‘It’s written on a receipt in the pocket of your coat, with a phone number. Who is she?’
There was a cheer from the television as Man U scored in time for the final whistle. I sighed and reached for the remote to turn it off.
‘Happy now?’ I lit a cigarette, knowing it would infuriate you.
‘Can’t you smoke that outside?’
‘No, I can’t,’ I said, blowing a stream of smoke towards you. ‘Because this is my house, not yours.’
‘Who is Charlotte?’ You were shaking, but you stayed standing in front of me.
I laughed. ‘I have no idea.’ It was true: I didn’t remember her at all. She could have been any number of girls. ‘She’s probably some waitress who took a shine to me – I must have shoved the receipt in my pocket without looking at it.’ I spoke easily, without a trace of defensiveness, and I saw you falter.
‘I hope you’re not accusing me of anything.’ I held your gaze challengingly, but you looked away and didn’t speak again. I almost laughed. You were so easy to beat.
I stood up. You were wearing a vest-top with no bra underneath and I could see the spread of your cleavage, and the shape of your nipples beneath the fabric. ‘Have you been out like that?’ I asked.
‘Just to the shops.’
‘With your tits on show?’ I said. ‘Do you want people to think you’re some sort of slapper?’
You brought your hands up across your chest and I pushed them away. ‘It’s all right for complete strangers to see them, but not me? You can’t pick and choose, Jennifer: either you’re a tart or you’re not.’
‘I’m not,’ you said quietly.
‘That’s not how it looks from where I’m standing.’ I brought up my hand and pushed my cigarette end into your chest, grinding it out between your breasts. You screamed, but I had already left the room.
39
As Ray strode through back to his office after the morning meeting, he was collared by the station duty officer. Rachel was a slim woman in her early fifties, with neat, bird-like features and closely cropped silver hair.
‘Are you duty DI today, Ray?’
‘Yes,’ Ray said, suspiciously, in the knowledge that nothing good ever followed that question.
‘I’ve got a woman called Eve Mannings at the front counter who wants to report a fear for welfare: she’s concerned about her sister.’
‘Can’t shift deal with it?’
‘They’re all out, and she’s very worried. She’s already been waiting an hour to see someone.’ Rachel didn’t say anything else; she didn’t need to. She simply looked at Ray over plain, wire-framed glasses, and waited for him to do the right thing. It was like being told off by a kindly but intimidating aunt.
He peered through the SDO to the front counter, where a woman was doing something on a mobile phone.
‘Is that her?’
Eve Mannings was the sort of woman more at home in a coffee shop than a cop shop. She had sleek brown hair that swished around her shoulders as she bent her head to look at her phone, and a bright yellow coat with over-sized buttons and a flowery lining. She was flushed, although that was not necessarily a reflection of her state of mind. The central heating in the station only seemed to have two settings: arctic or tropical, and today was obviously a tropical day. Ray silently cursed the protocol that dictated that fear-for-welfare reports should be dealt with by a police officer. Rachel would have been more than capable of taking a report.
He sighed. ‘All right, I’ll send someone down to see her.’
Satisfied, Rachel went back to her counter.
Ray made his way upstairs and found Kate at her desk. ‘Can you nip down and deal with a fear for welfare at the front desk?’
‘Can’t shift deal?’
Ray laughed at the face she pulled. ‘Already tried that. Go on, it’ll take twenty minutes, max.’
Kate sighed. ‘You’re only asking because you know I never say no.’
‘You want to be careful who you say that to.’ Ray grinned. Kate rolled her eyes, but an attractive blush spread across her cheeks.
‘Go on, then, what’s the job?’
Ray handed her the piece of paper Rachel had given him. ‘Eve Mannings. She’s waiting for you downstairs.’
‘Okay, but you owe me a drink.’
‘Fine by me,’ Ray called, as she left CID. He had apologised for the awkwardness at dinner, but Kate had shrugged it off as unimportant and they hadn’t spoken about it again.
