark is back, putting his phone in his pocket as he sits, his face pale. I am absorbing the fact that he does not speak immediately.
‘So what’s the news?’
‘Nathan is just five minutes away now. He’s going to identify the boys and ring us straight away.’
‘So that was Nathan?’
‘No.’ He lets out this odd little huff of air. ‘That was intensive care. They’ve just spoken to Nathan.’
‘Intensive care? What does that mean? Why intensive care? Is that normal after an operation? Does everyone go to intensive care after an operation?’ I am looking at the doctor but it is Mark who answers.
‘One of the boys has had a complication from the surgery. Some respiratory reaction to the anaesthetic.’
‘Oh my God.’
‘They’re monitoring him very closely. It’s all a bit hectic right now. They’ve asked me to ring back.’
‘Right. Intensive care. Right . . .’ For some reason I am rocking. Forward and back. I am conscious that this is not a good thing and I watch the doctor exchange a look with his wife that I don’t like at all.
Next, I do a really stupid thing. I ask to borrow Mark’s phone to look something up.
Something which is going to make me feel even worse.
CHAPTER 30
BEFORE
I lay back on the hospital bed and closed my eyes. There had been no bleeding for a week now. Mark felt this was a good sign. He said so again this morning very quietly as we set off for the scan.
There was a man’s voice – the doctor? – asking if I was comfortable. Ready? I told this new doctor that there had been no bleeding for a whole week. Sorry. Did we say that already?
Mark reached for my hand – gently passing each of his fingers between mine – and the doctor’s voice was asking me to try to relax but I already knew how I was going to do this; I had decided in the car. And so the voice and the sound of the machine drifted away as I made myself rise ever so slowly from the bed. Floating higher and higher, through the ceiling and the soft haze of cloud, on and on for miles and miles until I could smell the sea. Good. Eyes still closed, I descended to feel the warm sand between my toes, Mark all the time holding my hand tightly in his own.
And now I opened my eyes to see Ben waving from the shoreline, a sandcastle bucket in his hand. The light was hurting my eyes and I had to squint into the sun, but very soon I could feel the tension in my forehead easing. For there was another child waving back now. Smaller – just a silhouette, reaching up to hold on to Ben’s free hand. They were laughing together, and I smiled back at them.
Mine.
The voice deep inside my head, whispering beneath the roar of the waves. Both mine. Please.
But now Mark’s hand was gripping more tightly until the fingers were almost crushing mine. And the space around us thundered with the silence as I strained for the sound of a beat. A rhythm. A heartbeat.
Please.
I squeezed my eyes tighter but still the sound did not come. Mark was asking if the doctor could see anything on the screen. Any sound wave? Anything at all? No reply . . . And now the children and the sea were moving further and further away, the sand sucking fast between my toes as I was pulled backwards, backwards. A voice, distant at first, but getting louder and louder.
Are you all right, Mrs Edwards? Would you like a glass of water?
I tried to call out to the children at the edge of the sea, but nothing would come out of my mouth.
Instead there was just a click as they turned off the machine. And the doctor’s voice – closer now, saying that they would give us some time alone. As long as you need. And then repeating it ever so softly.
How very sorry he was.
But there is no heartbeat . . .
CHAPTER 31
BEFORE
‘I’m fine. Really.’
Over and over I said this out loud and also quietly in my head, as the coming days brought a procession of fish pies and fuss. Everyone suddenly so keen to keep me fed.
I mean, it’s not as if it were a proper miscarriage. Not really. I kept saying this to Mark and Helen in turn. OK, so I had to have this really horrible procedure to clear the womb, but it was so early, there couldn’t have been anything. Don’t you think? Not really. I expect they do that for everyone – even people who’ve just got their dates in a muddle. I probably just got my dates in a muddle.
I had this feeling that if everyone could just stop fussing and realise that this was no big deal, I would be completely fine. But I kept catching Helen and Mark whispering as I entered a room, or exchanging knowing glances, and it was making me so touchy that in the end I did something really stupid.
