by Ruth Dugdall
He yawned again, and this time she noticed the dark circles under his eyes. She hadn’t woken him – he looked like he hadn’t slept in days. ‘I did, but how’s it concern us? The farmer’s wife got shot. It was the husband, wasn’t it?’
‘Not everyone thinks so: another man is under suspicion, and I think he’s innocent. Ash Cley. You remember him?’
She waited, watched as his smile dropped and he looked more awake. Yes, she could see it in his face – Jamie remembered Ash all right.
‘He took the blame, Jamie, he has a police record for a gun crime when he was innocent. We can’t let that happen a second time.’
He didn’t speak, just rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘I can’t talk now. I have work to do.’
‘Jamie, you shot someone!’
‘So what, you want me to confess?’ he spat. Across the miles, through the wires, she could feel his venom. ‘What would that do to my relationship with Kaitlin, to my career? It was two decades ago, Holly. You can’t just expect me to destroy my life over something I did when I was a kid.’
And then the screen went blank. The connection had been severed, and Jamie was gone.
37
Cassandra
Holly wanted to drive me home – she said she was worried about me. It seems that everyone is. I’m determined not to seem vulnerable, so I drove myself home, though in truth I did feel groggy. Dad wasn’t ready to leave yet, so I told him Dan would pick him up later.
I can hear the drilling before I even open the front door, and once inside, it’s deafening. Sharp bursts, the horrible sound of metal being threaded into wood. I climb the stairs and reach the source. Daniel’s stood in Victoria’s doorway, the drill in his hand.
‘What’s going on?’ I say, though I can see. He’s putting a lock on Victoria’s door, one that can only be used from the inside. He puts down the drill and picks up his screwdriver, finalising the twists so the lock’s in place.
‘Tori’s a young woman now, love. She needs her privacy.’
Inside the room, Victoria’s cross-legged on her bed, eyes focused on the screen of her iPad.
‘Hi, Mum.’
‘Hi, love. Did you ask Dad to put a lock on your door?’
She shakes her head, not really listening. I move to see the screen that has her attention, and there is the face of her best friend, gazing out at me. ‘Hi, Dawn.’
Victoria raises her eyebrows at me as if to ask, Well? Daniel’s right: she needs her privacy. Teenagers don’t want an adult hanging around, earwigging.
The grogginess pervades. Just walking is like pushing through treacle. I need to lie down, though it’s dinnertime, not yet time for bed. Probably it’s because of all the baking I did last night: I’ve had two sleepwalking incidents in the space of twelve hours. It could be the drugs causing it – I should tell Clive. But I won’t.
I didn’t tell Holly either, though what else was she to think when she found me in the wardrobe? I don’t want to be under her scrutiny, or anyone’s. I need to keep well, to get through the funeral and court case, find out what Daniel’s up to, bring Ash to justice for killing you.
He killed you.
I can’t run to you any more, Mum. I’ll finally learn to stand on my own two feet, and your solutions weren’t always what I needed anyway. When you sent Victoria to Oakfield it broke my heart, but you always thought you knew best. Now all the decisions will be mine.
I only meant to close my eyes for twenty minutes, but when I open them again, it’s quiet and dark. I have the sick sensation that I’ve missed part of my life. Under the duvet I’m fully clothed, sweaty, and through the open curtains a disc of pure white shines down on me. The moon knows everything. I’m hot and heavy and my head feels like lead, weighted to the pillow. I listen greedily for Victoria’s voice. I only need a few words, just enough to know she’s still here and hasn’t been spirited away from me. But she’ll be in bed by now, asleep. I didn’t even say goodnight.
My bladder demands that I get out of bed. My stomach grumbles for food – my body’s completely out of whack with its usual rhythms.
Downstairs, there are signs that a meal has been cooked and eaten. There’s an almost empty bottle of wine and the parmesan is still on the table, the spiraliser’s on the draining board. Why didn’t anyone wake me?
