Patrick stood in the hall like a lost child. Seeing her had changed everything. Before she arrived he had worked out exactly what he was going to say. But how on earth could he tell her now?
He followed her to the kitchen. On automatic pilot he pulled bowls from the cupboard and doled out the contents of the aluminium cartons. Perhaps he could go to Holland without saying anything. Pretend he was going back to Liverpool. He could easily do that without her finding out. And then he could sort things out. Decide what to do. Perhaps he would never need to tell her …
‘Patrick, what’s wrong?’ Megan was standing in front of him, a glass in her hand.
‘Oh, nothing.’ He forced a smile.
She smiled back, stroking his jaw with her finger. ‘I’ll take this through to the living room,’ she said, picking up the wine bottle and the other glass. ‘Will you bring the food?’
He nodded, perching on the edge of the table as he waited for the microwave. The takeaway had been wrapped in yesterday’s newspaper. He glanced at the pages. There was a photograph of Joanna Hamilton, her face smeared with sweet and sour sauce where one of the cartons had leaked. How he wished he could turn back the clock.
When he carried the tray through Megan was halfway through her glass of wine. He topped her up and watched her picking disinterestedly at her food as she talked about her frustration with the murder investigation and the trauma of the police raid on her sister’s house.
‘I don’t know what Ceri’s going to do,’ she said, pushing a chunk of pineapple around the plate with her fork. ‘I keep thinking about the children. What’s it going to do to them if she and Neil split up?’
Patrick stared at the food on his lap, unable to look at her.
‘Patrick?’ She pushed her plate aside. ‘What’s up?’ She took his hand and looked into his eyes. ‘You’ve been really quiet all evening. Something’s happened, hasn’t it? Please, tell me what’s wrong.’
He took a deep breath, still avoiding her eyes. ‘I wasn’t going to tell you,’ he mumbled. ‘I didn’t want to spoil things…’
‘Tell me what?’
He looked up slowly, blinking away the tears that pricked the corners of his eyes. ‘If I tell you,’ he said, ‘There’s something I want you to remember.
She stared at him, shaking her head in confusion.
‘I love you Megan.’ He pulled her to him, clinging on like a drowning man.
‘And I love you!’ Her words were muffled by his chest.
‘It’s Kristine,’ he whispered into her hair.
Megan recoiled at the sound of the name of Patrick’s exfiancée. The woman he had been planning to marry. Would have married had he not come to study at Heartland. ‘Kristine?’ She frowned. ‘What about Kristine?’
‘Megan, she’s pregnant.’
For a moment she stared uncomprehendingly at him. ‘You mean she’s met someone else?’
His eyes dropped to the carpet.
‘But that’s good, isn’t it?’ Megan began. ‘That makes everything…’
‘That makes everything totally fucked up.’ He snatched her words and threw them back in her face. ‘She’s six months pregnant, Megan. She says the baby’s mine.’
Chapter 15
Megan stared at Patrick, unable to believe what he had just said.
‘What do you mean? How can it possibly be your baby?’ Her mind had already done the calculation. Six months. December. Christmas. He had gone back to Holland at Christmas. To finish with Kristine.
‘You did it with her at Christmas, didn’t you?’ Megan leapt off the sofa. You callous bastard! Screwing her and then dumping her…’
‘Meg, it wasn’t like that!’ Patrick tried to grasp her arm as she ran for the door. She broke free and he heard her footsteps on the stairs. He ran after her but she darted into the bathroom. He heard the clunk of the bolt as she locked herself in. ‘I know you’re not going to believe this,’ he pleaded through the door, ‘but I never intended it to happen. It was you I wanted. You know that! I only went back to explain why I was breaking off the engagement.’ He sighed, leaning heavily against the door. ‘When I got to the flat she was in such a state. Threatening to kill herself. She asked me to stay the night and I was afraid that if I left her she might do something stupid. I’d had a lot to drink and, well, next thing I knew she was lying on top of me…’ He broke off, realising that nothing he could say was going to make it sound any more acceptable.
‘So you screwed her to cheer her up? My God, what a hero!’ Megan’s voice was muffled but the venom in it was unmistakeable.
