I Let You Go

  We dress the tree together. Patrick has brought a string of tiny lights, and I find ribbon to weave amongst the branches. There are only twelve baubles, but the light bounces between each one like shooting stars. I breathe in the smell of pine, wanting to store for ever this snapshot of happiness.

  When the tree is finished, I sit with my head on Patrick’s shoulder, watching the light dance off the glass and make shapes on the wall. He traces circles on the exposed skin on my wrist, and I feel more at ease than I have felt in years. I turn to kiss him, my tongue searching out his, and when I open my eyes I see that his are open too.

  ‘Come upstairs,’ I whisper. I don’t know what makes me want this now, right this moment, but I feel a physical need to be with him.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Patrick pulls back a little, and looks me straight in the eye.

  I nod. I’m not sure, not really, but I want to find out. I need to know if it can be different.

  He runs his hands through my hair, kissing my neck, my cheek, my lips. Standing up, he leads me gently to the stairs, his thumb still rubbing my palm as though he can’t bear not to be caressing me, even for a moment. As I climb the narrow staircase, he follows behind me, hands touching lightly on my waist. I feel my heart race.

  Away from the fire and the warmth of the range, the bedroom is cold, but it’s anticipation, not the temperature, that makes me shiver. Patrick sits on the bed and pulls me gently down to lie beside him. He raises a hand and pushes the hair back from my face, running a finger behind my ear and down my neck. I feel a rush of nerves: I think how unexciting I am, how dull and unadventurous, and I wonder if he will still want to be with me once he realises this. But I want him so much, and this stirring of desire in my belly is so unknown to me that it is even more arousing. I move closer to Patrick: so close it is impossible to tell whose breath is whose. For a full minute we lie that way; lips grazing but not kissing, touching but not tasting. Slowly he undoes my shirt, his eyes never leaving mine.

  I can’t wait any longer. I reach to unbutton my jeans and push them down, kicking them off my feet with reckless haste, then clumsily undo Patrick’s shirt buttons. We kiss fiercely, and abandon our clothes until he is naked and I am wearing only my knickers and a T-shirt. He takes hold of the hem of my T-shirt and I shake my head a fraction.

  There is a pause. I expect him to insist, but he holds my gaze for a moment, then bends his head to kiss my breasts through the soft cotton. As he moves lower I arch back from him and give myself up to his touch.

  I am drifting off in a tangle of sheets and limbs when I sense, rather than see, Patrick reaching across to turn off the bedside light.

  ‘Leave it on,’ I say, ‘please,’ and he doesn’t question why. Instead he wraps me in his arms, dropping a kiss on my forehead.

  When I wake, I realise instantly something is different, but I’m dazed from sleep and can’t tell straight away what it is. It isn’t the presence of someone in bed with me, although the weight next to me feels strange, but the realisation that I have actually slept. A slow smile spreads across my face. I have woken naturally. No scream has dragged me from sleep; no screech of brakes or crack of skull against glass. For the first night in more than twelve months I haven’t dreamed about the accident.

  I contemplate getting up and making coffee, but the warmth of the bed pulls me back under the duvet, and instead I wrap myself around Patrick’s naked body. I run a hand down his side, feeling the tautness of his stomach, the strength in his thigh. I feel a stirring between my legs and am again astounded by the reaction of my own body, which aches to be touched. Patrick stirs, lifting his head a fraction and smiling at me, his eyes still closed.

  ‘Happy Christmas.’

  ‘Do you want a coffee?’ I kiss his naked shoulder.

  ‘Later,’ he says, and he pulls me under the duvet.

  We stay in bed until noon, luxuriating in each other and eating soft bread rolls with sweet, sticky blackcurrant jam. Patrick goes downstairs for more coffee and when he returns he is carrying the presents we laid carefully under the tree last night.

  ‘A coat!’ I exclaim, as I tear the paper off the squashy, badly wrapped package Patrick hands me.

  ‘It’s not very romantic,’ he says, sheepishly, ‘but you can’t keep wearing that tatty old raincoat when you’re out on the beach in all weathers – you’ll freeze.’

  I slip it on immediately. It is thick and warm and waterproof, with deep pockets and a hood. It is a million times better than the coat I have been wearing, which I found hanging up in the porch of the cottage when I moved in.