I check the fridge, but there are no leftovers for me. There’s only the buns and scones I cooked last night and one quarter of Victoria’s homecoming cake. I dig my fingers into the hard sponge and take a huge bite. It’s soft and sweet and I grab more, a handful this time, stuffing it in my mouth as if it’s the very thing that can save me. Guiltily, mouth still chewing, I check no one’s watching. The door to the front room is shut but I can hear voices in conversation. Dad, who hasn’t spoken to me properly since the bail hearing, who hardly said a word in the car on the drive to the farm, is talking plenty to Daniel. Curious, I move to the door, careful not to make any noise. I swallow the last of the cake and bend my head to the gap.
Daniel says, ‘We need to protect her, Hector, for the sake of the family. She’s such an innocent, like a child in so many ways.’
Is he talking about Victoria? It’s true – she may seem grown up, but she’s only fourteen.
‘Yup,’ agrees Dad, ‘and that’s what I’m doin’. Don’t be lecturin’ me, boy.’
‘I’m not, I promise. I’m just worried she suspects.’ Daniel sounds desperately weary.
‘All of us, we’re doin’ it for her, ’cos she’s not strong enough to know the truth. But, by God, sometimes I could just whack some sense into her.’
I straighten. I no longer think they’re talking about Victoria. Only I can inspire that level of anger.
‘Hector, I know this is hard on you, but speaking like that helps no one. It’s natural you’re anxious about the sleep test . . .’
‘Sod that! What do doctors know? They weren’t there that mornin’, so whatever that test says, it proves nothin’. I know what happened, and so do you.’
His voice is muffled then, and I imagine him fighting back emotion, pushing it down as always. Then Daniel says, ‘Nobody is responsible for what they do while they’re asleep, Hector. We just have to hope the jury understand that and then this will all be over. We have to stick to the story . . .’
Dad mumbles something I can’t catch, but my mind has latched on to that word: story.
I’m certain now: Dad’s lying, and Daniel’s colluding with it. I’d understand Dad protecting Ash – he loves him. But why would Daniel?
This man I love with all my heart has secrets I don’t understand.
I creep back upstairs to Victoria’s room, and have to wait for her to unlock and open the door. ‘What’s up, Mum?’ She resumes her place, cross-legged on her bed in shorty pyjamas, listening to music on her earphones and tapping on the screen of her iPad.
‘I just wanted to say goodnight.’
Her small room’s cosy, a little girl’s room in pink and white with bunting around the walls. There seemed no point in decorating it after she left.
I was so angry with you then, for taking her away from me, even though I believed I was sick. Now I don’t think I was, I think I saw things clearly: Daniel was cheating on me. It was you who couldn’t see that. And he’s doing it again, deceiving me.
I want to curl up next to Victoria and listen to the music, lose myself in it. But that would be hiding from the truth, and I’ve done that for too long.
‘You shouldn’t still be awake, love – it’s very late.’
‘I’m messaging Dawn.’ She quickly types another line, adding in a sad-faced emoji. ‘I miss her, she hates being at Oakfield without me. Can she come here for the weekend? Please, Mum.’
She’s used to Dawn coming to stay each holiday, and I want her to be happy. God knows this has been a tough enough week for her. I’m ashamed of feeling jealous too – why can’t being here, with me, make her happy?
‘It’s not a great time, love. We ha
ve Granny’s funeral on Monday, and there’s still details to arrange.’
‘Dawn gets that, she’s been supporting me,’ Victoria persists. ‘We’ll just stay here while you’re sorting everything, and do prep. Please, Mum. I’m so lonely, and it’s just so sad about Granny and everything else . . . If she comes, she’d cheer me up. I know Dad would say okay.’
‘Would he?’
‘He loves Dawn,’ she says, so simply there can be no doubt.
I think again of Dawn’s mother, Monica. Daniel seems so willing to believe I’m ill again: could he want me out of the way to be with her? Is he planning on having me sectioned, once the court case is over, so the farm will be all his? And Victoria’s right, Daniel does always seem keen to have Dawn to visit. His motivation, I see now, isn’t just to keep Victoria happy. He’s doing it for Monica, preparing the way for when they’ll be a happy family, without me.
It seems so drastic a conclusion. Maybe I am sick after all.
I need proof. I need to know for certain what the hell is going on, and this could be a way to get it. I need to know I’m not crazy.
‘Mum? Please?’