‘It’s not that I’m not grateful, Helen. You’ve been wonderful, but I need to sort some things out on my own now.’ Even as the words came out of my mouth, I didn’t know why I was saying this; sending her away. ‘You’re not to say a word to Mark but I’m going to press on with looking for some work. I’m going to stall over the deli and see what options I’ve got. Also – I really want to help Emma with Theo. He’s still not talking, poor sausage, and I’m really worried.’
For a while Helen resisted leaving, and so I started decluttering the house, refusing to allow her to help. I’m fine, honestly. I need to be doing something. In the end, she quietly packed up the leather suitcase and much-mocked carpet bag, and I don’t know who looked more likely to cry. Her or me.
‘You absolutely sure you don’t want me to stay a bit longer?’
‘No. I’m fine.’
‘OK. So I’ll ring. Every day. And you will answer the phone. Yes?’
‘Yes.’
And so I threw myself into helping Emma with Theo, and realised, as I did this, why I had really needed Helen to go.
So has Helen gone, then?
Yes, Emma.
Oh right. I thought she must have had a lot to catch up on. Back in Cornwall. Lovely lady. But quite a bit older than us. I hadn’t realised when you said you were close that she would be so much older . . .
The news on Theo wasn’t good. Emma had tried just once to coax him back to playgroup but it failed miserably. She was apparently persuaded to let the staff peel him away from her, crying, the hope being he would ‘come around’ once she was out of sight, but an hour later there was a phone call to say he remained completely inconsolable. I heard from one of the other mums later that one of the other kids had donned a policeman’s uniform from the dressing-up box, and Theo inexplicably went completely bonkers. Emma had to take him home again.
Emma continued to try to play it all down: her strategy – to sit it out. For myself? I just didn’t know what to think or advise.
There must be something we’re missing, I had made the mistake of saying out loud while Helen was still staying – regretting it immediately. For though I meant something external – that maybe some kid was really bullying Theo – Helen’s response had alarmed me.
Look, I don’t want to say the wrong thing here, Sophie, but are you sure there isn’t something going on at home that we don’t know about?
I hadn’t liked her tone. Worse still, Helen’s next suggestion – that Theo’s continuing refusal to speak in front of anyone other than Ben, and him only rarely, sounded very much like a condition called selective mutism. She hadn’t liked to interfere initially, she said, but it was a condition which Helen knew a little about through a friend of her late husband’s who worked in child psychiatry. If she was right, it was something which would definitely need expert help and which
was almost always triggered by extreme anxiety.
I’d never heard of selective mutism and dismissed the amateur diagnosis out of hand. It was the first time Helen had ever annoyed me. She had so clearly failed to take to Emma that I even wondered if, like everyone else, she was a bit jealous.
‘I’m sure you mean well, Helen, but Emma is a good mother. Whatever is going on with Theo is not her fault. Nothing at home. I’m certain of that. She goes to incredible lengths to protect him from anxiety. And she’s in bits over it.’
‘Of course. I’m not suggesting she’s deliberately at fault. Look – I’m sorry I said anything. I just felt that if this continues – Theo not talking, I mean – he really ought to see someone. And with all you’ve been through, I don’t think it’s something you should be taking on just now. It could well be a great deal more complex than you realise.’
‘Look, I’m fine, Helen. Truly.’
I suppose that’s why I needed her to leave. In case she said the same to Emma and upset her. I was still shocked they didn’t get on; dreaded the idea of them falling out openly.
And then two wholly unexpected things happened to pull me right up; to stop all this unhealthy inward thinking.
The first was a large storage company van which caused a temporary row over access to Balfour Street. The van parked half up on the pavement outside the Hartleys’ pale pink cottage, blocking the way for a tractor and trailer trying to move supplies of hay to a farm on the other side of the valley. The two drivers got quite heated, until a white-haired woman intervened from a dark VW Polo parked further along the road.
I was in the post office buying stamps, and was watching all this through the window when someone in the queue identified the woman as Gill Hartley’s mother.
And it wasn’t that I had stopped thinking about her. It wasn’t that I didn’t still see the scene at night when I was trying to get to sleep. The blood on the wall. On my hands. All over my dreams. It was more that I had not let myself think of the relatives; the others carrying this tragedy so much closer and heavier in their hearts.
Gill’s mother. Dear God . . .
The Friend: An emotional psychological thriller with a twist Page 20