‘So, are you married?’ I blurted, immediately wishing I’d chosen something less personal to say.
He shook his head. ‘Not any more.’ He looked across at me. ‘What about you?’
I felt hot, realising even more how personal I’d been with him when the question bounced back to me. ‘Long-term relationship. I have a daughter. She’s four.’ I left out that Lawrence was a complete bastard. That he’d walked out on me just when I needed him most.
‘How lovely,’ he said, sounding genuine, and I began to feel a bit more relaxed.
In less than a minute, he’d pulled up on the road next to the farmhouse, and pointed a remote at the automatic gates, which opened inwards. I swallowed hard. What if the memories came back again – the blood, the child? But while part of me was afraid of the traumatic memories returning, another part of me wanted them to surface so I could find out the truth.
‘It’s such a beautiful house,’ I said, as he drove his car onto the cobbled drive, and the gates closed behind him.
‘I like it,’ he said, pulling on his handbrake.
My phone rang, and I stared at the word ‘unknown’ on the screen, knowing I would have to answer. It could be the care home, or the car hire people. I pressed answer, but remained silent.
‘Hello, who is this?’ It was a male voice. Was it the man who called me pretending to be Martin Walker? Or was I imagining it? Had all male voices morphed into every call?
‘I could ask you the same thing,’ I said, with more confidence than I felt, throwing Felix a little shrug and a roll of my eyes.
‘This is Inspector Smyth from the Hertfordshire Constabulary.’
How would a policeman get my mobile number? Was he really a cop? I was on distrust autopilot, and felt sure it was the prankster who told me my mother died. The same prankster who’d called the TV studio. ‘Please, just leave me alone.’
I cancelled the call with shaking hands, and Felix’s eyes widened. ‘Is everything OK, Rachel?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, I’m a bit jittery, that’s all.’
‘I can see that.’ He placed his hand on my arm. ‘Let’s get you inside, shall we? A nice cup of tea will help.’
Relief swam through me, as I entered the farmhouse and no memories invaded my head. In fact, the place was stunning in an old-fashioned, cosy kind of way. The lounge was square with quaint nooks where heavy, antique furniture stood, including a bookshelf full of hardbacks, mostly his own. There was a grandfather clock in the corner, ticking into the peace, and two large sofas positioned opposite each other, in front of an open fireplace where a fire blazed. There was an aroma of baking too, and my stomach rumbled.
‘Take a seat,’ Felix said. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’
But I remained standing, looking at the paintings on the wall – mainly landscapes. One caught my eye, and I moved closer. It was one of my mother’s, a picture of the lake I’d seen, and a tingle tickled my neck. I turned to glance at the photos on an antique dresser of Felix with various recognisable authors and celebrities.
‘Ah, you’ve seen my hall of fame, then?’ Felix said with a laugh, heading into the room with a tray rattling with mugs, a jug of milk, a pot of sugar, and two large slices of cake that looked absolutely yummy.
He sat down and I joined him on the sofa. ‘Shall I be Mum?’ he said. ‘Sugar? Milk?’
‘Just milk, thank you.’ I looked about me again. ‘Your house is amazing.’
‘Why, thank you. I renovated and extended it a while back.’ He handed me a mug. ‘Cake?’
‘Please,’ I said. ‘Red velvet – my favourite.’
‘So what do you do, Rachel?’ he said, leaning back in the soft-cushioned sofa.
‘I’m a psychotherapist,’ I said. ‘I run a practice from my house.’
‘And where’s that?’
‘Finsbury Park.’
‘You’re a long way from home.’
‘Yes … as I said before, I’m researching my family history.’ I sipped my tea and took a mouthful of cake. ‘This is delicious,’ I said.
‘Did they live in this area?’
‘Oh, yes, yes, my mother grew up around here.’ He was asking so many questions. I was supposed to be doing the questioning.
‘Fascinating,’ he said. ‘So what have you discovered so far?’
I looked into his eyes. There was no doubt they were warm and friendly – but something stopped me telling him any more about myself. I glanced back at the painting. ‘What a lovely study,’ I said.
