The kitchen had been filled with sunshine but now it dims. The worktop where Hannah has set out her slabs of fondant and tools is cast in shadow. She turns on the downlight built into the underside of a cupboard but it fails to come on. The gloom slows her down but she takes it in good temper, and when the sun comes back out she nods her thanks toward the heavens.
I know I’m lucky to have her as my Host. She takes care of her neighbour and I’ve seen how she pretends not to notice when Mr Dalgleish stumbles or when a tuft of hair comes away in his hand.
Could I trust her? Should I?
One of the reasons I’ve been put here is to make me realise the impact of this crime, to understand its cost first-hand. Already, I know that whenever Hannah smiles her mouth lifts only slightly, as though even the tiniest happiness has a caveat, and I can tell by the way her eyes linger on certain things – a mug on the shelf, a dent in the wall – that she sees the world through a filter of what was and what could have been.
Seeing her like this, it troubles me. Like most people, my biggest fear is losing those I love.
She removes the bowl of buttercream from the mixer and turns to face me. She takes a breath to prepare, like she’s about to say something. I sit up, ready, but then she seems to think better of it and turns away.
I wish I could make her realise she has nothing to be scared of. That I regret everything about that night. What happened, what I did. It was all so avoidable.
Still, what’s done is done.
My goal remains the same.
It’s going to be difficult and there isn’t much time, but I’m nothing if not adaptable.
I’ll find a way, I always have.
I return to my book and this time I manage to lose myself in the words. I finish the chapter and move on to the next. It feels good to go somewhere else for a while, to be transported to a place I can roam free.
A squeal of metal brings me back to myself.
The hatch. Hannah has pushed the drawer into the cell. I go over to see what’s inside and find a single cupcake. A teddy bear sits jaunty atop the yellow buttercream.
I go to thank her but she’s already on her way upstairs, humming another ballad.
I don’t want to damage the bear and so I place him carefully to one side and take a bite of the cake. The sponge is delicate, the cream sweet. I devour it in seconds.
Hannah
Hannah gave up on sleep around midnight.
Jem’s claims were desperate, outlandish even. There’d been a ton of evidence to prove he’d murdered John. And yet. Marzipan Rain. It was such a bizarre phrase, too odd for someone to have plucked out of thin air, and there was no way Jem could have known she’d seen it once before.
Was he telling the truth? Had John been on his way to meet someone before he died?
It had been earlier in the year, a weekend, when she’d stood by the washing machine about to put a load on. As always, she’d checked John’s jeans pockets before placing them in the drum, and pulled out his payslip. MARZIPAN RAIN had been written in large capital letters, along with some other stuff she couldn’t remember, on the back. Because they were odd words you don’t normally see next to each other, she’d read them out loud; a question to herself more than anything. John had been at the kitchen table, engrossed in the newspaper, but as soon as she spoke he’d jumped up and snatched it from her. He’d said it was a tip, the name of a racehorse someone had told him was a sure thing, and that he was glad she’d saved it from being ruined, then stuffed it in his back pocket. At the time she’d thought nothing of it. John liked the odd bet, as did Rupert. They gambled on everything from football matches to the Christmas number one.
She turned on the lamp, tied her hair into a bun and got out of bed. She wanted to look at the slip again, to see what else had been written there. But where to find it?
John had kept important paperwork – P60s, his birth certificate and insurance documents – in an expanding file at the bottom of the wardrobe. Maybe it was in there?
She dragged the folder out onto the carpet and clicked it open, but a rummage through its concertina pockets proved unsuccessful. She considered the rest of the room. John’s laptop was still left where he’d wedged it among loose papers and magazines in the bottom cubby of his bedside table. She pulled out the lot and rifled through the various letters and forms. There was one payslip but it was from two years earlier and clean of scribble. She remembered the folder of stuff Mickey had harvested from John’s desk and, after digging it out of her bag, tipped the contents onto the floor. Nothing but takeaway menus and those property particulars for a selection of east London flats.
