‘That sounds good…’
I wait for him to ask where I might go – but he doesn’t. His upper arms are rocking now, too.
‘Auntie Kath says that, even though the judge said six years, that you’ll be out earlier if you’re good. She wouldn’t say how long – so I didn’t know if that meant five years? Or four?’
Dad is nodding but he doesn’t reply.
‘Does that mean five years?’ I ask. ‘Or four…?’
‘I’m trying not to think about it, Mads.’
He mumbles something else that I can’t hear, before lurching into a cough that he uses his shoulder to stifle.
‘I know you didn’t do it, Dad.’
He gulps. ‘It doesn’t matter, Mads. The jury think I did.’
Twenty-Seven
I continue looking through the bag, only to find items of clothing that are far more likely to belong to Harriet’s children. Gemma doesn’t have a son – but there are boys’ clothes in the bag. There are also girls’ items that are far too small for twelve-year-old Alice and more likely to fit a seven- or eight-year-old, like Beatrice. Among everything, I find two items with Alice’s name stitched into the back, plus another two that are likely her size.
It’s a simple text that I send to Richard.
Me: How did you know?
It’s as if he was waiting for this, because the reply is almost instant.
I needed you to see.
Me: That doesn’t answer the question! I don’t understand what’s going on.
The reply takes longer this time and I can picture Richard struggling with each letter.
You will.
I wait for a while but nothing more comes through, so I try calling the number but there’s no reply. With little clue of what to do, I stuff all the clothes into the bag and then dump it back into the recycling bank. It didn’t feel worth emptying the second bag because I’ve already seen what I was supposed to. No good can come from keeping Alice’s clothes, especially with DI Dini sniffing around. The last thing I want is for him to find them hidden around my house.
It’s hard to have any idea what this might mean. Harriet and Gemma do seem to be best friends now, so Gemma might have asked Harriet to get rid of some clothes for her? That’s as possible as Harriet having access to Gemma’s house and taking some of Alice’s clothes. Or having those clothes for another, far more sinister, reason.
I can’t make sense of it – least of all how Richard knew Harriet would be here. Despite what I saw, there’s still disappointment that I didn’t get to see Richard. I’d worked myself up to the point that I was looking forward to it and, instead, I got something else.
I head back down the hill, not bothering to stay out of sight this time. I’m only passed by one car in any case. I almost stop to pick up my car from the house – but it’s a little warmer today and it feels like I have renewed purpose. I’m practically at a march as I continue on to the village – and then to Theresa’s house.
It’s a little before ten o’clock when she opens the door – and it’s like looking into a mirror as she bats away the yawn. The dark rings under her eyes and the way everything about her seems to sag is an accurate reflection of how I’ve been feeling since Sunday.
‘Any news?’ I ask.
‘Not yet. Mandeep’s at the station. He told me to wait here.’
She lets me inside and then we head through the house towards the conservatory at the back. This is the room to which we always drift when we’re at Theresa’s house. On a sunny day like today, the rays blaze through the glass, making it feel like summer regardless of the outside temperature. To reflect the sheer amount of time spent out here, there is a faded brown sofa that Theresa got on clearance, along with a matching armchair. This is more of a living room than their actual one.
Theresa sets herself in one corner of the sofa, while I take the other. Lucky is busy dozing in a patch of sun. He lifts his nose briefly enough to acknowledge me but then promptly goes back to sleeping.
‘I keep thinking the worst,’ Theresa says.
‘I genuinely know how you feel.’
‘How have you been dealing with it?’
‘I’m not sure I have… not really. You’re the one who told me I had to keep doing things.’
Theresa sighs and curls her legs under herself. ‘I don’t think it’s gone round the village yet…’
It perhaps shouldn’t be a major concern – but I understand why it is. Perception is as important as reality in a place like Leavensfield.
‘I read that they can only hold him for twenty-four hours – so he should be released by this evening at the latest…’
Theresa doesn’t respond to this – although that might be because, shortly after I’ve finished speaking, there’s a solid clunk from the front of the house. We turn in unison – and then I follow her in standing as the word ‘Tee?’ echoes through.
Atal appears moments later – and he looks even more exhausted than his wife. His eyelids are barely open as he staggers into the conservatory.
‘You’re home,’ Theresa says. It’s somewhat stating the obvious, although understandable.
Lucky stands up from his spot in the sun and trots across to Atal, where he starts sniffing his ankles. Atal reaches down and ruffles the dog’s neck. He mutters a ‘good boy’ and then stands straighter once more.
‘Mandeep dropped me off.’
‘What’s going on?’ Theresa asks.
Atal turns to look at me. ‘Do you mind if we do this in private?’
I start towards the hall – but have barely taken a step when Theresa calls me back.
‘Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of her.’
‘I don’t—’ My protest is immediately cut short by the volcanic stare in Theresa’s eyes. She’s gone from shattered and confused to Mount Etna erupting in no time.
Atal’s gaze shifts nervously between me and his wife. It probably doesn’t help that we’re all still standing.
