The update on the Tedbury grapevine suggested financial constraints were forcing the family to let the cottage to cover the mortgage while Gill remained in a coma. Turns out banks and bills don’t wait, whatever the tragedy.
But who on earth would want to live in that place after what happened there? I said this over and over to Mark on the phone each evening, and to Helen too – the question answered sooner than I expected when just three days later a young couple with two small children began unloading their furniture and boxes from a large self-hire van.
‘I just can’t believe it. How will they sleep at night? And with two little children.’ My phone calls to Mark each night were getting longer and longer. Gabbled and trivial. The plans for a village parking scheme. The weather. The interest rate on our savings – down again. Filling all the silences as quickly as I could with gossip and trivia because neither of us could bear to discuss the one thing that perhaps we should. The baby that was gone. That never was?
The second child I was not allowed to have . . .
‘Do you think they just don’t know? The new people. I suppose if they’re from outside the region, there’s no way they would know. Though I’m surprised at Gill’s mother. It seems a little morally suspect, wouldn’t you say? Not to say anything to the new tenants, I mean – if they’re from outside the region.’
This puzzle was again answered more quickly than I expected when I found myself standing right beside the new resident the following Monday in the school playground. To my surprise, the two children were neatly dressed in the correct green-and-grey uniform and, though clearly nervous, allowed themselves to be ushered away to class by their new teachers. The younger girl was to be in reception with Ben, and the older boy in year one.
‘I hope they’ll be OK.’ The mother’s voice was almost a whisper, so that I was at first unsure if she was speaking to me or to herself.
‘Oh – I’m sure they’ll be fine. It’s a lovely school. I’m Sophie, by the way. My son Ben’s in reception. The teacher’s really nice.’
‘Good. Thank you. I’m Charlotte. Charlie, most people call me. We’ve just moved in.’
‘Yes, I know.’
The woman fell into step with me as we headed to the gate.
‘I expect people are a bit surprised.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Us moving into the house, I mean. So soon.’
‘So you know what happened?’
‘Oh yes. I hope you don’t think we’re unfeeling. Callous or anything. I mean, I’m not going to pretend we didn’t think twice. And of course we’re worried how the kids will react but, to be frank with you, we’ve been trying to get them into a decent school for ages. We can’t afford to buy anywhere and our boy was bullied at his last school. We heard about the place being let through a friend. And so when we weighed it all up . . .’
I turned to examine the woman’s face – her skin dry and heavily lined for her age. No make-up. Long straight hair, unstyled and uncoloured. She was wearing jeans, an out-of-shape grey sweatshirt and a look of extreme weariness.
‘I expect you think it’s very mercenary of us.’
I had no idea what to say. I was wondering if anyone had told her that I was the one to find them.
‘It’s just we didn’t know them, so it doesn’t feel personal. And they’ve deep-cleaned – changed the carpets and everything. I mean, all houses must have some bad karma, don’t you think? Especially old ones.’ It sounded like a speech she had rehearsed.
‘And the children?’ I couldn’t imagine the conversation.
‘We haven’t told them.’
My worst fears were confirmed the moment Ben got home.
‘Do you believe in ghosts, Mummy?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Well, everyone thinks the dead man will chase those new children. For moving into his house.’
‘Don’t be silly, Ben. And I do hope no one has been upsetting them. It’s not very kind, is it? They’re new and they’re probably a bit nervous.’
‘I didn’t say anything. But Emily Price says the dead man is a ghost now. She says there was loads of blood and that you saw it. Did you see it, Mummy? Because if it’s a lie, I can punch her for you.’
‘That’s quite enough, Ben. Nobody is ever to punch anyone. Especially girls. Ever.’ I began to vigorously grate parmesan over his bowl of pasta, my hands trembling. ‘Look, Ben. Lots of sad things happen in houses but there are no such things as ghosts. And houses and places and people can be happy again, even after something bad or sad has happened. It doesn’t matter what’s gone on in the past.’
