Greenwich Park
Page 31
I decide on the long black dress with the deep neckline. I twist off my wedding and engagement rings, toss them in a silver dish on my dressing table. I leave my neck bare, and select the earrings Rory bought me for our first anniversary. ‘It’s supposed to be paper,’ he’d murmured into my ear, ‘but I thought you’d prefer diamonds.’
When Rory was arrested, I thought it would all be all right, that the plan had worked. There had been moments when I’d wondered. They had been so slow to unravel it all – Daniel had to travel to a phone box out of town, give them an anonymous tip-off, a bit of a helping hand. But once they searched the office, it was all there for them. The pictures, the withdrawals, the emails on his computer. And even if they weren’t convinced by that, I knew that after they’d spoken to Rory, they’d know he was hiding something. I knew they’d think he was lying, I knew they’d think he was guilty. Because of course, that was the real beauty of it. He was lying. He was guilty.
Admittedly, not of the murder itself. I couldn’t leave that to Daniel. He’d have never had the stomach for it. I told him to sort the concrete, keep Rory and Helen out of the way, and let me get on with it.
In the end, that part was easy enough. After Rachel had finished talking to Charlie, he went into the garden to smoke and mope after Katie, and I saw my chance. I told her we’d sorted things out for her, that we were going to go to the police, tell the truth about what happened to her. I said I just needed a quick chat first, suggested we go to the cellar, where there would be no one around. I wasn’t sure she’d go for it. I made sure the coast was clear, in case I needed to shove her in. But she agreed, trotted happily down the steps, good as a little lamb. It was only when I shut the door that she looked like she’d realised, her red lips parting as the penny dropped. But by then my hand was around her mouth, and the brick in my other hand. The force of the blow had slammed her against the rafter, her head cracking like a melon. And then she was at the bottom of the stairs. The angle of her neck all wrong. Her eyes wide open, as if she couldn’t believe she was dead. And a bright pool of crimson, spreading out behind her, like a red riding cape.
Just as we planned, Daniel brought Rory down a few minutes later, telling him he wanted to show him how the work was coming on. The idea was that Daniel would pretend to be shocked and threaten to turn me in, and Rory would stop him to protect me. I don’t think much pretending was necessary when he saw her.
I started gabbling about how there had been an accident, that she had attacked me, that I hadn’t meant to push her back so hard, that she’d fallen. Daniel’s big moment then. I had confidence he’d be convincing, that Rory would think he really planned to go to the police. I knew from experience Daniel had a good line in pretending to want to do the right thing. All that nonsense back in Cambridge, saying he wanted to mess everything up, just because some silly girl we didn’t know had gatecrashed a party, drunk her body weight in vodka and then changed her mind about having sex.
It was a gamble, but it paid off. As soon as Daniel started threatening me with the police, and I started shaking and crying and all that nonsense, I knew Rory would want to protect me, that he would think of the idea himself. The cement was already doing its bit, suggesting itself as the perfect solution. Parts of it were starting to subsume her – her arms were being pulled down into it.
‘All right, Daniel,’ he said. ‘Let’s just calm down, shall we? Let’s just think about this.’ And of course, we both knew what Rory was thinking, the fifty grand heavy in his gym bag. He didn’t want a police inquiry into what had happened to Rachel any more than we did. This solved his problem too. Just a few more nudges into that deep, grey pool, and his blackmailer would be gone. Out of his life, out of all our lives, forever. After all, she wasn’t coming back. There was no coming back from that.
So while the boys took care of the body, I took care of Helen. She’d told me about the drugs she used to be on for depression as a teenager, how she’d refused to take them any more after they started giving her blackouts. In hindsight, it had been stupid to ask Charlie about them. Some drug dealer he turned out to be. He’d flatly refused – and that left me exposed. The most annoying thing was that when I looked in Helen’s bathroom cabinet at her party that night, there were benzos everywhere anyway – they must have been left over from her Sylvia Plath days. It made me laugh as I tipped the pills into my clutch bag – the idea that, for once, it was me looking through her cupboards. Katie was there when I came out of the bathroom. But she was far too pissed to notice anything.
I probably went a little bit overboard on the dose. A bit in her water, a bit in a soft drink. A lot in that last cup of tea. It worked a treat. Her whole evening was wiped out. Everyone else at the party was smashed. Between the treatment I gave Helen and the bit I’d slipped into that sad-looking saucepan of mulled wine that only Katie was drinking from, I knew reliable witnesses would be pretty thin on the ground.
The next day, Daniel had jogged over to our side of the park. I’d seen him at the window, walked down to the park gates. Helen was getting agitated, he said. So we’d sent the message from that phone in its hideous plastic case. It seemed to work. Why wouldn’t Rachel go back to her mum’s? Helen thought it was over. We thought it was over. The holiday I booked was just a precaution, so I could keep myself out of the country if the police started asking questions. But Daniel seemed sure it was safe, that everything was leading in Rory’s direction, as planned. That no one was looking for me. We decided it would be safe enough for me to come back for the birth. We could make our escape after that.
As soon as Helen found that mark, though, the game was up. I told Daniel to ignore her message – to meet me at the studio, bring the passports, my doctor’s note lying about the due dates, whatever cash he could lay his hands on. We’d go abroad, get what we could out of the company, and take it from there. But instead, he let himself get drawn into a confrontation, messed everything up. Why couldn’t he just have left her there, told her he was on his way to get help? I mean, what was she really going to do, in full-on labour? That’s his problem, Daniel. No imagination.
