‘I wanted to … I wanted to apologise.’ I feel a pricking sensation at the back of my eyes and I will myself not to cry.
Patrick gives a wry smile. ‘I’ve been given the elbow before, but not usually with quite such speed.’ His eyes are softer now, and I risk a small smile.
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Did I do something wrong? Was it something I said?’
‘No. Not in the slightest. You were…’ I struggle to find the right word, and give up. ‘It’s my fault, I’m not very good at this sort of thing.’
There is a pause, and Patrick grins at me. ‘Maybe you need practice.’
I can’t help but laugh. ‘Maybe.’
‘Look, I’ve got another two patients to see, then I’m done for the day. How about I cook you supper? I’ve got a stew bubbling in the slow cooker as we speak, and there’s more than enough for two. I’ll even throw in a portion for Beau.’
If I say no now, I won’t see him again.
‘I’d like that.’
Patrick looks at his watch. ‘Meet me back here in an hour – will you be all right till then?’
‘I’ll be fine. I wanted to take some pictures of the village, anyway.’
‘Great, then I’ll see you shortly.’ His smile is broader now, and reaches his eyes, which crinkle at the corners. He shows me out and I catch the eye of the receptionist.
‘All sorted?’
I wonder what she thinks I wanted to see Patrick for, and then I decide I don’t care. I have been brave: I may have run away, but I came back, and tonight I will be having dinner with a man who likes me enough not to be put off by my nervousness.
The frequency with which I check my watch doesn’t make the hour go any faster, and Beau and I complete several circuits of the village before it is time to return to the surgery. I don’t want to go inside, and I’m relieved when Patrick comes out, pulling on a waxed jacket and smiling broadly. He fusses Beau’s ears, then we walk to a small terraced house in the next street from the surgery. He ushers us into the sitting room, where Beau immediately flops down in front of the fireplace.
‘Glass of wine?’
‘Please.’ I sit down, but I’m nervous and stand up again almost at once. The room is small but welcoming, with a rug covering most of the floor. An armchair sits either side of the hearth and I wonder which is his – nothing indicates that either is more used than the other. The small television seems incidental to the room, but two enormous bookcases fill the alcoves next to the armchairs. I tilt my head to read the spines.
‘I’ve got far too many books,’ Patrick says, coming back with two glasses of red wine. I take one, grateful for something to do with my hands. ‘I should get rid of some of them really, but I end up hanging on to them.’
‘I love reading,’ I say, ‘although I’ve hardly picked up a book since I moved here.’
Patrick sits down in one of the armchairs. I take his cue and sit in the other, fiddling with the stem of my glass.
‘How long have you been a photographer?’
‘I’m not, really,’ I say, surprising myself with my honesty. ‘I’m a sculptor.’ I think of my garden studio: the smashed clay, the splinters from the finished sculptures ready for delivery. ‘At least, I was.’
‘You don’t sculpt any more?’
‘I can’t.’ I hesitate, then open the fingers on my left hand, where scarred skin runs angrily across my palm and wrist. ‘I had an accident. I can use my hand again now, but I can’t feel anything in my fingertips.’
Patrick lets out a low whistle. ‘You poor thing. How did it happen?’
I have a sudden flashback to that night, a year ago, and I push it back down inside me. ‘It looks worse than it is,’ I say. ‘I should have been more careful.’ I can’t look at Patrick, but he deftly changes the subject.
‘Are you hungry?’
‘Starving.’ My stomach is growling at the delicious smell coming from the kitchen. I follow him through to a surprisingly large room, with a pine dresser that runs the length of one wall. ‘It was my grandmother’s,’ he says, switching off the slow cooker. ‘My parents had it after she died, but they moved abroad a couple of years ago and I inherited it. Enormous, isn’t it? There’s all manner of things stuffed in there. Whatever you do, don’t open the doors.’
I watch Patrick as he carefully spoons casserole on to two plates, wiping away a splatter of gravy with the corner of a tea-towel, and leaving an even bigger smear behind.
