by cass green
His expression sours and he waves the papers at me.
‘Yeah, OK, sorry, but what is this?’
‘Just some research,’ I say, avoiding his puzzled gaze. ‘Anyway, I’ve called a cab. They said fifteen minutes, which might be ten now.’ I can’t stop myself from adding a sarcastic sign-off. ‘… You never know your luck.’
He steps a bit closer, holding the bundle out to me. Nick Quinn’s eyes look out at me from the top sheet.
‘But why, Nee?’ he says and I want to tell him not to call me that any more. He doesn’t have the right, even if we have just screwed on the kitchen sofa. ‘What purpose does this serve?’
I force myself to look at him. The kind concern on his face makes me want to smack it. It’s the same expression Carmen wore the other day. The ‘oh poor Nina is behaving weirdly’ look.
I’m so very angry with everyone. Was this there, dormant, before that night? Or did the experience of being held hostage cause some fundamental change inside me?
‘Ian,’ I say in a low, controlled voice. ‘It was a very, very strange night. I don’t think you can really understand it if you weren’t here.’ I pause and draw breath. ‘I just wanted to get a sense of this Nick Quinn. Whether he might be capable of, well, doing the things Angel and Lucas said he did.’
Ian’s frowning deeply as he waves the bundle again before throwing it onto the table.
‘Do you really believe he murdered his wife?’ he says, his voice rising in incredulity. ‘Even if he’s a horrible man, it doesn’t mean he’s a killer, does it?’
This is the exact thought I had earlier but hearing it from him makes me feel more entrenched, rather than less.
‘Well,’ I say carefully, ‘according to Angel, he already is a killer. They think he drove their mother to suicide.’
There is a long pause. I pick up my phone and pretend to check messages, all the while feeling the heat of Ian’s gaze on me.
‘Look, darling,’ says Ian, ‘I think you ought to try and get away or something. It can’t be good staying here obsessing when you’ve had such a scary experience. Why don’t you go to see Sal until Sam comes home? It’s only a week.’
I can feel the stiffening of my spine, spreading up to my shoulders, as if I’m slowly turning to stone.
‘First of all,’ I say, ‘I’m not your “darling” or “Nee” or any of those things. Not any more.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he starts to say, ‘it slipped out and …’
But I talk over him. ‘And secondly, I’m not some obsessed nutter who, who,’ I cast around, hearing my voice rising, ‘who is being weird about this. I’m not being weird! I just wanted to find out more about this man who may or may not be a total monster!’
‘And did you?’ he says in a gentle voice that enrages me further.
‘Yes, I did,’ I say, chin raised defiantly. ‘I found out lots of useful things actually. And,’ I start to say this before I have even consciously made the decision, ‘… I’m planning to go back to the police to talk to them about it.’
I can’t tell whether it’s scepticism I see written on his face, or that he thinks I’m quite mad.
Then I hear the toot of a car and, with great relief, I say, ‘Anyway, there’s your taxi.’
He lets out a big sigh and rubs his hand over the top of his head.
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ he says, reasonable bastard that he is. ‘Do you want me to hang around?’
‘No thanks,’ I say crisply. ‘Just get Sam home safe and sound in a week’s time, that’s all.’ I pause as he moves towards the door. ‘And don’t worry,’ I say, so he turns to look at me again, ‘that … ’ I make a vague gesture at the sofa, ‘never happened.’
Ian looks anguished for a moment, like he wants to hug me, then he nods and opens the door.
A few minutes later I think about what I said to him; about going to the police.
Apart from my recent experience, I know about the police only from crime dramas, but I’ve watched an awful lot of them. Plus, I read the news.
I know that they are short on officers on the ground and resources. They have what seems like a clear-cut case, I imagine. And anyway, maybe Lucas did murder Alice after all.
But my instincts are starting to scream at me. Flaky and unpleasant she may be, but is Angel telling the truth? What if Lucas is a very damaged boy who is guilty of nothing more than panicking and trying to do right by Zach?
