by B. A. Paris
Instead of waiting for him, I hurry down to the hall and stand near the front door, telling myself that I’m being stupid, that I’m panicking for nothing. But when he comes down, I stay where I am, leaving him to walk around the rest of the house by himself. It’s a long ten minutes before he appears in the hall again.
‘Right, shall we go and sit down?’ he asks.
‘I don’t think that’s necessary,’ I say. ‘I’m not sure we need an alarm after all.’
‘I don’t like to bring it up but after the murder of that young woman not far from here, I’d say you’re making a mistake. Don’t forget that the murderer is still out there somewhere.’
This virtual stranger mentioning Jane’s death unbalances me and I desperately want him out of the house. ‘Have you got contact details? From your firm?’
‘Sure.’ He reaches inside his jacket and I take a step back, half expecting him to draw out a knife. But all he brandishes is a card. I take it from him and study it for a moment. It says his name is Edward Garvey. Does he look like an Edward? My suspicion is addictive.
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘But it might be an idea if you come back when my husband is here.’
‘I could, I suppose. Not sure when it’ll be though. I know I shouldn’t say it but murder is good for business, if you know what I mean? So, if you just give me ten more minutes of your time, I’ll run through everything quickly and you can tell your husband all about it when he gets home.’
He walks towards the kitchen and stands in the doorway, his hand outstretched, inviting me in. I want to remind him that it’s my house but I find myself walking into the kitchen anyway. Is this how it works…? is this how people let themselves be led into potentially dangerous situations, like lambs to the slaughter? My anxiety increases when, instead of sitting down opposite me, at the table, he sits down next to me, cornering me in. He opens the brochure but I’m so on edge that I can’t concentrate on anything he’s saying. I nod my head at appropriate moments and try to look interested in the figures he’s totting up but sweat is trickling down my back and the only thing that stops me leaping to my feet and ordering him out of the house is my middle-class upbringing. Was it manners that prevented Jane from closing her window hurriedly and driving off when she realised she didn’t want to give her killer a lift after all?
‘Right, that’s that then,’ he concludes, and I stare at him, bemused, as he stuffs the papers into his briefcase and pushes a brochure towards me. ‘You show that to your husband tonight. He’ll be impressed, take my word for it.’
I only relax once I’ve closed the door behind him but the realisation that, once again, I did something stupid by not asking for proof of identity before letting him in, especially when a woman has just been murdered nearby, makes me question my lack of judgement. Feeling suddenly cold, I run upstairs to fetch a jumper and, as I go into the bedroom, I see that the window is open. I stare at it for a moment, wondering what it means, wondering if it means anything at all. You’re being neurotic, I tell myself sternly, taking a cardigan from the back of a chair and shrugging it on. Even if the man from Superior Security Systems did open it – which he probably did, to see where the sensors could be fitted – it doesn’t mean that he left it open so that he could come back and murder you.
I close the window and as I’m on my way back downstairs, the phone starts ringing. I expect it to be Matthew but it’s Rachel.
‘I don’t suppose you want to meet for a drink, do you?’ she asks.
‘Yes!’ I say, glad of an excuse to get out of the house. ‘Are you OK?’ I add, detecting that she isn’t her usually bubbly self.
‘Yes, I just feel like a glass of wine. Is six all right for you? I can come to Browbury.’
‘Great. In the Sour Grapes?’
‘Perfect. See you there.’
Back in the kitchen, the Superior Security Systems brochure is still lying on the table, so I put it on the side for Matthew to look at once we’ve had dinner. It’s already five-thirty – the whole thing with the alarm man must have lasted longer than I realised – so I grab my car keys and head off immediately.
The town is busy, and, as I hurry towards the wine bar, I hear someone call my name and look up to see my lovely friend Hannah making her way through the crowd. She’s the wife of Matthew’s tennis partner, Andy, and a relatively new friend but such fun I wish I’d met her earlier. ‘I haven’t seen you for ages,’ she says.
‘I know, it’s been too long. I’m actually on my way to meet Rachel, otherwise I’d suggest going for a drink, but you must come over for a barbecue this summer.’