He carries the hot plates across to the table and sets one in front of me. ‘It’s pretty much the only thing I know how to make,’ he says apologetically. ‘I hope it’s okay.’ He spoons some into a metal dish and, on cue, Beau trots into the kitchen, waiting patiently for Patrick to put the bowl on the floor for him.
‘Not just yet, chap,’ Patrick says. He picks up a fork and turns the meat over in the bowl to cool it down.
I look down to hide my smile. You can tell a lot about someone by the way they treat animals, and I can’t help but warm towards Patrick. ‘It looks delicious,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’ I can’t remember the last time someone looked after me like this. It was always me doing the cooking, the tidying, the home-making. So many years spent trying to build a happy family, only to have it come crashing down around me.
‘My mum’s recipe,’ Patrick says. ‘She tries to add to my repertoire every time she comes over – I think she imagines I live on pizza and chips when she’s not here, like Dad does.’
I laugh.
‘They’ll have been together forty years, this autumn,’ he says. ‘I can’t imagine that, can you?’
I can’t. ‘Have you ever been married?’ I ask.
Patrick’s eyes darken. ‘No. I thought I might marry, once, but it didn’t work out that way.’
There is a brief pause, and I think I see relief on his face when it is clear I’m not going to ask why.
‘How about you?’
I take a deep breath. ‘I was married for a while. We wanted different things, in the end.’ I smile at the understatement.
‘You’re very isolated at Blaen Cedi,’ Patrick says. ‘Doesn’t it bother you?’
‘I like it. It’s a beautiful place to live, and I have Beau for company.’
‘You don’t get lonely, without any other houses nearby?’
I think of my broken nights, when I wake up screaming with no one to comfort me. ‘I see Bethan most days,’ I say.
‘She’s a good friend to have. I’ve known her for years.’
I wonder how close Patrick and Bethan have been. He begins telling me a story about the time they borrowed a boat from Patrick’s father without asking, and rowed out into the bay.
‘We were spotted within minutes, and I could see Dad standing on the shore with his arms folded, next to Bethan’s dad. We knew we’d be in terrible trouble, so we stayed in the boat, and they stayed on the beach, for what seemed like hours.’
‘What happened?’
Patrick laughed. ‘We gave in, of course. We rowed back and faced the music. Bethan was a good few years older than me so she got most of the blame, but I was grounded for a fortnight.’
I smile as he shakes his head in mock sorrow at the punishment. I can imagine him as a boy, his hair as dishevelled as it is now, and his head full of mischief.
My empty plate is replaced with a bowl filled with apple crumble and custard. The smell of hot cinnamon makes my mouth water. I spoon the custard away from the buttery crumble topping and eat that, toying with the food so as not to appear rude.
‘Don’t you like it?’
‘It’s lovely,’ I say. ‘I just don’t really eat puddings.’ A dieting habit is hard to break.
‘You’re missing out.’ Patrick finishes his in a few mouthfuls. ‘I didn’t make it – one of the girls at work brought it in for me.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Really, it’s fine. I’ll let it cool down a bit, then Beau can polish it off.’
The dog’s ears prick up a
t the sound of his name.
‘He’s such a lovely dog,’ Patrick says, ‘and a lucky one.’
I nod my agreement, although I know now that I need Beau as much as he needs me. I’m the lucky one. Patrick has one elbow on the table and his chin is resting in his cupped palm as he strokes Beau. Relaxed and contented: a man without secrets or pain.
He looks up and catches me watching him. Feeling awkward, I look away and notice another set of shelves in the corner of the kitchen. ‘More books?’
‘I can’t help myself,’ Patrick says with a grin. ‘That one’s mostly cookbooks Mum’s given me over the years, although there are some crime novels there too. I’ll read anything with a decent plot.’
He begins clearing the table, and I sit back in my chair and watch him.
Shall I tell you a story, Patrick?
A story about Jacob, and the accident. About running away because I couldn’t see any other way of surviving except starting over; and about screaming every night because I can never be free from what happened.
Shall I tell you that story?
