The Stepmother(87)

 

I was leaving for the airport when Robo called.

 

‘All right, mate? See, I looked again at that email address. There was something niggling me about it.’

 

‘Like what?’ I said. I was catching a flight to Istanbul and another internal flight on to Antakya in Turkey to speak to the consul, and I was late already, my anxiety levels high as that famous old kite.

 

‘Well I think it was a decoy.’ He sounded enthused, as only a computer nerd could. ‘It was a fake IP address, rerouted through the original email address.’

 

‘You’re losing me, Robo.’ I dragged my jacket on and locked my front door. ‘Just talk English.’

 

‘It’s not from Frankie Randall’s computer. It’s generated by a different account altogether.’

 

‘Oh.’ He had my attention now. I stood, case in one hand, key in the other. ‘Well whose then?’

 

‘Someone called Scarlett King?’

 

 

 

 

 

Fifty-Nine

 

 

 

 

 

Jeanie

 

 

 

 

 

12 June 2015

 

 

 

 

 

When I wake the next morning, startled by something unknown, startled from a deep and dreamless sleep again, I don’t know where I am.

 

Instead of the gentle cooing of the wood pigeons, I open my eyes to a big black bird perched on the windowsill outside: a crow, or a raven perhaps. Small shiny eye, sharp tapered beak, tap-tapping at the glass. Not pretty like the blackbirds. The dead blackbirds outside Malum House.

 

I must have forgotten to pull the curtains when…

 

When we…

 

I roll over and see Matthew’s dark head on the other pillow, and my heart flip-flops.

 

Shit.

 

Blearily I realise it’s his phone that has woken me. It’s ringing and then cutting off and then ringing again.

 

‘You’d better answer it.’ I nudge his arm gently, shy despite what we’d been doing before we fell asleep; despite my faint hope that maybe, just maybe, it would be all right again. ‘Someone really wants you.’

 

He’d come back last night. He’d banged at the door, and he’d even got tearful. He’d begged me to let him in, and when I finally relented, he’d said how sorry he was.

 

He’d brought expensive wine, a bag of late apples from the orchard’s shop at the foot of the hill and a bottle of their cider. I’d said I didn’t want any more alcohol, but he’d poured me a glass anyway; he’d chosen it because he thought it was my favourite.

 

Later, after we’d talked and talked, he’d said please could I sign something he needed me to – it was only to do with the bank accounts in my name that he’d opened when we married, which needed two signatures. I skimmed through the paperwork, and I couldn’t see anything untoward, so I did; I just signed where he asked. I couldn’t see any harm.

 

And when I did that, he was so pleased he kissed me.

 

I tried to move away – but he just took my face in his hands and looked down at me. And he smelt so nice, and maybe the drink had gone to my head, or maybe it was the sight of the tears in his eyes earlier – but I gave in. I let him kiss me – and then I couldn’t help it.

 

I kissed him back.

 

Oh God, I hope I won’t regret it.

 

‘What?’ he mumbles now as I shake him gently.

 

‘Your phone. It might be urgent.’

 

He groans, and, eyes half open, leans down, fumbling for the phone on the floor somewhere near the bed. Eventually he finds it, just as it rings again.

 

‘Hello?’

 

He’s frowning. There’s a silence whilst he listens, and I pull myself up now to sit, feeling dozy and uncertain.

 

What now, for us, I’m thinking when he explodes.

 

‘You are f*cking kidding me!’

 

I turn. ‘What is it?’

 

‘You are f*cking joking,’ Matthew repeats down the phone, glaring at me. ‘Are you sure?’

 

He’s pulling himself out of bed too and ignoring me, and I’ve got a bad feeling, a bad feeling that started a moment ago, and he’s telling whoever it was he’ll call them back in five minutes.

 

Then he’s off the phone and grimacing right in my face. ‘Did you know about this?’

 

‘What?’ I’m suddenly wide awake.

 

‘I bet you put him up to it. That’d be right, wouldn’t it?’