White Bodies(51)

I spot him on the terrace, speaking to Tilda, and I’m struck once again by the way they seem so comfortable together. I go over, and Liam says, “I’m afraid I have to leave, Callie, but it was so good to see you. I’m sorry I can’t stay longer.”

“Liam has to work.”

“Do you work at a hospital? Is that why you have to work on a Saturday?”

“That’s right.” He kisses us both before leaving.

“My God, Tilda, I haven’t seen him in so long. Is he a surgeon or something?”

“He’s a psychiatrist.” She widens her eyes in a silent How about that!

“I would have loved to have talked to him.”

And that’s all I can think about for the rest of the day—at the dinner, and the dancing and the waving off of the bride and groom—I would love to talk to Liam Brookes.





25


Tilda and Felix are in Santorini and, for once, Tilda is in touch, sending me texts that read Blissfully, contentedly chilling, or F made us walk four miles today, to the lagoon. She even emailed a photo—Felix and her sitting on the side of a turquoise infinity pool, their legs dangling in the water, a yellow shawl draped over Tilda’s arms, her head resting on Felix’s chest; it’s a position that, for me, represents her submission, her unnatural placidity. Behind the happy couple, everything is beautiful; the cloudless sky, the azure blue of the Aegean Sea.

The picture should look serene, but I find it unsettling; maybe that’s because, all the time now, Scarlet is bombarding me with horror stories: Grace and William Starling are found dead in their ￡3 million Surrey home; police are not looking for anyone else in connection with the case. I stare at a photograph of their wedding day. Can you tell that something’s wrong? Grace looks into the camera lens, her eyes soft, her cheeks dimpled, and handsome William gazes at her—a gentle conscientious lover’s gaze. Nothing to suggest the cocktail of hurt and resentment and suspicion that leads to a killing. Three days later and Jordan Freeman sends his nineteen-year-old girlfriend, Kelly Wallis, a text: luv u babe and this is my promise—I aint going to hit u ever again. were the best babe. But that night he breaks into Kelly’s family home and strangles her with a length of wire cable. Two days after that Darren Lott texts his twenty-two-year-old girlfriend Samantha McFadden explaining that he’s going to Scotland for the weekend, but he never leaves Liverpool. Instead, on Saturday evening he waits outside Samantha’s flat until she leaves for work at a local bar, and he stabs her seventeen times before dragging her body into the boot of his car and driving off. It’s practically every day, an endless catalog of women killed by men they know.

I’m in the bookshop, reading up on all this, when the news comes in that, in York, Chloey Percival has died. For some reason I’d thought she would pull through, and even become a spokeswoman against domestic violence. But now I’m heavy inside, thinking that her death, after all, came with a sickening inevitability, and I feel brought down by the constant litany of hate—by Chloey’s death and Belle’s death. I switch off my laptop—I can’t bear to read all the venom and outrage that will be on Controlling Men.

At the other end of the shop Daphne, who is back from Denmark, is sprawled at her desk, and she calls across the empty space: “So I went on an internet date last night, nice guy—had a beard though, sixtyish, shortish, and he did all the talking, bit intense, but keen . . .”

“What does he do, like for a job?” I’m doing my best to sound interested.

“He went on and on about it. Works in marketing at a pharmaceutical company . . .”

“With a beard?”

“I know. . . . But, get this, he had read two of my books in preparation for the date . . . and had googled me in massive detail, looking up stuff about Saskatchewan.”

“Be careful, he might be obsessive. Men like that can be dangerous.”

“Callie, stop worrying. You mustn’t let your friend’s death make you paranoid. Most people are decent and good, you know . . . the bad apples are rare exceptions. It’s important to trust people, otherwise you turn cynical and unhappy.”

“Daphne! You need to listen to me . . . I know more about this than you do!”

Then, I can’t help it, I start to cry—large, heavy tears like raindrops sliding down my cheek, my nose running, my shoulders heaving, and I can’t stop. Daphne sprints over, saying, “Sweetness, sweetness—what is it? What’s the matter? Here, let me find some tissues.”

“Oh God,” I sniffle. “I’m so worried about Tilda, now that she’s married. I was starting to feel better, but it’s all building up again.” That’s all I can get out, because I’m wheezing and panting, as the tears start to dry up.

“Come on . . .” Daphne puts her arm round me, cleaving me to her puny chest. “It’s understandable that you’re like this. Losing Belle was a major trauma. . . . You’re grieving.”

At that moment, Wilf walks past the shop. Straight past, not pausing, not coming in—and he’s deep in conversation with Amy Fishwick, the girl who left Willesden Estates. I notice for the first time that she has long blond hair extensions, and is unusually pretty. It takes all my resolve not to cry again, but I don’t—I tell Daphne that I’ll be fine now.