Date Night (ARC)

by Samantha Hayes

  ‘Parenting instincts come more naturally to some, I suppose,’ she went on. ‘And don’t ever think you’ll be my boy’s mother.’ Natalie looked her up and down. ‘That’s mine and Sean’s job to parent him. It will bond us for the rest of our lives.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know that and I’d never try to—’

  ‘So what I suggest, Libby, is that you don’t quiz my son about my whereabouts, you don’t allow your four-year-old daughter to bad-mouth me to Dan, and you mind your own fucking business about where I am, where I’ve been and who I see. OK?’

  Libby stood frozen, reeling. ‘Wow,’ she said finally, quietly. ‘That’s a lot of anger you’ve got packed up there, Natalie.’ Libby went round to the other side of the work island and faced her full on. Her body was shaking from the inside out, but she didn’t care. ‘Look, I know you hate me. And I know you hate that Sean left you, and he and I got together. I know you also hate that we’re blissfully happy together. Plus you hate that we have a daughter – you always wanted a girl, didn’t you? – and I know, too, that you hate that we live in the type of house you’ve always coveted. You also hate that Dan actually really likes coming here and spending time with us, as a family, while you’re left bitter and alone. I get that.’

  Libby took a step closer, aware that Natalie was a good few inches taller than her, especially in the heeled boots she was wearing. But with that ridiculous pink bag slung over her arm and the mortification that would come from breaking a nail or tearing her designer blouse, Libby didn’t feel in the least bit threatened. In fact, right now, she’d love nothing more than a scrap with her and to pull her stupid hair extensions clean off her head.

  ‘But Dan is a good lad, Natalie. He’s honest, hard-working as much as you could expect at his age, he’s liked by his mates, he adores his little sister and gets on great with his dad. He likes coming here because… well, he likes it. I’ve never seen any evidence of him having a crush on Sasha. In fact, I don’t even recall him encountering her, let alone hanging around when she’s here. What I think, Natalie, is that you’re trying to cover something up. Hiding behind an innocent boy.’

  Natalie opened her mouth to protest, but Libby raised her hand, halting her.

  ‘I think if anyone’s got a thing for anyone, it’s you for Sean. You can’t let go, can you? You can’t stand the thought that he’s happier with me – a normal woman who gets the occasional spot on her chin, doesn’t have time to get her hair done as often as she would like, is guilty of buying clothes in Primark or Tesco, sometimes feeds her daughter spaghetti on toast, and who hasn’t had the chance to paint her toenails in living memory. But you know what? Sean loves me. And he’s done with loving you. So what I suggest is that you be a better mother to your son, keep your nose out of our business and stop leaving stupid notes on my car. OK? No good will come of it.’

  Libby stepped back and took hold of the worktop to steady herself. Her chest heaved up and down, the adrenalin firing through her making her breathless. She felt better for saying what she’d said, but also terrified of the repercussions. She knew Sean was protective of Natalie and she only hoped it was because of their shared responsibility – Dan – and nothing more.

  Natalie’s smile grew – exposing brilliant white teeth behind her full, pink lips. ‘Poor Seany,’ she said, looking her up and down. ‘What was he thinking?’ She swished back her hair with her free hand, pushing back her shoulders, her lips blooming into a pout. ‘You’re so not his type. Trust me on that one. I know him way better than you ever will. I know what he’s like.’

  That was all it took. Libby reached out, and before she could stop herself, she’d shoved Natalie in the middle of her chest, sending her staggering backwards. She bumped against the refrigerator but quickly regained her balance, her face betraying little shock.

  ‘I know you were here that night,’ Libby said, spit flying from her mouth. ‘When Sasha went missing. I know you were in my house. What were you doing here, Natalie? What did you do, more to the point?’

  Natalie just stared at her, pulling her car keys from her bag. She shook her head, making a pitying face. ‘I’m going now, Libby. You know I could go straight to the police and file an assault complaint. But you’re just not worth it. You’re really not.’ She gave a brief glance back over her shoulder before she left, her ankles wobbling in her heels as she strode over the courtyard cobbles.