However, I know that instincts are not enough.
If I’m going to go back to the police, I need to find out more.
46
Nina
Press reports about the night Alice Quinn died refer to the couple’s home in ‘a leafy Hertfordshire village’ but I found one report that said it happened in a place called Mirestone. I’ve never been, but I don’t think it’s that far from here.
The front of their house was shown in several of the tabloid accounts I find online, usually with grim, salacious headlines involving descriptions like ‘murder house’ or ‘house of horrors’. There are pictures of white-suited CSIs milling around in front of the house but I try to focus on the other details; what the house looks like from outside.
I study the images carefully, looking for any distinguishing features.
It’s a substantial, detached Edwardian property with a wide driveway. Stone urns with bay trees sit neatly by the front door. But there are probably loads of houses in that area which look similar. I need something else …
There’s a large magnolia tree in the front garden. But again – it’s not enough.
I keep looking but I’m close to giving up on this no-doubt-stupid idea when I spot what looks like a bus stop just to the left of the house.
I sit back, drumming my fingers on the table. Could I find it by looking at the houses near all the bus stops in that village?
There are no doubt all sorts of clever ways to find people’s homes online but I’m going to have to do this the hard way.
The next morning, I dress carefully, in the silky black shirt I wear for important school evenings, my best jeans and boots with a heel. I carefully dry my hair so it’s wavy rather than full-on bubblehead, and apply a little eye make-up. I want to look trustworthy; whatever that looks like.
Outside, the sky is stone-coloured with a threat of rain in the air. The temperature is still muggy and oppressive.
It doesn’t take long and when I get there I drive around to get a feel for the place.
It’s much bigger than I thought; obviously wealthy. The village square has two delis, several restaurants and cafés and some high-end designer shops. A whitewashed pub with tumbling baskets of flowers advertises artisanal gin and wood-fired pizza.
There are many white people in Boden clothes pushing Bugaboos.
There is only one bus that goes through the village and I painstakingly plotted its route, as much as I could, online. I follow the instructions I’ve written for myself and slow down at each bus stop, checking the houses nearby.
It’s boring work. I worry that I look odd and that someone will report me but I press on.
I finally find it on the far side of the village, in the opposite direction to where I live.
As I pull slowly up at the side of the road, it strikes me that Lucas walked miles and miles to my house that night. No wonder he looked so dreadful when he arrived. It must be at least seven miles from here to mine.
I park a little way away and sit in the car for a few moments, gathering myself. I’m not completely sure I have the bottle to do this.
I pull down the driver’s mirror and look at myself, wiping away a smudge of make-up under my eye. Then I snap the mirror back decisively, grab my handbag and get out of the car.
I don’t even know that anyone will be there, I tell myself. I’m just taking a look. No harm in that.
But my knees are trembling as I start to walk towards the Quinn residence.
I might finally meet this man, who has been livin
g in my head for the last two weeks, along with Angel, Lucas and Zach. And, of course, Alice. I wish I could get them all to leave me alone, but there is no chance of that. Not when I know there is going to be a trial at some point in the future.
I pause at the entrance to the driveway and look up at the house. The windows are all closed, so I’m guessing no one is home. I picture blue lights washing the front of the house. A stretcher with a body bag emerging through that front door.
I shiver and I’m still standing there when I hear someone coming along the pavement behind me. I turn, startled, and see a woman, maybe in her thirties, pushing a pram. Alongside her is a small girl of about five. The woman and the girl both look Middle Eastern, with thick black hair and dark eyes. The mother wears a hijab and the little girl is in a pink T-shirt and shorts. She is holding onto the pram and hopping from one foot to the other, happy curiosity on her face as she looks at her mother and then at me.
The woman is frowning, and I can’t work out what she wants from me when she suddenly speaks.
‘Excuse me,’ she says carefully. ‘I go in here.’
‘Oh,’ I say stepping back, as I realize she is going into the Quinn house. As she passes, I glance down and recognize the little face in the pram.