‘Okay,’ I say, though the word comes out reluctantly, ‘Dawn can come.’
Victoria jumps up, and throws herself at me, hugging me tight. ‘Thanks, Mum, you’re the best.’
‘But check that Dad agrees. He can collect her on his own. I want you here to help me.’
She’s already leaving, happy with the deal I’ve offered, running downstairs to ask him.
‘I love you,’ I say to her empty room.
I pretend to be asleep when Daniel finally slides into bed next to me, anger rising off me like heat. If I open my mouth, the accusations will boil over and spew out of me. We just have to stick to the story . . .
Daniel’s breathing deepens but my suspicions keep me awake, tangled up with the other feelings. Since the shooting, he’s lied to me about where he’s been, what he’s been doing, he’s been whispering to Monica on the phone, speaking to someone in the courthouse. As paramedics fought to save your life, he was instructing architects to move forward with his plan for Samphire Health Spa.
I sweat the night away, watch Daniel as he sleeps, thinking how much I love him and how easily I could shoot him dead.
DAY 12
WEDNESDAY 12 NOVEMBER
38
Holly
‘Morning, Holly, you’re up with the lark! Got me another scoop, kid?’ Alfie said. ‘I’d offer you a seat but . . .’
But there wasn’t another. He was in his cubicle, the desk piled high with notepads, a laptop and bitten pens, while the floor was a sea of photos and torn newspaper articles – a clutter that seemed to have some order, judging from the way he was studying it.
Around the room, in neater cubicles, some reporters chatted about the Netflix saga everyone was watching, others bemoaned ITV for showing Christmas adverts already. Alfie seemed oblivious to all of this, he too was obsessed with Innocence Lane.
Holly stepped gingerly into his space and saw that the surrounding partitions were layered with information. Alfie himself looked even more radioactive than usual: his flushed face toned with his ginger hair, not helped by the red shirt he had chosen. Holly wondered how the shop assistant had let him make this error of judgement.
‘How’s the reporting?’ she asked him.
‘I’m trying to find a new angle to please the punters, keep Innocence Lane on the front page, but my editor’s thinking it’s old news. If I don’t come up with something soon, it’ll be relegated to page five.’
‘Will you go to Maya’s funeral?’ she asked.
Alfie grinned. ‘It would be negligent not to. Though I doubt I’ll make it inside the crem’, not if The Samphire Man has anything to do with it. You?’
‘Cass has asked me to go,’ Holly said, ‘as her friend.’
‘And does she know you’re here?’ he asked, sickly sweet. ‘As her friend ?’
He grinned at her, and Holly was reminded of the red-crowned cockerel at Innocence Farm, lording it over the hens. But who was she to judge – at least his interest in the case was driven by something pure. Alfie’s wife had gone to Daniel for help, and turned her back on conventional treatment. He hadn’t said what had happened to her, but his obsession told her that the outcome hadn’t been good, and the only family photo on his wall looked at least a decade old, judging by the clothes. As for her, she was motivated by something far less wholesome. Twenty years ago, she’d watched her brother shoot a sleepwalker and she’d kept her mouth shut, letting Ash take the blame.
‘No, she doesn’t. Alfie, can I tell you something in confidence?’
He raised one bushy eyebrow. ‘You know this is like a confessional box – only without the hope of salvation. So go ahead.’
‘Yesterday, I found Cassandra at the farmhouse. She was curled up in her mother’s wardrobe, shouting, like she was in the middle of a nightmare. It was . . . strange.’ This wasn’t the best word to describe how unsettling it had been to see a grown woman so terrified while locked within her own dream. ‘I think she’d been sleepwalking.’
Alfie raised an eyebrow. ‘What are you telling me, Holly? That you think it was the daughter, not the husband?’
To hear it said so baldly made Holly catch her breath – was that what she thought? She had been with Cass many times, and her senses hadn’t sung out.
‘No, I don’t think that. I think she’s very vulnerable, and I’m worried about her. I think she needs protecting.’
Alfie took a broken biro from his desk and pointed to one of the articles pinned to his cubicle wall. It was about The Samphire Man. ‘Do you mean from that jerk?’
‘Yes,’ said Holly. She hesitated, then realised Alfie might be the one person she could really confide in. ‘I’m beginning to think Daniel could be guilty.’
