by Karen Cole
‘It’s okay,’ says Ms Hamlyn, cooing over the baby. ‘We’ve been having a great time, haven’t we kids? And they’ve been good as gold.’ She folds their pictures and puts them into their book bags.
‘Oh, hello, it’s you,’ says Georgia, noticing me properly for the first time. She does a double take. ‘Didn’t you have brown hair this morning?’
I nod and pat my hair self-consciously. ‘Yes, I just felt like a bit of a change.’
‘Well, it looks great.’
‘Thank you.’
As we head across the school yard, I fall into step beside Georgia, glancing into the pram at her sleeping baby. It’s wearing blue with a pattern of yellow flowers. I’m guessing that it’s a girl.
‘She’s gorgeous,’ I hazard.
‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘She’s gorgeous when she’s asleep. But oh my God, she doesn’t sleep at night. She must’ve woken six times at least last night! And my husband’s no good – he just snores though it all.’
Georgia launches into a description of her baby’s sleeping patterns and a long complaint about her husband who is a workaholic and apparently is never at home to help with the baby, while her son, Harry, and Dylan run around us, weaving in and out and shooting imaginary guns. I’m only listening with half an ear. I’m wondering if she’s seen the photofit yet and if she has, why she’s still being so friendly. Clearly, she’s still unaware of my status as murder suspect, because the next thing she says is:
‘Our boys seem to get on really well, don’t they? I was wondering if you and Dylan would like to come round one day? Harry’s got a new trampoline.’
I look at Dylan and Harry who are giggling wildly.
‘Sure,’ I say, trying not to sound too eager. ‘Would you like that, Dylan? Would you like to go to Harry’s to play one day?’
‘Yeah,’ he says, barely listening.
‘That’s settled, then. How about this Saturday? Are you free?’ Georgia suggests.
‘Um, well, he’s with his dad this weekend, but I’m sure we can arrange something—’
‘Great,’ Georgia carries on talking. ‘It seems like a really good school, doesn’t it?’ she says, and then goes on to tell me that she doesn’t know many people in the area yet because they’ve only just moved here and how her husband has got a new job in town.
We part at the school gate, after exchanging phone numbers and then I drive home with Dylan sitting in the back, singing tunelessly to himself some song he’s probably learned at school.
At home, I dump our bags in the hallway and while Dylan scampers off to the living room and turns on the TV, I check my phone. There are a couple of missed calls from my mother. No doubt she’s seen the news. I don’t phone back. I can’t face talking to her just now. She has an uncanny ability to turn a crisis into a full-blown calamity. There’s a message from Gaby too, suggesting we meet one day in the week for a coffee. I answer, saying, yes, I’d love to! And then I check Ophelia Black’s notifications. There are a couple of new likes and another message from George Wilkinson in Wisconsin.
I should probably just ignore it. He’s clearly some kind of nutcase. But curiosity gets the better of me, and I click on the message with a vague, unformed feeling of trepidation. A picture flashes up on my screen. Again, he hasn’t written anything, just sent this photo of a park somewhere. There’s a lake in the foreground, green fields beyond, with trees and a crenelated church tower in the distance. It looks more like England than America, and in fact, it looks very much like my local park. I enlarge the picture. Yes, I realise, peering at the distinctive yew hedge with arches cut into it; without a doubt, it’s the Abbey Grounds – the park in town, just behind the church. That’s weird, if not downright creepy. What is George from Wisconsin doing here in the UK – in my hometown of all places? And why has he sent me this photo? Is he stalking me?
I suppose he might not actually be here. He could have found the picture on the Internet and decided I would like a picture of my hometown. But how did he find out where I live in the first place?
I head to the kitchen to find some comfort food, and I’m rummaging at the back of the cupboard trying to find the crisps I’ve hidden when I hear a door slamming upstairs. The noise makes me start, the chair wobbles and I nearly lose my balance. Just a draught, I think, climbing down from the chair. I must have left a bedroom window open. But I’m suddenly on my guard and I’m acutely conscious that it’s just me, Dylan and Delilah all on our own.