‘Oh!’ I say again, stupidly. ‘That’s Zach!’
Her body language visibly changes and she scrunches over the pram, grabbing the hand of the little girl now and hurrying into the driveway. I have an irrational but nonetheless powerful desire to see Zach again, to see him healthy and well-looked-after.
‘Please!’ I say. ‘Stop! I just want to talk to you, that’s all.’
‘No journalist,’ she says, or rather hisses, pronouncing the word, ‘journaleest’, and almost runs to the front door. She knocks on it hard and turns to look at me, almost fearfully, as I follow her up the driveway.
‘I’m not a journalist!’ I call out in desperation. ‘I’m Nina. I’m the woman who, who …’ I cast around, suddenly unwilling to use the word ‘hostage’. I settle on, ‘… Who was with Zach on … on, that night.’
I’m not sure whether she understands me, because her expression doesn’t change at all.
The door opens then and another woman appears there. She’s perhaps in her sixties; elegant, with silvery blonde bobbed hair and clothes in various shades of cream and taupe. She’s wearing a long, soft cardigan despite the muggy warmth of the air today. A pair of glasses are balanced on her head. She stares curiously at the other woman and then at me and says, ‘Nooria, who is this?’
I realize, as if waking up from a dream, that I’ve made a terrible mistake in coming here.
47
Nina
My instinct is to turn on my heel and flee but I can’t bring myself to behave in such a cowardly way. Not with this woman.
Despite my embarrassment and panic my brain throws up the concept that this is Zach’s grandmother – it is Alice’s mother. I’m here now and I have nothing to lose. Bar getting into trouble with the police, that is, for speaking out of turn before a trial. Best not to think about that.
I try to smile but it is met with stony gazes from the two women, while the little girl looks with curiosity between the three of us, as though there is a puzzle to be deciphered.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. ‘I shouldn’t be here, but, well, I’m Nina. I’m the woman who was with … was with Zach on that terrible night. I just wanted to know that he was alright.’
The two women exchange glances. Alice’s mother’s face seems to slacken, with a gravity pull of grief perhaps, at the mention of what happened. Then she gathers herself and almost visibly straightens her spine.
‘He’s fine,’ she says and begins to help the other woman, Nooria, I think she said, in with the pram.
I have no idea what to do and, feeling quite flattened, I turn away. What a waste of time. What was I thinking?
‘Wait!’ The call back takes me so much by surprise that for a second I genuinely think it must be aimed at someone else.
‘Please, wait a minute!’
I turn around to see the woman, now holding Zach up against her shoulder, coming down the driveway towards me.
She turns the little boy so he is sitting on her arm, against her chest and facing me. He kicks his legs and gives a happy little squeal. An uncomplicated feeling of warm pleasure floods my chest. I wish I could hold him. We went through a lot together that night, Zach and I.
‘Oh Zachy!’ says the woman, her voice almost breaking. ‘You like this lady, don’t you, darling?’
I reach out tentatively and let him grab hold of my finger. He kicks his legs again and gives me a gummy smile; the first I have ever seen from him.
‘How are you doing, little guy?’ I say and then I remember that his mother is dead and my eyes fill with tears. I look up at his grandmother and see that hers are swimming too.
We both go to speak at the same time.
‘Look …’ I say.
‘I’m not sure …’ she says. We laugh politely, like the well-brought-up women we are, even in this very bizarre and painful situation.
‘You first,’ she says and I jiggle my finger in Zach’s hot little fist to get myself together. It’s so very good to see him safe and well.
‘I shouldn’t have come,’ I say, ‘but I wanted to tell you how desperately sorry I am about,’ I falter, ‘… about Alice.’ I pause. ‘Am I right in thinking you are her mother?’
She nods, tightly, and it seems that she holds Zach a little closer.
‘… And well,’ I say, suddenly letting out a torrent of words. ‘It was such a strange night, you see, and I can’t seem to … I can’t seem to … move on. I’m sorry!’ I extricate my finger and go to turn away. ‘I should go.’
