“Are you saying you think Jason took his own life rather than face his dad?”
“I don’t know. I won’t ever know. That fucking sleepover. I only wanted a few hours off so I could speak to Nathan. I didn’t mean for Jase to go away and never come back.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“I think there’s a little ferry we could have taken. I’m not sure where to find it, though. I think it must be somewhere farther along the river.” I look around curiously. “At least most of the snow’s gone. Although it’s definitely still hot-chocolate weather, you’ll be glad to hear. With whipped cream and extra marshmallows.” I smile at Nick. “Dr. Lynch’s orders.”
I keep up a steady flow of chatter as I push his wheelchair across the arched footbridge leading to Eel Pie Island, trying to reassure Nick without expecting him to say anything in return. He still has a dressing on his forehead, and he’s wrapped up like we’re going on an Arctic expedition, but physically he’s making bigger strides than I can believe—even than Dr. Lynch expected, I suspect. It’s only mentally that he’s taking baby steps.
“Sounds good to me,” Sergeant Rogers says, zipping up his leather jacket. “I might cadge some of that myself. If it’s not rude to invite myself to the party.”
“You’re very welcome.” I smile up at him. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Sorry I was a bit late. I had to check in with my colleague, Sergeant Barnes. He’s taking over my shift at eight thirty. You’ll have twenty-four-hour cover here. Boss’s orders.”
“Thank you,” I say gratefully, looking anxiously over my shoulder as we step off the bridge and onto the island, still feeling nervous despite the presence of the familiar plainclothes officer. Everyone has been very reassuring: Dr. Lynch about Nick’s recovery; DCI Maxwell about the security detail he’s put in place. But every time I close my eyes I see the knife the police found in the woods . . . the red spray paint on my house: You’re next, slag.
“I’m a champion Monopoly player, too,” Sergeant Rogers says, grinning. “If you’re up for a game, Nick?” He rests a hand on his shoulder. “Dibs I get to be the dog.”
“Ah, that reminds me. I’ve got a little surprise for you when we get to the cottage, Nick.” After stowing our backpacks in his car, Craig returned as promised for Marzipan. Hopefully, she’ll be curled up on a sofa right now. I can’t wait for Nick to see her.
He doesn’t reply, and as I stoop to check his breathing, worried the cold air might set off his asthma, I see he’s fallen asleep. I’m not surprised. It was tiring even for me watching Dr. Lynch and the nurse complete their last checks, issuing a list of instructions about Nick resting, eating well, not getting overexcited—not rushing to talk about what’s happened . . .
As DCI Maxwell introduced me formally to Sergeant Rogers, I caught a hint of his frustration that the consultant has advised no further police interviews for the time being. “He needs peace and quiet. Proper rest. And lots of love,” she told me. “As do you,” she added, checking out the small wound on my forehead, even though I protested that I was fine.
“Wow. Nice place. I’ve never been here before,” Sergeant Rogers comments, looking around as we wander along the pretty tree-lined pathway that winds across the island.
“Me neither, funnily enough. I knew Craig had a rental cottage here. He bought it before we were married, though. More as an investment, really, I think.”
“Lucky guy.”
“Yes. I suppose he is.” I’ve never given it much thought. Craig might make self-deprecating jokes about being a typical banker, but he’s right in one respect: he has extensive assets, probably other property. I always considered the cottage as part of his portfolio rather than a place for us to use. “Oh, look! This must be it.”
Pushing Nick’s wheelchair a little faster now, I hurry toward the “Welcome” bunting strung across the veranda of a quaint, pink-painted timber house that looks like something out of a fairy tale. “And I guess this is the welcome committee,” I add, chuckling as I point at an eclectic array of gnomes and goblins clustered around a swing bench. Colored lights are woven through the trees, and a collection of comical gargoyles peep out from overgrown bushes. I smile up at Sergeant Rogers. “I think we’ve just found Santa’s secret grotto.”
“I hope he’s got one of his little helpers to stick the kettle on. Temperature’s dropped again. We might be in for another freeze overnight.”
“You think?” I pull the blanket tighter around Nick.
