“I know, I know.”
“Come here.”
He gives me a big hug and just his care and concern brings tears to my eyes. I cry and cry for a while, and really, I think Marvin is grateful to cry with me so that he doesn’t feel so alone anymore.
Eventually, he reaches for the door handle. “Don’t be a stranger, Liz. Love ya.”
Then he’s gone.
Chapter Twenty-Two
EVEN THOUGH I’VE TAKEN AN emotional battering today, I feel like working late tonight will help me get through this. On my way home in the car, I pick up a sewing machine from Hetty’s shop and bring it back to mine. My house has a big office/workroom upstairs which I can set myself up in. Turning the radio up loud, I get to work cutting and trimming, pinning and then sewing. Before long I’ve worked up our first dummy of one her new designs – not the finished product – just a draft if you like. Hetty’s asking for more and more these days, it makes me wonder if we shouldn’t contract out this part of the process to a manufacturer, although she always rolls her eyes whenever I mention the idea.
She wants pleats and the most miniscule ruche detail! I’ll be getting glasses soon from all the detailed work I do for her. I pull the dress onto a mannequin and sort out certain areas of weakness with a bunch of pins. I hang a cardboard collar around the dress to see if that suits, but it doesn’t seem to do enough for the dress. I think it’ll need a floaty collar. I grab my bag of lace offcuts and find some to pin around the collar – and cuffs. It’s beginning to take shape. I think the dress needs some ribbing at the front and a pocket. Hetty may kill me for messing about with her initial design, but she’s not here, is she? Before she had Elizabeth, we’d stand about in the workroom above her dress shop, arguing over what looked better. We always ended up with a great result, despite all the arguments. I smile just thinking about Hetty.
I find myself so absorbed by my work that when my phone rings, it literally scares the shit out of me.
“Hello?” I ask, while turning down the radio.
“It’s Warrick.”
“I’m just working, can it wait? I’ve found a rhythm and my sewing machine works better when it’s warmed up.”
“It can wait, I suppose… although, actually, no… it can’t.”
“Oh god, come on then.”
“After we spoke, I had one of my old friends do a little digging on our Sam Aitken.”
“Holy—”
“You’d better sit down, if you’re not already.”
I sit myself down. “Is it bad?”
“His sister was murdered and they never found the culprit.” Warrick says it like it’s nothing, but he doesn’t know what I know…
I feel sick.
“Pardon?”
“It’s a cold case.”
“And Sam? How does…” I stammer, struggling, “…how does he factor into this?”
“His record is as clean as a whistle, but there were a couple of news articles about how his father was under suspicion at one stage.”
“He never told me—” I have to suck forward some saliva, my mouth is so dry. “He said, he claimed, alleged… his sister was estranged. That she’d left home when he was little. He said his sister was his mother’s from another marriage.”
“Yes, that part is true. However, she’s buried in a graveyard in Surrey. Not estranged. Murdered,” he repeats, like I need reminding.
“He said… he said he was thinking of trying to find her, but he tried to make out he was scared. That she’d turn him away or something.”
“He was trying to gain your sympathy.”
“Yes.”
There’s silence while I digest everything.
Then I remember…
“I spoke with Gage’s best friend today.”
“Oh yes?”
“He said none of them took roofies, that they wouldn’t do that in a million years because of the drugs tests they regularly undergo.”
“Shit, yes. But—”
“Yep, I asked if there was any way someone could have spiked Gage’s drink. Marvin, that’s his friend, said there was no way. He said they all flew home that Monday morning completely sober. Gage drove from Humberside in control of his own car and dropped Marvin off at his house. Gage told Marvin he was going to pop home and get a bit of sleep. He was completely with it, according to Marvin, who wouldn’t lie to me. Besides, why would he lie to me? He has no reason to lie. Gage is dead, right? He doesn’t have to back up his friend when he’s dead.”
“This is all very worrying indeed, Liza.”
“Yes, I know. Have you mentioned anything to anyone?”
“Not yet,” he whispers.
“Please don’t mention this to anyone. Let’s keep it between us, okay?”
“I agree.”
“If Hetty or Jules find out, they will be even more worried about me than they already are. Plus, this is sensitive information.”
“Yes, it stays between us. Listen, I’ve got to go. I can give you the number of my colleague in the police if you think of anything… he might be able to help you.”
“You could send it to me, yes, just in case.”
“Okay, I’ll ring off then. Speak later. Please stay safe, Liza.”
“I will.”
After I get off the phone, I wonder if he’s really capable of killing…
Did Sam kill his sister? Did he then kill Gage?
But how did he get Rohypnol into Gage’s body?
The first thing I need to do is call my mother.
“Hello?” she answers.
“It’s me. Everything okay?”
“Yep, no worries.” Her clipped tone tells me everything I need to know.
I hear the kids in the background, playing rowdily.
“Promise me you’ll keep the doors locked at all times?”
“Why?” she asks.
“I just need you to lock the house whilst my kids are there. It makes me feel safer. After Gage… I get these weird paranoias about something happening to them, too.”
