I Let You Go

  ‘I suppose you’ve heard,’ I say, unable to bear the silence any longer.

  ‘Hard not to, in Penfach.’ Bethan’s breath is laboured, and I slow my pace a little. ‘Not that I take much notice of gossip,’ she continues. ‘I’d rather hear it from the horse’s mouth, but I get the distinct impression you’ve been avoiding me.’

  I don’t deny it.

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  Instinctively I say no, but then realise that I do. I take a breath.

  ‘I killed a boy. His name was Jacob.’

  I hear a tiny sound from Bethan – a breath, perhaps, or a shake of the head – but she says nothing. I catch a glimpse of the sea as we draw closer to the cliffs.

  ‘It was dark and it had been raining. I didn’t see him until it was too late.’

  Bethan lets out a long breath. ‘It was an accident.’

  It’s not a question, and I am touched by her loyalty.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s not all, is it?’

  The Penfach gossip mill is impressive.

  ‘No, that’s not all.’

  We reach the clifftop, and we turn left and begin walking towards the bay. I can hardly bring myself to speak.

  ‘I didn’t stop. I drove away and I left him there on the road, with his mother.’ I can’t look at Bethan, and she doesn’t speak for several minutes. When she does, it’s straight to the point.

  ‘Why?’

  It is the hardest question to answer, but here, at least, I can tell the truth. ‘Because I was frightened.’

  I finally steal a look at Bethan, but can’t read her expression. She looks out to sea and I stop and stand beside her.

  ‘Do you hate me for what I’ve done?’

  She gives a sad smile. ‘Jenna, you’ve done something terrible, and you’ll pay for it every day for the rest of your life. I think that’s punishment enough, don’t you?’

  ‘They won’t serve me in the shop.’ I feel petty, complaining about my groceries worries, but the humiliation hurt me more than I like to admit.

  Bethan shrugs. ‘They’re a funny lot. They don’t like incomers, and if they find an excuse to rally against them, well…’

  ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Ignore them. Do your shopping out of town and hold your head up high. What’s happened is between you and the court, and it’s no one else’s business.’

  I give her a grateful smile. Bethan’s practicality is very grounding.

  ‘I had to take one of the cats to the vet’s yesterday,’ she says casually, as though changing the subject.

  ‘You spoke to Patrick?’

  Bethan stops walking and turns to face me. ‘He doesn’t know what to say to you.’

  ‘He seemed to manage fine last time I saw him.’ I recall the coldness in his voice, and the lack of emotion in his eyes as he left.

  ‘He’s a man, Jenna, they’re simple creatures. Talk to him. Talk to him the way you’ve talked to me. Tell him how frightened you were. He’ll understand how much you regret what you did.’

  I think of how close Patrick and Bethan were when they were growing up, and for a brief moment I wonder if Bethan could be right: might there still be a chance for me with Patrick? But she didn’t see the way he looked at me.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘It’s over.’

  We’ve reached the bay. A couple are walking their dog down by the sea, but it is otherwise deserted. The tide is coming in, licking at the sand as it creeps up the beach, and a gull stands in the middle of the beach, pecking at a crab shell. I’m about to say goodbye to Bethan when I catch sight of something on the sand, close to the incoming tide. I screw up my eyes and look again, but the surf blurs the surface of the sand and I can’t read what it says. Another wave and it’s gone completely, but I’m certain I saw something, just certain of it. I’m suddenly cold, and I pull my coat closer to me. I hear a noise on the path behind us and I whirl round, but there is nothing there. My eyes scan the coastal path, the clifftops, down on the beach again. Is Ian there, somewhere? Is he watching me?

  Bethan looks at me, alarmed. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  I look at her, but I don’t see her. I see the writing: writing I’m not sure if I saw on the beach or in my head. The white clouds seem to swirl around me, blood roaring in my ears till I can hardly make out the sound of the sea.

  ‘Jennifer,’ I say softly.

