The Stepmother(107)

 

And then I think of Alison Day’s words earlier, that maybe Matthew was only using her anyway.

 

Alison Day! Of course!

 

So Day of Day and Young must be her husband, Sean – and he got the injunction for Matthew King.

 

Before I can make my next move, which is probably to go back to Malum House to challenge Matthew King – Robo’s texted back.

 

No address, but here’s a phone number for the family home, I think.

 

 

 

 

 

I call the number Robo has sent me. There’s just an automated voicemail with no name, so I leave a very polite message asking to be called back.

 

Then I go back to the King house.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

In the avenue there’s a tired-looking reporter sitting outside Malum House in a battered old Vauxhall, reading a paperback, and a photographer in a camouflage jacket and cap, leaning on a lamp post, drinking Dr Pepper and texting.

 

I drive past and down the road slightly.

 

As I’m parking, a white Range Rover pulls into the drive. I know that the Range Rover is Kaye’s, and so I’m guessing this will mean fireworks. But maybe, I think, feeling almost excited, this is the opportune moment to confront Matthew. Get it all out in the open…

 

By the time I hurry across the road, past the two reporters, who are now out on the pavement by the gate, whoever has just arrived has gone inside. I see there’s also a big black car parked half in, half out of the open garage, and I open the garden gate.

 

I hurry up the path with voices ringing in my ears – ‘Oi, love, hang on a sec!’ – and I feel extremely uncomfortable. The hunter turned prey: all the times I’ve been that insistent voice, shouting at others, begging for their story, whatever their emotional state…

 

The curtains are pulled at the lounge window, the one that Alison Day knocked on earlier to alarm me.

 

I go into the open garage, past the black car, and through it, and sure enough, there’s a door into the garden at the far end.

 

In the back garden I creep along the flowerbed until I am adjacent with the patio doors – and I see two figures standing in the kitchen – two figures embracing.

 

If it wasn’t a bloody cliché, I’d double take.

 

Matthew King – and his ex-wife, Kaye.

 

Matthew King and Kaye with their arms round each other, and as I stop in my tracks and stare, my mouth agape, she reaches up and kisses him on the lips.

 

Jesus wept.

 

So what do I do now?

 

Do I run screaming forward and yell at them – you traitors? Or do I leave quietly and regroup?

 

You may think I should plump for the former, but I choose the latter. I need to get my head round this, and I need to collate all the evidence I’m gleaning, and I need to try and work out WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON.

 

As I retreat down the garden and slip back into the garage, I see a face at an upper window, a pale face, and I think it’s Scarlett at first, and then I think no, it’s the boy. I find myself putting my finger to my lips.

 

Who am I kidding?

 

I get the hell out of Dodge.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

I’ve booked myself a room at the Penny Farthing Inn on the high street. It’s quite gastro and chichi, but I’m beyond caring. I dump my bag, and then I go out and buy myself a bottle of vodka, some tonic, a portion of chips and a pad of A4 paper.

 

I eat the chips sitting on the bed, then I ring the hospital again. Still no change. And still nothing from Frank.

 

I pour myself a warm vodka and tonic in the toothbrush beaker, and I lay my own notebook and Jeanie’s two diaries out on the table in the corner, and I use the paper to try to make sense of what the hell’s gone on here.

 

And so what I’m wondering now, what I’m faced with, is – if Kaye and Matthew are in cahoots, was Jeanie just collateral damage?

 

Was Jeanie just about whatever the financial thing was that Alison mentioned? I get the idea Matthew’s finances weren’t quite what he was making out – that he was in some kind of bother…

 

Or is it more sinister than that?

 

The tepid vodka slows my thought processes.

 

Lying on the bed, exhausted and gutted, I have an idea that Jeanie simply got involved with a man not over his first wife – and it’s as straightforward as that.

 

The only way I will have any idea of the truth, I realise, is by confronting Matthew. But before I can think about how to achieve that, my phone buzzes.

 

‘It’s Peter Bedford, Daisy’s dad. You left a message?’