I Let You Go

  ‘The water’s not as cold as you think,’ Patrick says, misunderstanding my discomfort. He stops talking, and there is an awkward silence.

  I lean down and stroke Beau, who is asleep under the table, and try to think of something to say. ‘Do your parents still live here?’ I finally manage. Was I always this dull? I try to think back to university, when I was the life and soul of a party; friends throwing their heads back in laughter at something I said. Now simply making conversation is an effort.

  ‘They moved to Spain a couple of years ago, lucky buggers. Mum has arthritis and I think the warm weather helps her joints – that’s her excuse, anyway. How about you? Are your parents still around?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  Patrick looks curious and I realise I should have simply said ‘no’. I take a deep breath. ‘I never really got on with my mum,’ I tell him. ‘She threw my dad out when I was fifteen and I haven’t seen him since – I never forgave her for it.’

  ‘She must have had her reasons.’ He makes a question of it, but I’m nevertheless defensive.

  ‘My father was an amazing man,’ I say. ‘She didn’t deserve him.’

  ‘So you don’t see your mother, either?’

  ‘I did, for years, but we had a falling-out after I…’ I stop myself. ‘We had a falling-out. A couple of years ago my sister wrote to tell me she had died.’ I see sympathy in Patrick’s eyes, but I shrug it off. What a mess I make of everything. I don’t fit into the neat mould Patrick will be used to: he must wish he hadn’t asked me for a drink. This evening is only going to get more awkward for both of us. We have run out of small talk and I can’t think of anything else to say. I’m frightened of the questions I can see brimming in Patrick’s mind: why I came to Penfach; what made me leave Bristol; why I’m here on my own. He will ask out of politeness, not realising that he doesn’t want to know the truth. Not realising I can’t tell him the truth.

  ‘I should be getting back,’ I say.

  ‘Now?’ He must be relieved, although he doesn’t show it. ‘It’s still early – we could have another drink, or something to eat.’

  ‘No, really, I had better go. Thank you for the drink.’ I stand up before he feels the need to suggest we see each other again, but he pushes his chair back at the same time.

  ‘I’ll walk you home.’

  I hear warning bells in my head. Why would he want to come with me? It’s warm in the pub, and his friends are here; he has half a pint untouched in his glass. My head pounds. I think of how isolated the cottage is; how no one would hear if he refused to leave. Patrick might seem kind and honest now, but I know how quickly things can change.

  ‘No. Thank you.’

  I push through the group of locals, not caring what they think of me. I manage not to run until I have left the pub and turned the corner, but then I tear along the road to the caravan park and on to the coastal path that will take me home. Beau chases at my feet, surprised by the sudden change in pace. The freezing air hurts my lungs, but I don’t stop until I reach the cottage, where I once again battle to turn the key in the lock. Eventually I get inside, and I slam the bolt home and lean against the door.

  My heart is thumping and I’m struggling to catch my breath. I’m not even sure now that it’s Patrick I’m frightened of; he’s become mixed up in my head with the panic that grips me every day. I don’t trust my instincts any more – they’ve been wrong so many times before – and so the safest thing to do is to stay well away.

  15

  Ray turned over and buried his face into the pillow to escape the morning light filtering through the slatted blinds. For a moment he couldn’t pinpoint the feeling that weighed heavy inside him, then he recognised it. Guilt. What had he been thinking? He had never felt tempted to cheat on Mags – not once in fifteen years of marriage. He replayed the events of the previous evening in his head. Had he taken advantage of Kate? Before he could intercept it, the idea that she might put in a complaint came into his head, and he instantly despised himself for the thought. She wasn’t like that. But nevertheless the worry almost pushed aside the guilt.

  The measured breathing next to him told Ray he was the only one awake, and he eased himself out of bed, glancing at the sleeping mound next to him, the duvet pulled up around her head. If Mags were to find out … it didn’t bear thinking about.

  As he stood up, the duvet stirred, and Ray froze. Cowardly though it was, he had been hoping to sneak out without having to make conversation. He would have to face her at some point, but he needed a few hours to get his head round what had happened.