“Yes, of course. Anyway, what are you up to tonight?” she asks, fishing. Maybe she thinks I’ve dumped my kids on her just so I can see a man tonight.
“I’m working on some dresses for Hetty. Then I’ll probably fall asleep in the wee hours, bent over my desk.”
“Sounds… fine. Fine.”
“That’s all you can say?”
“I’m not getting into another argument with you, Liza.”
“Fine.” I hang up before we can say anything more.
Once I’m off the phone, I recall how I told Sam about my hiding place for the spare key when it is needed in an emergency – that was for the purpose of the cleaner popping round in the days after Gage’s death. The spare key isn’t outside under the flowerpot at the moment, but that’s where I leave it when we need to give people access. But how do I know Sam didn’t come round and have that spare key replicated? How do I know he even had a cleaner come round? Maybe he used the spare key and did the cleaning himself – to make sure all the evidence was wiped away.
However, there’s also the small matter of how he got into my house on the day of Gage’s death without being seen – somehow managing to feed my brute of a husband a drug that ultimately killed him.
All I know is that Sam might be unhinged and I can’t take any risks.
I trusted him, though. Didn’t I?
Was I insane?
Must have been.
Too trusting, or blind?
If Hetty were here and in on this, she would go spare. She would be all over this like a fly on shit. She’d hot-headedly drive round to Sam’s and smack him one, probably. It’s therefore lucky this is happening to me and not her.
Anyway, at this precise moment in time, all I know is that Sam may or may not have access to my house with the use of a copy of my spare key he may or may not have got cut.
If I were to guess, I think Sam might have been waiting for Gage to get back the day he ar
rived home from Copenhagen. Maybe he showed Gage pictures of me from our steamy night of passion. Perhaps they got talking, or something. Maybe Gage got angry, or maybe they talked things through like civilised human beings…
The drugs account for all the shit and vomit all over the bathroom when Gage got home from Copenhagen. He was a drinker, which many people can attest to, but he rarely ended a night with a session in the lav. He was a hardened drinker; they don’t vomit or shit everywhere after a heavy session.
Somebody would have had to have planned it. Nobody could’ve decided within the space of a few days to murder my husband. Not even Sam.
I slept with my secret lover on the Saturday night. By Monday afternoon, my husband was dead.
I’m working with the assumption that Sam and I slept together on the Saturday – and after he realised I liked him after all – he immediately wanted rid of my husband. So, he figured out a way to kill him, didn’t he? But within just a few short hours…
No, this doesn’t make sense.
None of it.
Sam would have had to plan it…
He would have barely had time. I picked the kids up on Sunday morning. Sam would have had to acquire the Rohypnol within twenty-four hours and then administer it to Gage the moment my husband got home.
I’m just desperate for answers, that’s the truth. Desperate.
Gage’s stuff is upstairs, piled in a cupboard in the spare room. His mother didn’t want it and I didn’t want to touch it. Hetty wouldn’t dispose of it in case I changed my mind about keeping some of it.
Maybe there are answers to his last hours among his stuff.
Before chasing upstairs, I put my key in the lock of the front door so that nobody can open it from the other side. Then I dash into the spare room, dragging out a number of black bin liners and the box labelled misc.
Inside, I find his phone and wallet, a load of important documents like birth certificates etc.
Firstly, his phone. It’s low on battery but his charger is in the box. I find the nearest plug socket and charge it. His phone has a code but I try a few key dates and it turns out his phone code is Em’s date of birth.
I’m so nervous and manic that my fingers become thumbs and I swipe crazily through all his apps. His messages tell me nothing out of the ordinary.
Everything’s a blur, but then something catches my eye. He has an app for phone tracking.
My stomach roils and the core of me turns quickly to concrete after that.
I open the app and there’s only one number he ever tracked.
Mine.
I check the history and it reveals all my last known locations, including Beverley – where I stayed for a whole night.
I never knew he was tracking my phone, but as I scroll through my own phone, I discover he changed my settings so that he had access to my location via this app.
I’m swiping and swiping through his phone, searching for something – anything – just a small clue. Some small explanation.
I use the function on his phone to tell me which apps were the ones he used last. His phone tells me that among all the usual apps, one of the last he ever used was Word. Strange. Gage never had need of Word. Right?
I go to Word and there’s only one document he saved.
He saved it as ‘For Liza’.
I open it and read it:
Don’t hate me.
I’m sorry.
Kiss my Bear and Ems for me.
I’m shaking my head, in denial, even though I can feel the truth of it coursing through my temperamental veins – even when I can taste the bile of it on my tongue.
I tip the box upside down and swipe at tears so I can see what I’m looking at. There’s a little box among his things, black, like a watch case or something. However, he died with his watch on, and I never saw this case on his nightstand – ever.
Inside, there are pills.
Anti-depressants.
I know the truth because I’m holding it in my hands.
He was prescribed these but never took them. The foils aren’t pierced.
Maybe he was too proud.
I know from looking at all of this, he was depressed. Then he used Rohypnol to take his own life. An overdose? Intentional?
