Zoe turns to look through the window – and it’s hard to blame her. She must have the best view of anyone who lives in the village. The fields are endless; the sky perfect.
‘I guess Harriet’s raised a lot of money over the years…’ Zoe tails off but it feels like there’s more. When it comes, the words run into one another. ‘I shouldn’t have said that stuff about her loving attention.’ She winces, as if she’s said something that’s physically hurtful and then turns away from the window to make sure I’m listening. ‘Perhaps things aren’t great for her…?’
‘How’d you mean?’
‘I just—’ She stops herself and then adds: ‘How well do you know Gavin?’
To me, Gavin has always been Harriet’s puppet. I can imagine him standing for Parliament with his carefully parted hair and smart suits. Meanwhile, Harriet would be running things behind the scenes.
‘Hardly at all. Only that Gavin is Harriet’s husband,’ I say. ‘I don’t think we’ve ever said more than a few words to each other.’
Zoe nods, squints, weighs up the options – and then goes for it. ‘He tried it on with me,’ she replies softly. ‘A few months ago at the harvest festival. Frankie and the other kids were off playing and Harriet was busy running the auction. Gavin came across and squeezed my arse. He asked if I liked it while I was trying to push him away. He laughed about it. Said I knew where he was if I changed my mind. Then he went and stood on stage next to Harriet as if nothing had happened.’
I’m stunned. Lost for words in the truest sense.
Zoe turns to look out the window again while I struggle to find something to say. I don’t know Gavin well enough to make any sort of judgement call – but I always thought Harriet had the perfect life she portrayed.
‘Did you tell anyone?’ I say eventually.
Zoe shrugs but it’s answer enough. If no one else saw it, then what would be the point? Like when Gemma slapped me – and I chose to do nothing. Telling anyone or everyone would only create more drama and, in a place like Leavensfield, being in the centre of that is the last place a person wants to be.
‘Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’ Zoe says.
‘About what?’
‘About what’s going on behind closed doors. I guess we all have our secrets.’
Thirty
Zoe and I keep half an eye on the treeline while talking about other things. After another hour of seeing no one out there, we swap numbers and she says she’ll call if she sees anyone. It’s hard to wonder if, maybe, this was all because she wanted someone to talk to. If it was, then I don’t blame her.
All the while I picture the way Harriet pulled her hand away from her husband when we were massing around the stone cross during the march for Alice. I’d assumed they’d had a minor spat – and perhaps they had – or, maybe, there’s something else. Something related to Harriet dumping Alice’s clothes in the recycling bank.
Zoe offers me a lift home but I tell her I’ll walk. If Richard’s disappearance has achieved one thing, then it’s increased my cardio levels.
As I follow the verge down the slope towards the village, I keep an eye on the hedgerows off to the side, hoping to spot the shape of someone trying to stick to the shadows. I want my husband back – and I want easy answers about what’s been going on, even though I realise I’m unlikely to get those two things together.
I’m through the village centre and on the way back up the hill towards my house when I spot Harriet and Gemma on the path a little ahead of me. They’re walking side by side, with Gemma still wearing Harriet’s boots. Neither of them look behind, and I watch as they disappear along Gemma’s path and into her house.
I continue walking… and then change my mind and turn around. Instead of heading up the hill towards home, I take the turn that’s after the school and then keep walking until the gaps between the houses get larger.
Harriet’s house is at the end of a lengthy road that stretches from Leavensfield’s main street out towards the lower level of the fields. It’s a dead end, with nowhere further to go unless someone was to tarmac over a field or two. There’s a stile at the end, which is from where somebody might emerge if they were cutting across Daisy Field.
Before the stile, Harriet and Gavin’s property soars tall. Everyone in the village knows this place is theirs. There are three storeys, with curved walls along the two ends with a pinch in the centre – making it something like a figure-eight. The expectation might be that something this big might be surrounded by tall hedges and security fences – but its positioning at the tip of a dead-end is enough.
There are no cars on the drive, and Xavier and Beatrice will both be at school. Harriet is at Gemma’s and it’s probably safe to assume that Gavin is at work.
I unhook the front gate and head along the path to the wide front door, where I ring the bell. I wait for around thirty seconds, before trying a second time. Curtains have been pulled around the front windows, so there’s nothing to be seen through them. I try knocking and then press the bell a third time. After another minute or so, I leave it and move around to the side of the house. There’s another gate here – but it’s simple enough to lever myself over the top – and then keep going until I’m in the back garden.
As with Zoe’s place, I never realised how far back Harriet’s property stretches. There’s a lawn off to one side that would be perfect for bowling or croquet – and then a separate building on the other. The lower doors at the front of this outhouse make it look like they are either stables, or soon will be. For now, there is no sign of any horses – and I likely would have heard if Harriet had one. Everyone would have known.
There’s a wall towards the back of the property that is half built, with a large pile of bricks sitting to the side. There’s also a big mound of grey gravel sitting on the edge of the lawn, next to an upturned wheelbarrow. It all feels unfinished… very unlike Harriet.
I’m not sure what I’m looking for… probably nothing.