Then, clearly, I hear the whine of the wardrobe door opening upstairs.
Someone is in my bedroom.
Dylan? I look in the living room. Dylan is still in there, watching TV.
A burglar then? My breath snags in my throat. Heart hammering, I fumble in the kitchen drawer and select the sharpest knife. I know they say that carrying a knife isn’t smart because someone stronger could easily take it and use it against you. But even so, running my fingers along the sharp blade makes me feel better, braver.
I tiptoe along the hallway, closing the living-room door softly as I pass. Whoever’s upstairs I need to keep them away from Dylan. Moving slowly and silently up the stairs, I tug the phone out of my pocket and tap in the emergency services number with a trembling finger.
At the top of the stairs, I freeze. My heart is beating so hard I can feel it in my ears. The bedroom door is ajar. Someone is in there without a doubt. I can hear them rooting around, opening and closing drawers. Clutching the knife tightly in one hand and my phone in the other, I push open the door.
He’s bent over a drawer, his bony buttocks in the air. As the door opens, he straightens up and swivels round, clutching his chest and I stare into a pair of startled brown eyes blinking at me from behind black-rimmed glasses.
‘Theo. What the . . .’ I say, relief flooding through me.
‘Jesus, Cat. You scared me!’ he exclaims, clutching his heart and laughing ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’
‘I scared you? I like that!’
‘Emergency. Which service do you require? Fire, police or ambulance?’ a woman barks briskly from my phone.
‘Sorry, I made a mistake,’ I mutter and hurriedly end the call.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ I demand, glaring at Theo, my heart rate gradually returning to normal. ‘How did you get in?’
He eyes the knife in my hand. ‘Do you think you could put that down please? You’re making me nervous.’
I place it carefully on the bedside table, the blade glinting in the light from the window. ‘What are you doing here?’ I repeat firmly. He has no right to be here without my permission.
‘I’ve still got a key, remember? I just came to pick up a few bits and bobs. I hope you don’t mind. I thought I’d do it while you were out picking up Dylan. Didn’t think you’d be back so soon.’
I make a mental note to change the locks. ‘I do mind, actually,’ I retort. ‘You can’t just swan in here whenever you like. This isn’t your house any more.’
‘Well, technically . . .’ he breaks off and stares at me. ‘What did you do to your hair?’ he asks, as if he’s only just noticed.
‘Don’t you like it?’
He shrugs. ‘You look like what’s her name – the singer? The one that sings about pavements. Adele.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
‘It is a compliment. You look nice.’ He meets my eyes, and something passes between us. When was the last time he looked at me like that? When we were married, he barely looked at me. We barely looked at each other.
‘Anyway,’ he says, looking a little flustered. How’s my boy? Where’s Dylan?’
‘He’s downstairs, watching TV, but I don’t think it’s a good idea—’
He doesn’t wait to hear the end of my sentence but dashes downstairs. I follow, fuming with anger. He has no business coming here during t
he week. It will only unsettle Dylan. Lead to false expectations. ‘Wait. We agreed. No visits during the week,’ I say.
But Theo doesn’t hear me, or deliberately ignores me. I’m not sure which. And he is already pushing his way into the living room.
‘Daddy!’ Dylan exclaims delightedly, throwing himself into Theo’s arms. The angry tirade I was about to launch into dies on my lips and my heart softens just a little, seeing them there together like that. There’s no doubting their love for each other. Whatever else Theo might be, he’s a good father.
‘Hey, Dyl, I’ve missed you,’ he says, ruffling our boy’s hair. ‘Have you missed me, mate?’
Dylan nods. ‘Uh-huh. Are you staying for tea?’ he asks, plaintively.
Theo glances at me. ‘Well . . . maybe. It’s up to your mother,’ he says, glancing sideways at me.
‘Please, Mummy, can he?’ Dylan fixes his big brown eyes on me.
I bite back anger. Theo has backed me into a corner. Now I’m the bad one if I say no. ‘Daddy needs to get back home,’ I say. ‘Harper will wonder where he is if he’s late.’