I see him listening, his eyes growing wider as I tell him about the screech of brakes; the crack of Jacob’s head on the windscreen. I want him to reach for me across the table, but I can’t make him take my hand, even in my imagination. I want him to say he understands; that it wasn’t my fault; that it could have happened to anyone. But he shakes his head; gets up from the table; pushes me away. He is disgusted. Revolted.
I could never tell him.
‘Are you okay?’ Patrick is looking at me strangely, and for a second it feels as though he can read my thoughts.
‘It was a lovely meal,’ I say. I have two choices: either I walk away from Patrick, or I hide the truth from him. I hate lying to him, but I can’t bear to let him go. I look at the clock on the wall. ‘I shall have to go,’ I say.
‘Not another Cinderella flit?’
‘Not this time.’ I redden, but Patrick is smiling. ‘The last bus to Penfach is at nine o’clock.’
‘You don’t have a car?’
‘I don’t like to drive.’
‘I’ll take you back. I’ve only had a small glass of wine – it’s no trouble.’
‘Really, I’d rather make my own way home.’
I think I detect a note of exasperation in Patrick’s eyes.
‘Perhaps I’ll see you at the beach tomorrow morning?’ I say.
He relaxes, and smiles. ‘That would be great. It was really good to see you again – I’m glad you came back.’
‘So am I.’
He fetches my things and we stand in the tiny hallway while I do up my coat. There is barely room for me to move my elbows, and the proximity makes me clumsy. I fumble with the zip.
‘Here,’ he says. ‘Let me.’
I watch his hand carefully fit the two parts together, and draw the zip upwards. I am rigid with anxiety, but he stops just short of my chin and wraps my scarf around my neck. ‘There. Will you call me when you get home? I’ll give you my number.’
His concern takes me aback. ‘I would, but I don’t have a phone.’
‘You don’t have a mobile?’
I almost laugh at his incredulity. ‘No. There’s a phone line to the cottage, for the internet, but I don’t have a phone connected. I’ll be fine, I promise.’
Patrick puts his hands on my shoulders and before I have a chance to react he leans forward and kisses me softly on the cheek. I feel his breath on my face and am suddenly unsteady.
‘Thank you,’ I say, and although it is not only inadequate but unoriginal, he smiles at me as if I have said something profound, and I think how easy it is to be with someone so undemanding.
I clip on Beau’s lead and we say goodbye. I know that Patrick will be watching us, and when I turn at the end of the road I see him still standing in the door.
17
Ray’s mobile rang as he was sitting down to breakfast. Lucy was working towards her cooking badge in Brownies, and taking it far more seriously than the occasion merited. The tip of her tongue protruded from the corner of her mouth, as she carefully transferred burnt bacon and rubbery egg to her parents’ plates. Tom had been for a sleepover and wasn’t due back until lunchtime: Ray had agreed with Mags when she remarked how nice it was that Tom was making friends, but privately he was simply enjoying the peace of a house free from slamming doors and angry shouts.
‘It looks delicious, sweetheart.’ Ray dug his phone out of his pocket and peered at the screen.
He looked at Mags. ‘Work.’ Ray wondered if it was an update on Operation Falcon – the name assigned to the Creston estate drugs job. The chief had dangled her carrot for another week before finally dropping it in Ray’s lap, with the firm instruction that he focus on Falcon above any other job. She didn’t mention the anniversary appeal. She didn’t need to.
Mags glanced at Lucy, who was absorbed in arranging the food on the plates. ‘Have breakfast first. Please.’
Reluctantly, Ray pressed the red button to reject the call and divert it to voicemail. He had no sooner loaded a fork with bacon and eggs when the house phone rang. Mags picked it up.
‘Oh, hello, Kate. Is it urgent? We’re in the middle of breakfast.’
Ray felt suddenly uncomfortable. He scrolled through the emails on his BlackBerry to give himself something to do, glancing quickly up at Mags, who managed to convey through rigid shoulders alone that she was not happy at the intrusion. Why was Kate phoning him at home? And on a Sunday? He strained to try and hear Kate’s voice over the line, but couldn’t make anything out. The familiar feeling of nausea that had plagued him in the last few days returned, and he looked at his bacon and eggs without enthusiasm.