He made his way to his office. When he opened his briefcase he found a Post-it note from Mags on his diary with the date and time of their meeting with the school the following week. Mags had drawn a circle around it in red felt-tip pen, in case he had missed it. Ray stuck it to the front of his computer with the other Post-it notes, each carrying supposedly important bits of information.
He was still midway through his in-tray when Kate knocked on his door.
‘Don’t stop me,’ Ray said. ‘I’m on a roll.’
‘Can I fill you in on this fear for welfare?’
Ray stopped and gestured for Kate to sit down.
‘What are you doing?’ she said, looking at the mountain of paper on his desk.
‘Admin. Filing, mostly, and my expenses for the last six months. Finance say that if I don’t get them in today they won’t authorise them.’
‘You need a PA.’
‘I need to be allowed to get on with being a police officer,’ he said, ‘instead of all this crap. Sorry. Tell me how you got on.’
Kate looked at her notes. ‘Eve Manning lives in Oxford, but her sister Jennifer lives here in Bristol with her husband, Ian Petersen. Eve and her sister fell out about five years ago and she hasn’t seen her or her brother-in-law since. A few weeks ago Petersen popped round to see Eve out of the blue, asking where her sister is.’
‘She’s left him?’
‘Apparently so. Mrs Manning got a card from her sister several months ago but she couldn’t make out the postmark and she’s thrown away the envelope. She’s just found the card torn into pieces and hidden behind a clock on her mantelpiece, and she’s convinced her brother-in-law did it when he visited.’
‘Why would he do that?’
Kate shrugged. ‘No idea. Mrs Manning doesn’t know either, but it’s put the wind up her for some reason. She wants to report her sister missing.’
‘But she isn’t missing, clearly,’ Ray said, exasperated. ‘Not if she’s sent a card. She just doesn’t want to be found. The two things are entirely different.’
‘That’s what I told her. Anyway, I’ve written it up for you.’ She handed a plastic sleeve to Ray, containing a couple of handwritten pages.
‘Thanks. I’ll take a look.’ Ray took the report and put it on his desk among the sea of paperwork. ‘Assuming I can get through this lot, are you still up for a drink later? I think I’m going to need it.’
‘Looking forward to it.’
‘Great,’ Ray said. ‘Tom’s going somewhere after school and I’ve said I’ll pick him up at seven, so it’ll just be a quick one.’
‘No worries. Does that mean Tom’s making friends?’
‘I think so,’ Ray said. ‘Not that he’ll tell me who they are. I’m hoping we’ll find out more when we see the school next week, but I’m not holding my breath.’
‘Well, if you need a sounding board in the pub, feel free to offload.’ Kate said. ‘Not that I can offer any advice about teenage kids, mind.’
Ray laughed. ‘To be honest, it’s nice to talk about something other than teenage kids.’
‘Then I’m happy to provide a distraction.’ Kate grinned, and Ray had a sudden picture in his mind of that night outside her flat. Did Kate ever think about it? He considered asking her, but Kate was already heading back to her desk.
Ray got out his phone to text Mags. He stared at the screen, trying to come up with some wording that wouldn’t antagonise Mags or be an out and out lie. He shouldn’t have to bend the t
ruth at all, he thought; going for a drink with Kate should be no different to going for a pint with Stumpy. Ray ignored the voice in his head that told him precisely why it wasn’t the same.
He sighed and put the phone back in his pocket, text message unwritten. Easier not to say anything at all. Glancing through his open office door, he could see the top of Kate’s head as she sat at her desk. She was certainly providing a distraction, Ray thought. He just wasn’t sure it was the right kind.
40
It’s two weeks before I dare risk being seen in public; when the violent purple bruises on my arms have faded to a pale green. It jolts me to realise how shocking the contusions look against my skin, when two years ago they were as much a part of me as the colour of my hair.