  Forty

  Libby leant against the worktop for what seemed like hours. Head down, cradled in her arms, the potatoes she’d already peeled browning in the colander. Fuck, she shouted in her head. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  She stood up, going over to the radio and thumping the off button too hard. The scene with Natalie had been made all the more surreal with Mozart orchestrating a dramatic backdrop. She stared at the food she’d set out ready to prepare: the beetroot to braise for the scallop starter, the cauliflower to puree to go with the lamb, the aubergine to smoke as an accompaniment to the cod, and the honey she was going to steep with orange blossom for one of the desserts. With several choices for each course, the menu was ambitious. More ambitious than she was able to cope with right now. As things stood, even picking up a takeaway on the way to her clients’ house would be more than she could manage.

  There was nothing for it but to pack up the kitchen for the afternoon and take a break. Perhaps she’d come back to it later, perhaps she wouldn’t. All she wanted was to crawl into bed and stare at the ceiling, accept that her business would go down the pan. With everything put back in the fridge, Libby turned off the lights and locked up the barn.

  She walked across the yard and went into the boot room, going on through to the kitchen. It was only lunchtime but she didn’t care – a drink would calm her nerves, perhaps provide a solution, but as soon as she set foot inside, she sensed something was wrong.

  A noise. Someone crying – coming from the living room.

  It sounded like a man.

  Slowly, quietly, Libby crept through the hallway. She hesitated outside the door, hearing only sighs now and someone clearing their throat. It didn’t sound like Sean. With her hand on her phone, in case she needed to dial for help, Libby slowly opened the door and peered round it.

  ‘Oh my God, Phil,’ she said, exhaling with relief. ‘You scared the daylights out of me.’

  ‘Libby,’ he said, standing up from the sofa. ‘I… I’m so sorry. I know I shouldn’t be here but the back door was open and—’

  ‘Hey,’ she said, holding up her hands. ‘It’s OK. I totally understand. Jan has done exactly the same thing, if it makes you feel any better. It’s OK, honestly.’ Either way, she had no energy left to argue.

  ‘Thank you,’ Phil replied. ‘That means a lot.’

  Libby gave a little nod. ‘You take as long as you need.’

  Phil looked solemn, sitting down again.

  ‘It’s natural that you want to feel close to where Sasha last was at a time like this.’

  Phil frowned briefly, staring at the floor, touching his forehead. ‘Yes, yes you’re right. It’s… it’s important for me.’

  Libby disappeared back to the kitchen to give Phil some space, but returned shortly with two mugs of tea. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Drink this.’

  ‘Thanks, Libby.’ Phil didn’t look at her as he took the mug.

  ‘Can I ask you an odd question?’ Libby said, still shaking from her outburst with Natalie. Part of her wondered if she would go to the police, just to spite her and have her arrested or cautioned or whatever they do for shoving someone. She would no doubt twist what actually happened into something far more dramatic.

  ‘Of course,’ Phil said, still not making eye contact.

  ‘Does Sasha know Dan, Sean’s son by his first wife, do you know?’ Libby knew Phil had met Dan a couple of times in the past when he’d been on shoots with his dad. He’d also earned some pocket money as a beater and loved being part of the group, working together as a team, flags to hand for flushing the birds out
of the woods.

  Dan had often come home exhilarated during those autumn and winter months, full of stories about how he’d had to push through the undergrowth, how the spent shot had rained down on him when he’d reached the crest of a hill and the guns were firing high over their heads, how he’d been given game pie for lunch and got to pick some of the birds to bring home. Libby remembered his rosy cheeks too, knowing that Sean would have given him a few sips of port from his hip flask as they’d stood waiting around for instructions, often in the sheeting rain. She knew it was all part of the day, part of the camaraderie.

  Phil looked thoughtful but his expression gave nothing away.

  ‘Has Sasha ever been on a shoot, perhaps? Is that how they know each other?’ As under-keeper, it was Phil’s job to organise the beaters.

  ‘No, not our Sash,’ Phil answered immediately, almost mustering a smile. ‘You wouldn’t catch her dead… doing that.’

  They both fell silent for a moment, Phil visibly fighting back more tears.