He rose, and looked at it more closely. ‘Painted by the artist Laura Hogan. She lived nearby, a long time ago.’
‘So how long have you lived in the area?’ I asked, as my phone rang again. Another withheld number.
I pressed answer, but again remained silent.
‘Rachel Hogan?’
I didn’t reply.
‘Hello, is that you, Miss Hogan? This is Philip’s Car Hire. Just to say I’m with your car now, but I can’t see you.’
‘Oh, OK. I’ll be there in a few minutes,’ I said, ending the call, and putting down my mug. I grabbed another bite of the cake, before rising to my feet. ‘The hire company are with my car,’ I said through crumbs, oddly relieved I was leaving.
‘That was quicker than you expected,’ he said, rising too.
I glanced down at the cake, and up into his face.
‘Take the cake if you like,’ he said, seeming to read my mind, and I picked it up and took another bite.
We headed into the hall, and I was putting on my shoes and coat, when I heard a creak above my head. I looked up the stairs, but Felix didn’t enlighten me.
Once we’d made the short journey to my car, and spotted the man from the hire company, I got out of the passenger seat, and closed the door, thankful the rain had stopped.
Felix buzzed down the window, and leaned over. ‘Well, I hope to see you again, Rachel.’
‘Yes. I’m sure we’ll bump into each other,’ I said, bending to look back into the car from the puddled pavement. ‘I’m here for a few more days.’
‘Miss Hogan!’ the hire chap called, shoving his hand in the air.
I shot a look at Felix. ‘I’d better go,’ I said.
‘Me too,’ he said, sliding his car into first gear, and pulling away.
Chapter 31
February 2018
Once the bloke had fixed the car, I keyed the postcode of the bed and breakfast into the satnav, and, with a spin of tyres in wet mud, I set off.
The sky was dark, and heavy raindrops fell once more, splashing my windscreen. It was difficult to see, despite putting on my headlights and wipers, and I slowed to a steady twenty mph, crossing my fingers nothing would appear from the opposite direction. But I was uneasy: the roads were narrow, the bends sharp. I needed to pull over until the rain stopped.
But before I could, a beast of a car began tailgating – headlights on full beam, like a panther hunting a deer.
‘Pass me, for God’s sake,’ I muttered, flashing looks in my wing mirror, but despite several opportunities, it didn’t overtake.
With nowhere to pull over, I reluctantly put my foot down.
It speeded up too.
‘Hey, just pass me, for Christ’s sake,’ I yelled, over the incessant rain, and the roar of its thunderous engine. ‘I’m not going any faster, you idiot.’
A ram against my bumper jolted me forward, and my hands flew off the steering wheel. ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God,’ I cried, thrusting my foot harder on the throttle. Was the driver going to drag me from my car? Kill me? My stomach lurched, and I thought I might throw up.
A screech of tyres, and it was parallel with me, getting closer to the side of my car. I snatched a look at the driver. Despite the teeming rain, I could just make out the figure behind the wheel. Whoever it was wearing a balaclava masking their face.
I swerved into the entrance to a field and slammed my foot on the brake, my heart thudding against my chest. The car continu
ed onwards at speed, and despite trying to make out the number plate through the hammering rain on my windscreen, it was impossible. But before it was out of sight I noticed a round, yellow sticker in the back window.
My body shook, as I gripped the steering wheel and let out a sob. Had it been some random fool, or had I upset someone by snooping? I pulled out my phone. Should I call someone? The Guards? But what could I tell them?
My fingers shook as I brought up Zoe’s number. I needed someone to talk to. But the call went straight to voicemail.
‘Zoe,’ I said, trying for calm. ‘Can you call me? Please.’
I ended the call and threw my mobile onto the passenger seat. Once I’d stopped trembling, I glanced over my shoulder and reversed back onto the road. I was about to pull away when my phone rang. I grabbed it, and without looking at the screen, answered, expecting to hear Zoe’s comforting voice.
‘Rachel Hogan?’ It was the man who’d called me earlier.
My heart sank. ‘For God’s sake! Just leave me alone.’