‘Harper’s out for the evening, actually,’ Theo says. ‘I’d love to stay if that’s okay with you.’
‘I suppose so,’ I say tartly. ‘If you cook.’
‘Great,’ he grins. ‘What’ve you got?’ He opens the fridge and roots around. ‘Mushrooms, pepper, cheese. I’ll make pizza.’
‘How is Harper, by the way?’ I fire a casual shot. I’m sitting with my feet up on a chair, sipping coffee and watching him knead the pizza dough. I hate to admit it, but Theo makes the best pizza. Perfectly light and doughy. Just the thought of it is making my mouth water.
His back stiffens at the mention of Harper. We have a tacit agreement not to talk about her. It only leads to arguments.
‘Fine?’ he says warily.
‘Where is she this evening? Doing her Art Through Music, I suppose?’
Harper is an art teacher at Theo’s school. But in her spare time, she paints to the accompaniment of her friend’s sitar playing in front of an audience. Apparently, she goes into a sort of trance and paints whatever the music inspires her to paint – judging by the artwork on Theo and Harper’s wall, usually a load of squiggly lines that Dylan or any of his peers in reception would have no problem knocking out. It’s the kind of thing that Theo used to find pretentious and would have mocked mercilessly when we were together, but now seems to think is inspirational.
Theo frowns. ‘Actually, if you must know, she’s gone to see a therapist.’
‘What? Why?’
‘She suffers from depression – always has done. I persuaded her it would be a good idea to talk to someone.’
‘What on earth does Harper have to feel depressed about?’ I say crossly. As far as I can tell she leads a charmed life. She’s beautiful and slim with a great job and a man she’s stolen from me.
‘It’s complicated. Her father left when she was young, and her sister died when she was a baby. She has abandonment issues.’
Theo is a sucker for a damsel in distress. I wonder if Harper’s emotional problems were even more of a turn-on for him than her gorgeous blue eyes or her tiny, pert breasts.
‘By the way, the police came to talk to me earlier today,’ he says, changing the subject. ‘They were asking about Friday night.’
Touché, I think. Way to bring the focus back on to me. ‘What did you tell them?’ I ask carefully.
‘The truth of course – that you dropped Dylan off at about six and that’s all I know. What’s going on, Cat? They don’t seriously suspect you, do they?’
‘I don’t know,’ I sigh, thinking of Littlewood’s solemn face with a twinge of unease. ‘They said it was just routine and that witness testimony was notoriously unreliable, but they still asked me a lot of questions about what I did that night.’
‘And what did you do?’ Theo glances at me curiously.
‘I was out with Gaby most of the night. We went to the Black Bear.’ No need to mention Luke.
‘It’s ridiculous,’ he pronounces loyally, ‘completely ridiculous. What the hell do the police think they’re doing? They should be out there finding who really committed this horrific murder, not harassing you. You’re the last person who could kill someone. I told the police you couldn’t hurt a fly. You’re a vegetarian, for Christ’s sake.’
I feel an unexpected rush of affection and gratitude. Theo knows me better than anyone. We have so much history together and, after all the suspicious looks today, it’s reassuring to hear his faith in me. Despite the unforgiveable things he’s done, right this second he feels like an ally and I badly need one of those.
‘What did DI Littlewood say to that?’
‘She said Hitler was a vegetarian.’
‘Hm,’ I snort grimly. ‘That sounds like her.’
Theo puts the pizza in the oven and comes and sits opposite me at the kitchen table.
‘It’s just so strange, that’s all,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘I’m trying to think why someone would have given your description to the police. Do you think they could have seen you in the area? The police said the murder victim lived on Cecily Hill. Were you anywhere near there on Friday night?’
I sigh. ‘No, definitely not. Maybe the witness saw me somewhere else another time and got muddled.’
‘Yeah, it’s possible,’ Theo chews his finger thoughtfully.
‘Or . . .’ I give voice to the fears that have been dogging me all day, ‘maybe someone is trying to frame me.’