“Yeah. Fingers crossed Santa Claus has central heating.” He smiles, then snaps into professional mode. “I’ll just have a scout around out here, then we’ll get you inside.”
I watch him stride off to check the perimeter of the plot, feeling a frisson of nerves at being alone. It’s a beautiful place, but isolated. Quiet. No traffic is allowed on the island, and I can’t even hear the usual planes roaring overhead as we can at home. I feel like hugging Sergeant Rogers when he returns, giving me a confident thumbs-up.
“No other houses close by,” he says. “You’re nice and private here. It’s all good.”
“Hot chocolate, then?” I offer brightly, trying to reinstate a slightly festive mood as I notice Nick beginning to stir. I’m concerned how anxious he looks as his eyes fix on Sergeant Rogers; it reminds me that I still don’t know how much he’s remembered—if he has any idea that whoever tied him up and left him for dead is still out there . . . and might come back.
“All right if I take a rain check? I’ll take a quick peek in the cottage before I help you guys in. Then I should really do a more thorough look around the island. Here’s my number, though. In case you’re worried about anything. Or need extra marshmallows.” Sergeant Rogers winks at Nick as he hands me a card. “And you have the boss’s contact details already, of course. Failing that, just yell, OK?” He gives Nick’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “I’ll be around.”
“Thank you.” I’m counting on it, I whisper in my head as the officer takes the door keys from me. “Don’t be long!” I call after him, looking around anxiously. The wind catches the trees, rustling ominously. Misshapen shadows dance around the quirky statues in the cottage garden, the rapidly descending winter dusk now turning the gnomes’ comical grins into ghoulish sneers. Feeling spooked, I hurry up the steps. “Sergeant Rogers? You there?”
“What’s up?” He comes skidding to the door. “Is everything—”
“Sorry, we’re fine,” I say, feeling guilty at the worried expression on his usually open, smiley face. “Just freaking myself out a bit. I’ll be OK once we get Nick safely inside.”
“Sure. Let’s do that, then. Sorry to make you wait.” He bumps Nick’s wheelchair across the veranda, up the steps, and into the hallway. “Just you take care of this one,” he says kindly. “Let me worry about everything else. At least until eight thirty. Like I said, Steve will take over then. He won’t disturb you, but he’s a good bloke. He’ll be here. Probably bang on time, too.” He rolls his eyes, acknowledging again the slight delay in picking me and Nick up.
“Thank you,” I say again, realizing as he finally takes his leave how much I’m going to miss the young officer’s friendly, reassuring presence.
Locking the stable front door behind him, I tuck the keys in my handbag and look curiously around the square hallway, grateful that Sergeant Rogers thought to turn on all the lights in the cottage. “This looks like a comfy place, hey?” I say to Nick, before realizing that he’s nodded off again. “That’s right, you sleep, my love.” I press a gentle kiss to his forehead, deciding to settle my jitters by exploring the cottage first, before helping Nick into bed.
It truly does have the feeling of a cozy cabin at the North Pole, I think, wandering into a living room that’s simply furnished with white wicker furniture. Sliding glass doors at the rear frame the promised river view, now color-washed in purple as the sun sets over the Thames, while a door on the left of the hallway leads to a kitchen that could best be described as
retro: the wooden cabinets are lavishly stenciled with wildflowers, and candy-pink wooden chairs sit on either side of a long refectory table.
The bathroom next door is an explosion of nautical design, with shells lining the sink and a mermaid mural covering the wall above a freestanding claw-foot tub. Staring at the kooky motif, I’m gripped by a slightly unsettling feeling of peering through a window into another part of my ex-husband’s life—his personality, even. This whimsical, softer side of Craig is something I’ve never seen before, and as I stroll back into the chintzy living room I ponder again the kindness I didn’t realize he had shown to Jason—or Katie.
I do trust her assurance that they’ve never had an affair, but I realize how much my friend’s revelations have stayed with me. It feels like there is a whole other side to Craig’s life that I never knew about, a feeling that intensifies the more I wander around his cottage. Craig said he decorated it himself, but this place is nothing like our old scruffy but traditional family home—or the ultramodern, minimalist apartment he moved into when he left me. I wonder if he used to come here when we were married; I wonder what else I don’t know about my ex-husband.
