by Sue Fortin
‘Yeah, that Tom. I don’t know any other Tom.’ I want to kick myself for the irritation that creeps into my reply.
‘Why?’
‘Why did I go there? I don’t know. I was upset. As I say, I just found myself there.’
‘So, you go off to your ex-boyfriend when you’ve had a row with your husband. What is that? Some sort of tit for tat?’
‘Tit for tat? It can only be that if someone did something in the first place. So I’m assuming there was something with you and Alice, otherwise why would you say that?’
‘It’s just an expression. I’m just explaining how it’s playing out in your head.’ He taps the side of his head. ‘Your fucked-up head, that is.’
‘You’re the one with the fucked-up head,’ I retort. ‘Tom is an old friend and a colleague. That is all.’ There’s no way I can confess to kissing Tom now.
I look again at the photograph of Alice and Martha, more as a distraction from the argument than anything else. And then I see what has been troubling me about it. I look once again at the two girls in the photo. I peer at their faces. It’s too far away to see any detail but the clock in the background I can see clearly. The numbers on the face are in reverse.
I snatch the photograph up and stride out of the kitchen. Luke is calling me. I can hear his bare feet on the tiles following me as I hurry down to Mum’s sitting room.
‘Clare! Whatever you’re doing, stop and think for a minute,’ says Luke. He’s right behind me, but it’s too late, I’m through the door and standing in front of my mum and Alice.
They both look up in surprise. Mum’s face folds into a frown and Alice sits back, crossing her arms under her chest. She glances at the photograph and looks a little nervous. I don’t know what the implications of what I’ve seen are, but I know they’re important and I want to see what Alice has to say for herself.
‘What’s wrong, Clare?’ asks Mum. ‘I hope you’ve come to apologise.’
‘No, I wanted to ask Alice something,’ I say. I look at my sister. ‘This photograph you sent us, you said you’re the one on the left.’
‘And?’ Alice’s eyes dart from the photo to me and then to Mum.
I hold up the photograph so Mum and Alice can see it. ‘On the left, that’s you here. On the left as you say.’
‘Sure.’
‘This is definitely you?’ I tap at the image of Alice.
‘What is this?’ demands Mum.
‘Clare, are you sure about this?’ says Luke, his voice low. I ignore him.
‘Okay, we’re all happy that this is Alice,’ I say, my voice full of mock cheer. ‘If that’s so, why is the clock in the background reversed?’ My eyes never leave Alice. A small flush creeps up her neck. She swallows hard. And then breaks into a smile followed by a laugh.
‘Oh, Clare, you are funny,’ she says. ‘You know what I’ve done. I’ve reversed that photo when I scanned it in. How silly of me.’
‘But you said in the attached email that you were the one on the left,’ I say. ‘When, in actual fact, you’re really the one on the right, if this photo was flipped.’
‘I don’t know what you’re getting at,’ says Mum. ‘What does it matter what side Alice is on?’
Alice drops her gaze for a moment and reaches out to hold Mum’s hand. ‘This is a bit embarrassing,’ she says quietly. ‘I didn’t want to say anything before, it’s not something I talk about much.’
‘What is it, dear?’ says Mum, squeezing Alice’s hand.
‘I’m dyslexic,’ says Alice. ‘I get things back to front, letters mostly, but I also have trouble with sequences, you know days of the week, months of the year. I also get my left and right muddled up.’
‘That’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ says Mum. ‘I had no idea.’
I feel as if the air has been taken from my lungs. They deflate like a burst balloon. I hear Luke mutter nice one from behind me.
Alice looks up at Mum with big, round, sorrowful eyes. ‘I didn’t want to say, not with Clare being such a successful career woman. It made me feel, I don’t know, inferior, I suppose. I didn’t want you to think I was stupid. Daddy was always telling me how I would only ever wait on tables because I couldn’t get my grades.’
‘I thought you were a teacher,’ I say. I’m certain that’s what she said in one of her emails.
Alice looks up at me. ‘Yes. That’s right. I am. I proved them all wrong. Just because I’m dyslexic and don’t read books, it doesn’t mean I’m stupid.’