She decided to call it a night. Who knew if John had even kept the payslip she’d seen, let alone put it somewhere she might find it?
Back under the duvet, she turned out the lamp, grabbed her phone and plugged in the headphones. In the blurry weeks that followed the funeral she’d created a compilation of John’s old voicemails and whenever she couldn’t settle at night she liked to listen to it on repeat. It made it feel like he was still there with her and, if she was lucky, she would fall asleep with the recording going and John would come to her in her dreams.
She clicked on the file and pressed start. John had always preferred voicemail or talking to someone in person. He said he found text or WhatsApp laborious, that he thought hastily typed missives were too easy to misconstrue and that it was quicker and easier to just say the words out loud. The messages spanned two years and, played back to back, ran to one hour and sixteen minutes. Each message was preceded by an electronic notification of the date and time it was recorded.
Monday 6th April, 6.35 p.m.
‘I’m in town, about to head home. Want me to pick up some bao buns from that place in Chinatown?’
Saturday 13th June, 7.58 p.m.
‘Hey you, it’s looking like I have to work late tonight so eat without me, love you, bye.’
Wednesday 2nd September, 10.17 a.m.
‘Leaving this message now in case I forget to tell you later. Trish in forensics has a silver wedding anniversary coming up. Wants you to do the cake. Remind me and I’ll give you her details.’
She’d always loved his voice. A rich leathery baritone, it had been the first thing she’d noticed about him. Later, she’d learned his timbre was such that whenever he interviewed suspects at work they had to tweak the levels on the machine specially, so as to avoid distortion.
When people used to ask how they’d first met John would tell them he saved her life and, thinking he was joking, they would laugh. But then he’d tell the story and their mouths would slacken, eyes widen, as they realised it was true.
Hannah had been twenty-seven, in London six years, her cake business in its infancy, when John had quite literally crashed his way into her world. She’d been in Soho, a teetering column of gateaux boxes balanced in her arms, on her way to Old Compton Street when an oncoming truck had mounted the kerb at speed, the driver having passed out at the wheel. Hannah had been oblivious, her view of the pavement obscured by the cake boxes, and it was only when John, who’d happened to be walking a few steps behind her, called out that she’d known anything was wrong.
‘Watch out!’
His voice had been such that she’d felt it in her solar plexus, a boom, like a cannon going off. She swirled round, trying to locate the threat, and John, realising there was no time, had leapt forward and rugby-tackled her into a nearby doorway. Moments later the truck had crashed into a shop window.
After watching the glass shatter, Hannah had drawn her attention back to her rescuer. His suit was covered in demolished gateaux, a line of cherries epauletting their way down one shoulder, his face cragged with acne scars, his eyes milky blue. He smelled clean, like sheets that have dried on the line.
‘You OK?’ he said, breathing hard.
‘Think so.’ She’d later discover that she’d fractured two ribs in the fall. ‘Thanks to you.’
Then he’d scooped up a bit of the d
emolished cake from his knee and licked his finger.
‘Delicious,’ he said, already searching out a second helping.
And even though her ribs hurt and she was shaky with adrenalin she’d laughed and then he’d kept on making her laugh, while they waited for the ambulance to arrive, in A & E, on their first date and beyond.
The compilation continued to play.
Sunday 11th October, 2.10 p.m.
‘Thought I’d catch you before you go off to your thing tonight. Bit hectic here but the good news is Mark still has his eyebrows. Our plane lands around 7 p.m. tomorrow so I should be home by 9 p.m.’
She’d listened to the messages so many times that she knew the words and accompanying sound effects off by heart. There was the tinny melody of an ice-cream van that time he called to tell her he thought he’d left the back door unlocked, there was the thump of a car boot closing when he was on his way home from the supermarket, there was the office chatter when he was apologising for having to work late again.
Thursday 26th November, 6.07 p.m.