Enough with the paranoia, I lecture myself in exasperation. I’ve already exhausted myself trying to be an amateur sleuth, and it got me precisely nowhere. Giving myself a mental shake, I stride purposefully into the smaller of the two bedrooms, accessed directly from the living room. There’s no sign of Marzipan, I notice, looking around in concern, but I see Craig has left Nick’s backpack by the wardrobe, and set out his toiletry bag and phone on the bedside table.
I’d forgotten the police had even returned the little Nokia, no longer needing it for their inquiries. It was kind of Craig to think of bringing it here, I reflect, especially because I left Nick’s laptop at home. Although it wouldn’t have been much use to him, in any case: the Wi-Fi and phone reception are both terrible, I realize, tutting as I take out my own phone to check. I haven’t spotted a landline, either. I said I’d call Craig and let him know when we’re settled; it looks like I won’t be able to, but maybe he’ll pop by in the morning to check on us.
He’s been so thoughtful, I remind myself, shaking off my prickle of unease about the unfamiliar cottage. Husbands and wives rarely know everything about each other; estranged couples even less so. Craig has always been private. Self-contained. A little old-fashioned and earnest, but a genuine family man. It was what most attracted me to him when we started dating . . .
* * *
“I’ll get this.” Craig grabbed the bill before I could reach for it.
“You don’t have to.” Pointedly, I picked up my handbag and took out my purse.
“I know. But I want to,” he insisted.
“I do have a job, you know? You’ve paid for every meal we’ve had so far.”
I looked around the restaurant, a far more glamorous and expensive place than I would usually choose, and admitted to myself that I could ill afford even half the cost of the fancy three-course dinner we had just eaten. But I wasn’t going to let Craig act like a beneficiary: if we were to continue dating, I was determined to pay my way.
“And I’ll keep paying.” He reached across the white-clothed table to squeeze the tips of my fingers. “If you’re kind enough to keep accepting my invitations.”
“Kind.” I laughed. “You make it sound like I’m doing you a favor.”
“You are. But I hope to return it. With interest.” After handing his credit card to the waiter, he leaned toward me, flint-gray eyes unblinking behind his black-framed glasses.
“This is your serious face, isn’t it?” Nerves rippled through me at his sudden intensity; I sensed he was building up to some kind of declaration . . . a proposal? I reached for my wineglass, almost knocking it over, my hands clumsy and my mouth suddenly dry. I liked Craig; I wasn’t in love with him. Not yet, anyway.
He was a nice guy, and I had enjoyed getting to know him over the last few months. As I suspected when I first read his letter, he was a tad on the staid side, but kind and gentle, with an old-fashioned chivalry that was charming. He bought me flowers, held doors open for me. I didn’t need him to, but after managing by myself for so long, I appreciated the thoughtfulness.
And he always wanted to hang out with Nick: for our last few dates, he’d even invited him along, buying tickets to shows he knew Nick would love. It felt good to have the sense of being almost like a proper family, and I could see that Nick enjoyed it, too. But I couldn’t marry a man just because he was nice to my son . . .
“Serious face. Hmm. I was aiming more for passionately devoted.” One eyebrow arched. “But you’ve let me in to your family, Isobel. Shared your son with me. There’s no bigger favor, in my book. Nick likes me, doesn’t he?”
“He likes the extra-large pizzas you bring over on Friday nights,” I joked, trying to steer the conversation in a less personal direction.
“I’ll take that as a yes, then. I’m glad. He’s a sweet boy. Such a shame he’s been picked on so much. I bet he wouldn’t if I turned up at the school gate. Showed the other kids who’s boss. I’ve always wanted to be a dad. Anyway, here’s to us.” He raised his glass and clinked it against mine. “To happy families.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“Maybe you’ll feel hungry in the morning. The fridge is fully stocked. Pancakes, waffles, strawberries. More waffles. All your favorites.”
I deliberately hold my smile as Nick looks up at me, trying to mask my worry as I notice how white his face looks against the pillow. He’s barely said a word since we arrived, only looking vacantly at me when I asked if he’s been here before. He certainly seemed to know where the bathroom was, making a beeline for it after I wheeled him into his bedroom.
