by Agatha Frost
“Wow!” Em beamed as she took in Claire’s costume. “Look at you! You look amazing! I didn’t think you’d be back so . . .” Em’s voice trailed off and she rushed to Claire’s side, her warm palm rising to cup Claire’s left cheek. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”
“It’s been a funny morning,” Ryan answered for her.
“A guy was stabbed!” Amelia announced as she dug through a basket of wax melts. “Dad, I’m still hungry.”
Every shopper in Amelia’s vicinity turned and stared at the child, unable to let news so juicy slip them by. Em’s hand left Claire’s cheek to rest against her own mouth as she inhaled a deep breath; nobody could accuse Em of being cold.
“C’mon, kids.” Em scooped them both in by their shoulders. “Let’s grab some lunch at Marley’s with Auntie Em. I think I saw some delicious-looking brownies in there earlier.”
Ryan smiled his thanks as Em hurried out of the shop with the kids. They went without argument, their hungry stomachs now louder than their chattering minds.
“Claire?” Ryan gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Why don’t you head upstairs? I’ll explain everything to your father.”
Seeing her shop packed out was normally a strong enough tonic to shake her from the foulest moods. Not today. Claire slipped past her dad, distracted by counting out change from the till, and through to the back. Each step up to her flat felt taller than the last. By the time she’d struggled to the top, she had barely a drop of energy left. She pushed through the door and was already kicking off her shoes before it closed behind her. The lock clicked into place, and a figure on the sofa, exactly where Taron had been only that morning, shot upright.
“Sally?” Claire squinted at her friend, half-certain she was hallucinating. “What are you doing here?”
“Hope you don’t mind. Your dad let me up.”
“No, I mean, what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be on holiday.”
Sid, who’d belonged to Sally until her youngest daughter proved allergic, jumped off her lap and ran over to circle between Claire’s legs. She picked up the heavy fluffball; his fur was the first thing to vaguely comfort her in the past hour. Domino, staring down at the people below, didn’t budge from her spot on the windowsill.
“I was.” Sally bit into her lip, her brows tilting outwards. “I got the first plane back this morning.”
Claire plonked herself down on the corner of the sofa with Sid. Sally’s complexion had an orange hue. She was supposed to be in the Canary Islands, where she and her husband, Paul, had been for the past fortnight. A make or break holiday, she’d called it. One last attempt to save their marriage when everything else, including couple’s counselling, had failed. The penny dropped as Claire’s sluggish thoughts caught up with what Sally’s premature return meant.
“I’ve left him,” Sally confirmed as she tucked her legs up and ran her hands through her slightly sun-kissed hair. “I couldn’t do it anymore.”
“Left him on holiday?” Claire stroked Sid from head to tail. “Or left him, left him?”
“Left him.” She bit her lip again. “For real this time. I realised I . . . What are you wearing?”
Claire looked down at the crinkled cardboard panelling of her costume. A few pieces had flaked, revealing the cereal boxes beneath the purple paint. The reprieve might only have lasted seconds, but listening to Sally, whom she’d known for as long as she’d been able to form memories, had momentarily made Claire forget why she was so exhausted. She hadn’t wanted to cry in front of the kids, but if she could cry in front of anyone, it was Sally. Claire let the tears flow as she haltingly explained what had happened.
“Bloody hell, mate.” Sally pulled her into a hug. “And suddenly my marriage woes don’t feel so important.”
“Of course they’re important.”
“But no matter how much I wanted to, nobody was stabbed.” She gave Claire a tight squeeze. “Do you think he’ll live?”
“There was so much blood.” Claire’s gaze fell on her open palms. “Damon was sitting on a bench, staring at his bloody hands like they weren’t his own. He found Taron in the alley.”
“And then left him to have a sit down?”
Claire hadn’t looked at it like that. The suggestion made her frown and pull away from Sally slightly. In the years Ryan had lived in Spain, Sally and Damon had been her only friends, albeit separate friends for different reasons and occasions. Recently, they’d grown a little closer, but they still hadn’t fully melted into the same pot.