  ‘I’m sorry, I… I didn’t mean to pry. I just wondered if that’s how she knew Dan.’

  ‘I don’t think she knows Sean’s lad. They’re different ages, aren’t they? Though it’s not outside the realms of possibility, I suppose.’

  Libby thought about this, concluding it was probably Natalie stirring or covering her own tracks for whatever reason. ‘Yes, you’re right, it’s unlikely.’

  ‘Sean’s been organising another search,’ Phil said. His mug was clamped between his hands – rough hands that shook as he brought the tea to his mouth. ‘We’re probably on a hiding to nothing but that shoe…’ He dropped his head. ‘She’s out there somewhere, I feel sure of it. The first search covered the estate ground and the area between here and Little Radwell in case she’d walked home, somehow got lost or had an accident. This time, I said we should head further east and search between here and the Dentons’ farm. There are a few old buildings and copses along the way that warrant a look.’

  It was clear from his expression that Phil thought the expedition would prove fruitless but, as a father, he couldn’t just do nothing.

  ‘Haven’t the police already scoured that area?’ Libby asked, wondering why Sean hadn’t mentioned the search.

  ‘Of course,’ Phil said. ‘But no one knows the land like us. They could have missed something vital. All the lads are coming, even Eric. We’ll get the dogs on it too, and use the radios to stay in touch. It’s all thanks to Sean this is happening.’

  ‘I see,’ Libby said, going cold inside. ‘Let’s hope it turns something up.’ She hadn’t wanted to say Sasha because, after all this time, that would probably have meant finding a body.

  Phil reached out and touched her arm, sliding it down to her hand and gripping it, meshing his fingers with hers. ‘Thanks, Libby. I know this has been hard for you too, because—’

  ‘Oh, hello Sean…’ Libby said, suddenly turning as she caught sight of him standing in the doorway. Her cheeks flushed as he stared at them, Phil’s hand still entwined with hers.

  Libby quickly pulled away, standing up and going over to him. ‘How come you’re home?’ she said, giving him a kiss. Sean didn’t respond.

  ‘Phil,’ Sean said. ‘How are you doing?’ He cleared his throat.

  ‘I’d like to say bearing up, but that would be lying,’ Phil said, also standing. ‘I’ll be out of your way now. Sorry to have disturbed you.’

  ‘No problem,’ Sean said, giving him a wary look. ‘Will you be up to coming on the search tomorrow or would you rather leave it to us? There should be a good turnout.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ Phil said. ‘It’s my girl. My baby…’ He covered his face before making an apology and heading for the front door.

  Libby let Sean show him out, thinking it was best. After everything, she didn’t want Sean to get the wrong impression about what he’d just stumbled in on. She had enough problems as it was.

  Forty-One

  Now

  I’m taken back to the interview room with Claire. I’m shaking, my legs feeling as though they’ll give way at any moment. Before the door is shut, I turn back, taking a look at the other rooms leading off the corridor, wondering who is behind the closed doors – drunk drivers, people arrested for disturbing the peace, a domestic violence perpetrator, a drugs dealer.

  A murderer.

  ‘I didn’t do it,’ I’d told Claire when we were alone. ‘I did not kill Sasha.’ I’d covered my face, rocking in my chair, unable to take in what the solicitor was saying, the advice she was giving me, asking if I wanted to make a statement for her to read out. Nothing was sinking in. Nothing was making sense.

  We sit down again.

  ‘This interview is being recorded,’ the detective says after the beep from the device. ‘The time is now 12.10 p.m. My name is DC Ellen McCaulay and the other people present in the room are…’

  She pauses, allowing DI Jones to identify himself, along with my solicitor, who again states her name and reason for being here. Finally, I say my name and date of birth.

  ‘Thank you,’ the officer says. ‘Libby, we’ve had a break now in order for you to take legal advice, but there are a few things we’d like you to explain further, if that’s OK with you.’

  Slowly I look up. Why does she sound different, as though she’s suddenly on my side? As though we’re friends having a coffee? I don’t understand why her voice is now calm and kind, with none of the previous accusing tone.