I’m struggling not to cry. I think if I start, I may never stop and so I’m reduced to taking deep, gulping breaths as a semblance of keeping control.
‘No, please,’ she says quickly. ‘No one will know if you come in and have something to drink, will they? Please.’
The woman, Nooria, snaps a quick, sharp look at me then lowers her head to her daughter and speaks in a low voice. I wonder what her role is here. A nanny, perhaps.
We walk through a hallway scented with flowers and I see that there are several large vases filled with lilies, roses and gerbera crammed awkwardly on a table. The floorboards gleam golden from a sudden soaking of sunshine through the stained-glass window of the front door.
In the large kitchen, there are more vases of flowers. Some are still wrapped in cellophane and sit looking sad and droopy on the side. Too many flowers. The scent is almost sickly.
I stand awkwardly by the door as the women move comfortably about the space.
Nooria takes Zach and holds him expertly against one shoulder while she starts to prepare a bottle. The little girl, who has been silent the whole time, skips over to a baby doll that is lying on a long sofa and begins to play with it, holding it and crooning quietly in perfect mimicry of a mother.
I’m wondering where Nick Quinn is right now. What I’ll do if he walks into the room. My heart starts to thud uncomfortably hard.
Alice’s mother washes her hands at the sink and then turns to look at me.
I find that I have been staring down at the floor, wondering whether this is where Alice died. I can’t stop my brain from conjuring dark blood against the creamy stone tiles.
Our eyes meet and I start, as if caught out. It feels as though my thoughts were written on my face, like some prurient gawper. My cheeks flush.
‘I’m Jennifer Sommerton,’ she says. ‘And I believe you are … Nina, is it?’
I smile eagerly, grateful to move on from the awkward moment. ‘Nina Bailey,’ I say.
‘Come in and take a seat,’ she says easily. ‘What can I get you to drink?’
‘Just something cold if you have it,’ I say. I’m sweating, partly from stress, and it’s making it hard to think through how I should handle this.
&
nbsp; ‘Orange juice?’ offers Jennifer and I nod gratefully.
She pours a glass for me and water for herself and picks them up. As she walks towards me she turns briefly and says, ‘Nooria?’
The other woman looks up from the sink, where she is testing milk from the bottle against the back of her hand.
‘Can you bring Zach’s stuff to the front door so I can get everything in the car?’ says Jennifer. ‘I’m intending to leave after lunch to beat the traffic on the M3.’
Nooria nods and turns back to the sink. Zach grumbles and turns his little face into her shoulder. My body reacts, remembering exactly how he had felt, this poor, cross little boy who didn’t even know about the immense hole that had been torn in his life.
She leads me into a large, comfortable sitting room with the same oak floorboards and tasteful grey sofas. The floor is taken up with a kilim, no doubt from Quinn’s Middle Eastern travels, shot through with shades of blood red, gold and pea green. On the wall, there is some sort of ancient-looking Arabic writing in a frame and over the fireplace is the most beautiful mirror, surrounded by lapis lazuli tiles. It’s all so tasteful and beautiful in here. Hard to imagine that this is a house in which a murder took place.
On the mantelpiece, there is a large black and white wedding photo; a close-up of Alice and Quinn’s faces. She looks stunning; so fresh and pretty, vivid lipstick on a mouth stretched into a wide, happy smile, showing perfect teeth. She is turning to him and his face is lowered towards hers. You can’t really see much of his actual expression. Again, he feels just out of reach, even in this special moment.
Jennifer gestures for me to sit and places the orange juice on a tile mat on the coffee table in front of me.
There is a brief, awkward silence and I feel a hot surge of panic about being here. Quinn could surely walk in any moment. It feels crucial that I get this right.
‘Thank you,’ I say, after taking a sip of my juice. ‘Are you taking a trip?’ I feel bold and blush a little as Jennifer Sommerton coolly meets my eye.
‘Yes,’ she says after a moment and lowers her eyes. ‘I’m taking Zach back to Devon with me for a while.’