  ‘I think keeping me warm and dry is an extremely romantic thing to do,’ I say, kissing Patrick. ‘I love it, thank you.’

  ‘There’s something in the pocket,’ he says. ‘Not really a present – just something I think you should have.’

  I push my hand into the pockets and pull out a mobile phone.

  ‘It’s an old one I had lying around. Nothing fancy, but it works – and it’ll mean you don’t have to go all the way to the caravan park when you need to make a call.’

  I am about to tell him that the only person I ever call is him, when I realise that perhaps that’s what he meant. That he doesn’t like the fact I am uncontactable. I’m not certain how I feel about this, but I thank him, and remind myself that I don’t need to keep it switched on.

  He hands me a second present, expertly packaged in deep purple paper and ribbon. ‘I didn’t wrap this one,’ he confesses unnecessarily.

  I carefully unfold the paper and open the slim box with the reverence I can tell it deserves. Inside is a mother-of-pearl brooch in the shape of a sea shell. It catches the light and a dozen colours dance across its surface.

  ‘Oh, Patrick.’ I am overwhelmed. ‘It’s beautiful.’ I take it out and pin it to my new coat. I’m embarrassed to produce the pencil drawing I have done for Patrick of the beach at Port Ellis; the lifeboat – not going out, but returning safely to shore.

  ‘You are so talented, Jenna,’ he says, holding up the framed picture to admire it. ‘You’re wasted here in the bay. You should hold an exhibition – get your name out there.’

  ‘I couldn’t,’ I say, but I don’t tell him why. Instead I suggest a walk, to try out my new coat, and we take Beau down to the shore.

  The bay is deserted, the tide out as far as it can go, leaving a vast stretch of pale beach. Snow-laden clouds sit heavily above the cliffs, seeming even whiter against the deep blue of the sea. The gulls wheel overhead, their plaintive cries echoing in the emptiness, and the waves break rhythmically on the sands.

  ‘It almost seems a shame to leave footprints.’ I slip my hand into Patrick’s as we wander. For once, I haven’t brought my camera. We walk into the sea, letting the icy foam engulf the toes of our boots.

  ‘My mother used to swim in the sea on Christmas Day,’ Patrick says. ‘She’d have arguments with Dad about it. He knew how dangerous the tides could be, and he’d tell her she was being irresponsible. But she’d grab her towel and race down for a dip as soon as all the stockings had been opened. We all thought it was hilarious, of course, and we’d be cheering her on from the sidelines.’

  ‘Crazy.’ I’m mindful of the girl who drowned, and I wonder how he can bear to be near the water after such tragedy. Beau rushes at the waves, snapping his jaws at each surge of seawater.

  ‘How about you?’ Patrick says. ‘Any mad family traditions?’

  I think for a while, smiling as I recall the excitement I had felt as a child when the Christmas holidays arrived. ‘Nothing like that,’ I say eventually, ‘but I used to love our family Christmases. My parents would start getting ready for Christmas in October, and the house would be full of exciting packages hidden in cupboards and under beds. After Dad left, we did the same things, but they were never quite the same.’

  ‘Did you ever try to find him?’ He squeezes my hand.

  ‘Yes. When I was at university. I tracked him down and discovered he had a
brand-new family. I wrote to him, and he wrote back saying the past was best left in the past. I was heartbroken.’

  ‘Jenna, that’s awful.’

  I shrug, pretending I don’t care.

  ‘Are you close to your sister?’

  ‘I was.’ I pick up a stone and try to skim it across the surface of the water, but the waves are too quick. ‘Eve sided with Mum after Dad left, and I was furious with Mum for throwing him out. In spite of that, we looked out for each other, but I haven’t seen her in years. I sent her a card a few weeks ago. I don’t know if she got it – I don’t even know if she lives in the same place.’

  ‘Did you fall out?’

  I nod. ‘She didn’t like my husband.’ It feels daring to say it out loud, and a shiver of fear runs across my shoulders.

  ‘Did you like him?’

  It’s a strange question, and I pause to think about it. I’ve spent so long hating Ian; being scared of him. ‘I did once,’ I say finally. I remember how charming he was; how different from the college boys with their clumsy fumbles and gutter humour.