‘But you still get left and right muddled up.’ I’m not buying the tears. Big fat crocodile tears, if you ask me. I know she’s right about dyslexia and intelligence and normally I wouldn’t even imply anything so insulting, but Alice seems to have the knack of bringing out the worst in me.
‘Like I said, I just wanted to prove them all wrong. Especially Daddy.’ Alice makes a sobbing noise and buries her face in her hands.
‘Oh, my darling child,’ says Mum and pulls Alice into her arms. Mum looks up at me. ‘I think you’ve done enough damage for one day.’
Pain. I think that’s what I see in Mum’s face. I’ve hurt Alice and, by default, I’ve hurt her. It cuts deep into my heart. I stutter out an apology. ‘I’m … sorry. Mum. Alice.’ It’s all I can manage. I’m withering inside like the Wicked Witch of the West, but something makes me plough on. Call it tenacity, pig-headedness or it could just be a professional trait I’ve developed. I don’t know, but I can’t help myself. The search for the truth is driving me on. I’m totally consumed by it. ‘You know, Pippa isn’t speaking to me now,’ I say, ignoring Mum’s look, which intensifies. I try to shut down the hurt this is causing me, rather like I’ve managed perfectly well to shut down the hurt of my father deserting me. ‘She’s not letting Daisy come round any more. She says Daisy isn’t safe here. What happened today, Alice?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Clare. Can’t you just leave it?’ It’s Luke. ‘I’m sorry, Marion. Alice. I don’t know what’s got into her recently.’
‘Don’t apologise for me,’ I say. ‘I’m not accusing anyone of anything, I’m just asking.’
‘Bullshit.’ Luke shakes his head. ‘Come on.’ He takes my arm, but I shrug him off.
‘I’d like you to leave now,’ says Mum. ‘If you were a child, I’d be sending you to your room, but you’re a grown woman. You need to start acting like it. Now please leave us alone.’
Feeling both humiliated and indignant I do as I’m told. Back in the kitchen Luke sits down at the table, turning his chair inwards, and pulls another round to face him. He nods to the chair and I sit down. He has the air of a man under pressure. He rests his elbows on his knees and puts his hands together, as if in prayer, dipping his head for a moment as if to steel himself. Then he takes my hands in his.
The physical contact from him practically sends a small electric shock through me. I’ve missed him these last few days. I’ve missed his touch and I’ve missed his love.
‘Clare, I’m worried about you,’ he says. ‘You’re not yourself lately. You’re very … or rather, you seem very tetchy … almost paranoid.’
I take a sharp snatch of breath. ‘Paranoid?’
I want to pull my hands away, but Luke holds onto them. ‘Like there’s some sort of conspiracy going on with Alice.’
This time I do yank my hands free. ‘I can’t believe you’re saying this.’
‘It’s only because I care about you. I think you’ve too much going on at the moment. Maybe you should take some time off work. Have you thought about talking to someone? Not a friend. I mean a professional.’
‘A doctor?’ I snort at the idea.
‘I don’t think you’re coping,’ he says.
I stand up, scraping the chair back across the tiled floor. ‘I do not need to see a doctor. There is nothing wrong with me.’ I storm out of the kitchen.
My head is killing me and my limbs feel heavy and weak. I wonder if I’m coming down with something. I feel quite rough. Wh
at I need is a good night’s sleep. I climb into bed and from my bedside drawer fish out a packet of Paracetamol. I pop two from the foil-backed sheet. Hopefully, when I wake up in the morning, my thick head will have cleared and I can start the day fresh.
It feels as if I’ve only been asleep for an hour or two, but I’m woken by my alarm clock buzzing, sounding like a swarm of bees tapping out Morse code. I’m usually up long before it goes off and had almost forgotten what it sounded like. I reach over and silence the buzzing. It doesn’t look as if Luke slept in the bed last night. I sigh as I think back to yesterday and for the umpteenth time wonder how it has all got to this. How my life seems to be unravelling and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
I shower and dress and make my way downstairs. Mum, Alice, Luke and the girls are all there. We exchange muted good mornings and I take my seat at the table. ‘School swimming today,’ I say to Hannah with a smile, trying to sound cheery for her benefit.