“Maybe he was in shock?” Claire’s stomach writhed. “Right before that, he was so angry. Angry at Taron, or maybe just the situation. They missed the tournament because – it doesn’t matter now, but he wouldn’t. Would he? No, he wouldn’t.”
“I never went there.” Sally offered a tight smile. “But you just did.”
Claire clenched her eyes, hating where her mind was taking her. She’d known Damon for a good fifteen years, with most of that time spent side by side at the candle factory. Perhaps it was a different way than she knew Sally, but she still knew Damon inside out.
Why couldn’t she dismiss the idea?
“He wouldn’t,” she repeated. “He wouldn’t.”
There was too much noise to think clearly.
“And what about this Taron guy? How well did you know him?”
“Not at all,” she admitted, her eyes going straight to the Japanese worksheets and textbooks Taron had left on the coffee table. “Not really. Dry sense of humour, loves computer games. Seemed to be getting his life together. He’s at uni. Mature student. He stayed here last night.”
“I wondered what all this stuff was.”
“We kissed.”
“What?”
“It was years ago,” she explained quickly, letting Sid hop off her lap; he’d had his fill. “Damon’s birthday. We were both drunk. Forgot all about it till I saw him again yesterday. He’s a good kisser.” She hoped she was still talking about the man in the right tense. “Who’d want to do something like that to someone?” She looked down at the costume again. “I need to get changed.”
“I’ll start the coffee.”
While the beans whirred in the kitchen, Claire pulled off her mother’s creation and put it back in the dress bag. She slid into a comfortable baggy white t-shirt with rolled-up sleeves and a pair of pale blue stretch denim jeans. For the first time all day, she felt like herself, although the knot in her stomach didn’t shift. When she returned, the front door to her flat was open, and another guest had made himself at home on her sofa.
“Claire!” boomed Detective Inspector Harry Ramsbottom, slapping shut the Japanese textbook he’d been flicking through. “Terrible business. I came over as soon as I heard. How are you feeling?”
Claire forced a smile. She and the DI were not close enough for her to show her genuine anguish in that moment.
“Five sugars,” Sally said with a strained look at Claire as she reached over the sofa to hand the detective a cup. “Are you sure that’s not too much milk?”
Ramsbottom gave the almost white coffee a sip, and where anyone else would have winced from the sweetness, he went back for another slurp. “Smashing, thanks!”
“Are you here to take a statement?” Claire asked, accepting her black unsweetened coffee from Sally before perching on the corner.
“Not in an official capacity, no.” He gulped down half the cup before putting it on the table over Taron’s papers. “Not my jurisdiction, I’m afraid. The lads in Blackburn should do a fine job putting this one to bed. I’m sure it’s much to-do about nothing, to be honest. I suspect a mugging gone wrong.” He rearranged his tie over his straining shirt. Flakes of what looked like pastry still clung to the satin. “I say, I don’t suppose you saw what happened? You were close, no?”
“More a friend of a friend.”
“I see.” He nodded, sucking the air through his teeth. “So, you didn’t see anything?”
“Is now the
best time for this?” Sally said, her tone switching to the professional one she used in her job as an estate agent. “She’s a little shaken up, and if this isn’t official, it feels like stress for the sake of it right now.”
“Not my intention, I assure you.” Ramsbottom glanced out the window, his forehead wrinkling. “Like I said, fine boys at Blackburn. They’ll solve it. It’s just . . .” He turned his gaze to his cup and rearranged his tie again. “I thought if I could gather some intel for them, perhaps I could be of service.”
Claire’s phone vibrated in her pocket. Glad of the distraction, she pulled it out. Her heart stopped when she saw Damon’s name on the screen. Without excusing herself, she shut herself in the small, windowless, salmon-coloured bathroom.