Mags passed Ray the phone wordlessly.
‘Hi, Ray,’ Kate was cheerful, unaware of his internal conflict. ‘What are you up to?’
‘Just family stuff. What is it?’ He felt Mags’ eyes on him and knew he was being uncharacteristically curt.
‘I’m so sorry to disturb you,’ Kate said drily, ‘but I didn’t think you’d want to wait till tomorrow.’
‘What is it?’
‘A response to the hit-and-run anniversary appeal. We’ve got a witness.’
Ray was in his office within half an hour.
‘So what have we got?’
Kate scanned the printed email that had come through from the Police Enquiry Centre.
‘A guy who said he’d been cut up by a red car driving erratically about the time the accident took place,’ she said. ‘He meant to report it, but never did.’
Ray felt a surge of adrenalin. ‘Why didn’t he get in touch when the first lot of witness appeals went out?’
‘He isn’t local,’ Kate said. ‘He was up visiting his sister for her birthday – that’s how he can be certain about the date – but he went back down to Bournemouth the same day and didn’t hear anything about the hit-and-run. Anyway, he only put two and two together when his sister mentioned the appeal to him on the phone last night.’
‘Is he credible?’ Ray asked. Witnesses were an unpredictable breed. Some people had great memories for detail – others couldn’t tell you what colour shirt they had on without checking first; and even then they got it wrong.
‘Don’t know – we’ve not spoken to him yet.’
‘Why the hell not?’
‘It’s half past nine,’ Kate said, defensiveness making her snap. ‘We only got the information about five minutes before I rang you, and I thought you’d want to speak to him yourself.’
‘Sorry.’
Kate shrugged off the apology.
‘And I apologise if I sounded off when you rang. It felt a bit, you know, awkward.’
‘Is everything okay?’
The question was loaded. Ray nodded.
‘It’s fine. I felt uncomfortable, that’s all.’
They looked at each other for a moment, before Ray broke away.
‘Right, well, let’s get him in. I want every
last detail he can give us about that car. The make, colour, index – anything at all about who was driving it. Looks like we’ve got another shot at this one; let’s do it right this time.’
‘Not a fucking clue!’ Ray paced in front of the window in his office, making no attempt to mask his frustration. ‘Can’t tell us how old the driver was, whether they were black or white – Jesus! He doesn’t even know if it was a man or a woman!’ He rubbed his head vigorously, as though the stimulation might spark an idea.
‘Visibility was bad,’ Kate reminded him, ‘and he was concentrating on keeping control of his own vehicle.’
Ray wasn’t in the mood to be generous. ‘The bloke shouldn’t be on the road if a bit of rain’s going to affect him that much.’ He sat down heavily and took a slurp of coffee, wincing as he realised it was stone cold. ‘One of these days, I’ll actually get to drink a whole cup of coffee,’ he muttered.
‘A J-reg Ford,’ Kate said, reading from her notes, ‘with a cracked windscreen. Possibly a Fiesta or a Focus. It’s something, at least.’
‘Well, it’s better than nothing,’ Ray said. ‘Let’s get going. I’d like you to prioritise finding Jacob’s mother. If – when – we get someone in the traps for this, I want her to see we didn’t give up on her son.’
‘Understood,’ said Kate. ‘I got on well with the head teacher at the school when I rang about the appeal. I’ll call again now and do some more digging. Someone must have stayed in touch with her.’
‘I’ll get Malcolm to work on the car. We’ll get a PNC check on all the Bristol-registered Fiestas and Focuses, and I’ll stand you lunch while we go through the printout.’
Pushing aside the remains of what Moira had optimistically offered as paella, Ray rested a hand on the pile of paperwork in front of him. ‘Nine hundred and forty-two.’ He whistled.
‘And that’s just in this area,’ Kate said. ‘What if it was just passing through?’
‘Let’s see if we can narrow it down a bit.’ He folded the printout and handed it to Kate. ‘Check this list against the ANPR: say half an hour before the hit-and-run until half an hour after it. We’ll see how many of them were on the road during that time, and start eliminating them from there.’