  ‘Jennifer?’ Bethan asks. She looks down at the beach, where the sea washes over smooth sand. ‘Who’s Jennifer?’

  I try to swallow but the moisture sticks in my throat.

  ‘I am. I’m Jennifer.’

  32

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ray said. He sat on the edge of Kate’s desk and handed her a piece of paper.

  Kate put it on the desk, but didn’t look at it. ‘Charge decision from the CPS?’

  Ray nodded. ‘There’s no evidence to support the theory that Jenna’s hiding something, and we can’t delay things any more. She’s due to answer bail this afternoon and we’ll be charging her.’ He caught sight of Kate’s face. ‘You did a good job. You looked beyond the evidence, and that’s exactly what a good detective does. But a good detective also knows when to stop.’

  He stood up and squeezed her shoulder gently, before leaving her to read through the CPS decision. It was frustrating, but that was the risk you took when you followed your instincts – they weren’t always reliable.

  At two o’clock the front desk rang to say Jenna had arrived. Ray booked her into custody and directed her to the metal bench by the wall, while he prepared the charge sheet. Her hair was swept back into a ponytail, exposing high cheekbones and pale, clear skin.

  Ray took the printed charges from the custody sergeant and walked across to the bench. ‘You are charged under Section 1 of the Road Traffic Act 1988 with causing death by dangerous driving of Jacob Jordan, on the twenty-sixth of November 2012. You are further charged under section 170(2) of the Road Traffic Act 1988, with failing to stop and report an accident. Do you have anything to say?’ Ray watched her intently for any sign of fear, of shock, but she closed her eyes and shook her head.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I am remanding you in custody, to appear before Bristol Magistrates’ Court tomorrow morning.’

  The waiting gaoler stepped forward, but Ray intervened.

  ‘I’ll take her.’ He held Jenna’s arm lightly above the elbow, and walked her into the female wing. The sound of their rubber soles provoked a cacophony of requests as they made their way down the cell block.

  ‘Can I go out for a fag?’

  ‘Is my brief here yet?’

  ‘Can you get me another blanket?’

  Ray ignored them, knowing better than to interfere in the custody sergeant’s domain, and the voices settled into disgruntled grumbles. He stopped outside number 7.

  ‘Shoes off, please.’

  Jenna untied her laces and used the toe of each foot to ease her boots over her heel. She put them down outside the door, where a sprinkling of sand fell from them on to the glossy grey floor. She looked at Ray, who nodded towards the empty cell, and then walked inside and sat on the blue plastic mattress.

  Ray leaned against the door frame.

  What aren’t you telling us, Jenna?’

  She turned her head sharply to face him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Why did you drive away?’

  Jenna didn’t answer. She pushed her hair away from her face and he saw again that awful scar across the palm of her hand. A burn, perhaps. Or some sort of industrial accident.

  ‘How did that happen?’ he asked, pointing at her injury.

  She looked away, avoiding the question. ‘What will happen to me in court?’

  Ray sighed. He wouldn’t get any more out of Jenna Gray, that much was clear. ‘Tomorrow’s just the initial hearing,’ he said. ‘You’ll be asked to enter a plea and the case will be sent to Crown Court.’

  ‘And then?’


  ‘You’ll be sentenced.’

  ‘Will I go to prison?’ Jenna said, lifting her eyes to look at Ray.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘Anything up to fourteen years.’ Ray watched Jenna’s face, finally seeing the fear creeping across it.

  ‘Fourteen years,’ she repeated. She swallowed hard.

  Ray held his breath. For a second he thought he was about to hear whatever it was that had made her drive off that night and not stop. But she turned away from him and lay on the blue plastic mattress, her eyes tightly closed.

  ‘I’d like to try and sleep now, please.’

  Ray stood watching her for a moment, then left, the slam of the cell door echoing behind him.

  ‘Well done.’ Mags kissed Ray’s cheek as he came through the door. ‘I saw it on the news. You were right not to give up on that job.’

  He gave a non-committal response, still unsettled by Jenna’s behaviour.