‘She did it deliberately, Megan! Can’t you see that?’ He rattled the door. ‘Let me in for God’s sake!’
He heard the sound of taps being turned on.
‘Why do you think she waited this long to tell me?’ He paused but there was no sound other than the splash of water tumbling into the bath. ‘She knows it’s too late to do anything about it. Don’t you see? She’s using the baby to try and get me back.’
‘Well she’s bloody well succeeded as far as I’m concerned!’ Megan’s voice was so loud it made Patrick jump. She must be standing right behind the door.
‘Oh, come on Meg!’ He rattled the lock again. ‘We’re never going to get anywhere like this!’
‘Get anywhere? You honestly think you’re going to talk your way out of this one?’
‘Listen, try and see it from my point of view, will you?’ There was a note of anger in his voice now. ‘For God’s sake, we hadn’t even started seeing each other properly last Christmas, had we? I didn’t even know if you’d be interested in me when I got back from Holland.’
‘Oh, I see! Hedging your bets, were you?’
The roar of water from the taps suddenly stopped. He heard the pad of her footsteps on the wooden floor and a splash as she climbed into the bath. No chance of her letting him in now. He slumped onto the carpet, hugging his knees. He had been a fool to think she could be persuaded to talk rationally about something so painful. Of all the things he could possibly have done to hurt her …
The sound of her laughing broke the silence. It was a hollow kind of laughter and the bath water gave it an eerie echo.
‘It’s ironic.’ She sounded as if she was talking to herself rather than to him. ‘The man who won’t even mention the word baby is about to become an almost instant father.’
‘Oh come on, Megan, that’s not fair!’ He was on his feet with his cheek pressed against the door frame. ‘If I’ve never talked about kids it’s because the idea of having them’s never really occurred to me before. I was happy the way things were with you and me!’ He slammed the heel of his hand against the wood. ‘I know this is a mess but won’t you at least give me a chance to try and sort it out?’
‘Just go, will you, Patrick!’ She spat out his name like something poisonous.
‘So that’s it, is it?’ He tried to shout but his voice was hoarse with emotion. ‘You’re just going to throw everything down the pan?’
‘Just go!’
Her words were still ringing in his ears when he slunk off down the stairs.
*
Megan stared at the clock, trying to work out whether it was morning or afternoon. The sun was streaming through a crack in the living room curtains. She blinked. Why was she on the sofa? As she lowered her legs over the edge one foot landed in the congealed remains of a plate of Sweet and Sour King Prawns and the other sent an empty whisky bottle skidding across the floor. That was when she remembered.
‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’ Her first instinct was to jump back onto the sofa and bury her head under the cushions. Shut it all out. But the sole of her foot was a sticky mess. Smearing it over the furniture was not going to make this crappy day any better.
Instead she hopped up the stairs to the bathroom, her head pounding with every movement. Hooking her foot over the washbasin she turned on the tap, cursing again as the cold water splashed her skin.
‘My God you look awful!’ Th
e bathroom mirror was not flattering at the best of times, but today her reflection made her wince. She stared at the puffy skin and smudged mascara, playing back Patrick’s words in her head. Her eyes filled and she looked away, feeling the tears run down her face to land with a plop in the washbasin. She let out the water and collapsed onto the bathroom floor, a wave of nausea suddenly sweeping over her. Crawling over to the toilet she crouched like a wounded animal, hating herself for having got into such a state.
She was still there when the phone rang ten minutes later. Patrick, she thought. Don’t answer it. After a few rings the answering machine clicked in. Seized by a sudden urge to hear his voice she limped onto the landing, clutching the banister rail for support.
‘Hi, Megan.’ It was a woman’s voice. ‘There’s a piece in the morning papers I wanted to ask you about: something a bit odd. It’s Delva, by the way – sorry, forgot to say. I’m at home if you want to call me back. Bye.’