‘Doesn’t it?’ Ben looked at me very intently and was clearly unconvinced. ‘Well, I still think it’s scary. And he’d better not invite me to play because I won’t go’ – widening his eyes – ‘especially not on Halloween.’
The second unexpected distraction came the very next morning, in a mysterious phone call from Mark’s secretary Polly. It was a message for me to ring a woman I had never heard of, as a matter of extreme urgency. I jotted down the name – Emily Gallagher – but could not place it, nor the number.
‘Is Mr Edwards with you at the moment?’ Emily was speaking in a hushed tone, adding to the sense of intrigue.
‘No. Why?’
‘Good.’ Emily Gallagher then swore me to secrecy before explaining that she was on the organising team for the forthcoming National Puffa-Flakes Advertising Awards gala in London, and they were extremely disappointed to learn that Mr Edwards was not planning to attend this year.
My immediate response to this was irritation. I guessed that numbers for the awards do were down, and the events team were peeved that Mark would not be spending our son’s inheritance on the requisite consolation champagne.
‘The thing is, I need you to be discreet here, Mrs Edwards, but in strictest confidence, I also need you to understand that it would be – how can I put this – especially unfortunate this year, if your husband were not to attend.’
I sat down at the window seat, gazing out on the square.
‘Unfortunate?’
‘It would, er, leave a gap.’
I felt my expression change. More curious now. ‘You’re saying he’s won an award?’ I turned back to the room.
‘Well, I’m not allowed to say too much, precisely, of course.’
‘How big a gap?’
There was a long pause.
‘Look – I can go so far as to say that there would be a very large gap and he would be very, very sorry afterwards were he not to attend.’
Agency of the Year. Dear Lord. It had to be that Mark had won Agency of the Year. I could hardly believe it . . .
‘I’ll get him there.’
I phoned Mark’s secretary straight back and told her there had been some confusion over a clash with the family diary, and she was to book two tables at the award ceremony immediately. It was to be a surprise, I stressed – so he was not to be in the loop. My call. The staff deserved a treat and so did he. ‘Sort out the invites and save a space for me too, but don’t tell Mark. Use my company card. He’s got so much on just now, and thinks it clashes with something at home.’
The gala was the following Wednesday – just a week away. I had for years refused to join Mark for these events, partly because of Ben but mostly because we both hated the whole drama of smiling through gritted teeth when a shortlisting bore no fruit. Runner-up syndrome had worn very thin since that first awards dinner – the one where we’d met.
I put my legs up on to the window seat and felt this wave of something unfamiliar. It took me a moment to even realise what it was. Happiness. So immensely pleased for him. Proud. It was just what Mark deserved – all that driving up and down the motorway – and just what we both needed right now.
But what on earth to do about Ben? It was a teacher training day. I was just wishing that I had not sent Helen packing so hastily when the doorbell went. It was Emma, with Theo alongside, ominously clutching a v
ery large bow and arrow.
‘What is it, Sophie? You look miles away.’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you’re going to tell me.’
CHAPTER 32
BEFORE
‘We need to go to France.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I’m serious, Melanie. It’s the Tedbury case.’
‘Matthew. What the hell are you talking about?’
Matthew Hill was in his study. It was next door to little Amelie’s room, and so he was keeping his voice low. In front of him was a file with several pieces of paper. The top sheet had his latest notes scrawled in black ink. Emma Carter – only renting Priory House . . .
‘Look. I didn’t tell you everything, Mel – when we met up before. I couldn’t.’
‘Tell me what? For Christ’s sake, Matthew. I’m through with Tedbury. It’s getting late and I’m on my second glass of wine . . .’
‘That case I was working on myself in Tedbury?’ He felt himself wince. ‘It was for Emma Carter.’
There was a pause. Matthew bit into his bottom lip and skimmed through the sheaves of paper again to find the name and number of the nurse in France who had been caring for Emma’s mother.
‘I’m not following.’