Theo gives a short bark of laughter, then breaks off when he sees my expression. ‘Oh, you’re serious? That’s a bit far-fetched, isn’t it? Who would want to frame you? You haven’t got any enemies, have you?’
‘No.’ I shake my head. But it’s not completely true, I realise, thinking about a long time ago – things that I haven’t thought about in years . . .
‘Cat, did you hear me? Are you okay?’ Theo is gazing at me, concerned.
I give myself a mental shake. ‘Why wouldn’t I be okay? I’m only a suspect in a murder investigation. No biggie,’ I say, burying my fear under sarcasm.
Theo smiles uncertainly and then shrugs. ‘You always did get yourself into scrapes but this one takes the biscuit.’ He checks the pizza and starts laying the table.
‘Who took the biscuit? I want a biscuit,’ Dylan says coming in, and we both laugh at his unintentionally comic timing.
‘Nobody’s taken any biscuits. Don’t worry,’ says Theo, winking at me. I don’t smile back. Although Theo has risen in my estimation over the past few minutes and I appreciate his support, I’m not about to accept winking as a form of communication between us.
‘You’re having your tea in a minute,’ I say to Dylan. ‘But you can have a Kit Kat afterwards.’
When we sit together around our small kitchen table, it’s just like old times. I can almost imagine that we do this every evening – that we’re a family again, the three of us. And I must admit it feels good listening to Theo gently teasing Dylan and Dylan chattering away about his day. About the boy who got into trouble with the teacher for not sitting on his carpet space and about the fossil collection Ms Hamlyn showed them.
After the meal is over, Theo insists on staying to put Dylan to bed. While they’re upstairs, I turn the volume down on the TV and listen to the low murmur of Theo’s voice reading Dylan a bedtime story. It feels like going back in time to a golden era, before Theo left me, before Charlie was murdered – to a time when we were just a normal, happy family. There’s a part of me that wants to go back there, to wallow in this warm feeling of security. But Theo betrayed me and destroyed our family, I remind myself. And after that, there can be no going back. ‘Once a cheater always a cheater.’ That’s what Gaby says. And I know she’s right.
I turn up the volume on the TV again, so that I ca
n no longer hear Theo, and force myself to remember how I felt when he told me about Harper. How I knew as soon as he returned from the school trip to CERN in Switzerland that there was something different about him, something off-key.
‘It just sort of happened,’ was his lame explanation. ‘Harper and me . . .’
I’m not quite sure how they managed to conduct a steamy affair with a bunch of thirty teenagers in tow, and I certainly didn’t want to know details.
‘Do you love her?’ I asked, feeling strangely detached as my life crashed around me.
And he frowned. ‘I don’t know. She needs me . . .’ he said hopelessly. And I calmly climbed the stairs, neatly packed a selection of his clothes into a suitcase and dumped it by the front door. Within a month of me kicking him out, Theo and Harper had moved into a flat together and the rest, as they say, is history.
‘Out like a light,’ Theo grins, as he comes down the stairs.
‘Yes, his first day at school must have tired him out,’ I say. I can barely look at him; the memories have made me so angry. ‘Well, you’d better be going, I suppose,’ I add coldly as he sits down on my sofa.
‘Uh, yes,’ he looks at his watch, bouncing up as if he’s sat on a bed of spikes. ‘I suppose I’d better. He heads to the door. ‘Let me know if you need anything. I’m sure Duncan could help you if you need a lawyer.’
Duncan – a man who openly leers at other women in front of his wife and who once sang, ‘I like big butts . . .’ to me on my birthday – is not my favourite of Theo’s friends.
‘Thanks,’ I say sarcastically. ‘I’ll bear that in mind. Because Duncan always makes everything so much better.’
‘I know you don’t like him,’ Theo sighs, ‘but he’s a good lawyer. Think about it, Cat.’
I open the front door, nodding slightly. ‘Okay,’ I say, just to get him out of the house. I think I’d rather go to prison for life than have Duncan defending me in a court of law.