Cross Her Heart(46)

She hasn’t put any sender’s address on the letter, and she’s read it over and over to make sure there’s nothing in it to give any clues as to where she is now. Not that she is worried about him. Not any more. She’s doing the right thing. She owes the ghost of their love, and the very much alive spirit of their little girl, this much. This private moment. She needs to say thank you, and it needs to come on paper not sullied by others’ eyes or touch.

Her decision made, she shoves the envelope in her pocket and smiles as she pushes Ava’s buggy down to the little post office at the local shops. Stamp attached, she enjoys the whisper of paper as it falls into the box. It’s done. Sent. It feels good, and she’s smiling as she heads over to the small park with the swings and roundabouts Ava loves so much. She’s closed a door on the past.

She doesn’t for a second think about the postmark that will be stamped on to her carefully addressed envelope. It doesn’t cross her mind at all.





38


NOW


MARILYN

Why did I say yes? Why? I’m only doing this for Ava, to get her back to safety. I’m full of anxiety for her, and exhaustion for me. I really don’t need this shit. I breathe more condensation on to the window glass. It’s one of those grey muggy days where rain has fallen but not enough, and damp hangs listless in the air soaking everything it touches. Even inside the car, my skin itches with invisible bugs.

Trees blur outside. At least the police hadn’t gone to my house, but called my mobile after going to the office. From the look on Detective Bray’s face when we’d met outside the hotel, Penny must have told her something of what was going on with Richard. I’ve never thought of Penny as a gossip, but then there’s something about the police turning up that makes most people blurt out everything they know or don’t know. Not only had she told them about my personal situation, it’s clear she’d also mentioned the missing money. ‘She thinks Charlotte took it,’ Bray says, as we head to our undisclosed location to meet. ‘Do you?’ she asks.

I shrug, staring out at the countryside. ‘What would I know? I thought her name was Lisa. I thought she couldn’t harm a fly.’

She doesn’t speak again until we finally turn down a narrow country lane and the car bumps over the uneven surface, my teeth clenching as each pothole makes my damaged ribs scream. ‘She’s here already,’ she says. ‘I must remind you that should you tell anyone at all about this meeting you could be hindering a police investigation and charged as such.’

I snort out a half-laugh. Like I’d tell anyone. Who would I tell? I don’t have anyone to tell. My self-pity is bitter as bile. I loathe self-pity. I don’t see the fucking point in it. ‘I’m here for Ava,’ I say. ‘That’s all.’ Bray nods, satisfied. We’re all here for Ava.

‘Try to keep Charlotte on topic,’ she says. ‘She’s … well. You’ll see. Keep her talking about Jon.’ She twists round in her seat as the car slows to a halt, and I see a fierce intelligence in her eyes. Not a donkey at all. ‘There must be something she knows that can help us. Somewhere he might have taken Ava. Somewhere they’d been before. A place important to him somehow. We’re going through the house again to see if there’s anything there to help, but it may come down to what we can get out of her. What you can get out of her.’

‘Why won’t she talk to you?’ I ask, carefully unfolding my damaged body from the unmarked car. We’re outside a country cottage which should be pretty but instead looks bleak. The small front garden behind the low wall has been tarmacked and even from a distance I can see that the paint is chipped on the cracked sash windowsills, big strips of rotting wood now bare of colour. Even on a sunny day it would be depressing – under the thick grey sky it’s virtually suicidal.

‘Oh, she talks,’ Bray says. ‘But she doesn’t make any sense. Chat to her. Try to relax her. We’ll sift through what she says for anything useful. We haven’t told her Ava may be pregnant, she’s fragile enough as it is, so don’t mention it. And don’t try to talk about her past.’

Suddenly I feel sick. I’m going to see Lisa again, but it won’t be Lisa at all. She’ll be Charlotte Nevill wearing Lisa’s skin. ‘I have no interest in her past,’ I mutter, as we trudge across the gravel to the gate. Talk about her past? How would I do that? Hey, Lisa, I’ve had a shitty day at work. Fancy the pub? You can take my mind off it by telling me how murdering your little brother felt. For the lols. Jesus, what a headfuck.

It’s gloomier inside and has the kind of chill that settles in old houses when they’ve been left empty too long. A hollow cold, as if the bricks have given up waiting for anyone to come and give them purpose. A woman, about my age, in jeans and a sweater, hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, has let us in, and Bray quietly introduces her as Alison, Lisa’s probation officer.

‘Any problems?’ Bray asks and Alison shakes her head.

‘Once we agreed she could bring a portable radio, she was fine. She’s still uncommunicative, but she’s docile. Taken her meds.’

There’s no time to process anything before I’m following the two women along a corridor. The uneven floorboards creak under the thin carpet, and in the kitchen to my left, two men are drinking mugs of tea. They see us and one immediately refills the kettle, the screeching tap setting my teeth on edge. My heart is pounding but I keep moving and then I’m in the doorway of the sitting room, Bray nodding me in.