Finding Grace(49)

I climb the stairs and Bev follows.

‘Dad’s been great with Oscar,’ I tell her. ‘I need to do more though, I’m just sitting around and it’s not fair on Dad.’

Bev makes a little noise of understanding behind me.

I’m distracted by Grace’s bedroom door to the left, but instead of lingering there, I turn right, walking into our bedroom. I seem to be finding it hard to concentrate.

I register the mess in there – clothes strewn on the floor, a cold cup of coffee on the chest of drawers, plates holding untouched sandwiches on the bedside tables – but I don’t offer any explanation. I know none is needed. I feel at ease with Bev.

I wait for her to bring out the stock phrases about keeping up hope, that Grace will come home… but she doesn’t say any of those things.

I perch on the side of the bed and Bev pulls across the tasselled velvet dressing table stool. She sits on it opposite me, resting her elbows on her knees.

‘Lucie, I need to ask you something,’ she says, linking her fingers together and looking at them rather than me. ‘I need you to give me a truthful answer.’

‘OK,’ I say, wishing I could just lie down on the bed and drift off to another place. Anywhere that’s not here.

Finally, she looks at me.

‘Is there anything – anything at all – you want to tell me?’

I scowl at her. I don’t reply, because I haven’t got a clue what she’s getting at. Then I remember the money in Blake’s office. But I can’t tell her about that; Blake would never forgive me.

She gives me a long look, then delves into her coat pocket and pulls something out.

‘This was shoved through our letter box at some point during the night. I was first up this morning and I found it when I went downstairs.’

She hands me a small white envelope. I pull out the lined sheet of paper torn from a spiral-bound notebook and unfold it.

You think you know Lucie Sullivan, but you don’t. Nobody knows who she really is. Except me. I know the person behind the respectable mask. Be warned.





I feel a chill at the base of my spine. It reminds me of what Barbara Charterhouse said about Blake in the café yesterday. His facade, as she referred to it. But it’s my husband she has the knives out for, not me.

I give a brisk laugh and stuff the note back into the envelope.

‘Probably just some crank getting off on the drama,’ I say bitterly.

‘You’re saying there’s nothing in this?’

‘Like what? What were you expecting me to say?’

‘I don’t know.’ Bev sighs. ‘I was just shocked to get it, you know? I’d usually be inclined to give something like that straight to the police, but you’re my friend. I don’t want to get you into trouble, if there’s something…’ Her words tail off.

‘Go on.’

‘I dunno… I suppose I mean if someone has got something on you.’ She sighs in frustration. ‘Look, I don’t even know what I’m trying to say. It was just a feeling I had when I got the note… a feeling that something might not be right and… I just wanted to give you the chance to tell me, to share the burden if…’ She takes in my incredulous expression. ‘I’m waffling. I’m sorry.’

‘I can’t believe you’re taking any notice of this bit of paper, but seeing as you ask: no, there’s nothing I need to tell you.’ I speak evenly, trying to cover up my irritation with her. ‘Anyone can shove an inane scrap of a note through the door like this. It has no substance. Surely you can see that, Bev.’

‘I had to ask. I haven’t even shown it to Mike.’

That surprises me. ‘Why wouldn’t you show it to him?’

She shrugs. ‘We’re not getting on too well at the moment. Let’s just say there have been some… problems.’ She gives me a thin smile. ‘It’s decent of you not to mention it, but I know you must’ve seen us arguing last night. In the kitchen.’

The stinging slap she delivered to Mike’s face when we were walking up the garden.

‘None of our business.’ I can’t think of anything else to say. ‘Anyway, you might as well chuck that note away, because it’s a hoax.’

‘If you say so.’ She stuffs the envelope back into her bag, and as her hand emerges again, I see she’s clutching something else. ‘But there was this, too, you see.’ She passes me a photograph. ‘It must be someone who knows you, or used to know you. Wouldn’t you agree?’

The image is slightly out of focus, the colours and clarity marking it as a dated Polaroid.

I’m dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved black polo-necked sweater that ends above the waist of my jeans, revealing an inch of pale, toned midriff.

I’m turning as though someone has just shouted my name, and smiling, my eyes alight with something that resembles mischievous anticipation.

I can remember the exact day this photograph was taken, sixteen years ago.

I know exactly who the photographer was and what happened the day after he took the shot.

I open my mouth to speak, but find I can utter no words. I stand up, and my legs wobble.

‘Lucie!’ Bev shrieks as my knees fold. I fall heavily to the floor, and as I do, my fingers clench convulsively to crumple the photograph into a small, screwed-up ball in the palm of my hand.