The Retreat(64)

‘So we are looking at the attack on you and Max Lake as an isolated incident,’ DI Snaith said.

‘But what about Zara Sullivan? Have you tracked her down?’

Again, they exchanged a glance. ‘You’re a writer, aren’t you, Mr Radcliffe?’ DC Hawkins said. ‘Highly imaginative. Always looking for hidden motives and meanings. Well, let me tell you, as someone who deals with reality every day . . .’

‘The simplest explanation for something is almost always the right one.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Exactly.’

My head was pounding again. I had wanted to talk to them about the strange goings-on at the retreat, but what was the point? They had me marked down as someone who makes shit up: a novelist with an overactive imagination.

A nurse came over. ‘I think the patient needs to rest now.’

‘Sure.’

The detectives got up, DI Snaith grunting as he rose from his plastic seat. DC Hawkins studied me for a moment and I wished I could read her mind, because I was certain there was suspicion in her eyes.

‘We’ll talk again,’ she said before they walked away.



The hospital discharged me the following afternoon. The doctor gave me a self-help sheet listing symptoms I needed to look out for: drowsiness, poor tolerance of light, feelings of disorientation, confusion. I tried to make a joke about always feeling confused, but the doctor wasn’t amused.

I didn’t want to bother Julia by asking her to pick me up, so I called Olly Jones. It was a long way for him to come but I thought he’d appreciate the fare. And it wasn’t only that I didn’t want to bother Julia. I wanted to talk to Olly.

‘Look at you: the walking wounded,’ he said as I approached the taxi and got into the back seat. It was a lovely day, mild and bright, and it was warm inside the cab. For the first time in months, I felt the prickle of sweat beneath my armpits.

‘I heard about what happened,’ Olly said, starting the engine. ‘Shocking. Do you have any idea who did it? Who whacked you over the head, I mean?’

‘No.’

‘I bet the police haven’t got a bloody clue either, am I right?’

‘They don’t seem to.’

He turned on to the main road. ‘Shocking to think two people, probably three, have drowned in that same spot in, like, two years.’ He swore at a driver who swerved in front of him. ‘That Lily was a lovely girl, you know. I hope she’s still out there somewhere.’

I sat forward. ‘You knew her?’

‘Yeah. I live a few doors down from her friends, Megan and Jake. I know their mum pretty well.’

Of course. Everyone round here knows everyone else.

‘And my dad was good friends with Wendy’s dad. Have you met Wendy? She’s lovely. Plus Megan’s a little character and Jake . . . well, Wendy does a brilliant job with him, considering his issues.’ He paused. ‘I feel a bit guilty, actually. I told Lily and the others this story about how I’d seen the Widow when I was a kid. I was just winding them up, having a laugh, but I think they believed me. I always picture Lily with this frightened look on her face. I should have told her it was a joke.’

I tried to get a grip on the conversation. ‘I didn’t get a chance to talk to you properly at the funeral. I told you about our dads being friends, didn’t I?’

‘Yeah.’ He laughed. ‘Weird to think we might have played together when we were little, before you moved away.’

‘I know. So . . . what happened with your dad? Someone told me he had a heart condition.’

‘Yeah, and the silly fool forgot to take his medicine.’

I feigned ignorance. ‘Surely forgetting for, what, one day wouldn’t cause you to have a heart attack? I mean, I’m no expert but . . .’

‘No. But the doctor told me he must have been under a lot of stress the day he died. And the fact he’d forgotten the medicine didn’t help. God knows what he was stressed about. I mean, he was at home watching TV. I guess he must have been worried about something.’

I felt bad. The topic was clearly distressing Olly. But I pressed on anyway. Despite what the police said, I was still convinced Malcolm’s death was connected to everything else.

‘Did you see him . . . the day he died, I mean? Did he seem worried?’

‘No, I didn’t.’ He fell quiet. I thought maybe I’d pushed him too far. He was still grieving, the wounds raw. ‘I spoke to him on the phone, though, and he was acting a bit weird.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Just, you know, being more emotional than normal. He said something about how he’d let my mum down, how it was too late to make amends now. I had no idea what he was going on about. To be honest, I wondered if he’d been drinking. Or if it was, like, the first signs of dementia.’ We had stopped at a red light. Olly rubbed his eyes with his fist. ‘Then he said something really odd. He asked me if I would forgive him if he’d done something terrible.’

The hairs on my arms were standing on end.

‘No, hang on. What he said was, would I forgive him if he’d kept a terrible secret. I asked him what the hell he was talking about and it was like he chickened out, started saying it was nothing to worry about, just the ramblings of an old man.’ His jaw was clenched and I was worried Olly was about to start crying. He prevented himself from doing so by changing the subject. ‘You’re into books and stuff, aren’t you? Of course you are. My dad had thousands of the bloody things and I’ve got no idea what to do with them. Maybe you could pop round, take a look and see if there are any you want. Take them off my hands.’