‘That would be lovely.’ Hannah smiles. ‘Andy was saying the other day that he hasn’t seen Matthew at the club recently.’ She pauses. ‘Isn’t it awful about that young woman who was murdered last week?’
The dark cloud that is Jane descends on me. ‘Yes, dreadful,’ I say.
She gives a little shiver. ‘The police still haven’t found the person responsible. Do you think it was someone she knew? They say most murders are committed by someone known to the murderer.’
‘Do they?’ I say. I know I should tell Hannah that I knew Jane, that I’d had lunch with her a couple of weeks before, but I can’t because I don’t want her to start asking me about her, about what she was like. And the fact that I can’t, seems like another betrayal.
‘It could be just an opportunist murder,’ she goes on. ‘But Andy thinks it was someone local, someone who knows the geography of the area. He reckons they’re holed up somewhere nearby. He thinks it won’t be the last murder around here. It’s worrying, isn’t it?’
The thought of the murderer hiding nearby makes me go cold. Her words vibrate in my head and I feel so sick that I can’t concentrate on what she’s saying. I let her talk for a few more minutes, not really listening, murmuring responses at what I hope are appropriate places.
‘I’m sorry, Hannah,’ I say, looking at my watch, ‘but I’ve just seen the time! I really have to go.’
‘Oh, of course. Tell Matthew that Andy is looking forward to seeing him.’
‘I will,’ I promise.
*
The Sour Grapes is packed and Rachel is already there, a bottle of wine in front of her.
‘You’re early,’ I say, giving her a hug.
‘No, you’re late, but it doesn’t matter.’ She pours wine into a glass and hands it to me.
‘Sorry. I bumped into my friend Hannah and we ended up chatting. I better not drink the whole glass, I’m driving.’ I nod towards the bottle. ‘You’re obviously not.’
‘A couple of colleagues are meeting me for a bite to eat later so we’ll finish it between us.’
I take a sip of wine, savouring its crispness. ‘So, how are you?’
‘Not great, actually. The police have been in the office for the last few days, questioning everybody about Jane. It was my turn today.’
‘No wonder you feel like a drink,’ I say sympathetically. ‘What did they want to know?’
‘Just if I knew her. So I said that I didn’t, because it’s true.’ She fiddles with the stem of her glass. ‘The thing is, I didn’t tell them about the run-in I had with her over the parking space and now I’m wondering if I should have.’
‘Why didn’t you tell them?’
‘I don’t know. Actually, I do. I suppose I thought it might make me look as if I had a motive.’
‘A motive?’ She shrugs. ‘What, to murder her? Rachel, people don’t commit murder over a parking space!’
‘I’m sure people have been murdered for less,’ she says dryly. ‘But what I’m worried about now is if somebody else – one of her friends in the office, because she’s bound to have mentioned it – tells the police about the row.’
‘I doubt they will,’ I say. ‘But if you’re that worried, why don’t you call the police and tell them yourself ?’
‘Because they might start wondering why I didn’t tell them in the first place. It makes me look guilt
y.’
I shake my head. ‘You’re reading too much into it.’ I try to smile at her. ‘I think that’s the effect this murder is having on everybody. I had a man over this afternoon to give me a quote for an alarm and I felt really vulnerable being in the house on my own with him.’
‘I can imagine. I wish they’d hurry up and find whoever did it. It must be awful for Jane’s husband to know that his wife’s murderer is out there somewhere. Apparently, he’s taken leave of absence to look after the children.’ She picks up the wine bottle and tops up her glass. ‘What about you? How are you doing?’
‘Oh, you know.’ I shrug, not wanting to think about Jane’s motherless children. ‘It’s a bit difficult with Jane always on my mind.’ I give a nervous laugh. ‘I almost wish I hadn’t had that lunch with her.’
‘That’s understandable,’ she says sympathetically. ‘Did you book in to get an alarm fittted?’
My shoulders tighten ‘I want to but I’m not sure Matthew’s very keen on having one, though. He’s always said it’s like being a prisoner in your own home.’
‘Better than being murdered in your own home,’ she says darkly.
