My Husband's Wife(38)

But if I had, he would surely have left me.

‘Lily!’ My father wraps me up in a bear hug. There is no resisting. I am a child again. Back in the days when I felt secure.

‘Lily.’ My mother’s faint voice, laden with bravery, cuts in. ‘It’s been so long since your last visit.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I begin.

‘It’s all right. We know you’ve been busy at work.’ My father is already leading me into the sitting room. I sit down on the worn sofa. My parents may have inherited this lovely house, but they have little money to run it. The oil-fired central heating is rarely on. I shiver, wishing I’d brought a thicker jumper.

‘I’ve been reading about this new case of yours,’ says Dad. ‘Sounds very interesting.’

He flourishes a copy of the Daily Telegraph at me and my heart quickens. There it is. A large article on the second page.





MOTHER OF BOILING BATH VICTIM LASHES BACK


I scan it quickly. There are the usual gory details about the crime, a picture of Sarah Evans that I try not to look at, and a quote from her mother: ‘I can’t understand how anyone can defend this evil monster …’

Below are two pictures. Me and Tony Gordon. We each have a smile on our face. Not very suitable under the circumstances. Great. Where did they get them from? A listed professional profile perhaps, in the public domain?

‘Sounds like you’ve taken on something very big.’

My father’s voice swells with pride as he pours me a gin and tonic.

‘How do you know this man is innocent?’ asks my mother quietly, sitting next to me on the sofa, a glass already in her hand. She’s gazing wistfully out of the window, across the garden with its bare trees and down towards the paddock.

When I was a child, I had been the apple of her eye. I can remember her cooking with me like I bake with Carla. We’d cuddle up together and sing songs. Go for long walks to find chestnuts. But then Daniel had come along and there’d been no time for these normal things any more.

How do I know Joe is innocent? My mother’s question catches me out.

Because there are similarities to Daniel, I want to say. Because he can’t help telling the truth even if it’s rude. And because my gut feeling tells me that I need to save him.

I select the only part that would make sense. ‘Some new evidence has emerged that shows …’ Then I stop.

‘She can’t talk about it. You know that, love.’

My father might be retired (after Daniel, it proved impossible for him to carry on), but as a social worker he dealt a lot with lawyers. He understands the etiquette. To me, however, he’ll always be Daddy. The man who read me stories at night and assured me that there wasn’t anyone hiding under the bed.

‘Are you staying over?’ My mother again.

‘Sorry. I need to be back for Ed.’

Their disappointment is tangible.

‘Lunch is almost ready now.’ She rises and, en route to the kitchen, tops up her own glass.

The meal is a torment. We talk about everything else except the reason I am here. My mother tops up her glass frequently. Meanwhile, I pick at the fish pie, my brother’s favourite.

Afterwards, my mother melts away for her ‘rest’. My father is looking weary from the effort of keeping the peace.

‘Mind if I go upstairs for a bit?’ I ask.

He nods, gratefully.

The stairs creak, just as they did when Daniel used to come down them at the dead of night and I would follow, to make sure he was all right. His room is exactly as he left it. Toy cars perfectly positioned on the bookshelves along with Palgrave’s Golden Treasury and old copies of the Beano, which he still read in his teens. Posters of scantily dressed models on the wall. Clothes neatly folded in the drawer – jumpers mainly and the odd T-shirt. I pick one up and press it to my nose.

At first, it used to smell of him. But the scent has worn away over the years.

Unable to stop myself, I turn to the cupboard where my brother kept his ‘special things’. The pile of sticker albums – ranging from oceans of the world to the stars in the sky – is stacked in perfect order. So too are the Lego models he used to spend hours making. Woe betide anyone who touched them. Once I recall a cleaning lady ‘having a bit of a sort out’. She had to be given a hefty tip in order not to report the bruise on her wrist, courtesy of my brother.

Now, I reverently take out a sticker book. It’s about birds. Daniel used to save up his pocket money to buy packets of stickers. He would spend hours carefully placing each one in exactly the right position within the frame marks. Robins. Thrushes. Blackbirds. Pigeons. (He’d spell the latter with a ‘d’ in the middle because, as he rightly said, it ‘sounded as though it should have one there’.)

Swiftly, I slip the book into my bag. And another two. Then I glance out of the window at the old brown cob horse grazing on the winter grass. I ought to go and see Merlin. Nuzzle my face against his. But I don’t feel strong enough.

There’s a noise at the door. It’s my father. ‘I’ve been wanting to have a quiet word.’

My heart sinks. What now? What fresh piece of bad news is waiting for me?

‘How is married life?’ he asks.

I hesitate. It’s just enough for him to notice.