  ‘How long have you been divorced?’

  I don’t correct him. ‘A while.’ I pick up a handful of stones and begin throwing them into the sea. A stone for every year since I felt loved. Looked after. ‘Sometimes I wonder if he might come back.’ I give a tiny laugh, but it sounds hollow even to me, and Patrick eyes me thoughtfully.

  ‘And you didn’t have children?’

  I bend over and pretend to be searching for pebbles. ‘He wasn’t keen on the idea,’ I say. It isn’t so far from the truth, after all. Ian never wanted anything to do with his son.

  Patrick puts an arm around my shoulders. ‘I’m sorry, I’m asking too many questions.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say, and I realise I mean it. I feel safe with Patrick. We walk slowly up the beach. The path is slippery with ice and I am glad of Patrick’s arm around me. I’ve told him more than I ever intended to, but I can’t tell him everything. If I do, he’ll leave, and I’ll have no one to stop me from falling.

  20

  Ray woke up feeling optimistic. He had taken Christmas off, and although he had popped into the office a couple of times, and brought work home with him, he had to admit the break had done him good. He wondered how Kate had got on with the hit-and-run investigation.

  Out of their list of nine hundred or so Bristol-registered red Ford Focuses and Fiestas, just over forty had triggered the Automatic Number Plate Registration system. The images were deleted after ninety days, but armed with a list of index numbers, Kate was tracing each registered keeper to interview them about their movements on the day of the hit-and-run. In the last four or five weeks she had made swift inroads into the list, but the results were slowing down. Cars sold without the correct paperwork; registered keepers moving with no forwarding address – it was a wonder she had eliminated as many as she had, especially given the time of year. Now that the holidays were over, it was surely time for a breakthrough.

  Ray stuck his head round the door of Tom’s bedroom. Only the top of Tom’s head was visible from underneath a mound of duvet, and Ray closed the door again silently. His New Year optimism didn’t quite extend to his son, whose behaviour had worsened to the extent that he had been issued two formal warnings by the head teacher. The next one would result in temporary exclusion, which seemed to Ray to be an absurd sanction for a child who was already skipping more classes than he attended, and clearly hated the very idea of being in school.

  ‘Is Lucy still asleep?’ Mags said, when he joined her in the kitchen.

  ‘They both are.’

  ‘We’ll have to get them into bed early tonight,’ Mags said. ‘They’re back to school in three days.’

  ‘Have I got any clean shirts?’ Ray said.

  ‘You mean you didn’t wash any?’ Mags disappeared into the utility room and returned with a stack of ironed shirts draped over her arm. ‘Good job someone did. Don’t forget we’ve got drinks with the neighbours tonight.’

  Ray groaned. ‘Do we have to?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mags handed him the shirts.

  ‘Who has the neighbours round on the day after New Year’s?’ Ray said. ‘What a ridiculous time for a party.’

  ‘Emma says it’s because everyone’s so busy over Christmas and New Year. She thinks it’s a nice pick-me-up once the festivities have finished.’

  ‘It’s not,’ Ray said. ‘It’s a bloody pain in the neck. They always are. All anyone wants to talk to me about is how they got caught doing thirty-seven in a thirty zone, nowhere near a school, and what an utter travesty of justice it is. It turns into a massive police-bashing.’

  ‘They’re only trying to make conversation, Ray,’ Mags said patiently. ‘They don’t spend much time with you—’

  ‘There’s a very good reason for that.’

  ‘—so all they have to talk to you about is your job. Go easy on them. If you hate it that much, change the subject. Make small talk.’

  ‘I hate small talk.’

  ‘Fine.’ Mags banged a pan on the counter with unnecessary force. ‘Then don’t come, Ray. Frankly, it would be better for you not to be there than to turn up in this sort of mood.’

  Ray wished she wouldn’t speak to him as if he were one of the children. ‘I didn’t say I wasn’t going to come, I just said it will be dull.’

  Mags turned to face him, with a look that was now less impatient, and more disappointed. ‘Not everything in life can be exciting, Ray.’