Next thing, Katie appears, starts getting involved too. What possessed him to take her up to the roof I’ll never know. But of course, there was no getting out of that one, not for him. Not after her ridiculous detective turned up to save the day. It would have been crazy for my name to be drawn into it. Daniel didn’t take much convincing about keeping me out of it. Love is a powerful thing. Plus the promise of all this – this beach, this life, all this money, when he’s out.
We decided on our story, and we’ve stuck to it. Rory too. By that point, he was happy to say anything if it meant he wasn’t going to prison. He had worked out by then that he’d been played, in more ways than one. And of course, he was angry. But what choice did he have? The divorce went through quickly. Unsurprisingly, the terms were more than generous to me.
Before I leave, I pick up Daniel’s letter to Helen again. So what was this, in the end? I wonder. An attempt to shore up his story, make himself feel better, make Helen feel better about him? I’m not sure. I think there’s a part of him that believes the last part, that he loves his son. I hope she does let him see her son, one day. He won’t be seeing his daughter.
I’ll be long gone by the time he realises the truth. As long as he believes I’m waiting, he’ll stay quiet. But it’s not that much, what we got in the end. The fraud squad stopped the remortgage – that hopeless Brian called them in, at the last second. Helen held on to the house.
So now it’s just what we siphoned out of the company – not even a million, in addition to my divorce settlement from Rory, and the bits of cash I squirrelled away from my own job in those last few months. Not enough, Daniel, not enough. That sort of money won’t last forever. Sienna and I have got bigger plans.
I hover on the landing, pulling on one stiletto, then the other. In the kitchen, Vivienne is microwaving her dinner, preparing for a night in with The Bachelorette.
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‘Have a lovely evening, Miss Serena.’ She smiles, wiping her hands on the tablecloth. I smile back.
‘You are an angel,’ I say. ‘Help yourself to everything. And don’t wait up for me.’
The tropical evening air is as warm as a kiss. I head down to the Bojangles, on the beachfront. A line of palm trees, a sweeping drive. The fans circle overhead, the scented candles on the tables glint. The polished bar is the colour of a shell.
I approach the bar, lean against it. I catch sight of myself in the mirror. I’ve done a good job. I glance around. I know what I’m looking for. It is the details that give it away. The type of boat shoes, the logo on the car key. Mostly they are unbearable. But I only need one.
And then I spot him, the pale grey hair, cut short, the strong line of his shoulders. It’s the man from the beach. As he turns round, I see he’s obviously been playing golf. A green-and-purple-patterned sweater. I’ll have to sort the clothes out. But still.
‘Hello, you.’
‘Hello again.’ He smiles. He opens his wallet. Slides out a police badge.
‘It’s Serena, isn’t it?’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I owe a huge debt of gratitude to the novelist Sarah May, my tutor at the Faber Academy, for giving me permission to call myself a writer and helping me grow Greenwich Park from a half-formed idea into a real life book. To my talented Faber peers – especially Gill, Martin, Susie, Suzy, Nicky and Melissa: thank you for your unrelenting support and encouragement, and for reading more drafts of this book than I can bear to think about!
Thank you so much to my brilliant editor Alison Hennessey and the extraordinarily talented team at Raven. I could not have imagined a more perfect home for Greenwich Park; thank you so much for your commitment to it and for your boundless energy and enthusiasm. I feel so privileged to be working with you all. Thanks, too, to the wonderful Jackie Cantor and Nita Pronovost at Gallery, for having such an exciting vision for Greenwich Park.
I am so grateful to my brilliant agent, Madeleine Milburn – truly the agent of dreams – for believing in Greenwich Park and being its most tireless champion, and to everyone at the Madeleine Milburn Literary, TV & Film agency for all their help, guidance and patience.
I’m extremely grateful to Colin Sutton for his expert advice on police procedure; any remaining errors are undoubtedly my own.
Those who remember that first antenatal class in the Drapers Arms will know how grateful I was (in the end) for the experience. Thanks Ali, Bonnie and Beth, for getting me through it, and for navigating the strange, twilight world of new motherhood with me.
Thank you Mum and Dad, who have been encouraging me to write my stories for as long as I can remember. Thank you to my sister Jo, for always being my greatest supporter, as I am yours. Extra thanks to Mum, Jo, Lara, Kirsty, Sue and Brendan, and anyone else who was roped into looking after my children for me while I escaped to libraries and cafes to write.
A special thanks must go to Kate and Hannah, for first encouraging me in my mad scheme to write a book during what I’ll always think of as ‘our’ maternity leave. Thank you both – and Jen, Ellie, Portia, Emma, Olivia and Lizzy – for being the kind of friends Helen could only dream of.
To my daughters, Emma and Maddie. Thank you both for sleeping (occasionally).
And my final thanks go to Pete, without whose unfailing love and support this book would never have been written, and to whom it is dedicated.
A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR
Katherine Faulkner is a novelist and journalist. After studying history at Cambridge, she completed a postgraduate diploma in journalism, and spent a decade working for national newspapers. She has worked as an investigative reporter, and won the Cudlipp Award for public interest journalism for her undercover work. Her most recent role was at The Times, where she was the joint Head of News. She lives in north London with her husband and two daughters.
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First published in Great Britain 2021
This electronic edition published in 2021 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Copyright © Katherine Faulkner, 2021
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ISBN: HB: 978-1-5266-2632-5; TPB: 978-1-5266-2633-2; eBook: 978-1-5266-2625-7
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