  ‘What time is it?’ Mags mumbled.

  ‘Just gone six,’ Ray whispered. ‘I’m going into work early. Catch up with some paperwork.’

  She grunted and went back to sleep, and Ray let out a silent breath of relief. He showered as quickly as he could, and was in the office a little over half an hour later, shutting the door and ploughing through paperwork as though he could eradicate what had happened. Fortunately Kate was out on enquiries, and at lunchtime Ray risked a quick trip to the canteen with Stumpy. They found a free table and Ray carried over two plates of what was billed as lasagne but bore very little resemblance to it. Moira, the station dinner lady, had lovingly chalked an Italian flag next to the dish of the day, and had beamed at them as they placed their order, so Ray manfully worked his way through an enormous portion, trying to ignore the persistent feeling of nausea that had plagued him since he got up. Moira was large and of indeterminate age, perennially cheerful despite a skin complaint that caused silvery flakes to fly off her arms when she took off her cardigan.

  ‘You all right, Ray? Something on your mind?’ Stumpy scraped up the remains of his lunch with his fork. Blessed with an iron stomach, Stumpy seemed not only to tolerate Moira’s food, but to positively relish it.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Ray said, relieved when Stumpy didn’t persist. He looked up to see Kate coming into the canteen, and wished he had eaten faster. Stumpy stood up, the metal legs of his chair scraping against the floor. ‘I’ll see you in the office, boss.’

  Unable to think of a plausible reason to either call Stumpy back, or abandon his lunch before Kate sat down, Ray forced a smile. ‘Hi, Kate.’ He felt a hot flush spreading over his face. His mouth was bone-dry and he swallowed hard.

  ‘Hey.’ She sat down and unwrapped her sandwiches, seemingly unaware of his discomfort.

  Her face was inscrutable, and the feeling of nausea increased. He pushed his food to one side, deciding Moira’s wrath was the lesser of two evils, and looked around to check that no one was listening.

  ‘About last night…’ he began, feeling like an awkward teen.

  Kate jumped in. ‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me – are you all right?’

  Ray let out a breath. ‘More or less. You?’

  Kate nodded. ‘Bit embarrassed, to be honest.’

  ‘You’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about,’ Ray said. ‘I should never—’

  ‘It should never have happened,’ Kate said. ‘But it was just a kiss.’ She grinned at Ray, then took a bite of her sandwich, talking through a mouthful of cheese and pickle. ‘A nice kiss, but just a kiss.’

  Ray let out a slow breath. It was going to be all right. It was an awful thing to have happened, and if Mags were to ever find out it would be devastating, but it was all okay. They were both grown-ups and they could chalk it up to experience and carry on as if nothing had happened. For the first time in twelve hours, Ray let himself remember how good it had felt, kissing someone so full of energy, so alive. He felt the heat rising up to his face again, and he coughed, pushing the thought away.

  ‘As long as you’re okay,’ he said.

  ‘Ray, it’s fine. Really. I’m not going to file a complaint against you, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

  Ray reddened. ‘God no! That hadn’t crossed my mind. It’s just that, you know, I’m married, and—’

  ‘And I’m seeing someone
,’ Kate said, bluntly. ‘And we both know the score. So it’s forgotten, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Now,’ Kate said, suddenly business-like, ‘the reason I came to find you was to ask what you thought about doing an anniversary appeal for the Jacob Jordan job.’

  ‘Has it been a year already?’

  ‘Next month. We’re unlikely to get a huge response, but if someone’s talked we might get some intel at least, and there’s always the possibility that someone’s finally ready to clear their conscience. Someone has to know who was driving that car.’

  Kate’s eyes were bright, and she had the determined look on her face he knew so well.

  ‘Let’s do it,’ he said. He imagined the chief’s response to the proposal, and knew it wouldn’t bode well for his career path. But an anniversary appeal was a good idea. It was something they did from time to time on unsolved cases, if only to reassure families the police hadn’t given up completely – even if the case was no longer being actively investigated. It was worth a shot.