“Damon?” she whispered down the phone. “Where are you?”
“I’m at the hospital,” he replied in a similar weary whisper. “Taron’s in surgery. They won’t tell me anything.”
“He’s still alive?”
“I think so.” There was a long pause filled with the beeping of machines in the background. “I-I’m not sure. He didn’t look alive. Claire . . . there was so much blood. I-I don’t know what to do. They said he could be in for hours. They’re trying to get me to leave.”
“Whatever you decide,” she said after taking her turn for a long pause, “I need to talk to you.”
From the seriousness of her tone, she expected some instant rebuttal, shock, or even denial. Instead, another long silence greeted her. The knot in her stomach tightened.
“Claire, I need to go,” he said in a rush. “I’ve just seen the doctor I was talking to earlier. I’ll call you later.”
Damon hung up before Claire could ask anything else. Tapping her phone into her palm, she stared at herself in the mirror above the sink under the bright light. She looked tired, older somehow, and a morning spent sweating in her costume had left her fine, mousy hair with an oily sheen. She turned and looked at the large bath, unsure if she even had the energy to soak in it. She didn’t, but she didn’t have the energy for the DI either. Leaving the bathroom, she knew what needed to be done.
“Another time, Detective Inspector.” Claire held open the front door with another of her polite smiles. “It’s been a long morning.”
“Of course,” he said, standing and draining his sugary coffee. “You’re absolutely right. I’ll get out of your hair. If you think of anything, you have my number.”
Ramsbottom hurried out, knocking into the side table and the door on his way. Claire waited until his thudding footsteps reached the bottom of the staircase before closing the door.
“Do you think he’s right?” Sally asked as she rinsed the DI’s cup in the sink. “About it being a mugging gone wrong?”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“I don’t know what to think.” Claire sighed, falling onto the sofa. She pulled off her glasses and rubbed between her eyes. “What a strange day.”
Sally sat next to her and rested a hand on Claire’s knee. “I could go too?”
“Don’t you dare.” Claire leaned into Sally’s side. “Stay. Please.”
Different things might have caused their low moods, but they needed each other in that moment, Claire knew that much. What she didn’t know, however, was if it was worth putting any stock in DI Ramsbottom’s theory. Despite wanting to close her eyes and fall asleep with her head against Sally’s shoulder, her thinker wouldn’t turn off.
A mugging might make things easier to comprehend, but it didn’t feel right.
Far too convenient.
Chapter Four
Claire’s mother insisted she and Sally have dinner at the cul-de-sac that night. Neither were in the mood for company, but neither wanted to cook. After naps and showers, they took Janet up on her offer on one condition: absolutely no questions.
Janet served buttery leek and potato soup, made using the vintage microwave cookbooks pulled down from the attic, with bread rolls for their starters. Throughout the slurping and dunking, she kept to her promise not to bombard them with questions. Her foot tapped under the table while they chatted about the pleasant weather and what had been on telly lately. Alan had to rest his hand on her knee more than once, but she bit her tongue.
Halfway through the main of microwave chilli con carne, the questions finally came spilling out.
“A man was stabbed!” she countered when Alan tried to divert the conversation away. “What else is there to talk about?”
Janet’s pointed questions continued through to the dessert of sticky toffee pudding, also made using the microwave. Seeming to admit defeat, Janet retired to the sitting room to catch up on episodes of the soaps she’d missed through the week. Claire and Sally stayed in the dining room to play a distracting game of Scrabble with Alan. When they left a little after eleven, Claire popped her head into the sitting room to say goodbye to her mother. Janet had fallen asleep in the corner of the sofa in front of the TV, head lolling back, mouth wide open, and a cup of tea still clenched in both hands.
“You know where we are, little one,” Alan said as he kissed her goodnight on the doorstep. “Let me know if you hear any updates about Damon’s friend.”
They set off walking back to the centre of the village, enjoying the warmth of the night.