  ‘Is the chief pleased with the result?’

  Ray followed Mags into the kitchen, where she opened a can of bitter, pouring it into a glass for him.

  ‘Delighted. Of course, the anniversary appeal was all her idea…’ He flashed a wry smile.

  ‘Doesn’t that bother you?’

  ‘Not really,’ Ray said, taking a sip of his pint and setting it down with a satisfied sigh. ‘I don’t care who gets the credit for a job, so long as it’s investigated properly and we get a result at court. Besides,’ he added, ‘it’s Kate who did the hard work on this one.’

  He might have imagined it, but Mags seemed to bridle slightly at the mention of Kate’s name. ‘What do you think Gray will get in court?’ she said.

  ‘Six or seven years, maybe? Depends who the judge is, and whether they decide to make an example of her. It’s always an emotive issue, when there’s a child involved.’

  ‘Six years is nothing.’ Ray knew she was thinking about Tom and Lucy.

  ‘Except when it’s six years too long,’ Ray said, half to himself.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There’s something a bit strange about it all.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘We thought there might be more to her story than she’s letting on. But we’ve charged her now, so that’s the end of it: I’d let Kate have all the time I could.’

  Mags looked at him sharply. ‘I thought you were the one leading on this job. Was it Kate who felt there was more to it? Is that why you bailed Gray?’

  Ray looked up, surprised by the harshness in Mags’ tone. ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘I bailed her because I could see a valid argument for taking time to establish the facts and ensure we were charging the right person.’

  ‘Thank you, DI Stevens, I do know how it works. I might spend my days ferrying kids around and making packed lunches, but I was once a DC, so please don’t speak to me as though I’m stupid.’

  ‘Sorry. Guilty as charged.’ Ray held up his hands in mock self-defence, but Mags didn’t laugh. She ran a cloth under the hot tap and began briskly wiping down the kitchen surfaces.

  ‘I’m surprised, that’s all. This woman runs from the scene of an accident, dumps her car and hides out in the middle of nowhere, then when she’s found a year later she admits the whole thing. It seems cut and dried, to me.’

  Ray was struggling to hide his irritation. It had been a long day and all he wanted was to sit down with a beer and relax. ‘There’s a bit more to it than that,’ he said. ‘And I trust Kate – she’s got good instincts.’ He felt himself blush, and wondered if he was defending Kate a little too much.

  ‘Has she?’ Mags said tightly. ‘Good for Kate.’

  Ray let out a big breath. ‘Has something happened?’

  Mags carried on cleaning.

  ‘Is it Tom?’

  Mags started crying.

  ‘Oh God, Mags, why didn’t you say so earlier? What’s happened?’ He stood up and put his arm around her, turning her away from the sink and taking the cloth gently out of her hand.

  ‘I think he might be stealing.’

  The fury Ray felt was so overwhelming that for a second he couldn’t speak.

  ‘What makes you say that?’ This was the final straw. It was one thing cutting school and stomping about the house in a hormonal temper tantrum, but stealing?

  ‘Well, I’m not sure,’ Mags said. ‘I haven’t said anything to him yet…’ She caught sight of Ray’s face, and raised a warning hand. ‘And I don’t want to. Not until I know the facts.’

  Ray took a deep breath. ‘Tell me everything.’

  ‘I was cleaning his room earlier’ – Mags closed her eyes briefly, as though even the memory of it was unbearable – ‘and I came across a box of stuff under his bed. There’s an iPod, some DVDs, a load of sweets, and a brand-new pair of trainers.’

  Ray shook his head but remained silent.

  ‘I know he hasn’t got any money,’ Mags said, ‘because he’s still paying us back for that broken window, and I can’t think how else he would have got it all, unless he stole it.’

  ‘Terrific,’ Ray said. ‘He’s going to end up getting nicked. That’s going to look good, isn’t it? The DI’s son in custody for shoplifting.’