‘Just calling to tell you not to wait up. This case, I’m going to have to pull an all-nighter.’ This voicemail had an annoying sound effect that she knew from past experience would hurt her ears – a high-pitched beep, an alarm of some kind – and so she braced, ready. BEEEEEEP. ‘I’m trying to think of the overtime.’
The recording finished and Hannah lay there even more wide awake than before, her thoughts going back to what Jem had said.
Marzipan Rain.
What did it mean?
She took off the headphones and turned the light back on. John’s laptop and papers lay where she’d left them on the floor.
She knew his password. Maybe his computer was worth a look?
A search of his inbox and Word files threw up zero matches. She moved on to his browser history. Again, there was nothing. Most of the sites he’d spent time on were unsurprising – BBC News, cinema listings, darts scores – but there was one site that stood out. A funeral notice in the Cambridge Evening News for a man called Roddy Blessop who had died back in December of last year. She didn’t recognise the name or recall John mentioning anything about a friend or relative having passed away and yet, when she counted she saw that he’d looked at the notice on seventeen separate occasions.
She was about to shut the computer when she remembered the hotel Jem said John had mentioned on the phone that night. The Wallaby or The Warlaby. Again, she combed his inbox, Word files and browser history. No match. Finally, she typed both names into the search engine. The top result was for a boutique hotel called The Warlaby in Clerkenwell.
She clicked on the link and the screen was filled with a bland chunk of grey pocketed with small square windows. It looked like your average Travelodge but the entrance, a jazzy affair lit by row upon row of yellow light bulbs gave it something extra. The pictures of the inside showed a reception decorated with old LPs, bicycles fixed sideways to the walls and a long table full of millennials on laptops.
According to Jem’s account, John had mentioned having been there with the person he’d talked to on the phone that night.
She looked at the contact number in the top right of the screen. She felt bad for even entertaining the possibility and yet she knew that the only way she’d ever get this out of her system was to prove Jem wrong.
She grabbed her phone and dialled.
‘The Warlaby. This is Jakob, how may I help?’
It was only now she was about to speak that Hannah realised just how improbable it was they’d be able to tell her anything.
After introducing herself she launched into her request.
‘I’m trying to find out if my husband has ever stayed at your hotel or made a restaurant reservation.’
The receptionist’s response was immediate.
‘I’m sorry but I can’t give out information about our guests, past or present.’ He spoke in long, falling vowels and rolled ‘r’s’ that Hannah associated with bad impressions of Count Dracula. ‘If that’s all?’ he said, clearly going to hang up.
‘Please, my husband, he died.’ Hannah’s voice cracked a little. Uttering those words, especially to a stranger, was always hard. In the weeks after John’s murder she’d had to say them so many times, to the bank, to his mobile phone operator and to his many credit card companies. She remembered opening bill after bill and seeing the outstanding amounts inside. She’d assumed his cards had been cloned and had gone through the most recent entries one by one, checking it had actually been him. It turned out the debt was longstanding, a prosaic accumulation of overdraft bailouts and end-of-the-month cash withdrawals that had snowballed into tens of thousands. ‘His name was John, John Cavey. There’s a dispute with our credit card bill,’ she lied. ‘I don’t want to know anything else, I just need to confirm that he was actually a customer otherwise it’s a fraudulent charge.’
They took down her name and mobile and then there was a pause.
‘John Cavey?’
‘Yes, C-A-V-E-Y.’
The receptionist went quiet and Hannah assumed he was busy typing John’s name into the system but then he spoke again.
‘Let me get the night manager.’
A clunk. The receiver being put down. She heard muffled voices. At first the exchange was monotone, two members of staff on the graveyard shift going through the motions, but then the conversation switched up a pace and the voices became louder, their tone urgent.
Another clunk and the receiver was picked back up.
‘We can’t help.’ It was the receptionist.
‘Can I speak to the manager?’
‘We cannot breach data protection law. I’m sorry.’