Megan made for the stairs and then stopped. She couldn’t phone Delva. Not yet anyway. She couldn’t trust herself to speak without cracking up. She might be a wreck but there was one thing she was sure of. She would tell no one about what had happened with Patrick. Not Delva. Not even Ceri. It was too painful. Too humiliating. If either of them asked she would simply say he had gone back to Holland to sort out some family business. Later she would say he had had to stay on. It would be easy enough to cook up a reason. No one would be surprised when she told them the relationship had fizzled out.
By the time she was dressed she had started rationalising what had happened. It was for the best, she thought. Sooner or later Patrick would have realised that he wanted children. Better for them to split up now than five years down the line. Suddenly her mind filled with an image of him cradling a new-born baby in his arms. Her legs crumpled and she sank to the floor, burying her head in her knees. Tears seeped into the fabric of her skirt and when she finally picked herself up there were two damp patches where her eyes had been.
Megan walked mechanically over to the wardrobe and pulled out a change of clothes. She would get through this. If she had survived the break-up of a five-year-old marriage she could surely get over something that had lasted a mere five months. She took a deep breath and made her way downstairs to the kitchen. Grabbing a black bin liner from the cupboard she walked purposefully into the living room. Pausing only to yank open the curtains, she gathered up everything in her path; the plates of Chinese food, the cutlery, the empty bottles of booze and the wine glasses. Marching into the back yard she tossed the bag into the wheelie bin, where it landed with a satisfying crash. Then she went inside, made herself a large mug of black coffee and phoned Delva.
‘Hi Meg, thanks for calling back,’ Delva said. ‘It’s something I spotted in one of the tabloids.’
‘I can’t hear you very well,’ Megan said, ‘Did you say tabloids?’
‘Yes – sorry,’ Delva raised her voice a little. ‘It’s this cordless phone. I’m in the garden, actually. Trying to tart it up a bit, but I could do with the Groundforce team, I think.’
‘Oh you should see mine,’ Megan said, ‘Lawn’s like a jungle.’ She was glad the line was bad. Delva wouldn’t be able to detect the shakiness in her voice. ‘What’s the story?’ she asked.
‘Hang on a minute,’ Delva said, ‘I’ll read it out to you.’ There was a crackle as she went inside. When she spoke again her voice was much clearer. ‘The headline is “Red Faces As Police Raid Kinky Sex Couple”. It’s a diary piece on the inside pages.’ Megan’s stomach churned and she fought down the urge to throw up as Delva read on. ‘“Police hunting Wolverhampton’s Black Magic Killer burst in on what they thought was the murderer attacking his third victim, only to find a couple having kinky sex. It’s thought that officers raiding the house had been tipped off by a woman involved in the investigation who feared the killer had targeted her sister. But it turned out that the sister had sneaked off from her job at a local college for a lunchtime bondage session with her student boyfriend. A source close to the hunt for the killer said: ‘She was tied to the bed and all she was wearing was a pair of red stilettos and a smile. The look on her face was priceless. Imagine being in the throes of passion when half a dozen coppers burst through the door. Her sister was pretty red-faced too.’ A West Midlands police spokesman refused to confirm whether or not the raid had taken place.”’
Megan stared at the wall in front of her, her head thumping.
‘Megan? You still there?’ Delva said.
‘Sorry, I, er,’ Megan mumbled. ‘Which paper was it in?’ She wondered if Delva could hear the panic in her voice.
‘The Sun,’ Delva replied. ‘What do you make of it? I was wondering if the woman they’re talking about could be Kate O’Leary’s sister? Or maybe the police got the tip-off from that Carole-Ann Beddowes?’
‘No,’ Megan said with a heavy heart, ‘it wasn’t either of them.’
‘You weren’t there, were you?’ Delva’s voice was tentative. Then the penny dropped. ‘Oh, my God! It was you, wasn’t it? Oh, Megan, I’m so sorry – you must think I did this deliberately, but honestly, I had…’
‘It’s okay,’ Megan cut in. ‘There’s no way anyone could have known from that piece that it was me.’ She breathed in sharply. ‘I just wish I knew which bastard tipped off the newspaper.’
‘Listen, Megan, I don’t want to pry – I only phoned because I wondered who the bloke was. The piece gives the impression the police have ruled him out and I wondered if The Sun had got that right.’