‘I swear to God, Melanie, I would have told you everything from the off if I thought it was relevant, but I needed to do some more digging. It’s taken me a while . . .’
‘Tell me what?’
Matthew ran his hand through his hair and leant back in his chair. He could not bear that he had stuffed up again; still could not quite believe that he had been taken in. He thought of Emma Carter standing in his office. So composed. So elegant. So funny and engaging and quirky too, guessing his birth sign and offering to read his tea leaves. That strange flash in her eyes with the mix of colours . . .
‘OK, slurp more wine and try not to be too angry with me.’ A deep breath. ‘Emma Carter booked me for a standard gig. To do some profiles on the planning committee in Tedbury. Brief was she’d bought some land there in a little consortium and was pitching for planning permission for a small mixed development. Five detached houses and three affordable homes. Wanted to know who had local influence and if anyone had history with similar projects. Any undeclared vested interests. Rival projects. Skeletons in the planning cupboards.’
‘Charming.’
‘All very routine, Mel. Nothing out of the ordinary in my world. Just a research job.’
‘And?’
‘I put a file together on anyone who might kick up a stink locally. All the parish councillors. Backgrounds. Political history. Personal stands over local planning issues, blah de blah.’ Another pause. Matthew glanced at the baby monitor as it flickered, his daughter making a snuffling noise as she apparently turned in her cot next door. He checked his watch. Sal was out at her yoga class but would be finishing shortly.
‘One of them was Antony Hartley, Mel.’
‘Oh jeez, Matt. I’m not liking the sound of this.’
‘Look, I swear to God, Melanie, I had no idea there was anything amiss with this Emma. This commission. She was completely convincing. Utterly charming. And a bit of skulduggery on planning is nothing unusual. You get a lot of cases where private interests are withheld; people using different names. My job was to dig a bit. All stuff in the public domain if you know where to look. All I did was pull it together to save her time.’
‘So what was in the Antony Hartley file?’
‘Officially – all very boring. Been on the planning committee for years. No corporate interests or shares. Broke by all accounts, and very anti-piecemeal development in the village. He was in favour of a bigger affordable housing scheme for locals but no one else wanted that, as you can imagine. The locals want as few new houses built as possible.’
‘So how is all this relevant, Matt?’
Matthew felt himself suck in his face.
‘I did something stupid, Mel. Mentioned something as an aside to Emma when I delivered the report.’
‘Go on.’
‘While I was researching Antony Hartley, I happened to find out that he had made one of his fellow students pregnant. At the university.’ A pause in which Matthew felt himself pull back as if ready for a blow. ‘I told Emma.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Matthew! The man is dead and you tell me this isn’t relevant?’
‘I know, I know. But I was praying it was just a horrible coincidence when he suddenly turned up dead. Look – I spoke to forensics immediately and they swore there was no evidence whatsoever of any third-party involvement. A clear-cut domestic. I assumed the wife had just found out, as I did . . . And in any case, I trusted you one hundred per cent to get to the bottom of it.’
‘OK. So, first, I’m not happy that my forensics team are talking to you behind my back. But you still should have told me. You must see that you should have told me. And why did you even share this with Emma?’
‘Look. She was a client, Mel. Seemed completely straight to me. I gave her the file and we were just chatting over coffee. I said I hadn’t found anything amiss. Mentioned that Antony was bound to oppose the development. But he was a genuine guy. And then I just added as an aside – good councillor, terrible husband. It was a joke. Stupid of me. I told her about him playing away. As I say – an aside. Inappropriate. My mistake . . .’
‘Oh Lord.’
‘It gets worse, Melanie.’ Matthew was now holding up his notes and flicking through them again.
‘I’ve done some more digging and I’ve just had a call from a planning contact. It turns out this Emma is a liar extraordinaire. Her property story is all complete nonsense. There is a preliminary planning application – I checked that from the off – but I now learn it has nothing at all to do with her. Not only does she not own the land she mentioned, she has no part in the consortium either. She must have just heard about it locally. Oh – and I’ve discovered this morning that she’s as broke as the Hartleys. She doesn’t even own Priory House, she’s renting it with an option to buy down the line. I’ve just done some more checks with some financial contacts. She has a truly terrible credit rating.’