‘Please don’t hang up, Miss Hogan. I’m Inspector Smyth from the Hertfordshire Constabulary, and we’re investigating the suspicious death …’
I didn’t let him finish. Just ended the call, and threw my phone back onto the passenger seat. I drove away with a skid of tyres, windscreen wipers thumping to and fro, as my phone blasted again and again.
‘Fuck off,’ I screamed into the air, my foot fully down on the throttle. ‘Leave me alone.’
Finally the phone stopped ringing and I slowed down, fat tears rolling down my face, dripping off my chin.
***
Back at the bed and breakfast, I splashed some of the rhubarb gin I’d picked up en route into a tumbler, and knocked it back in one swallow. The pale pink liquid warmed my throat and chest, calming me. Seconds later I’d poured another – then another.
It was moments like this that I missed my mum most. In my teens, she’d always made everything right with a mug of hot chocolate, a hug – her words turning something impossible, into the possible. I was desperate to call that version of her. But then, had that same mum kept something from me all these years? Something I should know? She’d rarely talked about her parents, or the night I was conceived, but I’d always assumed her secrets were personal, emotional ones, not tragic, dangerous ones.
I tried calling Zoe again, but she still didn’t pick up, so called Angela instead. She was full of apologies when I got through to her, saying she was dashing out on a date. ‘There’s more chance of Theresa May turning lefty, than him being Mr Right,’ she said with a laugh. ‘But I keep trying. You can’t say I’m not giving it my best shot.’
‘Well, good luck,’ I said, wondering why she felt such a strong need for a man in her life. They brought nothing but heartache, in my experience.
I flopped onto the bed, with the glass of gin resting on my chest, my head swimming. I closed my eyes – nothing made any sense any more.
Eventually I dozed, finding myself lost in a tangled nightmare, where I dashed through a wood, stumbling, scraping my arms on sharp brambles. Blood smeared my pale arms, and Marcus was chasing me, wielding a knife. I reached the water’s edge, trapped, with no escape.
‘Jump,’ he said, but his voice wasn’t his own. It was that of a child.
I woke, gasping, and shot to a sitting position, splashing gin over my top. I placed the tumbler on the bedside table, and cradled my knees. Maybe I should go home. Forget Sligo – forget the past. Truth was, I should have been getting on with my life without Lawrence, and thinking about my future with Grace, not running around as if I was Sherlock bloody Holmes.
But my trip wasn’t over. Not yet.
I grabbed my notepad, and found the details of the first friend request I’d received. David Green. The cover photo had been a row of grey houses with red doors. Mandan Road. Tomorrow I would go there. The friend requests were linked to my past somehow – and that means whatever happened in one of those houses is too.
***
I woke at five, and began stacking the events of the previous day in my head, attempting to slot them into some sort of order. But each time I thought I was making sense of it, down the pieces fell, chaotic and disjointed, tumbling around my skull, making my head hurt.
I pummelled my forehead with my fingertips, and sat up in bed, huddled against the headboard. Maybe I should go and see Marcus again, or Felix, find out more about what they knew about the tragedy that happened before my mother moved away.
But first I would find the grey houses with red doors.
I left the bed and breakfast around nine. The sky was clear, and a milky sun was rising over Benbulbin – a stunning sight – and I wished, for a moment, that Mum, Lawrence and Grace were with me, and things were as they had been, once upon time, before life took an axe and wrecked everything.
I breathed in the cool, fresh air as I headed for the hire car, checking the bumper wasn’t damaged before getting in. As I slipped the key into the ignition, I looked about me, convincing myself that if the person behind the wheel of the black car had wanted to cause me harm, they could have. I felt sure it had been a warning to back off. But I couldn’t. I was in too deep.
I took a deep breath, and keyed Mandan Road into my satnav, before pulling onto the quiet road.
Once I’d found the road I pulled into a lay-by and took in the houses. They were exactly like David Green’s cover photo. Grey brick walls and although the doors were all red, they were different shades, and they weren’t the same style, or even made of the same material. Some looked to be the original wooden doors, and others were PVC.
I looked both ways before racing across the road, plotting my reason for knocking on doors. Should I be honest – tell them about the friend request?