  ‘Great. I’ve got some paperwork to finish off from this morning’s job, but shall we get together this afternoon and plan the appeal?’ She gave Moira a cheery wave as she left the canteen.

  Ray wished he had Kate’s ability to put the events of the previous night behind him. He was finding it hard to look at her without remembering her arms locked around his neck. He hid his leftover lasagne under a paper napkin and stacked his plate on the rack by the door. ‘Top job, Moira,’ he said as he passed the serving hatch.

  ‘Greek day tomorrow!’ she called after him.

  Ray made a mental note to bring in sandwiches.

  He was on the phone when Kate opened the door to his office without knocking. Realising Ray was busy, she mouthed apologetically and began to back out, but he gestured to her to sit down. She closed the door carefully and settled in one of the low chairs to wait for him to finish. He saw her glance at the photo of Mags and the children on his desk, and felt a fresh wave of remorse, struggling to keep his mind on his conversation with the chief constable.

  ‘Is it really necessary, Ray?’ Olivia was saying. ‘The chances of someone coming forward are slim, and my concern is that it will simply draw attention to the fact that we didn’t lock anyone up for the child’s death.’

  His name is Jacob, Ray told her silently, echoing the words the boy’s mother had spoken, almost a year ago. He wondered if his boss was really as uncaring as she appeared.

  ‘And as there’s no one baying for justice, it seems unnecessary to stir the whole thing up again. I would have thought you had enough on your plate, what with the chief inspector boards coming up.’

  The implication was obvious.

  ‘I had been thinking of asking you to take on the Creston estate drugs issue,’ the chief said, ‘but if you’d rather focus on an old job…’ Operation Break had been a success, and this wasn’t the first time in the last few weeks that the chief had dangled the carrot of an even bigger job in front of him. He wavered for a moment, then caught Kate’s eye. She was watching him intently. Working with Kate had reminded him why he joined the police all those years ago. He had found his old passion for the job, and from now on he was going to do what was right, not what suited the bosses.

  ‘I can do both,’ he said firmly. ‘I’m going to run the appeal. I think it’s the right decision.’

  There was a pause before Olivia spoke. ‘One article in the Post, Ray, and some roadside appeal banners. Nothing more – and it’s all taken down within a week.’ She ended the call.

  Kate waited for him to speak, anxiously tapping her pen against the arm of her chair.

  ‘We’re on,’ Ray said.

  Kate’s face split into an enormous grin. ‘Well done. Is she furious?’

  ‘She’ll get over it,’ Ray said. ‘She just wants to make it known that she doesn’t approve, so she can be self-righteous when it backfires and public confidence takes a nose-dive again.’

  ‘That’s a bit cynical!’

  ‘That’s senior management for you.’

  ‘And you still want to get promoted?’ Kate’s eyes twinkled, and Ray laughed.

  ‘I can’t stay here for ever,’ he said.

  ‘Why not?’

  Ray thought how good it would be to be able to ignore the politics of promotion, and simply focus on his job – a job he loved. ‘Because I have two kids to put through university,’ he said finally. ‘Anyway, I’ll be different, I won’t forget what it’s like on the ground.’

  ‘I’ll remind you of that when you’re chief constable,’ said Kate, ‘and you’re telling me I can’t run an anniversary appeal.’

  Ray grinned. ‘I’ve spoken to the Post already: Suzy French is happy for us to piggy-back on to their anniversary feature with a call for witnesses and information leading to … et cetera. They’ll do the background stuff on Jacob, but I’d like you to call Suzy with the appeal details and phone number, and an official police quote about how we’re keen to speak to people in confidence.’

  ‘No problem. What are we going to do about his mother?’

  Ray shrugged. ‘Run the appeal without her, I suppose. Talk to the head teacher at Jacob’s school, ask her whether she’d be happy to speak to the paper. It would be good to get an angle they’ve not had before, if that’s possible. Maybe they’ve got a piece of artwork he did at school? A painting or something. We’ll wait and see if the appeal turns up anything before we start looking for the mother – she seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth.’