‘I lied to the police,’ Atal says. He shuffles uncomfortably, wanting to be anywhere that isn’t here.
‘When?’ Theresa asks.
‘About Alice.’
The heat is no more. It’s like the windows are open and a winter wind is blasting through the conservatory.
‘I wasn’t just walking Lucky when I found her,’ he adds. ‘I mean, I was walking him – but I’d not been at the restaurant before that, like I said.’ He looks down to the dog and Lucky raises a paw, looking for the attention he must have been missing over the past few hours. Atal crouches and ruffles his ears, then Lucky lies back on the ground at his owner’s feet.
Theresa is like a statue. ‘Where were you?’ she asks.
‘Don’t get mad, but—’
‘Don’t tell me not to get mad. Where were you?’
‘I went to the restaurant as usual – but I left early.’
‘Why?’
Atal takes a breath and slinks into the armchair. Lucky follows him and nuzzles his nose into Atal’s legs before lying across his feet. Atal rubs a hand over his eyes and then squeezes the bridge of his nose.
‘It’s going under,’ he says.
‘What is?’
‘The restaurant. It’s been struggling for months, probably a year or more. Everything’s getting more expensive but we’ve not been getting as many people in. Last winter was slow but I thought we’d make up for it in the summer. Except we didn’t. If anything, this summer was slower than the last. We’ve not been getting the customers. I should’ve said something to you before.’
I look between Atal and Theresa, feeling an interloper in something that doesn’t concern me. This is the first I’ve heard of any financial problems, although I suppose there’s no reason for me to have known. The only obvious indicators are that, on the odd occasion that Richard and I have been to Atal’s, regardless of the day or time, it’s been more or less empty.
Theresa starts a reply with ‘What does that—?’
but Atal cuts her off.
‘I was visiting a financial advisor,’ he says. ‘I know I told you I’d been at work when I picked up Lucky for his walk – but I hadn’t. I told the police the same thing but didn’t think they’d check. That’s why they arrested me.’
Theresa has been standing the entire time but she slumps onto the sofa as if she’s been deflated. Her mouth hangs open and I can’t tell if she’s angry, relieved, confused, or a bit of everything.
‘They arrested you because…?’
‘I said I was at the restaurant before walking the dog. I suppose they thought I might have been doing something else… especially as it was me who found Alice.’
‘Why were you visiting a financial advisor on a Sunday night?’
‘We couldn’t figure out another time. I went to his house. The police checked it all – and that’s when they let me go.’
I suppose that explains Mandeep’s reluctance to elaborate last night. He’d have known this but, with the alibi unchecked, he could hardly assure Theresa everything was going to work out fine.
‘I swear what happened to Alice is nothing to do with me,’ Atal says.
There’s a short pause and then Theresa responds with: ‘I never thought it was.’
Atal stares at his wife and then bows his head slightly.
I’m not sure how I feel. The good part of me is happy for Theresa and Atal about the fact there’s an innocent explanation for his arrest. The devil tells me that it means Richard is back on the hook.
‘I should’ve told you about the money thing,’ he adds.
‘What happens now?’
‘I’m sorting out a loan.’
‘I mean with the police!’
‘Oh… I don’t know. They released me, so I assume that’s everything. I’m not on bail. They didn’t say they wanted me back.’
‘What about the lying to the police?’
He squirms like a child with nits. ‘I don’t think anything’s going to happen about that.’
Theresa takes a large breath and tugs at an errant strand of hair. ‘I was so worried.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I slept on the sofa because the bed was too empty. Lucky kept me company.’
Atal scritches the dog’s ears as a silent thank you – and I’ve never felt more of a third wheel than I do now. I mumble something about being glad that everything’s all right. I immediately regret saying anything, seeing as though any good news has been tempered by the fact Atal’s restaurant might be on its way out of business. Anything’s better than prison, I suppose. I’ve seen the effect of what time behind bars can do to a person.
Atal and Theresa barely look up as I make my way to the front door and, by the time I get outside, I’ve almost overlooked that it’s December. The heat in Theresa’s conservatory made that easy to forget. I check the burner phone – but there are no new messages. I don’t think I like this one-way relationship of me being fed information at Richard’s whim – but it’s another thing that very much feels like him. I’m not a subservient wife, although it’s a fair statement that many of the big decisions in our marriage are made by Richard. He’s the one who decided on our holiday to Cornwall last year and he picked the South of France the year before. There are smaller things, too – like the brands of the food we buy, or the music that plays around the house. I’ve never really questioned a lot of it – and it’s not as if I mind too much – but I suppose it fits with the fact that none of my questions are being answered.
I have to pass through the village to get back to my house. It’s a walk I’ve made hundreds, perhaps thousands, of times – but it’s hard not to feel conscious of the stares of the locals. This is probably as busy as Leavensfield gets at this time of year. There are two people with bags coming out of Bob’s village shop, plus a good half-dozen others mingling on the corner close to the café. At first I’m not sure why – but then I spy Dini sitting at the table in the window. He’s in his suit, with a jacket hooked over the back of a spare chair. It’s the perfect spot for people watching, especially in the summer when tourists stop here because they’ve read about the place in a guidebook. When in the right spot, it’s possible to see the looks of ‘is this it?’ on the faces of people as they get out of the car and take in the two streets they’ve travelled such a distance to see.