I check the back door and then try peeping through the windows, all of which are blocked by curtains or blinds. With nothing to see in the house, I approach the stables. There are certainly no horses here, although there is a single bale of hay that’s been pushed towards the back of the first compartment. The second and third cubicles are both bolted with thick padlocks, with the double doors slotted into place so that it’s impossible to see inside.
With little there, I start to explore the rest of the garden. It’s quite the building site of half-finished projects, with a pile of fence panels on one side that sit next to a bucket that’s filled with crusted, dry cement.
It’s as I’m thinking of moving back to the front of the house that I spot the barbecue cauldron that’s almost hidden in an alcove close to the fence panels. The drum is full of silvery-dark charcoal, with a smattering of scorch marks on the cement below. It’s an odd time of year to be having a barbecue, although I suppose this could be a hangover from the summer.
I almost move on… almost. That’s when I spot a shred of something white that’s buried among the charcoal lumps. I lift out the grille at the top and then reach into the drum itself to retrieve the scrap of material. It looks like a square that’s been torn from something like a T-shirt, or vest. There is dark dust on my fingers which is impossible not to transfer onto the patch – except that there’s already another stain on the cotton. Something browny-red… something that looks an awful lot like dried blood.
And that’s when there’s the sound of a car pulling onto the drive.
Thirty-One
I tuck myself in at the side of the stables, where the wall juts out and creates a nook behind which to hide. Unless coming through the house, there’s only one route into the back – and that’s through or over the gate at the side. The other wing of the house is separated by bushy conifers that are swaying in the breeze.
I’m looking for lights turning on upstairs, which might give me a chance to dash around the side of the house. Instead, it’s two or thr
ee minutes until Gavin appears from the gated side of the house. He’s in a suit and looks out of place among the rubble and discarded building materials. This doesn’t seem to bother him as he strides across the courtyard and heads for the stables.
He’s two-thirds of the way across when he stops, half-turns, and stares at the barbecue drum.
I’ve left the grille lid on the floor.
I can almost see the thoughts whirring in his head as Gavin stares from the drum to the house and back to the drum. He sweeps a hand through his hair, mulling it over, before making his decision. Instead of going for the stables, he bounds across to the barbecue and drags the drum over to the back of the house. From there, he unloops the hose that’s attached to the wall – and then sprays down the charcoal. Blackened, filthy water streams into the drain below, with squirts of liquid pouring onto the bottoms of Gavin’s suit trousers. When he’s done he steps away and kicks out his legs, wincing at the damp.
It’s a very odd thing for someone wearing a suit to have done.
After that, he drags the barbecue back to where it was, drops the lid onto the top, and then returns to the tap to wash his hands.
He stops to look around the garden, although there’s so much clutter that I suspect I could be stood in the open and possibly still be missed. Either way, he sweeps across my position without noticing me – and then he heads towards the stables once more.
I creep out from the hiding place, listening until I hear the solid clunk of a padlock being opened. When I peep around the corner, Gavin has disappeared into the stable – so I don’t hesitate in racing to the gate. The first time I look behind, I’m already off the property, along the lane, over the stile, and halfway across Daisy Field on the way home.
The more I look at the stained scrap of clothing, the more I can’t be sure if the red mark actually is blood. I’ve spilled ketchup and spaghetti sauce on tops before – and it’s looked more or less the same. Without some sort of scientific test to which I don’t have access, it’s impossible to tell.
Kylie is busy working in her bedroom, leaving me alone downstairs in the house. I hide the material within the cushion cover on the sofa, figuring nobody is likely to find it there. I’m not sure if it holds any importance – although I can’t figure out why anyone would use a barbecue to burn clothing, especially in winter.
There have been no messages on either of my phones – and Richard has been silent ever since he sent me to see Harriet at the recycling bin. I think about messaging him to say what I found at the back of Harriet’s house – except I’m not sure what I found. Whether it’s something or nothing. If I have anything to say, it should surely be to ask where he is – and when he’ll be back.
I don’t know what to do.
People can sit around and complain about how boring life is but I’d love a bit of normality compared to what my life has become.
I check my emails but even that is a testament to everything that’s changed. I’ve heard nothing from any of the magazines and websites who, between them, send me a commission or two per week. No press officers or publicists have been in contact since Monday, even though I hear from someone most days. Everybody has something to push, or that they want selling, but they seemingly now do not want me to be a part of that.
I’m a pariah.
Even if I wanted to distract myself with work, I couldn’t.
I close the laptop lid and am on my way to the stairs to see if Kylie wants me to cook something for tea – but then the doorbell sounds.
There’s always that moment of panic now; of wondering if it might be Richard or, worse, DI Dini with bad news. If anything, the person on the doorstep is more surprising than both those options.
It’s Harriet.
She’s in some sort of designer yoga wear, although the crow’s feet under her eyes give her a preoccupied, troubled look.
‘Can I come in?’ she asks.
We’re already along the hall and in the kitchen when I realise that it didn’t occur to me that I could say no.
Harriet parks herself at the kitchen table, dropping her bag on the spare seat at her side, as if this is her house and I’m the visitor.