  Ray was furious with the Family Liaison Officer for not keeping better tabs on Jacob’s mother. Not that he was surprised the woman had gone. In his experience, most people had one of two reactions when they lost someone: either they vowed never to move house, keeping rooms exactly the way they’d been left, like some sort of shrine; or they made a clean break, unable to bear the thought of living every day as though nothing had changed, when in fact their whole world had shifted.

  After Kate had left his office, he contemplated Jacob’s photo, which was still pinned to the corkboard on the wall. The edges had curled a little, and Ray pulled it carefully off the board and smoothed it out. He propped Jacob’s photo against the framed picture of Mags and the kids, where he could see it more easily.

  The anniversary appeal was a last-ditch effort, and one unlikely to succeed, but at least it was something. And if it didn’t work, then he would send the papers for filing, and move on.

  16

  I sit at the kitchen table in front of my laptop, my knees drawn up underneath the big cable-knit sweater I used to wear in my studio in the winter months. I’m right next to the range, but I’m shaking, and I pull my sleeves down over my hands. It’s not even lunchtime, but I have poured myself a large glass of red wine. I type into the search engine then pause. So many months since I tortured myself by looking. It won’t help – it never does – but how can I not think about him, today of all days?

  I take a sip of wine and click return.

  In seconds the screen is flooded with news reports on the accident; message boards and tributes to Jacob. The colour of the text on the links shows I’ve visited each site before.

  But today, exactly a year after my world collapsed, there is a new article in the online edition of the Bristol Post.

  I let out a strangled sob, my fists screwed so tightly the knuckles turn white. After devouring the brief article, I return to the start to read it again. There have been no developments: no police leads, no information about the car, just a reminder that the driver is wanted by police for causing death by dangerous driving. The term sickens me, and I shut down the internet, but even the background photo of the bay doesn’t calm me. I haven’t been down to the shore since my date with Patrick. I have orders I need to fulfil, but I’m so ashamed of how I behaved I can’t bear the thought of bumping into him on the beach. When I woke the day after our date, it seemed ridiculous that I should have felt frightened, and I had
almost enough courage to call him and apologise. But as time went by I lost my nerve, and now it’s been nearly a fortnight and he has made no attempt to contact me. I feel suddenly sick. I tip my wine down the sink and decide to take Beau for a walk along the coastal path.

  We walk for what feels like miles, rounding the headland approaching Port Ellis. Beneath us is a grey building I realise must be the lifeboat station, and I stand for a while and imagine the lives saved by the volunteers who man it. I can’t help but think of Patrick as I march onwards along the path that leads to Port Ellis. I don’t have a plan, I simply continue walking until I reach the village, and make my way to the vet’s surgery. It’s only when I am opening the door, and the little bell rings above my head, that I wonder what on earth I am going to say.

  ‘How can I help you?’ It’s the same receptionist, although I wouldn’t have remembered her, were it not for her coloured badges.

  ‘Would it be possible to see Patrick for a moment?’ It occurs to me that I should come up with a reason, but she doesn’t ask me for one.

  ‘I’ll be right back.’

  I stand awkwardly in the waiting room, where a woman is sitting with a small child and something in a wicker basket. Beau strains at his lead and I pull him away.

  A few minutes later I hear footsteps and Patrick appears. He wears brown corduroy trousers and a checked shirt, and his hair is messy, as if he has been running his fingers through it.

  ‘Is something the matter with Beau?’ He is polite, but he doesn’t smile, and I lose a little of my resolve.

  ‘No. I wondered if I could speak with you. Just for a moment.’

  He hesitates, and I’m certain he is going to say no. My cheeks burn and I am acutely conscious of the receptionist watching us.

  ‘Come through.’

  I follow him into the room where he first examined Beau, and he leans against the sink. He says nothing – he’s not going to make this easy for me.