‘Don’t.’
‘Well, it’s true.’
‘Let’s change the subject,’ I suggest. ‘Have you got any business trips coming up?’
‘No, not until after my holiday. Only two more weeks, then I’ll be in Siena. I can’t wait!’
‘I can’t believe you’ve chosen Siena over the Ile de Ré,’ I tease, because she’s always said she’d never go on holiday to anywhere other than Ile de Ré.
‘I’m only going to Siena because my friend Angela has invited me to her villa, remember. Even if it is because she wants to set me up with her brother-in-law, Alfie,’ she adds, rolling her eyes. She takes another sip of wine. ‘Speaking of the Ile de Ré, I’m thinking of going there for my fortieth, women only. You’ll come, won’t you?’
‘I’d love to!’ Thinking of getting away makes me feel so much better, and it’ll be the perfect place to give her the present I’ve bought her. For a moment, I forget about Jane and, soon, Rachel is telling me about the places she plans to visit in Siena. For the next hour, we manage to keep the conversation away from anything to do with murder and alarms, but, by the time I get home, I feel mentally exhausted.
‘Did you have a good time with Rachel?’ Matthew asks, reaching up and giving me a kiss from his seat at the kitchen table.
‘Yes,’ I say, slipping off my shoes. The tiles are beautifully cool beneath my feet. ‘And I bumped into Hannah on my way to meet her, so that was nice.’
‘We haven’t seen her and Andy for ages,’ he muses. ‘How are they?’
‘Fine. I said they must come round for a barbecue.’
‘Good idea. How did it go with the alarm man? Did you manage to get rid of him?’
I take two mugs from the cupboard and switch the kettle on. ‘Eventually, yes. He left his brochure for you to look at. How about you? Did you have a good day?’
He pushes his chair back and stands, stretching his back, easing the muscles in his shoulders. ‘Busy. I could do without going away next week.’ He comes over and nuzzles my neck. ‘I’m going to miss you.’
Shocked, I twist away from him. ‘Wait a minute! What do you mean, you’re going away?’
‘Well, you know, to the rig.’
‘No, I don’t know. You never said anything about going to the rig.’
He looks at me in surprise. ‘Of course I did.’
‘When?’
‘I don’t know, it must have been a couple of weeks ago, as soon as I found out.’
I shake my head stubbornly. ‘You didn’t. If you’d told me, I would have remembered.’
‘Look, you even said you’d use the time I was away to work on your lesson plans for September, so that we’d both be able to relax when I got back.’
Doubt fingers its way into my mind. ‘I couldn’t have.’
‘Well, you did.’
‘I didn’t, all right,’ I say, my voice tight. ‘Don’t keep insisting that you told me you were going away when you didn’t.’
I feel his eyes on me and busy myself making the tea so that he can’t see how upset I am. And not just because he’s going away.
SATURDAY, JULY 25TH
My body clock still hasn’t adjusted to being on holiday so, despite it being the weekend, I’m in the garden early, pulling up weeds and tidying beds, only stopping when Matthew arrives back from the shops with fresh bread and cheese for lunch. We picnic on the lawn and, once we’ve finished, I mow the grass, sweep the terrace, wipe down the table and chairs and dead-head the plants in the hanging baskets. I’m not usually so obsessive about the garden but I feel a pressing need to have everything looking perfect.
Towards the end of the afternoon, Matthew comes to find me.
‘Would you mind if I go to the gym for an hour or so? If I go now, instead of in the morning, I’ll be able to have a lie-in.’
I smile. ‘And breakfast in bed.’
‘Exactly,’ he says, kissing me. ‘I’ll be back by seven.’
After he’s gone, I begin to make a curry, leaving the door to the garden open for air. I slice onions and dice chicken, singing along to the radio as I cook. In the fridge, I discover the bottle of wine we started a couple of evenings ago and pounce on it. I pour what’s left into a glass and carry on with the curry, sipping the wine as I go along. By the time I’ve finished in the kitchen, it’s almost six o’clock, so I decide to have a long, bubble-filled bath. I feel so relaxed that it’s hard to remember the relentless anxiety that had burdened me last week. This is the first day that I’ve managed to push all thought of Jane to the back of my mind. It’s not that I don’t want to think about her, it’s just that I can’t stand the constant guilt. No matter how much I want to I can’t turn the clock back, I can’t not live my life because I didn’t realise it was Jane in the car that night.