  ‘OK,’ I say, head hanging low again.

  ‘Before you begin,’ Claire says, clearing her throat. ‘My client has made a signed statement that I’d like to read out.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ DI Jones says.

  Claire clears her throat. ‘“I, Elizabeth Mary Randell, wish to state for the record that on Saturday, sixth of October, thirteen days before Sasha Long’s disappearance, Sasha was working with me on a dinner party event. When she was loading up my car with items, she accidentally dropped a box containing wine glasses while trying to put them in the boot of my Volkswagen estate. She picked up and rested the box in the boot, unwrapping several glasses to check for breakages. Sasha then cut her finger on a broken glass and blood dropped onto the carpet of my car as well as getting on the paper protecting the glasses. This paper later got strewn around my boot. I witnessed all of the above and went to fetch a plaster for Sasha and applied it as it was bleeding badly. Signed Elizabeth Randell”.’ Claire then passes my statement to DI Jones.

  ‘Thank you,’ he says, glancing at it and sliding it into the file. ‘You didn’t think to tell us this before?’

  I don’t reply.

  ‘OK, Libby,’ he continues. ‘Putting aside forensic evidence for now, we’re still a bit confused about the timings on the night you went out for a meal with Sean. We’d really like it if you could help us understand. And we do realise that this is stressful for you, that things might feel muddled.’

  DI Jones’s voice doesn’t sound like him any more either. Gone is the gruffness, the blank face as I dare to meet his eye. Instead, he’s sitting there, leaning forward on his forearms with almost a smile on his face, as if he’s telling me that if I just clear this up, I’ll be able to go home. Back to my daughter. Back to my life.

  ‘I know, I’m sorry. Things may have got muddled. We’d both had wine and…’ I trail off, hearing Sean’s voice in my head, seeing his hand rise up above my head. ‘I’ll do my best to help.’

  ‘If you can quickly recap how things went for you and Sean at the pub when you ate your meal? Were you getting on OK or were things a bit strained, would you say?’

  ‘A bit of both,’ I say, wishing I’d said ‘no comment’. But that hadn’t done me any good so far. ‘I felt wretched about accusing him of… of having an affair. I got annoyed when he received some texts and calls. We were supposed to be spending time together. It just got out of hand. It wasn’t anything like the nice evening I’d imagined. And it was all my fault.’

  ‘Wh
o do you think was texting and calling your husband, Libby?’

  I shrug, staring at the floor. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Is Sean close to his mother?’ DI Jones goes on, his voice still encouraging, as if I just need to say the right thing and then all this will be over.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘They’re close.’

  ‘How would you describe your relationship with Marion Randell?’ DC McCaulay asks.

  ‘She’s…’ I pause, thinking. Anything about Marion is hard to describe, almost as if she has a tough shell around her – protecting her, never allowing anyone in. ‘She’d do anything for us. I know she felt wretched that she couldn’t babysit that night.’

  DC McCaulay makes notes, looking up periodically.

  ‘She’s a good mother-in-law,’ I continue. ‘She adores Alice, and Sean too, of course.’ I smile. ‘She coddles him a bit, if I’m honest. As if she’s, I dunno, stuck in the past. As if he’s still a little boy. I don’t think she’s got much in the way of a relationship with Fred, her husband, so she pours all her love into Sean and Alice.’

  A chill runs through me as I hear my own voice, saying stuff that I’ve internalised for so long.

  ‘It can feel a bit stifling, to be honest. As though everything has to have Marion’s approval. Does that make sense?’ Perhaps it’s therapy I need, not a police interview. ‘She’s had some health issues over the years, though she never likes to talk about that. She puts on a brave face, so I try to be understanding.’

  ‘Did your husband tell you who was calling and texting him when you were out for dinner?’ McCaulay continues.

  ‘He said it was his mother,’ I say. ‘But I didn’t believe him.’

  I hear Claire fidgeting beside me, uncrossing and crossing her legs, clearing her throat.

  ‘Why couldn’t Marion babysit for you that night? She normally does, doesn’t she?’ DI Jones asks.

  ‘She had a church meeting, but Sasha was free so it was no big deal.’