Her Perfect Family(18)
‘Here. Sip this, Mrs Hartley.’
I open my eyes to find DI Sanders handing me water. She must have fetched it from the corner of the ward. But I don’t remember her moving.
‘I’m sorry. I’m very tired.’
‘It’s understandable. Shall I leave? Talk again in the morning?’
‘No, no. Go on.’ I need to know what she knows. Why she really came here tonight.
‘I’m sorry to ask but have they been more exact about the stage of Gemma’s pregnancy?’
I don’t want to say it but she keeps staring at me, raising her eyebrows and then tilting her head to the side. She has quite a nice face, actually. Ed doesn’t like her, I can tell. But she has warm eyes, for all the difficult questions. I guess she’s just doing her job.
‘Fourteen weeks.’
‘Right. Thank you. And she split up with Alex when?’
Again – I don’t want to say it.
‘I’m sorry but I have to ask. It’s important.’
‘About three months ago. I can check. We had to cancel a few things. I can look that up.’
‘Thank you. That would be a help.’
I look away, my brain spinning once more as I do the sums again. I had assumed this baby had to be Alex’s. It never occurred to me it wouldn’t be. I supposed Gemma found out after they split and hadn’t wanted to tell anyone. Not even me – her mother. But could it be true about this affair? Is that why she couldn’t bring herself to confide in me?
‘Did he give a name? Did Alex say which professor he claimed Gemma was seeing?’
‘No. He said he heard rumours but didn’t know who it was. You’re right. He could be making this up but we’ll be speaking to all of Gemma’s tutors as part of the inquiry.’
I find myself trying to think back to conversations with Gemma about her work. She was always mentioning which modules she liked best. Postmodernism was a favourite. But I don’t remember her mentioning the names of any staff. I feel bad for not knowing more. For not asking more questions.
I glance at the window into Gemma’s cubicle and feel close to tears. How could I miss all this, Gemma?
I expect DI Sanders to stand and to leave but she doesn’t.
‘Is there something else? I’m sorry but like I said, I’m actually very tired now.’
Again, she’s looking right into my eyes.
‘I just wanted to ask a few questions about your husband, Mrs Hartley.’ For a moment it is as if the air cools. Yes. The ward, which I normally find so stuffy, feels momentarily colder. ‘Whether there’s been any difficulties between you. In the marriage, I mean. Again – I’m sorry to pry but we have to ask these questions. And your husband has been quite difficult with our inquiry. With me. You must have noticed that.’
‘Our daughter’s been shot, Inspector. Of course, he’s finding it difficult.’
‘Yes. Quite. But I didn’t mean that. I think you know what I mean.’ That intense stare once more as if she can read my mind. ‘I just wanted to say that if there’s anything bothering you. Anything you might want to talk to me about privately, you can. Now. Or at any time.’
I wonder if I should just say it. Get it over with. On and off since we arrived here, I have wondered if I should mention her. The strange woman. I’ve been afraid of the consequence – what I did afterwards, I mean. And I can’t really believe it has anything to do with any of this. But what if I’m wrong?
I look at the floor and get this vivid picture. I can see the scene so clearly – that first day I saw the odd woman, looking at me so strangely from the end of our drive. Right at the house.
It was a Thursday and it was raining. I was looking out of the kitchen window and she was just standing in the rain, staring at the house. No. Not just at the house. She was staring at the window, through the window . . . at me. I’ve been trying to push all this to the back of my mind because I’m ashamed of my own behaviour afterwards. And I haven’t wanted to admit what I did to anyone; Ed will never forgive me if he finds out what I did.
‘So is there anything else you want to tell me? Anything at all that might help the inquiry.’
I’m completely torn, fighting tears now.
‘No.’
CHAPTER 10
THE PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR
Matthew has switched the office landline to answerphone but with the speaker activated. He listens to it ring – two, three, four rings . . .
Matthew Hill, private investigator. Please leave a message and I’ll get right back to you.
He grimaces through the long beep. A puzzle that, away from a microphone, his voice echoing in his head sounds utterly unremarkable, yet on playback it’s excruciating.
He clears his throat, wondering which version of his voice other people hear. At last the beep ends. A pause. And then the voice of a woman with an alarmingly breathy tone.
I need you, Matthew.
There’s a longer pause after which the caller rambles about her love of good jewellery – and why shouldn’t a widow wear her good jewellery, Matthew? Am I supposed to be embarrassed by my wealth? She talks of the problems of isolation since her husband’s passing. He was a very successful man, Matthew. Another pause. Potent . . . Matthew hears himself gulp. At last the caller continues and it rapidly becomes clear that what she actually ‘needs’ is a bodyguard to accompany her on holiday while she wears her biggest diamonds. Two weeks. South of France. She mentions having booked a wonderful villa but in a rather remote area. She’s prepared to pay a premium on his usual rate and will be happy for him to join her for restaurant reservations. I know some wonderful places. She leaves her details. Matthew finds that his eyes are still wide, uncomfortable now through lack of blinking.