A news bulletin comes on but I turn the radio off quickly. Without the noise from the radio, the house is eerily quiet – and maybe because I’ve just been thinking about Jane, I’m suddenly conscious of being home alone. Going into the sitting room, I close the windows which have been left open all day, then the one in the study, and lock the front and back doors. I stand for a moment, listening to the house. But the only sound I hear is the soft ca coo of a wood pigeon outside.
Upstairs, I run the bath but before getting in I find myself hesitating over whether or not to bolt the bathroom door. I hate that the visit from the alarm man has played with my head so in defiance to myself I leave it ajar, as I normally do, but undress facing the gap. I climb in and sink down under the water. The bubbles rise up around my neck and I lie back against their foamy cushion, my eyes closed, enjoying the stillness of the afternoon. We’re rarely disturbed by neighbour noise – last summer the teenagers who live in the house nearest to us came to apologise in advance for a party they were throwing that night and we didn’t hear a thing – it’s why Matthew and I chose this house over the much larger, more impressive – and consequently more expensive – property that we also looked at, although I think price was also a consideration for Matthew. We’d agreed to buy it jointly and he was adamant that I wouldn’t put in more than him, even though I could well afford to, despite having bought a house on the Ile de Ré six months previously. A house nobody knows about, not even Matthew. And certainly not Rachel. Not yet.
Under the bubbles, I let my arms bob to the surface and think about Rachel’s birthday – the day I’ll finally be able to give her the keys to the house of her dreams. It’s been a hard secret to keep. It’s perfect that she wants to go to the Ile de Ré for her birthday. She took me there a couple of months after Mum died and we stumbled upon the little fisherman’s cottage on our second-to-last day there, an À Vendre sign hanging from an upstairs window.
‘It’s beautiful!’ Rachel had breathed. ‘I need to see inside.’ And without waiting to consult the es
tate agent, she marched up the little path and knocked on the door.
As the owner showed us round, I could tell that Rachel had fallen in love with it even though she couldn’t afford it. To her it was just a pipe dream, but I knew I could make it happen so I arranged it all in secret. I close my eyes, imagining her face when she realises that the cottage is hers. I knew it was exactly what Mum and Dad would have wanted me to do. If Dad had lived to make a will, he would definitely have bequeathed something to Rachel. And if Mum had been of sound-enough mind, she would have done the same.
A sound, like a crack, interrupts my thoughts. My eyes snap open and my whole body tenses. Instinctively, I know that something is wrong. I lie as still as I can, straining my ears, listening through the open door for the sound that told me I wasn’t alone in the house. Hannah’s words about Jane’s murderer being holed up nearby come back to me. I hold my breath, and my lungs, deprived of air, tighten, painfully. I wait; but there’s nothing.
Keeping my movements steady so as not to disturb the water any more than necessary, I raise my arm carefully; it breaks through the suds and I stretch my hand towards my mobile, perched precariously on the edge of the bath near the taps. But it remains out of reach and, as I slide further down the bath towards it, the water lapping against the side of the bath sounds as loud as waves crashing onto the shore. Terrified that I’ve drawn attention to myself and horribly conscious that I’m naked, I leap suddenly from the bath, taking half the water with me, and lunge for the door, slamming it shut. The sound reverberates around the house and, as I shoot the bolt, my fingers shaking, I hear another creak, I can’t work out where from, and my fear increases.
With my eyes fixed on the door, I take a couple of steps backwards and grope along the edge of the bath for my mobile. It slips from my grasp and clatters to the floor. I freeze, my arm outstretched. But still there is nothing. Bending my knees slowly, I retrieve my mobile. The time appears on the screen, six-fifty, and the breath that I forgot I was holding comes whooshing out in relief, because Matthew will soon be home.