A dog barked behind the first door, but nobody answered. At the second a young woman holding a baby told me she’d only been there six months, and had never heard of David Green. I rang the bell of the third house and waited, sensing someone was inside. I was about to walk away, when an elderly woman opened the door.
‘Can I help you?’ she said, but before I could reply she raised her hand like a traffic cop. ‘Wait! Guess how old I am?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Go on. Guess how old I am?’ She had a pleasant face, a fair few lines, short grey hair. I suspected she was around eighty, but knocked a few years off, just in case.
‘Seventy-six?’
‘No! Guess again.’
‘Seventy-eight?’
‘Ninety-two,’ she said, and clapped her hands. ‘Nobody gets it right. The new postman, a dishy young man who looks a bit like Frank Sinatra, thought I was fifty-five and a half.’
‘Well, you look amazing for your age,’ I said, hiding a little smile at the ‘and a half’.
‘I know,’ she said, gesturing for me to enter, and turning and heading down the hall.
‘I just wanted to ask you a question,’ I called after her, raising on my toes and leaning forward.
She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Well, I’m not standing on the doorstep freezing my knickers off,’ she said, disappearing.
I looked up and down the quiet road, before stepping in and closing the door behind me. The heat and the smell of cooking engulfed me – a casserole, I suspected.
‘Cup of char?’ she offered, when I entered the lounge, where ornaments and photos jostled for space on cluttered surfaces.
‘No thank you, Mrs …?’
‘Call me Alice, and please sit down, dear, you’re making the place look untidy.’ She settled herself into an armchair, and a cat jumped onto her lap and curled up.
I sat down, told her my name, and began the spiel of words I’d decided upon, as an alternative to the truth. I wasn’t even sure Alice would know about Facebook friend requests anyway. ‘I’m writing an article,’ I said, not enjoying lying to a sweet old lady.
‘How lovely.’
‘And I wondered how long you’ve lived here.’
> ‘All my life,’ she said, tickling the cat’s ear. ‘This was my parents’ house. I never married. Probably why I’ve lived so long.’ She laughed, a tinkling mirth lighting her pale blue eyes.
Through the window, I could see her long, narrow back garden, mainly laid to lawn. The fences between each house were low, and I noted next door had a dilapidated summerhouse that looked as though it had been there for years. ‘So,’ I said, taking a breath, eyes back on the woman. ‘I wondered if you remember David Green?’
‘Yes, yes I do.’ A pause. ‘Is that what you’re writing your article about? The fire?’
The fire? ‘Yes, yes that’s right.’ I remembered the cartoon gif of the blazing fire on the friend request, the status update:
Here comes a candle to light you to bed
Here comes a chopper to chop off your head.
‘Well, it was all a very long time ago, dear,’ she said. ‘Why would you want to write about that? I’m pretty sure nobody will be interested – no offence.’
‘None taken,’ I said, and couldn’t help smiling.
‘If you’re looking to make money, why not write a nice piece about Prince William and young Kate; they’re so popular these days. Or what about Harry and Meghan? Such a sweet couple – their wedding is coming up soon. I’ve booked seats in front of my TV.’ She laughed before adding, ‘Did you know they had chicken for tea the night he proposed?’
I needed to stop her.
‘He got down on one knee, you know.’
Confess why I was really there.
‘The thing is …’ I cut in. ‘I just …’ I clammed up, looking down – fiddling with my fingers.
‘Are you really writing an article?’ she said. I looked up and met her eye. ‘I’ve lived a long time,’ she continued. ‘I can tell a porky when I hear it.’
‘I should probably go.’ I rose.
She looked up at me. ‘The fire was next door at number fourteen. A young family live there now. The place was renovated after the fire by one of these do-up and move-on before it falls down types.’
I perched back down on the edge of the sofa.
‘Since then it’s had more changes than a baby with a tummy upset,’ she went on. ‘The fire happened in the mid-Nineties, if my memory serves me. They said David and Janet Green left a candle burning near their bed.’ She shook her head as though remembering. ‘Such a terrible tragedy. The flame caught the duvet while they were sleeping, and they both died. Thankfully their child survived.’
Tell the Truth Page 16
