The Couple at No. 9(69)

Gran’s eyes are wide with fright.

‘It’s okay, Gran,’ I say softly. ‘What do you remember about this man?’

‘He was after us,’ she says, turning back to DS Barnes.

I stare at her in shock. I assumed she wouldn’t know him. I can’t look at Mum. I haven’t told the police about Sheila’s file and the article in it with Neil Lewisham’s byline in case I end up implicating Gran somehow.

‘What do you mean, Rose?’ probes DC Webb, her voice gentle, and I realize that’s why she’s been brought along today. A woman’s touch.

My mouth is dry and I’m still exhausted after last night’s events. I notice Joy hasn’t brought in the tea she promised.

‘Did you hurt him, Rose? Or did Daphne?’ Lucinda Webb’s voice is soothing, like honey in warm water on a sore throat.

Gran takes her hand away from mine and reaches into her mass of white hair. ‘I don’t remember …’

‘Was he having a relationship with you? Or with Daphne?’

‘No, I don’t think so …’

‘Did he come to the house, Rose? Do you remember?’

‘He was angry,’ says Gran. She seems calmer now, her hands resting in her lap. ‘He was angry.’

‘Why was he angry?’

I stiffen. Can Gran really remember? Or is she confused again?

‘He tried to hurt us.’

‘Why would he do that?’ asks DC Webb.

‘Because he found out about Sheila.’

I notice Mum has gone quiet. I don’t know whether to say something. What if it lands Gran in trouble?

‘Who’s Sheila?’ asks DC Webb, in that same soothing voice.

Gran stares into her lap silently.

Mum glances at me, then turns her gaze on the detectives. ‘I … think she might be talking about a woman called Sheila Watts. I recently found out that she might have stolen the identity of Daphne Hartall.’

Both detectives lean towards Mum. ‘Go on,’ says DS Barnes.

‘A Sheila Watts drowned back in the late 1970s. My mother had an article about it in her things. I did some digging and, to cut a long story short, it appears that Sheila Watts could have faked her death and stolen the real Daphne Hartall’s identity.’

A flicker of irritation crosses DS Barnes’s craggy face. ‘Why didn’t you mention this before?’

‘I’m sorry, a lot has happened over the last few days. I meant to.’

DS Barnes looks a little shame-faced. ‘Of course.’ He addresses Gran again, his voice grave, like that of a newsreader about to impart doom. ‘Neil Lewisham was an investigative journalist. He often went on benders and, according to his son, had a turbulent relationship with his wife. Did he come all the way to Beggars Nook that day to see Daphne because he found out she was really Sheila Watts, Rose?’ There is urgency to his voice, as if he knows time is running out before Gran reverts back into herself.

Gran doesn’t say anything. Her mouth a stubborn line.

‘Did Neil Lewisham find out about Daphne?’ probes DC Webb, to Gran, in her smooth, liquid voice. ‘That she was really Sheila?’

‘No,’ says Gran, looking up at the detectives and fiddling with the necklace at her throat. ‘He found out about Jean.’





38


Rose



April 1980


The day before Neil Lewisham turned up on our doorstep everything had been perfect.

Easter fell on the first weekend in April. We had a wonderful time celebrating it, just the three of us. Daphne boiled some eggs she’d been given at the farm and we sat at the kitchen table painting them, you giggling at the funny faces Daphne drew – she was surprisingly good. On Easter Sunday we hid little hollow chocolate eggs in the garden, the colourful foil wrappers glinting beneath the plants and bushes. It was a sunny but crisp day. I’ll never forget the delight in your eyes and your squeals of excitement as you hunted them out, Daphne and I standing by the back door of the cottage, proudly watching you.

Later that night, while you slept, Daphne and I sat up talking and drinking wine by the fire. And then she turned to me, her eyes huge in the firelight. ‘I – I want to say something to you, Rose. But I’m scared it will ruin our friendship.’

I moved closer to her. Hoping she would say everything I felt.

‘You could never tell me anything that would ruin our friendship,’ I said softly.

She took my hand and moved towards me so that our faces were mere inches apart. She brushed the hair tenderly away from my face. I leant towards her, my heart fluttering as her lips brushed mine and she pulled me close, kissing me deeply. She took my hand and led me upstairs to her bedroom where I stayed until the early hours of the morning, creeping back into my own bed so that you wouldn’t be alarmed when you came looking for me when you woke up.

I wish I’d drunk in every wonderful moment of that day, scrutinized each second under a magnifying glass: Daphne’s throaty laugh, your squeals of delight, the way the sun bounced off the little foiled eggs, the smell of chocolate and pollen on the breeze. I’d give anything to relive that day on a loop, over and over again.

Because the next day everything changed.

He arrived on Monday evening, just as I was putting you to bed.