The Therapist(38)

I listen as he goes upstairs and into his study. A moment later, I hear the screech of metal on metal and I know that sound, it’s one of the drawers in the filing cabinet being pulled open. So, the key to unlock it was up there somewhere. Unless – I go out to the hall. His bag is no longer by the front door and his jacket has gone from where he usually hangs it on the newel post. Maybe he carries the key around with him. But why would he do that? His client files can’t be that confidential, can they?





Nineteen


When morning comes, I know I can’t do it. I can’t go to Maria’s. I don’t want to have to pretend that everything is alright between me and Leo and I don’t want to have to face Tamsin. What if she tells everyone I’ve been upsetting Lorna?

‘I’m going to Harlestone for the weekend,’ I tell Leo. ‘I’ll be back Sunday evening.’

He looks at me, surprised. ‘Right, OK. Are you staying with Debbie?’

‘Yes. I need to get away from The Circle for a while.’

‘What about supper at Maria’s?’

‘You can go by yourself, if you like,’ I say, knowing that he won’t.

I phone Debbie.

‘Are you busy this weekend?’

‘Why, are you coming down? Oh God, I’m so happy, you don’t know how much I’ve missed you! Is Leo coming? Do you want to stay here? There’s plenty of room!’

I laugh, immediately feeling better. Debbie lives on her own in a large four-bedroomed farmhouse. She’s never married but has had several men in her life, although she’s now happily single.

‘No, I’m coming on my own and yes, I’d love to stay with you.’

‘Even better! Not that I don’t love Leo, but it means we can really chat and you can tell me all about living in London.’

She makes it sound as if it’s the other side of the world. But like me, Debbie was born and bred in Harlestone. She’s never even been to London, preferring to stay with her horses, running her riding school.

‘Is it alright if I arrive today?’

‘Of course. Are you driving down?

‘Yes, I’ll aim to arrive around lunchtime.’

‘Great!’

I phone Maria and am relieved when my call goes through to her voicemail. I leave a message, apologising profusely, telling her I need a break and have decided to go away for a couple of days. She texts back ten minutes later, saying that she understands, which puts my mind at rest.

Being back in Harlestone is bitter-sweet. As I drive through the village, the brightly coloured hollyhocks standing tall and proud like sentinels against heat-soaked walls and the huge domes of white hydrangeas peeping their heads over garden fences makes me realise how much I’ve missed it. So much has changed in the month I’ve been away. The field of yellow rape that I loved to walk through on my way to the village store has since been ploughed, and I wonder who was the first to tread a new path through the heavy clods of earth.

Debbie, back from a ride on her fearsome horse Lucifer, senses my low mood. While she cleans her riding boots over a sheet of newspaper, I tell her about Leo and how he hadn’t told me the truth about the house he bought.

‘I can’t understand it,’ Debbie says, her forehead creased in bewilderment. ‘What a thing to keep from you. No wonder you don’t particularly want to go back. Even I’d feel uneasy living in a house where someone has been murdered and I’ve got a strong stomach.’ Her boots clean, she goes to the sink to wash her hands.

‘And now I’ve started putting people’s backs up by trying to find out more about the murder,’ I say.

Debbie turns, water dripping from her elbows. ‘Why?’ she asks, reaching for a chequered towel.

‘Because they don’t like me asking questions.’

‘No, I meant – why do you want to know more about the murder?’

‘Because it isn’t as straightforward as people make out. There are rumours that there was a miscarriage of justice, that it wasn’t her husband who killed her.’

‘Have the police re-opened the investigation, then?’ she asks, checking her reflection in the pine-framed mirror that hangs on the wall. Usually wild and unruly, her auburn hair has been flattened by her riding hat, and she remedies this, using her fingers as combs.

‘I don’t think it was ever closed,’ I say.

She frowns. ‘But why are you getting involved? Sorry, Alice, but I can kind of understand that people don’t want to talk about it. You should leave it alone, let sleeping dogs lie.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

I look away. ‘She was called Nina.’

‘Oh Alice.’ She comes over and sits beside me, puts an arm round my shoulder, and gives me a hug. ‘You need to let go.’

I lower my head, ashamed. Debbie was there to witness my obsession with a mutual friend’s daughter here in Harlestone, born long before my sister died, who happened to be called Nina. Although I was always fond of her, I became a little obsessed after my sister’s death, buying her expensive presents and generally doting on her until her mum gently told me that I needed to stop, because it was too much. Stupidly, I had felt hurt and it had ended up spoiling our friendship.

‘I’m trying,’ I say quietly.