Alfie leaned back suddenly, a muscle near his eye twitching as he spoke. ‘God, I’d love to see him arrested. But he’s watertight.’
She felt nervous then, as nervous as she had been in the barn, that terrible Halloween. ‘You promise anything I tell you is confidential?’
There was a moment, a silence in the cubicle, unpenetrated by the hubbub around them.
‘Holly, you and I, we’re on the same side here. If there’s any way we can expose The Samphire Man, we have to do it. What is it you have for me?’
She knew it was time. For twenty years she’d kept her condition secret, but now she’d told Clive, it seemed the floodgates were opening. ‘Alfie, I have this special trait. I can pick up on what other people feel, their deep emotions. It’s a form of synaesthesia.’
Alfie’s biro had made its way to his mouth, and he now had black ink on his chin. The skin around his eyes crinkled as his smile widened. ‘I did an article on that a few months ago, interviewed this guy who tastes words. His wife’s name tasted like Cornish pasties – he said it’s why he married her.’
‘Yes, well, it takes different forms. Me, I feel touch when I see it, and I feel emotions as if they’re mine if I’m close enough to someone. It works best if I touch them.’
He was chuckling now. ‘That’s fucking brilliant, I love it. So if you got close enough, you could tell if Daniel’s the crooked charlatan we think he is?’
‘Or if he shot Maya. Yes, I think so.’
‘Then what are you waiting for? Go see Daniel. Just you and him, close enough so you can sense the guilt. He’ll be stinking of it.’
Holly shook her head. ‘How would I do that, Alfie? I have no reason to see him alone.’
‘That’s easy,’ he said, an ironic smile on his lips. ‘Do the same as my ex-wife – go to him for help. You’re young and pretty: that bastard would never turn away the chance to cure you.’
Samphire Studio was located in a small industrial park, in a blocky building set between a kitchen designer’s showroom and a pet store, the pathway was flanked with storm lanterns inside which red candles had burned flat. The g
ym had darkened glass windows so the interior was hidden, and Holly pushed open the door with a certain trepidation.
The vibe was boutique-hotel-cum-brothel, with massive black leather sofas and displays of red roses on glass tables. The underpinning aroma was rubberised flooring and sweat. To the left was a huge window, on the other side of which an exercise class was taking place with two ladies suspended from loops of coloured cloth. They looked to be engaged in some sort of yoga. Holly tried not to stare, her own sinews straining in sympathy. Daniel was leading the class, his toned physique arching in the straps.
Opposite the door was a long reception desk, with chrome bar stools at one end. At the other, with a laptop open in front of her, was a young woman with spiky pink hair.
‘Can I help you?’ The receptionist squirrelled away the graphic comic mag she’d been reading and smiled at Holly in a slightly crazed way. Her blue eyes seemed covered with a layer of fluid as if she were very bored, and had been for some time.
‘I’d like to speak with Daniel Salmon, please.’
‘Oh.’ Now the blue eyes looked more alert. ‘Are you a new client?’
Holly bit her lower lip. ‘I hope to be. I haven’t made an appointment . . .’
‘Oh, that’s fine, he has plenty of spaces. He’s teaching right now.’ The girl pointed a pink talon at the large glass window. ‘Aerial Fitness finishes in seven minutes.’
‘Thanks, I’ll wait.’
The sofa sagged beneath her, taking Holly lower than the square table, which had a tastefully displayed fan of magazines: Your Health, Positive Energy, Vogue. No tacky chat mags for this crowd, only the best for Woodbridge’s finest. The wall in front of her was flanked by a huge glass-fronted fridge with rows of juices, green and purple and orange. A price list was taped to the glass under the heading The Samphire Master suggests. Each juice was listed, not only with its price, but with all the ailments it treated. She leaned forward and read the notes, fascinated: these magic potions were said to treat everything from psoriasis to melanoma. The juice that caught her eye was crimson, called Dragon’s Blood, and according to the description restores your mental equilibrium and cures emotional overwork. Something she was experiencing, especially given the task in hand. Well, Holly, she chided herself, you suggested this, so woman up and stop whingeing.
