The Things You Didn't See(52)
‘Ja, you need some time off from it, of course. It sounds intense,’ agreed Leif. ‘But this also makes you very special, S?tnos. You could be an artist or a film-maker, seeing the world in such an extraordinary way.’
She was silent for a moment. ‘One of my supervisors at work said he could arrange for me to have an MRI scan so they can look at how my brain reacts to stimuli. I’ve said no.’
Leif sat up on one elbow. ‘Why, Holly? It’s exciting to know more about ourselves. And you are a rare specimen. Let them study you.’
And he began, then, to study her himself, with his gentle hands and warm lips, and all she saw was the colour yellow.
When Leif left, Holly switched on her mobile and saw she’d had several missed calls, all from the same number. She listened to her voice messages, and realised they were all from Alfie Avon. He too had heard about Hector’s confession – the police had just released a statement. And he wanted to know what more she knew, what she could add. Unsure herself, given the police had his confession, she sent a text saying she would come to his office.
Alfie Avon led Holly through a room packed with reporters, their desks divided off by screens. Now Hector had confessed and been charged, the atmosphere was electric with hard-won sweat and the sweet anticipation of success. Small groups of adrenaline-fuelled journalists huddled together, their urgent conversations buzzing around the room. For a town like Ipswich, a case like this was big news.
Alfie’s cubicle was lined with clippings about the shooting on Innocence Lane and, she saw with surprise, features on Daniel when he’d been discussing Samphire Studios or his radio show. Alfie was as obsessed by the case as she was. On his desk lay a line of photos. ‘Bit of a surprise, this,’ he said, his hands deep in his pockets as he leaned back on battered Converse baseball boots, ‘but then it usually is the husband.’
Holly edged into the cubicle, and Alfie slid a buttock onto the one part of the table that was clear of papers, gallantly offering her the only chair. He watched her sit, then said, ‘I’ve seen your face before. You were one of the paramedics at the farm that morning – one of the team took a snap of you as you drove away with Cassandra.’
Whatever criticisms people might level against Alfie, inattention was surely not one. ‘That’s right, though I’m only a student. Not qualified yet.’
‘Still,’ he said, leaning forward and showing too much teeth and gums, ‘you were actually in the house with the victim. What was that like?’
‘Bloody,’ she said, not thinking this was giving too much away.
From where she sat, she had a direct view of the information tacked to Alfie’s noticeboard, which also served as a divider between desks. Everything on the board, all six feet square of it, related to Innocence Lane. Dominating it was a line of photos, presumably taken by Alfie or his colleagues. The first showed Janet emerging from the police station: her brown hair was scraped back and her face was pale; she looked like a startled mouse. Next came a distance shot of Ash, driving his tractor, blissfully unaware he was being photographed: lanky hair, brown puppy eyes, slightly vacant. In this photo, Hector and Cassandra were walking together towards the hospital. Together, maybe, but they weren’t talking, and their bodies were slightly turned away from each other. It was like seeing a picture of two people heading to the same meeting, yet they were father and daughter – surely they should have been supporting each other?
Her eyes drifted to the next image, which wasn’t a photo at all, but a postcard – one designed to hand out to fans with an autograph; it had the Radio Suffolk logo in the corner. Here was Daniel, handsome and confident, local celebrity and healer. Daniel had groomed hair, skin that glowed from many facials, a smile that was warm and generous. She’d been in close proximity with him many times now, yet the photo shifted something in her thoughts. Fixated by that smile, she was aware that her body temperature was cooling. She wrapped her arms around herself, wishing she’d worn a jumper over her shirt. Her senses crowded in on her, rotten smells and unpleasant static in her ears. She just wanted it to stop.
Alfie followed her gaze. ‘That cunt. Have you met him?’
She nodded, unwilling to be drawn into conversation and be distracted from her chattering senses. She tried to rationalise her growing unease, which made no sense.
Breaking into her thoughts, Alfie said, ‘So, what is it you have to tell me? In strict confidence, of course. Think of me as a very badly paid doctor.’
She didn’t answer, couldn’t: she wanted to feel the relief she had experienced earlier, when she first heard that Hector had confessed. But somehow it had ebbed away and instead her senses were pinging with doubts, what she felt about Daniel especially couldn’t be articulated. It was her synaesthesia guiding her, not evidence.
‘Come on, love, you know something or you wouldn’t be here. You don’t think the old man did it, do you?’
He gave himself an indulgent moment to study her face, though she steeled herself not to reveal anything. She shouldn’t have come – what did she think she was playing at? Contacting Alfie Avon, the most notorious reporter on the local paper, relentless in his quest for news, and vicious with it. He was something of a local hero, and prided himself on exposing scandals.
‘Okay,’ he said, with a theatrical sigh, ‘since you can’t bring yourself to talk, I’ll tell you something. Hector Hawke didn’t shoot his wife, I’d stake my life on it. I’ve been onto The Samphire Master for three years now, and I think he’s as crook as they come. Claims he can cure people, persuading them to quit conventional treatment – and no one else seems to see through him. But now there’s this shooting of his mother-in-law, the very woman he uses to prove what a miracle-worker he is.’