‘I’m worried about Gemma,’ she says, not bothering with anything like small talk.
I am still on my feet, off guard at the speed with which this has happened.
‘Why?’ I reply.
‘I don’t want to tell the police this because I know how it sounds – but she’s spending less and less time at the hospital. It’s like she’s given up on Little Alice.’
I find myself pacing to the kitchen counter and back again. Somehow, Harriet has taken over my house in the way she takes over anything. It’s extraordinary and, in some ways, admirable.
‘I’m not sure why you’re telling me…’
Harriet waits until I’ve stopped moving. I’m leaning on the counter, looking across the kitchen towards her.
‘It’s because Gemma keeps talking about you. She keeps threatening to come round here. Silly stuff. I’m worried that she might do something stupid…’
I don’t know if I’m any good at spotting a lie but Harriet doesn’t flinch when she says this. She’s certainly capable of hyperbole and rabble-rousing.
‘Why are you telling me instead of the police?’
‘Because Gemma has a lot going on with Alice in hospital. She isn’t sleeping or eating. I’ve been trying to keep an eye on her as she doesn’t have many friends in the village.’
It’s hard to imagine that’s the only reason. Harriet always seems to have ulterior motives – not to mention the fact she’s one of the reasons Gemma doesn’t have many friends.
‘What sort of threats is she making?’ I ask.
Harriet dismisses this with a small shake of the head, making it clear that she’s here on her terms and for her reasons. ‘She probably doesn’t mean it,’ she says. ‘But I wanted to warn you just in case.’
‘I don’t know what you’re warning me about.’
‘I just—’ Harriet sighs. ‘I’m trying to help.’
‘It didn’t seem like that at the school the other day.’
She exhales again and then rubs her eyes. ‘I didn’t know you were going to be there. I was trying to support Gemma but things spiralled and got a bit out of hand. I don’t think people meant the things that were shouted. I tried to calm everyone down.’
I slot in on the other side of the table and lock in on Harriet. The fury of that moment is suddenly upon me again. ‘Somebody called me a paedo. They said they didn’t want me near their kids.’
Harriet continues scratching her eyebrows and then launches into a yawn that she fails to stop. ‘I know…’
For some reason, as quickly as it arrived, the anger has subsided. Perhaps for the first time since I met her, Harriet seems like a real person. I think it was the yawn that did it. Something beyond her control that was real.
Perhaps things aren’t great for her…?
Zoe’s words have stuck with me. Maybe this yawning, face-scratching Harriet is the real person? Everything else is a front. Like those people on social media whose selfies and photos make it look as if their lives are endless success stories when the truth is that they’re sitting at home watching Bargain Hunt with a bucket of ice cream and a tube of Pringles.
‘Have you heard from Richard?’ Harriet sounds hesitant.
‘No.’
‘Have the police said anything about him…?’
I stare at her and she catches my eye before turning away.
‘Sorry. It’s none of my business.’ She takes a breath and then sits up straighter. ‘There’s another reason I’m here. We’re having a prep meeting this evening about the winter ball. It’s kind of a rehearsal. There are lots of little things to be done and I’d love it if you could come.’
‘I’m not sure if that’s a good idea.’
‘It’s a small community, Maddy.’
It might be the way she says my name.
The ‘Maddy’ in place of the usual passive-aggressive way she’ll say ‘Madeleine’. If not that, then it’s because I know she’s right. I don’t know what’s happening with Richard and how or when this will ever be resolved. But, if I’m going to live here, then I am going to have to make an effort to be a part of society.
There’s the sound of footsteps from the stairs and then Kylie drifts into the kitchen. She stops dead on the spot when she sees Harriet and does a slow turn between the two of us. It’s like a click of the fingers as Harriet instantly returns to her regular smiley, happy confident self.
‘Kylie! How great to see you again. I didn’t know you were back. How’s university? I’m sure you’re doing wonderfully.’
Kylie glances back to me. She’s smart enough to know that all isn’t right. There’s tension in the air.
‘It’s going well,’ she says to Harriet, before quickly turning to me and avoiding a follow-up question. ‘I was just here to grab a yoghurt.’
She does precisely that, taking a small tub from the fridge and holding it up to illustrate the point. I doubt that’s why she originally came down but she takes a spoon and then disappears back up the stairs once more.
Harriet waits until there’s the sound of a door closing upstairs and then she stands and picks up her bag. ‘I want this to be the biggest fundraiser we’ve ever had. I want to do right for Gemma.’ A pause and then: ‘For Alice, as well. For when she’s better.’ She takes a step towards the kitchen door and then turns: ‘I should’ve let you do the desserts like you wanted. It is your thing, after all. It might not be possible but, maybe, if we get you and Gemma together tonight – when there are other people there – we might be able to smooth everything over.’
I watch her, wondering if there’s a kicker to come. This doesn’t seem like something that can be smoothed over with a chat and a cup of tea.
‘We’ll see,’ I reply.
‘Perhaps bring Kylie? I think it’s going to be a bit of a village event. A time for healing.’
What My Husband Did: A gripping psychological thriller with an amazing twist Page 22
