The Things You Didn't See(57)

There’s the box file entitled Samphire Health Spa.

It was your idea originally. You were so thankful that Daniel had healed you, the farmhouse would be your gift to him. I open the box, and there’s the planning permission that was granted. Beneath it, the folded design, drawn up on architect’s paper in thin black ink. I open it, and see the sketch of the front of the farmhouse, with a new glass extension to the side. Also on the drawing, where our barn stands, is a swimming pool complex with palms and sunbeds and a gym area. I’m holding an idea, a dream, one that united the three of us. We could all have been so happy, but no, you went and changed your mind.

I see the name and details of the architect and pick up the phone extension on the desk to dial the number. He deserves to know.

‘Ross King Designs.’ It’s a male voice, friendly.

‘Hi, I’m calling about the design that you drew up for Samphire Health Spa on the Innocence Farm estate in Kenley?’

‘Ah yes, I worked on that myself. This is Ross speaking. How can I help?’

‘I’m Cassandra Hawke. My partner is Daniel Salmon.’

‘Ah yes. Mr Salmon commissioned the plans, so I’m afraid I can only discuss the details with someone else if he gives me his permission.’

‘It’s okay, there’s nothing to discuss. I just thought you should know it won’t be going ahead. The farm is being sold to create a lorry depot for the Port Authority.’

‘I’m sorry?’ There’s a pause, a rustling of paper.

‘The farm estate belongs to my mother, Maya Hawke, and she’s agreed to sell it to the Port Authority.’ I wonder how I can sound so calm, saying these words aloud, when this is the end of my dream.

‘I’m afraid there must be a mistake. Mr Salmon has authorised us to proceed and even paid a significant deposit. We’ve already instructed builders that work on the barn will commence later this month.’

‘That must have been before last Friday, when everything changed.’

I can hear him taking a sharp breath in surprise. ‘Mr Salmon didn’t mention anything changing when I saw him on Saturday.’

‘Saturday?’

‘Yes, he came in to finalise the plans and to pay the retainer on 1 November. Is Mr Salmon there – perhaps I should speak with him?’

‘I’m sure it’s my mistake. Please forget I called.’

I disconnect the phone and see something clearly, for the first time. A realisation, something that’s been festering inside me, but I can finally articulate: I’ve struggled to believe Dad’s story that he shot you in his sleep. Even the timing of his confession looks like he’s protecting someone else – I’d assumed it was Ash and Janet. What if I’m wrong? What if the person Dad is protecting is Daniel?

The phone rings again, and I stare at the handset, startled. It’s as though someone has heard my thoughts, and is calling to chastise me. The ringing continues, then stops. Then I hear Janet’s voice, a distant murmur, and realise she has picked up the extension downstairs.

There’s a cry, my name is being called. Quick feet on the stairs, coming up, and I know that whatever she’s going to tell me, I don’t want to hear. A premonition, a correct one.

Janet stands there in the study doorway, her hands still gripping the handset. Her eyes are wet, and her mouth is agape.

‘It’s Daniel,’ she says, before I can silence her. ‘He’s at the hospital. Oh God, Cass. Your mum is dead.’





DAY 8

SATURDAY 8 NOVEMBER





26

Holly

Since dawn, Holly’s shift had been taken over by one case: a seven-year-old with asthma.

She and Jon had arrived in the ambulance to find the boy puffing on his blue inhaler, anxious grandparents bickering nearby over whether or not to call his parents, who were enjoying a weekend break to the Lake District – their first trip away without their son.

‘The cat got in the bedroom last night and slept on the bed,’ said the grandmother, clearly blaming herself. ‘We gave Ethan a Piriton as soon as he woke up wheezing. Oh God, what will his mum say? She warned me about his allergy.’

‘I wouldn’t call them yet, if I was you,’ Jon said, clipping the mask of a nebuliser to Ethan’s face. ‘Wait until things are calm, which they will be very shortly.’ The grandparents looked visibly relieved, and their smiles returned as the asthma attack ebbed. But Holly knew that the paperwork generated by a case took as long as the medical process, and she’d only just finished writing up the notes when it was time to clock off.

She was still logged on to the main hospital computer. The search box blinked at her invitingly. It was a sackable offence to use the computer to search for information you had no right to access – there could be serious problems if staff chose to look up neighbours and relatives at whim. But, she told herself, I’m just checking on Maya’s progress. I’m already involved: I was on the initial call-out. I have a right to know.

It was a lie – she knew it even as she sent the name MAYA HAWKE into the depths of the computer system, and especially when she opened the returning file from the oncology department. There was the scan picture, and the radiographer’s report: stage-three cancer. And the opinion of the specialist: Cancer has now spread to the lymph glands. Prognosis is not favourable.