The Couple at No. 9(61)
Theo wants to believe him but he doesn’t. He’s being too nice, too helpful. Like he’s been backed into a corner.
‘Then why the newspaper article on your desk with the words Find Her scribbled on it? Why –’
‘Why, why, why?’ he spits. ‘I thought I’d come here, be nice, try to explain. But no, it’s not enough for you, is it? Nagging. Just like your mother.’ He gathers up his jacket and stands up.
‘Look, Dad, this is a conversation to have in private. I get off in half an hour. I could come over and –’
But before he can finish his sentence, his dad pushes past him, and Theo loses his footing, stumbling into the table behind him, which thankfully is empty.
His father rounds on him, not looking the least bit guilty for hurting his son. ‘Don’t go through my fucking things again! Got it?’ he hisses. The restaurant falls silent, faces tilted towards Theo as his dad slams out of the door.
33
Saffy
It’s late Friday afternoon and I can hear Mum in the living room on the phone to Alberto. She’s had to use my mobile. Her own phone should turn up in the next day or so – she’d managed to track it down by calling the café in Broadstairs where she’d lost it. Luckily some good Samaritan had handed it in to the bar staff. It sounds like she’s telling him she’s staying on for another week, and as much as she can bug me, with her fussing and high energy and incessant chatter, I’d miss her if she left tomorrow. The thought of the long days in the cottage alone, the press outside, circling like a pack of wolves, and some shady private detective lurking in the woods, makes me feel panicky. It doesn’t help that my days are filled creating book covers for sinister novels. And there is still so much we don’t know, about Gran and the past and those dead bodies. About Sheila and Jean and Susan. It’s obvious Gran knows something and it’s getting scrambled in her mind, like that game she used to play with me when I was little, where the top part of a cartoon body doesn’t go with the bottom part. I constantly have this feeling of low-level anxiety and I’m not sure if it’s my hormones or this whole situation – maybe a mixture of both – that’s causing it.
I rang DS Barnes last night and told him all about Glen Davies’s assault on Mum. She tried to stop me, saying he’d threatened her about going to the police, but it was the right thing to do.
I plaster on a smile when Mum appears in the kitchen where I’m making tea. I hand her a mug, which she takes distractedly. I’ve finished work for the day, not that I’ve managed to get much done with Mum popping her head around my study door every hour asking if I’m okay, or if I need anything.
‘I don’t think he’s very happy,’ she begins, sipping her tea thoughtfully. ‘I think he’s going to move out.’
‘What? Because you’re not at his beck and call?’
She grimaces. ‘No. Not just that. There’s been something missing for a while now. And him, my life there, it just seems a million miles away right now. And I can’t leave. Not yet. Your gran knows something about this – that’s obvious – and we need to get to the bottom of it all. Find out what she knows, or if she’s protecting someone.’
‘Will your boss mind you taking another week off?’
‘My boss will be fine. He owes me loads of holiday. Saffy,’ her voice is stern, ‘leave it to me. I can’t go back to Spain yet. Not until all this has been sorted out.’
I sigh. ‘But it might never be sorted out.’
‘Of course it will,’ she scoffs. Because things always are in my mum’s world. She makes sure of it. ‘If your gran knows something about the bodies, who they are and who killed them, then fear would have kept her quiet all these years. The police will understand that, I’m sure.’
I turn away, my hands gripping my cup, feeling nauseous. From the kitchen window I can see the hole – the dug-up grave. The gruesome discovery that started all this. Even the cocky builders don’t want to come back, and I don’t blame them. So we’re stuck with it for a while, the reminder that two people were murdered here. I wish so much we’d never planned the fucking kitchen extension. Then we would have been in blissful ignorance and none of this would be happening.
I go to bed early – it’s not even ten o’clock. I’ve been feeling sick all day and I don’t know if it’s the pregnancy or because I’m stressed.
I lie soaking in the bath for a bit until the water turns cold. I’m nearly eighteen weeks pregnant and I can see the swell of a bump underneath the water. My belly button has changed shape, protruding more than normal. I step out of the bath carefully and dry myself, then pull on my most comfortable pyjamas. I climb into bed, the duvet lovely and cold against my skin. I can hear Tom and Mum downstairs chatting. Their voices are indecipherable but I know they’re probably talking about Gran. That’s all our conversations are about at the moment. I turn onto my side and pull my knees up towards my stomach. This should be such a happy time, looking forward to the baby’s arrival, doing up the house. But now everything feels tainted and grey. I roll onto my back and glance around the room. Was this Gran’s room when she lived here? She must have had her bed pointing this way too, facing the little cast-iron fireplace on the far wall and the window that overlooks the driveway on the right. Despite how tired I feel I get up and go to the window, pulling aside the curtains, wondering if Glen Davies is still lurking about outside.