I’m sorry.
No doubt he’d harboured a suspicion about me and Sam getting close. Maybe he’d known for weeks, maybe months. I’d casually told Gage plenty of times that my friend Sam worked in Beverley and was in marketing, if the club ever needed any marketing advice or anything.
Anyway, if it wasn’t because of the phone tracker alerting Gage who I was with, maybe it was just Gage – having decided he couldn’t go on any longer. It wouldn’t have been too difficult to pick up roofies, and he knew that this way, nobody would suspect. They’d rule it misadventure, especially it being right after a stag weekend. Maybe he planned it this way purely because it was a stag weekend. Who knows?
I puke into my own hands before rushing to the toilet to evacuate the rest.
If the toilet and sink, floors and walls were all covered in excrement and vomit the day Gage died, I’m guessing Gage’s body put up a fight. Either that or he staged the whole thing, so his wife and kids wouldn’t have to live with the shame of it.
Until now.
Because he knew me…
He knew I’d get all the facts.
He knew if I came looking, I’d find the Word document.
Gage knew me better than anyone.
I look at my own reflection in the mirror and don’t even recognise myself.
My husband committed suicide… because of me.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I WAKE UP ON SUNDAY morning with a banging headache, pain whooshing across my skull when I sit up in bed. I’m still wearing yesterday’s clothes and it appears I fell asleep in the spare room. Scattered across the bed are old photos and bits of Gage’s clothes I quite liked. There’s a half-drunk bottle of gin on the nightstand and the white top I’m wearing is strained with mascara.
I should’ve known Gage wasn’t coping. I should’ve known. He kept it so well hidden, though. I spent last night looking through all of his things, seeking a sign – but there was nothing. I wonder now if his depression made it difficult for him to truly let go in the bedroom, or whether we were never really right for one another – and neither one of us could admit that.
Still, it appears my infidelity pushed him to commit suicide. That, or he felt I might be all right if he left me – because I’d clearly found someone else. The worst thing is that I will never truly be able to put myself in his place and understand his mindset in those last few hours. I’ll never know what he was really thinking or what, ultimately, made him take those pills.
I heave myself off the bed, strip out of my clothes and throw them in the hamper in the bathroom. I start the shower and tie my hair back, which thankfully has survived intact since my trip to the salon yesterday. I don my frilly shower cap and hope for the best.
I sit under the shower for half an hour, waiting to feel better. The truth is, it’s not helping. Nothing ever will. I leave the shower and dry heave over the toilet for a while. Then I manage a glass of water and clean my teeth.
I find the baggiest clothes I possess – an oversized roll-neck jumper and some sweats I was fond of while pregnant. I pull on my Uggs and fill my travel mug with tea downstairs.
While I’m waiting for my drink to brew, I send a few texts. The first to Warrick:
I found out what happened. Sam not to blame. Speak later. I’m okay. Promise.
The second text I send to my mother:
Kids okay?
My tea is over-stewed by the time she replies, but maybe that’s what I need today.
Kids are fine. A joy as always. What time are you coming to get them?
What time suits you?
3 or 4. I’ll feed them lunch.
Thanks. CU then.
That gives me a bit of time to myself today.
I fire off one, last text: Meet me at Hessle Foreshore beneath the bridge? I’m heading there now.
Within thirty seconds, he replies: See you there.
I DON’T KNOW how, but as I park up, I spot Sam has made it before me – even though he lives further. I did suffer a bit of traffic, but still.
He looks anxious as I approach. It’s a blustery, bitter morning and I pulled on a woolly hat on top of my baggy clothes before I left the house, plus my biggest coat – my knee-length puffa. He’s wearing baggy jeans and a windbreaker jacket.
“Morning,” I croak, carrying my lifesaving mug of tea, keeping my head down as I motion we should move.
“Are you okay?”
“I need to walk for a bit before we talk, okay?”
“Oh…kay.”
We pass beneath the bridge and before we know it, we’re walking along the gravelled public pathway that runs parallel with the River Humber. Buffeted by the wind, it actually feels quite nice. It’s keeping me awake.
“What happened to your sister?” I eventually ask, trying to sound non-confrontational. “Tell me again.”
“She left. I was seven. I never saw her again.”
“She ran away?”
“I don’t know… I assumed that. It’s a bit hazy, you see. My parents never talked of it. I made assumptions. I was young.”
Kids at school talk, unless…
“You were home-schooled?”
“I had a tutor, yes. They made the decision to home-school me right after she left.”
“How old was she?”
“I said before, seventeen. I did say that, didn’t I? Have I said something wrong?”
“She was murdered, Sam.”
“What? Is this a joke?”
We stop walking and turn to face one another. A couple walking their dog pass us by, but we’re largely alone out here. Sam appears tired, stricken and distraught.
“I have a friend… in the police. He found out for me. I wanted to understand more about you.” Spinning a few white lies can’t hurt, right? I shan’t tell him that yesterday I had him pegged as a murderer, but that today is a whole new kettle of fish…
Guilt Page 18
