Her Perfect Family(20)

‘No, no. I can’t talk to DI Sanders. And this isn’t connected to Gemma. At least – I’m ninety-nine per cent certain it’s not connected. I just need the reassurance, you see. That’s all this is. To set my mind absolutely at rest.’

Matthew glances at his mobile on his desk. Mel Sanders will definitely need to be updated on this, but he will need to tread carefully.

‘How about you just tell me what this is. This one per cent of worry. Who are you worried about? Who’s missing?’

‘My wife, Mr Hill.’

‘She’s disappeared from the hospital?’ There’s a punch to Matthew’s stomach. He’s picturing the police guard. Has something gone wrong again at the hospital?

‘No. No, no. Not Rachel. I mean my ex-wife. My first wife.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you’d been married before.’ Matthew’s frowning again. He doesn’t recall Melanie mentioning this when they’ve gone over the case.

‘No one knows.’ Ed looks up to take in Matthew’s expression.

‘I think you’d better tell me everything, don’t you?’

Ed resumes rocking, his agitated expression heightening. ‘She’s called Laura. My first wife. And she became unwell. It was all very difficult. It was why we parted.’

‘Unwell?’

‘It’s complicated. I really don’t like to talk about it; not to anyone. But the thing is . . .’ Another pause. ‘The thing is it’s probably just a coincidence . . . Not connected in any way at all. But it’s been preying on my mind, you see.’

‘What has?’

‘We met in a cathedral. Me and Laura. We met in a cathedral, Mr Hill . . .’





CHAPTER 11


THE FATHER – BEFORE

Ed Hartley has come to spend a lot of his time wondering about fate. The weather. Timing. He will muse most of all about the rain that Thursday in Wells; had it been dry, he would never have met Laura.

Fact is, his first marriage only happened because of a deluge. He was in Wells to give a presentation, pitching for new clients for his agency, but it was all cancelled at the last minute because the rain was so severe it caused a landslip and disrupted all the trains. And the only reason he went into the coffee shop was to shelter from the relentless downpour. And if he hadn’t gone to the coffee shop, he would never have gone to the cathedral.

He was twenty-five – just a few years out of uni. He’d been in a marketing job for a mid-size agency for just eighteen months and was still enjoying the novelty of travelling for pitches and meetings. A hotel on expenses. But with his presentation suddenly cancelled, he was at a loose end. He was bored with his hotel which had over-enthusiastic air conditioning so he’d wandered into town, optimistically hoping the rain would ease. It didn’t. And so, on his second cup of coffee, he found himself tuning into the conversation of two women at the adjoining table. They were hurrying their drinks and checking their watches, apparently anxious to make it to the cathedral ‘in time for the clock thingy.’

What clock thingy?

Ed couldn’t help himself. He turned to stare at the women as they gathered up their things and for a beat considered asking out loud. But that would mean owning up to earwigging so he turned back to his coffee instead, pretending to consider adding a sachet of sugar.

One of the women was now telling the other to hurry. Come on. Noon is the best time for the clock. We need to get a shift on.

That decided it. Ed liked clocks, especially unusual ones. But what could be so special about a clock in a cathedral?

He reached into his jacket pocket for the tourist pamphlet, picked up from hotel reception, just as his two neighbours made for the door.

Wells Cathedral had half a page – and yes; the clock had a special mention. It dated back to around 1390. Right. Decided. He stood, slurped the last of his coffee and headed for the door himself.

It was too windy for his umbrella so by the time he reached the cathedral, he was pretty much wet through. It was not the largest of cathedrals, but he loved the mellow colour of the stone. The arches. At the information desk, he was told there were no official tickets that day. A woman in a bright pink blouse signalled the voluntary-contribution box. He dropped in some pound coins, asked about the clock and was told to hurry. There’s a guide at midday to explain it all.

It was easy to see where to head. A small group of visitors were craning their necks to view something high up. A guide had a small torch that he was shining up on to the wall, sweeping his other arm as he continued his spiel.

Ed moved forward to perch on a little stone shelf that others were also using as a seat. Somehow, he lost his grip on his redundant umbrella and it slid with a clatter to the floor. All eyes turned. A woman with long strawberry-blonde hair smiled at him as the guide paused to check on the noise before moving the torch back to the clock high up in front of them.

The story was impressive. The oldest clock face in the world, apparently.

‘But what you will enjoy, ladies and gentlemen, is the unusual action with the chime.’ The guide checked his watch. ‘Just a few more seconds and you’ll see what I mean.’

Ed stared up at the clock and wondered what to expect. Some kind of unusual bell? Music? He was surprised to find the anticipation so enjoyable. An unexpected boost to this dismal, wet day.