The Dead Ex(27)

The policewoman has a plastic bag out; the type used for evidence. I’ve seen a few of those in my time.

‘We’re taking your office diary,’ says Inspector Vine, cutting into my thoughts.

‘Fine,’ I say, forcing myself to sound calm. ‘You might not be able to read my handwriting though.’

It’s true. Since it happened, my hands have been shakier.

‘Is that all?’ I ask. Too late, I realize this makes me sound suspicious: as though I had expected them to take me with them.

‘For now.’ The detective eyeballs me again. ‘We’ll be in touch. And I strongly suggest that you have your solicitor ready.’

I turn the key in the lock behind them. Shut all the windows too. I know this is daft. One of the rules I was taught after my diagnosis was to make sure that access wasn’t barred in case I needed rescuing quickly. But I have to ensure my privacy.

As soon as they have gone, I grab the Bills file. It’s still there. Maybe I should put it in a safer place.

Crawling into bed, I make a cocoon out of the duvet, which smells of lavender. I feel safer that way. It’s not night time but the meds are having their usual effect. My eyelids are heavy. I can’t keep them open any more. It’s a relief to give in.

I must have fallen into a deep sleep because the phone initially sounds like an echo in my dreams. I don’t always remember them. Often, when I wake, I get an uneasy feeling that I have somehow emerged, miraculously unscathed, after battling some unremembered terror. But on this occasion I recall it all too well.

I was dreaming about the photograph which the police had shown me and the name on the back. I am chasing a woman called Helen Evans along the beach even though – as in real life – I have no idea who she is. Her hair flows out behind her and I’m willing her to turn round. Then, just as she starts to, that’s when the phone rings. I sit up, bolt upright, and grab my mobile. It slips out of my sweaty hand but I manage to press the Accept button just in time.

‘Vicki?’

At last. It’s the solicitor. So late? That’s impressive.

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t speak to you earlier. I had clients with me, and this is the first chance I’ve had to ring back.’ Her voice tightens. ‘You say you’re under investigation. Would you like to tell me more?’

‘Do you do criminal law?’

‘We do.’ There’s a brisk tone to her voice.

Sweat runs down my armpits, and I find myself stammering. ‘I’m … well, I’m being investigated by the police for …’

I stop. What exactly? The word ‘murder’ hasn’t been mentioned.

‘Because my ex-husband has gone missing and they think I have something to do with it.’

‘Do you?’

‘I don’t think so, but … well, it’s complicated.’

We’re back to brisk now. ‘Sounds like we need to make an appointment as soon as possible.’

We fix a date and time. I’m in two minds, to be honest. If the police don’t return, I will cancel it. If they do … I don’t even want to think about it.

I glance at the clock. It’s 10 p.m. I should go back to sleep but I’m no longer tired. Suddenly I have a yearning for fresh air.

So I wrap up against the cold and take myself for a walk along the front towards the distant cliffs. In the daylight they’re red, but I can’t actually see them now in the dark. The promenade, on the other hand, is lit up with streetlights. I love it when it’s empty, like now, apart from a few fishermen who are standing silently, leaning over the railings. One has a lamp on his forehead, a bucket of bait by his feet and a line that reaches out as far as the eye can see. We nod at each other in companionable silence.

The tide is up tonight. The waves smack the shingle with purpose. The spray hits my face. I laugh out loud spontaneously. It makes me feel like a child again. When life was normal. When I could remember things. When I didn’t get a burning smell or wake up wondering if something bad had happened. When I was just one person instead of two.

I walk past the bench but I don’t look at it. Place or name associations are all potential triggers.

When I get back, my answerphone is flashing. One of my clients has cancelled. She doesn’t give a reason, but I’m pretty sure it’s because she’s heard about the bench incident or my uniformed visitors. I want to run but, if I do, I’ll only look more suspicious in the eyes of the police.

Damn you, David.

Not just for what you did but for making me miss you still.

Perhaps it’s time to put an end to it.





12



Scarlet


Scarlet couldn’t sleep that night – and not just because of the noises from Dawn’s bed.

‘Mum,’ she kept whispering. ‘I’m coming to see you.’

Saying it out loud made it feel more real. But the scary bit was that she couldn’t picture Mum’s face clearly. She could remember the name of her scent – patchouli – but it was hard to recall exactly what it had smelled like. Yet if she closed her eyes really tight, she could almost feel the touch of her mother’s face against hers. Soft. Warm. Like the inside of her cheek.

Friday, Mr W had said. That’s when the social worker was going to take her to see Mum. She had ‘special permission’ to be ‘absent’ from school. Where exactly was the prison? It was the one question she’d forgotten to ask.