I’m forced out by the need for dog food, and I leave Beau at home so I can take the bus into Swansea, where no one will notice a woman in the supermarket with her eyes to the floor, a scarf around her neck despite the mild weather. I take the footpath towards the caravan park, but can’t shake off the feeling that someone’s watching me. I look behind me, then panic that I’ve chosen the wrong direction, so I turn once more, but there is nothing there either. I spin in circles, unable to see for the black spots that have appeared in my eyes and seem to move infuriatingly wherever I want to look. I teeter on the brink of panic, the fear in my chest so intense it hurts, and I half walk, half run until I can see the static caravans and the low building of Bethan’s shop. Finally my heart begins to slow and I fight to get myself back under control. It is times like this when prison becomes a welcome alternative to this life I’m living.
The car park at Bethan’s is for people staying at the caravan park, but its proximity to the beach makes it an attractive option for walkers heading off up the coastal path. Bethan doesn’t mind, except in high season when she puts up big signs saying ‘private parking’, and charges out of the shop when she sees a family unpacking picnics from their car. At this time of year, when the park is closed, the occasional cars left there belong to dog-walkers or hardy ramblers.
‘You can use it, of course,’ Bethan said to me when I first met her.
‘I don’t have a car,’ I explained.
She told me my visitors could park there, and never remarked on the fact that I had none, apart from Patrick, who would leave his Land Rover at the park before walking to see me. I force the memory from my mind before it can take hold.
There are few cars there now. Bethan’s battered Volvo; a van I don’t recognise; and – I screw up my eyes and shake my head. This isn’t possible. That can’t be my car. I start to sweat and I take a gulp of air as I try to make sense of what I am seeing. The front bumper is cracked and in the centre of the windscreen is a spider-web pattern of cracks, the size of a fist.
It is my car.
Nothing makes sense. When I left Bristol I left my car behind. Not because I thought the police would trace it – although it crossed my mind – but because I couldn’t bear to see it. For one wild moment I wonder if the police have found it and brought it here to test my reaction, and I look around the car park as though armed officers might leap out at me.
In my confused state I can’t work out how important this is; if it matters. But it must, or the police wouldn’t have insisted I tell them what I did with the car. I need to get rid of it. I think of films I’ve seen. Could I push it off a cliff? Or set fire to it? I’d need matches and lighter fuel or maybe petrol – but how would I set it alight without Bethan seeing?
I glance at the shop but can’t see her in the window, so I take a deep breath and cross the car park to my car. The keys are in the ignition and I don’t hesitate. I open the car door and sit in the driver’s seat. Immediately I’m assaulted by memories of the accident: I can hear the scream from Jacob’s mother, and my own horrified cry. I start to shake and try to pull myself together. The car starts first time and I speed out of the car park. If Bethan looks out now, she won’t see me, only the car and the cloud of dust in its wake as I head for Penfach.
‘Nice to be behind the wheel again?’
Ian’s voice is measured and dry. I slam on the brakes, and the car veers sharply to the left as my hands slip on the steering wheel. I have my hand on the car door handle when I realise the sound is coming from the CD player.
‘I expect you’ve missed your little run-about, haven’t you? No need to thank me for returning it to you.’
The effect of his voice on me is immediate. I become instantly smaller, shrinking back into my seat as though I can disappear into it, and my hands are hot and clammy.
‘Have you forgotten our wedding vows, Jennifer?’
I put my hand on my chest and press against it, trying to slow the frantic pounding of my heart.
‘You stood next to me, and you promised to love, honour and obey me as long as we both shall live.’
He’s taunting me, the sing-song pace of the vow I made so many years ago at odds with the coldness in his voice. He is insane. I can see that now, and it terrifies me to think of the years I spent lying next to him, not knowing what he was truly capable of.
‘Running to the police with your stories isn’t honouring me, is it, Jennifer? Telling them what goes on behind closed doors isn’t obeying me. Just remember, I only ever gave you what you asked for…’
I can’t hear any more. I jab at the stereo controls and the CD ejects with agonising slowness. I snatch it from the slot and try to snap it in half, but it won’t bend and I scream at it, my twisted face reflected in its shiny surface. I get out of the car and hurl the CD into the hedge.