It’s uncanny that, as I close in on the café, Dini looks up from the papers in front of him and takes me in. It feels as if he isn’t only watching in the moment but as if he’s watching in a greater sense. I wonder if Richard has gone silent because something’s actually happened to him, as opposed to him wanting to control information.
Dini nods towards me in the way someone might when they pass an acquaintance on the street. I find myself nodding back, but it’s more a reflex than anything else. I quickly turn away and continue on to the corner, close to the tall stone cross.
It’s there that I see Zoe floating along the path on the other side. Her legs must be moving but there’s a grace about the way she shifts that I’d find impossible to replicate. She’s in an ankle-length dress, with wellies on her feet and an anorak around her shoulders. It wouldn’t usually work away from something like a boggy festival site but here, in the middle of winter, it’s as if she’s invented a new style. No wonder she doesn’t appear to care less what anyone thinks of her.
I feel less conscious about acknowledging Zoe’s small wave – but, this time, she beckons me across to her.
‘Is that detective still in the café?’ she asks.
‘Yes.’
She nods towards a battered Mini that sits a little up the road on the way towards my house. ‘I was thinking about coming to your house,’ she says, ‘but fate must be working for us because here you are.’
‘Why are you looking for me?’
She glances over my shoulder and then leans in close, so that only I can hear. ‘I think I’ve seen your husband.’
Twenty-Eight
I angle away from Zoe, taking her in and looking for some sort of sign that this is a misunderstanding. She doesn’t blink.
‘Where?’ I ask.
‘I’ll take you there.’
Zoe turns and heads to the Mini. It’s old-fashioned, with a blocky, square back-end instead of the rounded edges of the newer models. She opens it by putting the key into the lock and then, after getting into the driver’s side, she reaches across to pull up the knob on the passenger’s door. When I get in, I’m immediately caught off guard by how low the seat is to the floor. It almost feels as if I’m sitting on the tarmac when she starts the car. It’s also got those old wind-around handles that have to be rotated to get the windows up or down.
My dad never drove a Mini but being in a vehicle like this will always make me think of those afternoons we spent driving around the countryside together. In the summer it would be so hot that we’d have to have the windows down and would barely be able to hear the radio or one another. There was no in-car air-conditioning back then.
Then there was that one journey in particular.
‘Do you know where I live?’ Zoe asks, interrupting those thoughts of Dad.
‘In the cottage up near Atal’s.’
‘Right. There’s an old building at the very end of the property. I think they used it to store firewood years ago, back when it was a working farm that was heated by coal and wood. I’ve only been down there a couple of times because it’s run-down and I’ve not properly checked whose land it’s actually on. I think it might still belong to the family who sold the cottage.’
‘I didn’t know there was a building there.’
‘You can’t spot it from the road. I can only see it when I’m in the kitchen at the back of the cottage. It’s hidden by the trees otherwise.’
‘Is that where you saw him…?’
It might make sense considering the texts make it sound like Richard is nearby. If he’s been hiding out in a shack, he’d want the extra clothes that I left – especially
the jacket. It’s been well below freezing every night since he disappeared.
Not only that, getting around Leavensfield on foot without being seen is simple enough. That’s partly because there are so few people but also because it’s easy to follow hedgerows and the stone walls to get across the fields, instead of using the roads.
I want an enthusiastic, certain ‘yes’, but, instead, Zoe gives a steady ‘Perhaps.’
‘What makes you think it’s him?’
‘I’m guessing. The person I saw down there looked like an older man. I’d not seen him before this week and I know your husband is missing, so…’
‘Do you know Richard?’
‘Only from around the village.’
The car’s engine groans as Zoe drops down a gear to approach the hill. It’s amazing the memories that can reappear from such a seemingly small thing. Dad’s car used to make the same grinding whimper on long, steep hills. On winter days like today, he’d have to tease the engine with the pedals, while easing out the choke in an attempt to get it to start. I’d try to help by spraying de-icer across the windows, even though I had to stretch to reach the top parts of the windscreen. This was thirty years ago and yet the moan of an engine has me picturing it as if it was this morning.
We crest the hill and the Mini’s whines drop to a more palatable level. It’s only another mile or so until we reach Zoe’s cottage.
‘Why did you come to me?’ I ask.
‘You’re his wife.’
‘I mean why tell me instead of the police?’
Zoe takes a hand from the steering wheel and twirls it in the air, as if searching for the right word. ‘Innocent until proven guilty, right? Half this lot would’ve strung him up from the tallest tree if they had their way. He might’ve been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Whoever hurt Alice might have, well… you know…’
What My Husband Did: A gripping psychological thriller with an amazing twist Page 20
