The Couple at No. 9(3)
‘Parents nearby?’
Tom shakes his head. ‘Mine still live in Poole and Saffy’s mum’s in Spain.’
‘And my dad lives in London,’ I say. ‘But he’s only got a one-bedroom flat …’
She frowns, like this is all information she doesn’t need. ‘Then may I suggest a hotel, just until Sunday. The police will pay your expenses for this inconvenience. It’s just while the crime scene is being secured and the excavation is completed.’
The words ‘crime scene’ and ‘excavation’ make me feel sick.
‘When can the building work resume?’ Tom asks.
She sighs, as though this is a question too far. ‘I’m afraid you won’t be able to use the back garden until the excavation and removal of the skeleton has been completed. You’ll have to wait until you hear from the SOCO. A scenes of crime officer,’ she clarifies, when we look at her with puzzled expressions.
‘So you think this is a crime?’ I ask, throwing Tom a concerned look. He tries to smile at me in reassurance but it’s more of a grimace.
‘We’re treating it as a crime scene, yes,’ she says, as though I’m incredibly stupid, but she doesn’t offer any further information and I sense it would be fruitless to ask.
‘We’ve only been here a few months,’ I say, feeling the need to explain, just in case this stern police officer thinks we might have had something to do with it, like we’re in the habit of hiding dead bodies in our garden. ‘It might have been here years … centuries perhaps …’ But the look on her face makes me falter.
PC Price purses her lips together. ‘I’m not at liberty to say anything further for now. The CSI have requested a forensic anthropologist to confirm the bones are human and we will keep you updated.’ I think of the hand that Karl claims he saw. It doesn’t sound like there’s much doubt. There follow a few beats of awkward silence before she goes to leave. Then she pauses, as though suddenly remembering. ‘Oh, and please can you be out of here within the hour.’
We watch her step out into the back garden, into that gruesome world of police forensics, and I fight back tears. Tom reaches for my hand silently, as though he’s lost the ability to offer words of comfort.
And it suddenly hits me that this is really happening. Our dream home, our beautiful cottage, is now a crime scene.
Luckily the Stag and Pheasant in the village has a room for us to stay in and they allow dogs. We turn up with one overnight bag each, which Tom insists on carrying while I take Snowy on his lead.
The landlady, Sandra Owens, regards us questioningly. ‘Aren’t you the new owners of the cottage up at Skelton Place?’ she asks, as we hover in the bar area. We’ve only been in the pub once since moving to Beggars Nook and that was for Sunday lunch last month. We’d been impressed with the tasteful pale green Farrow & Ball-painted walls, the rustic furniture and delicious home-cooked food. It had, apparently, undergone a huge make-over when the Owenses took it over five years ago.
I don’t know what to say. Once the news gets out it will be all over the village.
‘We’ve run into a bit of bother with our build,’ says Tom, pleasantly but noncommittally, ‘so thought it best to move out for a few nights, just until it’s sorted.’
‘Right,’ Sandra says, although she doesn’t look particularly convinced. She’s in her late fifties and attractive with her highlighted bob and elegant wrap-dress. It won’t be long before she finds out the truth but neither of us wants to tell her about it tonight. Fatigue has set in and it’s not even seven o’clock yet, still light. I just want to crawl into bed.
She shows us to a double room, which is small and cosy with views of the woods from the back window. ‘Breakfast is between seven thirty and ten,’ she says, before leaving.
Tom is standing by the tea-making facilities, looking out of the window at the trees in the distance. ‘I can’t believe this,’ he says, his back to me.
I stretch out on the bed – it’s a beautiful four-poster with a quilted bedspread in inky tones. Normally this would be such a treat for us. We haven’t had a holiday for ages – all our money over the last five months has been put aside for the extension – but it’s tainted, overshadowed by the excavation back at the cottage. Every time I think of it I feel sick.
Snowy hops onto the bed next to me, laying his head on my lap and looking up at me with his soulful brown eyes. ‘I can’t believe we’ve been turfed out of our own house,’ I say, as I stroke Snowy’s head. Then I pull my cardigan around myself. It’s turned chilly, or perhaps it’s the shock.
Tom flicks the switch on the little plastic kettle, then comes to join us on the bed. The mattress is softer than ours at home. ‘I know. But it will all be okay,’ he says, with a return to his former optimism. ‘We’ll be able to resume our building work soon and everything will be back to normal.’
I snuggle into him, wishing I could believe him.
We resist the urge to walk past the cottage. Instead we spend the weekend either in the pub or on long walks through the village and woods.
‘At least it gives me the weekend off decorating,’ says Tom, on Saturday, taking my hand as we amble through the village square. He’s done so much to the cottage already since we moved in: taking up the threadbare carpet on the stairs, painting the living room and our bedroom a dove grey, sanding the floorboards. Next he wants to strip the wallpaper in the little bedroom ready to decorate before the baby arrives, although he put off doing this until my twelve-week scan so as not to tempt Fate.