I wanted to ask again whether Craig had ever brought him here, but when he emerged, having changed into his pajamas, Nick looked so pale and exhausted that I let him climb straight into bed, rather than pressing him to talk. He sat staring at his phone for a while, then slumped down under the covers, pulling them up so high it looked like he was hiding.
“You’ll feel better after a good sleep, sweetheart.” I bend to kiss his cheek. “Doctor’s orders, remember? You’re here to get well. No school. No rehearsals. Just rest.”
“Night, Mum,” he murmurs, eyes already closing.
I hover a moment longer, reflecting that while Nick might be here in body, part of him is still in those woods; trauma has pushed him into the farthest corner of his mind—a place so dark, I can sense him cowering there; so deep, I’m not sure how to reach him. He’s retreated somewhere he feels safe—somewhere I can’t follow, no matter how badly I want to hold his hand and help him fight his way back to me.
“Nighty night, darling. I love you.” I kiss his cheek one last time, then quietly close the door behind me, drifting thoughtfully to the sofa. I stand up again almost immediately, then wander from room to room, unable to settle, alternately wondering about Nick, Craig, and the police investigation. Away from familiar surroundings, I feel edgy and paranoid.
“If only we could have stayed at home,” I complain to Marzipan, watching her prowl restlessly, too. At least she’s finally come out from wherever she was hiding; I was starting to worry that she’d somehow got out of the cottage and run off, getting lost on the unfamiliar island. There could be any number of dangers lurking in the lush evergreen shrubbery and quiet pathways, I think with a shiver.
“Stop spooking yourself already,” I say firmly, deciding that a glimpse of the river vista might help relax me. I pull open the chintz curtains, but night has turned the sliding glass doors into a mirror; all I can see is a reflection of myself. Determined to enjoy the view, I switch off the Tiffany lamps on either side of the sofa and like magic the garden appears.
“Oh my God!” I jump as I see a face pressed to the glass. A moment later, a dark figure pulls sharply away. Heart pounding, I scrabble for my phone, letting out a long, ragged sigh of relief when I notice the time that flashes u
p on the screen: 8:30 p.m.
“Come on, Izzy. Get a grip!” Sergeant Rogers told me he’d be swapping shifts around now, and that his replacement—Steve, was it?—wouldn’t disturb us. Clearly this is him, and he’s just getting on with his job. Even so, I quickly dial DS Clarke’s number, eager to double-check the identity of the second plainclothes officer—and remind myself that while we might be alone here, we’re not completely out of contact.
“Perfect. No signal.” I press redial twice more; the call fails both times. “Dammit.” Peering outside, I can see no sign of the officer, only the moon staring at me from an indigo sky, and willow trees stooping low over the river, as if dabbling their fingertips in the water. I hear the tinkle of wind chimes, and as my eyes gradually adjust to the dark, I spot a wooden gazebo strewn with sun-catchers and beyond it a wharf.
“Wow. This place has its own mooring.” I listen to the calming splash of the river, imagining I can even smell its brackish tang. “Oh, no wonder. Look, Marzipan!” As a draft prickles the hairs on my arms, I notice that the sliding door is open a tiny crack. I thought Sergeant Rogers checked all around the house; he must have missed this door, and I kick myself for having interrupted his checks by calling out to him.
It takes a little effort to jam the door shut, but after a quick glance around I spot a small wooden box on the bookshelf, inscribed “keys.” There is only one inside; thankfully, it fits the lock, and after double-checking that the glass doors are secure, I head quickly into the bedroom, where I check behind the curtains and under the bed before lying down next to Nick. I keep my boots on.
“Mum? Mum?”
“I’m here, darling. Everything’s OK. Are you thirsty?” I help Nick take a sip of water, then tuck him back in. He falls asleep again immediately, and I suspect he wasn’t even awake when he called out. “Once upon a time, there was a boy who loved to dance,” I say, stroking his hair. “He had golden hair, wings on his feet, and his mummy loved him so much.”
The Sleepover Page 20