Hannah was crushed. Of course he was right. With nothing to lose she decided to ask one last thing.
‘I realise this might sound weird,’ she said quickly, ‘but do the words Marzipan Rain mean anything to you?’
‘It’s late. My apologies, but I have guests to deal with.’
The line went dead.
Hannah slumped against the headboard. She felt foolish all of a sudden, as if by making that call she’d fallen for a horrible trick. Of course it was a lie. No doubt Jem had overheard John using the phrase while he was glass-collecting that night and now he was using it against her, trying to spin it into something that might work to his advantage.
She turned out the light, closed her eyes and thought of Jem asleep in his cell downstairs.
The house seemed to pulsate with his presence, a hum that hurt her ears.
She lay like that for hours. Finally, just as dawn was breaking, she found peace. Her bun came loose, her blond hair alluvial across the sheets. She reached for John’s pillow and pressed her face into his smell, but her dreams were without him. Blank, endless, sad.
La Porchetta in Muswell Hill. Hannah finished the last of the olives and checked her phone. Mickey was supposed to have been at the restaurant forty minutes ago. Most likely she was stuck at work; still, she was the one who’d asked if they could meet – she’d heard about the Foster Host transfer and wanted to offer her sympathies – plus it wasn’t like her not to call.
The restaurant was busy, the staff in and out of the kitchen. Hannah noticed the couple to her right whispering and then, when the waiter retreated behind the bar to sort a drinks order, they got up and legged it toward the door. Abandoning the drinks, the waiter pursued them into the street. He was fast and managed to knock the guy to the floor and hold him there till the manager could be found. Hannah watched through the window as waiter and manager argued. Finally, the waiter let go of the thief and he sprinted off.
‘No point,’ said the manager as they returned inside. ‘Not like we’re going to press charges.’
Hannah gave Mickey another five minutes and, after trying and failing to reach the DCI on her phone, got up to leave. Mickey lived nearby, in an Edwardian terrace off the Broadway. She might be wrapped up in something at work, or on the Tube, but Hannah decid
ed to check in on her on her way home.
At the house she found all the curtains closed, the lights on. Standing by the front door, she could hear country music, a ballad, slow and mournful.
Mickey had once lived here with her ex-wife Laramie and had managed to hold on to the property after their divorce. Laramie had since remarried but the pair remained friends and Laramie would often come to whistle and cheer her on whenever she competed in one of her amateur bodybuilding championships.
Hannah rapped on the door and peered through the leaded glass for signs of life. She was soon rewarded by an approaching shadow. Mickey opened the door and Hannah felt a tiny pulse of relief. Then she saw her.
Tottering back and forward, her mascara was smeared, her hair loose.
‘Baby doll.’
She slapped her palm against her forehead, the movement sloppy and clownish.
‘La Porchetta,’ she said, her speech fuzzy. ‘I finished early then I must have lost track.’ She motioned for Hannah to come inside. ‘Give me a minute to get cleaned up and then we’ll head out, yeah?’
Hannah took a seat in the living room. An empty bottle of Chablis sat next to another, half-drunk, on the coffee table.
Mickey reappeared soon after, hopping on one foot as she tried to put on her flats.
‘Maybe we should call your sponsor?’ said Hannah gently. ‘Or Laramie? We could take you to a meeting tomorrow, or tonight even?’
‘I’ll call the restaurant,’ said Mickey, ignoring her. ‘See if I can get us a later reservation.’
‘Mickey,’ said Hannah, louder now. ‘Sit.’
She fussed a few moments more, obviously still hoping Hannah would play along, before giving in and slumping back onto the sofa.
Hannah motioned to the wine.
‘I know there doesn’t need to be a reason, there never needs to be a reason . . .’
‘Can we not do this now?’ She lurched forward and sloshed another measure of white into her glass. Some of it breached the side and she caught it with her finger and licked it clean. ‘I’m tired.’
Hannah got to her feet.
The Captive Page 6