‘No, they haven’t,’ Megan sighed. ‘As far as I know the police are still holding him.’ She paused. Delva knew so much anyway there seemed little point keeping the truth from her. No doubt Foy would make sure Justin’s name was leaked to the press before the day was out. ‘His name’s Justin Preece,’ she said. ‘And he’s Sean Raven’s stepson.’
There was a gasp from the other end of the line. ‘And he’s been…?’ Delva’s voice tailed off. Obviously she was too embarrassed to finish the sentence.
‘Yes, he’s been seeing my sister.’ Megan couldn’t bring herself to use the word The Sun would have chosen.
‘Megan, can I give you a word of advice?’ Delva’s tone was serious. There was no hint of sarcasm. ‘Watch who you open the door to today and leave the answerphone on – if any hack susses who this story’s about they’ll be door-stepping you and your sister.’
Megan closed her eyes, wondering how much worse this day could possibly become. ‘What about you, Delva?’ If ever there was a time when her friend was going to have divided loyalties, Megan thought, this was surely it.
‘Don’t worry, it’s not the sort of thing that makes teatime viewing.’ Delva’s voice sounded strained now. Megan wondered if she was trying not to laugh. She imagined it was the kind of story that would give most reporters a good giggle.
She stood in the hall for several minutes after her conversation with Delva had ended, wondering what to do. The desire to run away was almost overwhelming. She and Ceri and the children could drive to the house their Welsh grandmother had left them; the tiny fisherman’s cottage that overlooked Cardigan Bay. They would be safe there; from reporters; lovers; two-faced detectives … The sound of the phone cut her short.
‘Meg, it’s me.’ It was Ceri. She sounded much calmer than when Megan had last spoken to her. ‘I know we were meant to be coming over today but I’ve had a lot of time to mull things over, and I really think it’d be best if the kids and I stayed here. I’ve got to face people sooner or later, and running away’s not going to help.’
Megan bit her lip. ‘Oh, Ceri, you’re being really brave, but there’s something I’ve got to tell you.’ There was no sound from the other end as she related what Delva had told her. ‘So it probably isn’t a very good idea for you to be at home.’
‘I’m not going to let it get to me, Meg.’ Ceri’s voice was quiet but determined. ‘People are going to find out sooner or later. Best to just braze
n it out, eh?’
‘What about Neil? Have you decided what you’re going to tell him?’
There was a long sigh from the other end. ‘It’s over, Meg. If I’m honest I’ve known it for a long time. It’s nothing to do with Justin – he just brought things to a head.’ There was a pause. ‘Do you know what’s happened to him, by the way?’ The sudden shakiness in her voice betrayed the fragility of her emotions. ‘I keep trying his mobile but it’s switched off.’
‘Do you want me to find out?’
‘Yes, please, Meg.’ Ceri’s voice had become a hoarse whisper. ‘I can’t bear to think of him lying in some police cell.’
Megan’s face was set as she punched out Dave Todd’s number. Asking about Justin Preece would give her an excuse to find out if he was the one who’d sold that story to The Sun. In her heart of hearts she didn’t want to believe it. He had seemed so likeable; so keen to help her in spite of his boss. She grunted. She’d managed to balls-up pretty much everything else – why should her judgement of him be any different?
The mobile number rang out several times before he picked up.
‘Dave Todd.’ He sounded out of breath. She wondered if she’d disturbed him on a morning off.
‘It’s Dr Rhys.’ Two days ago she had told him to call her Megan. Now she felt inclined to be formal. ‘Any news on Justin Preece?’
‘Still holding him,’ Todd said. ‘I was at the station about an hour ago. No prospect of charging him with anything at the moment, I shouldn’t think.’
‘Oh? Why do you say that?’
‘Well, like you said with Sean Raven, it’s all circumstantial, isn’t it? I mean, at least with Raven there’s a definite link with Tessa Ledbury. I think the Guv’s going to be on very shaky ground if he tries to hold Justin beyond tomorrow morning.’
‘So you think he’ll let him go?’ Megan wondered what the papers would make of that. ‘What about Raven?’
Strange Blood Page 16