  ‘Happy New Year, you two.’ Ray walked into the CID office and dumped a tin of Quality Street on Stumpy’s desk. ‘Thought it might make up for having to work over Christmas and New Year.’ The office ran on a skeletal shift on public holidays, and Stumpy had drawn the short straw.

  ‘It’ll take more than a box of chocolates to make up for a seven a.m. start on New Year’s Day.’

  Ray grinned. ‘You’re too old for late-night parties anyway, Stumpy. Mags and I were asleep long before midnight on New Year’s Eve.’

  ‘I think I’m still recovering,’ Kate said, yawning.

  ‘Good party?’ Ray said.

  ‘The bits I can remember.’ She laughed, and Ray felt a pang of envy. He doubted Kate’s parties involved tedious conversations about speeding tickets and littering, which was what he had to look forward to that evening.

  ‘What’s on the books for today?’ he said.

  ‘Some good news for you,’ Kate said. ‘We’ve got an index number.’

  Ray broke into a grin. ‘About time. How confident are you it’s the right one?’

  ‘Pretty confident. There have been no ANPR hits on it since the hit-and-run, and although the tax has lapsed, it hasn’t been declared SORN, so my guess is it’s been dumped or burned out. The car’s registered to an address in Beaufort Crescent, about five miles from where Jacob was hit. Stumpy and I went out to see it yesterday, but it’s empty. It’s a rental property, so Stumpy’s trying to get hold of the Land Registry office today to see if the landlord has a forwarding address.’

  ‘But we’ve got a name?’ Ray said, unable to hide the surge of excitement he felt.

  ‘We’ve got a name,’ Kate grinned. ‘No trace on PNC or voters’ register, and I can’t find anything online, but we’ll crack it today. I’ve got data protection waivers in with the utility companies, so now that Christmas is over we should start getting some call-backs.’

  ‘We’ve made some progress on Jacob’s mother, too,’ Stumpy said.

  ‘That’s great,’ Ray said. ‘I should take annual leave more often. Have you spoken to her?’

  ‘There’s no phone number,’ Stumpy said. ‘Kate finally got hold of a supply teacher at St Mary’s who knew her. Apparently, after the accident, Jacob’s mother felt that everyone blamed her. She was consumed with guilt and furious that the driver had been allowed to get away with it…’

  ‘“Allowed to get away with it”?’ Ray said. ‘We sat back and did nothing, did we?’

&nb
sp; ‘I’m only repeating what I’ve been told,’ Stumpy said. ‘Anyway, she severed all ties and left Bristol to make a fresh start.’ He tapped the file, which seemed to have grown an extra inch since Ray last saw it. ‘I’m waiting for an email from the local police, but we should have an address by the end of the day.’

  ‘Good work. It’s really important we get mum onside in case we end up in court. The last thing we want is some anti-police maverick mouthing off to the papers about how it’s taken over a year to charge someone.’

  Kate’s phone rang.

  ‘CID, DC Evans speaking.’

  Ray was turning away in the direction of his office when Kate began gesticulating wildly at him and Stumpy.

  ‘Amazing!’ she said into the phone. ‘Thank you so much.’

  She scribbled furiously on an A4 pad on her desk, and was still grinning when she put down the phone a second later.

  ‘We got the driver,’ she said, waving the piece of paper triumphantly.

  Stumpy broke into a rare smile.

  ‘That was BT,’ Kate said, bouncing up and down on her chair. ‘They processed our data protection waiver on the ex-directory entry and they’ve got an address for us!’

  ‘Where is it?’

  Kate tore the front sheet from her pad and gave it to Stumpy.

  ‘Brilliant work,’ said Ray. ‘Let’s get moving.’ He snatched two bunches of car keys from the metal cabinet on the wall and threw one at Stumpy, who caught it deftly. ‘Stumpy, take the file with what we’ve got on Jacob’s mother. Head for the local nick and tell them we couldn’t wait for a call – we need that address now. Don’t come back until you find her, and when you do, make sure she knows that no one’s getting away with anything – we’re doing everything we can to bring someone to justice for Jacob’s death. Kate and I will go and nick the driver.’ He paused and chucked the other set of keys at Kate. ‘On second thoughts, you had better drive. I need to cancel my plans for this evening.’

  ‘Were you going somewhere nice?’ Kate said.