“That could have gone worse,” Claire said. “If my dad hadn’t been there, she would have turned it into a full-blown interrogation.”
“There’s something about being around your mum that makes me feel like a kid again.”
“You too?”
“They never stop being mothers, do they?” Sally looked up at the bright moon as they crossed over one of the canal bridges. “My mum’s got the girls until the end of next week. I thought about picking them up early, but they’re probably loving being with their nanna. As bad as the holiday was, I must admit it’s been nice to have a little time off being someone’s mum. I feel guilty even admitting that, but with everything that’s been going on with me and Paul lately, having the girls in the middle has made things so much more complicated.” She paused and frowned down at the ground. “I’m going to have to figure out a way to tell them, aren’t I? It broke me when my mum and dad told me they were getting divorced. How can I do that to them?”
Claire remembered that era in their friendship well. They’d been teenagers about to go into their final year of high school. From the outside looking in, Sally’s parents had seemed perfect. They told Sally over dinner one night like they were announcing their intention to redecorate the dining room. She cried about it for weeks, most of the time on Claire’s shoulder. During that same time, possibly triggered by the divorce, something switched on in Sally’s brain. After years of messing around at the back of the classroom with Claire, she started paying attention just in time to ace her final exams. Claire had staggered across the finish line, trailing far behind, and that’s how things had stayed since.
“They’ll bounce back,” Claire reassured her. “You can’t stay together for the sake of the kids. That’s not fair on any of you.” She gave Sally’s arm a slight nudge. “Was the holiday really that bad?”
“It started off alright. New environment and all that.” She wrapped her arms around herself as though she could feel a chill Claire couldn’t. “The weather was gorgeous and so was the resort. Five stars. Four pools, eight restaurants, and you should have seen our suite. We had a gorgeous view of the ocean from our balcony. Everything was serene for a bit, like it used to be. No arguing, just . . . being.” She dropped her hands and stuffed them into her pockets. “Never lasts. The bickering crept in after a few days. The beds were pushed apart at the end of the first week and that’s how they stayed. We were on separate holidays. I spent my days in the spa; he spent his in the lounge. We’d meet up for mealtimes and have nothing to say to each other – and when we tried, it inevitably caused an argument.”
“I’m sorry, mate,” Claire said as they reached the village
square.
“That’s not even the worst of it,” Sally replied, gazing straight across the square. “Is that Damon?”
Claire followed Sally’s eyeline to the corner outside Marley’s Café. Damon was there, talking to a woman. He was still in his cyberpunk pirate costume, although he’d stripped away whatever elements he could. The woman was slender and stylishly dressed, her black-rooted hair dyed a striking silver that glowed in the dark. Claire checked her phone, but there were no messages from Damon. She’d called him twice for updates since their bathroom conversation, and both times he’d promised he’d text her the second he was back in the village.
“I think that’s his mate Rina,” Sally said as they lingered by the clock tower, just out of view of Damon but still able to see him and the woman. “Heard she’s from Japan.”
Claire had heard that too, but she was surprised Sally knew that detail.
“Who told you that?”
“Damon.”
“Damon?” Claire arched a brow. “Since when do you and Damon talk when I’m not there?”
“Hang on, she’s leaving.”
Claire focused her attention on the corner again as Rina and Damon gave each other a quick hug. When Rina pulled away, she pivoted in their direction. Before she reached the clock, she pulled out her phone, typed rapidly, and put it to her ear.
“It’s me,” she said as she passed without so much as glancing at them. “I’m on my way back now.”
They watched as she marched out of the square, turning left down a side street at the end of the row containing Claire’s shop.
“I need to talk to him,” Claire said as she watched Damon disappear.
“I’ll leave you to it.” Sally pulled the shop keys from Claire’s pocket. “If you’ve still got that bottle of red I gave you as a housewarming present, I’ll crack it open and pour us a nightcap. If tonight isn’t a night for it, I don’t know what is.”