‘This doesn’t make any sense to me. I’ve called in her bank records too and it’s a complete puzzle. Word in Tedbury is there was supposed to be some big inheritance from her mother in France, yet the cupboards are pretty bare. She even took out a loan recently. And if there’s no planning deal, why’s she even sniffing around Tedbury? Why would she need a cover story to dig dirt on the locals?’
‘Exactly what we need to find out, don’t you think? And why we need to go to France to check the background on this mother’s death too. I’ve tracked down a nurse there who was treating the mother. Initially I just rang her for background on Emma but the story gets more suspicious. Emma sacked her, apparently – right out of the blue. The nurse won’t talk to me on the phone. Got irrationally upset. I suddenly have a bad feeling about this one, Mel. A very bad feeling.’
Matthew knew what he wanted to happen next. In his ideal world, he wanted Melanie to say she would go to France officially so that he could tag along in the background. But he also knew this was unlikely. Liaising with foreign forces was a nightmare and always painfully slow.
‘I can’t do anything officially, Matt. No budget. No mandate. In fact, I’ve been ordered to quieten the Tedbury case down unless and until Gill Hartley wakes up. Meantime I’ve got a big presentation tomorrow. Zero tolerance on the red-light district.’
‘Go sick. We can go together . . .’
‘You know I can’t do that. And I can’t tell them all this either. It’ll drop you right in it.’
Matthew could hear a tapping noise. He could picture her exactly, tapping her biro against her wine glass. Old habits . . .
‘I just don’t get it, Matt. What’s all this really about? Was Emma seeing Antony herself? Jealous . . . is that it? Is that why she really engaged you?’
‘God knows. But we need to find out. Christ – if I’ve stuffed up again, Mel.’ Matthew let out a long huff of air. Melanie would be diplomatic – and loyal too. She would say nothing. But he knew they were both thinking the same thing; about that terrible time when he left the force. Matthew still felt responsible for that child’s death. An inquiry had cleared him completely but that did not help. Matthew stared again at the baby monitor and closed his eyes to the memory. The mother’s face at the inquest. The hate in her eyes.
‘Seriously, Mel. If you can’t come to France, I’ll go on my own. Sal will be back from yoga soon. I can make the night ferry if I hurry.’
‘I can’t let you do that.’
‘Look – I don’t like that she took me in so easily, Mel. Also – you know they’re whispering against you in the department. Rumour is you’re seeing a witness. That true?’ He winced again as he said this, worried about overstepping the mark but more worried about Mel. Her first case as a DI. He might have thrown his own career away but she mustn’t.
‘None of anyone’s business who I see. OK, so I’ve had a drink with this guy Tom. Couple of times. He’s really nice, Matt, and I like him. So what? He’s not involved in the case. There is no real case.’
‘I’m not judging, Mel. I’m just sharing what people are saying. A few jealous backstabbers. You know how it goes. So you need to nail this case and I need to clear my conscience. Two birds, one stone. So I go to France. Yes?’
‘You’re really up for this? You have the time? Won’t this be unpaid?’
‘Yes, and I’m not pretending it’s ideal but I’ve had a good couple of months so it’s fine. Also – this feels partly my mess so I need to clear it up.’
‘OK. But by the book. None of your silliness.’
‘Moi?’
‘And you ring me from France – yes? If you need any help, my end I mean. Putting anything through the systems.’
‘Course.’
‘This Emma, Matthew . . .’
Another pause. The sound of more pen-tapping against the wine glass.
‘She came to the hospital to visit Gill. I know we’re supposed to stick with facts not instinct, but I got a very odd vibe from her.’
The Friend: An emotional psychological thriller with a twist Page 21