‘I’ve got all her stuff sorted,’ says Luke in a tone that says not to interfere and not to enter into any sort of dialogue with him.
The sound of the doorbell ringing and someone hammering on the door-knocker breaks through the uneasy silence that has descended.
‘Who on earth can that be at this time in the morning?’ says Mum to no one in particular.
‘I’ll go,’ says Luke. We listen to the sound of voices as Luke speaks to whoever it is. Then the door closes and Luke appears in the kitchen, followed by two police officers. One male. One female.
The female officer speaks. ‘Mrs Tennison? Clare Tennison?’
‘Yes,’ I say. A hundred thoughts zoom through my mind as to what they want. This early in the morning can only mean one thing. Bad news. I look at Luke and I don’t think I’ve ever seen such disappointment in his eyes
Chapter 18
I look bewildered at the police officers. I’ve seen enough police officers in my time to know that this is not a friendly visit. I glance at the children.
Chloe is smiling away. ‘Hello, Policeman and Police lady. Ne-nah-ne-nah.’ The female officer gives a small smile in my daughter’s direction.
I look at Hannah and her eyes are full of fear. She shrinks back in her seat and I’m suddenly protective of her. The poor lamb obviously thinks she’s done something wrong. Probably thinking about yesterday and what happened to Daisy.
I stand up. ‘Can we go into the living room, please?’ I say, giving a little nod in Hannah’s direction. Fortunately, the police officers pick up on this subtlety. I smooth Hannah’s hair and drop a kiss on her head. ‘Don’t worry, darling. Mummy just needs to chat to these police officers about work.’ Hannah looks unconvinced.
We go into the living room and Luke follows. I hope he’s there for moral support rather than to gloat over whatever is going on. His eyes are dark and he stands beside me in front of the bay window. None of us sit.
‘What can I help you with?’ I say, my professional voice creeping in. ‘And what did you say your names were?’
‘I’m PC Evans and this is my colleague, PC Doyle,’ says the female officer. ‘And you are, sir?’ She looks towards Luke.
‘Luke Tennison. Clare’s husband.’
Evans gives a nod of acknowledgment and then turns her attention back to me. ‘Can you tell us where you were last night between the hours of eleven-thirty p.m. and six-forty-five this morning?’
‘Can you tell me in what connection?’ I ask. I’m already a step ahead. They wouldn’t be asking me this question if they thought I was some innocent bystander to whatever has happened. I’m clearly a suspect.
‘There’s been a report of some damage to a vehicle,’ says Evans.
‘And why are you asking me about it?’
‘Clare’s a solicitor,’ explains Luke.
I watch the two officers exchange a look before Evans carries on. She adjusts her weight from one foot to the other. ‘I believe you know a Mrs Pippa Stent of Mulberry House, Church Lane, Little Dray.’
‘Yes,’ I say, alarm bells ringing a little louder in my head. Has Pippa put in an official complaint about the park incident? I quickly dismiss that notion as it wouldn’t warrant this early-morning greeting. Besides, I can’t be arrested for forgetting to pick the girls up.
‘Mrs Stent’s car suffered some damage at some point last night. Intentional damage.’
‘And you think I did it?’ I snort. ‘Why on earth would I do something like that?’
‘We understand that you and Mrs Stent had a disagreement yesterday.’
‘She reported me? She thinks I did whatever it is that’s happened?’
‘We have several lines of enquiry and this is just one of them,’ says Evans.
‘What exactly has happened to Pippa’s car?’ asks Luke.
‘It has suffered a dent to the rear, consistent with the impact of another car reversing into it with a tow bar. There’s also graffiti on it.’ Evans fixes me with a look that I’d give one of the children if I thought they needed to own up to something.
‘What sort of graffiti?’ asks Luke.
Evans consults her pocket book, which I’m sure is not necessary but she’s playing the part. ‘Traitor. Disloyal. Hypocrite.’ Evans looks at me and I realise she’s waiting for a reaction.
‘Quite specific, then. Well, I’m not responsible,’ I say.