‘Leave me alone!’ I scream. ‘Just leave me alone!’
I drive frantically, dangerously, along the high-hedged rows, heading out of Penfach and into the countryside. I’m shaking violently and it is beyond my capabilities to change gear, so I stay in second and the car whines in protest. I hear Ian’s words over and over in my head.
As long as we both shall live.
There is a collapsed barn a little way from the road, and no other houses nearby that I can see. I turn down the bumpy farm track towards it. As I draw near I see that the barn has no roof, and naked rafters reach towards the sky. There’s a pile of tyres at one end, and a collection of rusting machinery. It will do. I drive into the far end of the barn, tucking the car into the corner. There is a tarpaulin heaped on the floor and I drag it open, covering myself in fetid water that has collected in its folds. I pull it over my car. It’s a risk, but under the dark green sheet the car disappears into the rest of the barn, and it doesn’t look as though anything has been moved for some time.
I begin the long walk home, and I’m reminded of the day I arrived in Penfach, when what was ahead of me was so much more uncertain that what lay behind. Now I know what the future holds: I have two more weeks in Penfach, then I’ll return to Bristol for sentencing, and I’ll be safe.
There is a bus stop ahead of me but I keep walking, taking comfort in the rhythm of my feet. Gradually I begin to feel calmer. Ian’s playing games, that’s all. If he were going to kill me he would have done so when he came to the cottage.
It’s late in the afternoon when I reach the cottage, and dark clouds are gathering overhead. I go inside only long enough to put on my waterproof jacket and to call Beau outside, and I take him down to the beach for a run. Down by the sea I can breathe again, and I know I will miss this most of all.
The feeling of being watched is overpowering and I turn and keep my back to the sea. I feel a clutch of fear as I see a figure standing on the clifftop, facing me, and my heart quickens. I call for Beau and place my hand on his collar, but he barks and pulls away from me, running across the sand towards the footpath leading up to where the man is standing, silhouetted against the sky.
‘Beau, come back!’
He races on, oblivious, but I am rooted to the spot. It is only when Beau reaches the end of the beach, and bounds easily up the footpath, that the figure moves. The man bends to stroke Beau, and I instantly
recognise the familiar movements. It’s Patrick.
I might have been more reluctant to encounter him, after our last meeting, but the relief I feel is so great that before I know it I am following the scuff marks left by Beau in the sand, and walking to join them.
‘How are you?’ he says.
‘I’m fine.’ We’re strangers, walking in conversational circles around each other.
‘I left messages.’
‘I know.’ I’ve ignored them all. At first I listened to them, but I couldn’t bear to hear what I’d done to him, and so I deleted the others without playing them. Eventually I simply turned off my phone.
‘I miss you, Jenna.’
I found his anger understandable and easier to deal with, but now he is quiet and beseeching, and I feel my resolve crumbling. I start walking back to the cottage. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’ I resist the temptation to look around to see if we are being watched, but I’m terrified Ian will see us together.
I feel a drop of rain on my face, and I pull up my hood. Patrick strides alongside me.
‘Jenna, talk to me. Stop running away!’
It is so exactly what I have done all my life that I can’t defend myself.
There’s a flash of lightning and the rain falls so hard it takes my breath away. The skies darken so suddenly our shadows vanish, and Beau presses himself into the ground, flattening his ears. We run to the cottage and I wrench the door open just as thunder crashes overhead. Beau races past our legs and shoots up the stairs. I call for him, but he doesn’t come.
‘I’ll go and see if he’s okay.’ Patrick goes up the stairs and I bolt the front door, following a minute later. I find him on the floor of my bedroom, a quivering Beau in his arms. ‘They’re all the same,’ he says with a half-grin, ‘highly strung poodles or macho mastiffs – they all hate thunder and fireworks.’
I kneel down beside them and stroke Beau’s head. He whines a little.
‘What’s this?’ Patrick says. My wooden box is sticking out from beneath the bed.