  Mags looked at him with dismay. ‘Is that all you can think about? Your son has spent the last eighteen months being utterly miserable. Your previously happy, settled, clever son is now bunking off school and stealing, and your first thought is “How will it affect my career prospects?”’ She stopped, mid-flow, and held up her hands as though warding him off. ‘I can’t talk to you about this now.’

  She turned and walked towards the door, then spun to face Ray. ‘Leave Tom to me. You’ll only make matters worse. Besides, you’ve clearly got more important things to worry about.’

  There was the sound of running feet on the stairs, followed by the slam of the bedroom door. Ray knew there was no point following her – she was clearly in no mood for a discussion. His career hadn’t been his first consideration, it was just a consideration. And since he was the only one bringing any money into the family, it was a bit rich of Mags to dismiss it out of hand like that. As for Tom, he would let her deal with it if that was what she wanted. Besides, if he were honest, he didn’t know where to start.

  33

  The house in Beaufort Crescent was much bigger than the old one. They wouldn’t give me a mortgage for the full amount, so I took out a loan and hoped I would be able to pay it off. The repayments were going to be a stretch, but it was worth it. The house had a long garden for your studio, and I saw your eyes shine when we marked out where it could go.

  ‘It’s perfect,’ you said. ‘I’ll have everything I need, right here.’

  I took some time off work and began building the studio the week we moved in, and you couldn’t do enough for me in return. You brought mugs of steaming tea down to the end of the garden, and called me in for bowls of soup with home-made bread. I didn’t want it to stop, and almost without thinking I began to slow down. Instead of being out in the garden by nine each morning, I started work at ten. I stopped longer for lunch, and in the afternoon I sat in the wooden shell of the studio and let the time tick by until you called me in.

  ‘You can’t work in this light, honey,’ you’d say. ‘And look, your hands are freezing! Come in and let me warm you up.’ You would kiss me and tell me how excited you were about having your own space to work; that you had never been looked after so well; that you loved me.

  I went back to work and promised to fit out the interior at the weekend. But when I came home that first day you had dragged an old desk inside and spread out your glazes and tools. Your new kiln sat in the corner, and your wheel squatted in the centre of the room. You were sitting on a small stool, intent on the clay spinning between your hands. I watched you through the window as the pot took shape with the barest of touches. I hoped you might sense my presence, but you didn’t look up and I opened the door.

  ‘Isn’t t
his fantastic?’

  Still you didn’t look at me.

  ‘I love being out here.’ You took your foot off the pedal and the wheel slowed and finally stopped. ‘I’ll go and change out of this shirt, then put supper on.’ You kissed me lightly on the cheek, holding your hands carefully out of the way of my clothes.

  I stood in the studio for a while, looking at the walls I had envisaged covered with shelves; at the corner where I had planned to build you a special desk. I took a step forward and pushed my foot briefly on to the pedal of your wheel. The wheel jerked round, barely a full revolution, and without your guiding hands the pot lurched to one side and sank in on itself.

  After that it felt as though I went days without seeing you. You rigged up a heater so you could spend longer in your studio, and even at weekends I would find you pulling on clay-spattered clothes to head down there at first light. I did build your shelves, but I never made the desk I had planned, and the sight of your junk-shop table always irritated me.

  We had been in the house for a year or so, I suppose, when I had to go to Paris with work. Doug had a lead on a potential new client, and we planned to make enough of an impression for them to place a big software order. Business was slow, and dividends smaller and less frequent than I had been promised. I had taken out a credit card so I could carry on taking you out for dinner, and buying you flowers, but the repayments were getting harder and harder to make. The Paris client would have got us back on an even keel.

  ‘Can I come?’ you asked. It must have been the only time I ever saw you show interest in my business. ‘I love Paris.’

  I had seen the way Doug leered when I once took Marie to an office party, and the way she behaved in return. I was not about to repeat that mistake.

  ‘I’ll be working non-stop; it won’t be any fun for you. Let’s go together when I’m not so busy. Besides, you’ve got your vases to finish.’