‘The windscreen and door handles were also smeared with dog faeces,’ says Evans. ‘Do you have a dog, Mrs Tennison?’
‘No,’ I reply.
‘Only, we noticed a pair of shoes on your doorstep with dog faeces on one shoe.’
I look blankly at Luke who looks equally confused. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘So, back to our original question, your whereabouts yesterday evening …’
I pull a face at the thought. ‘I was at home last night. I went to bed just after ten p.m. and I got up this morning at six a.m. when my alarm went off.’
‘And you didn’t go out at all last night? Can anyone vouch for you? Mr Tennison?’
Luke hesitates a moment too long. ‘Yes, Clare was here last night.’
‘All night? You know she was here? What time did you go to bed last night, Mr Tennison?’
‘Around eleven,’ he says.
‘And Mrs Tennison was in bed when you went to bed yourself?’
Evans is persistent. She’ll go far, she’s getting right down to the nitty-gritty details – unfortunately, for me.
‘Well, I slept downstairs last night,’ confesses Luke. Evans raises her eyebrows, in question. ‘I was busy working and I didn’t want to disturb my wife. I quite often sleep downstairs. It’s not unusual.’
I silently thank Luke for not saying we had an argument. I don’t want them to think I go around arguing with everyone every day. Although, currently, that seems to summarise my life.
‘May we take a look at your car, Mrs Tennison?’ asks PC Doyle, speaking for the first time.
I can’t refuse. ‘Okay. I’ll just get the keys.’ We walk out to the hall and I look in the key cupboard. The hook where I usually hang mine is empty. ‘That’s odd,’ I say. ‘They’re not here.’ I scan the other hooks, looking for the small plastic key fob, which has a picture of me, Luke and the girls sitting in a log flume ride at an amusement park we visited last summer. There is no sign of it.
‘Your bag?’ suggests Luke.
‘I never put them in my bag, you know that.’
‘Just a suggestion.’
I pick up my bag and rummage through. To my surprise, the keys are in the little side pocket, zipped up. ‘I don’t understand,’ I say. I think back to last night. Had I put them in my bag? Was I distracted enough not to hang them up as I always did? My usual clear head and thought process seems to be deserting me. I can’t recall for certain what I did.
Evans gives a sceptical look in my direction. ‘Shall we look at the car now?’ she says, with the patience of a tired teacher on a Friday afternoon.
&
nbsp; As we leave through the front door, I look down at the offending pair of shoes. They’re my black work ones with the small one-inch heel and, just as Evans said, dog poo is wedge in the inside of the heel.
‘I don’t even know what my shoes are doing out here,’ I say. ‘I’d have known if I had trodden in poo.’ Evans looks unconvinced. I don’t blame her. I sound like a very unreliable witness. I’m not even sure I believe myself.
We go out to the carport. My car is facing outwards, as I always park it. Evans takes the keys from me and the two officers walk around the car, inspecting it as they do so. They get to the back and after muttering something that I can’t hear, they call me over.
The towbar on the back of my car has traces of red paint on it and there is a small dent in the bumper. Pippa’s car is red.
‘Can you tell us how this happened?’ asks Evans.
‘I’ve absolutely no idea,’ I say, my empty stomach churning over.
‘May we look inside?’ Evans presses the unlock button, lifts the boot and, with her torch, shines the beam into the blackness. It’s empty. As I would expect. I’m not one for carrying loads of stuff around in the back of my car. Evans bends down and shines the light right into the far corner. A silver aerosol can with a white lid is illuminated. Evans takes a plastic glove from her pocket and, careful to make minimal contact, she retrieves the can. It’s the sort of spray paint used on bodyworks for cars. The sort easily available from petrol stations.
‘I’ve never seen that before in my life,’ I say, vaguely aware I sound totally unconvincing.
‘There’s something else,’ says Doyle.
This time Evans retrieves a till receipt. ‘Looks like it’s for this paint. Bought yesterday at the garage on the main road into Brighton. Paid for with cash. At seven p.m.’ She looks up at me. ‘Can you tell me where you were at this time?’
My mouth dries a little. This isn’t looking too good for me. ‘I was on my way home from the hospital. I’d been to see Pippa.’
