by Mick Bose
“Oh yes, the Burton-Smyths. I have seen her a few times. She organised the summer ball last year. You know, the one at the All England Lawn Tennis Club.”
I wasn’t in the school at the time, but I heard it was a big party. “Do you know Joanne Burton-Smyth?”
“Briefly chatted to her once, at the ball. Don’t know her well.”
“Well, she seems very cocksure my Molly beat up her Hen. But Molly didn’t. Problem is, there aren’t any witnesses.”
My mood darkens as I recount the story. No child should be blamed like this, not without concrete proof. I despise Joanne for doing this.
“She is one of the school governors, I know that,” Suzy said. “It’s a panel of parents and teachers that deal with school issues.”
The more I hear about this woman, the more I realise why Miss Laker, Molly’s teacher, was trying to smooth things over at the meeting. It doesn’t matter. As long as she stays away from Molly I don’t care what she does. The fact that her husband is Jeremy’s senior colleague just adds a toxic twist to the mix, one I’m trying hard to ignore.
Suzy says goodbye, promising to make some discreet enquiries about Joanne’s daughter, and the family situation. I tell her not to. I don’t want my daughter’s name bandied about, and in all honesty, I don’t care about what’s happening inside the Burton-Smyth household.
CHAPTER 21
It’s getting to pick-up time, so I leave my painting unfinished and get ready. It’s a pity as after almost a week of upheavals, I was getting into the flow of it. It also made me realise how much I have missed it. Painting allows me to give expression to feelings that are buried deep inside. I guess we all have them. The really important stuff, the things that make us who we are, often find no expression unless it’s through painting, music, words. That’s what I believe anyway. Putting colour to canvas helped me get through the worst patch of my life. Sounds weird, but it all makes sense when I look at the paintings. My art is more important than the little money I make from it. I really enjoy it.
As I get into the car and start driving, I habitually look into the windscreen. I am going up Copse Hill, a leafy road with large, detached houses on either side. There are cars behind me, and my eyes flicker from the road to the windscreen.
I see it.
It’s like a bucket of ice just got poured over my head.
The small, black shape of the Nissan Micra. Once again, it’s about three or four cars behind, so I can’t read the number plate, and I can’t see the driver well. From the shape, I can tell it’s a man. I watch for a while, driving carefully. Then abruptly, it disappears from view. I strain my eyes at the rear-view and other mirrors, but it’s gone.
Did I imagine it? I exhale and lower the window, letting cold air blast on my face. I am looking for odd things, and I keep finding them. My nerves feel shredded.
The phone beeps, and I stiffen again. I don’t like that my hands shake as I pick it up. It’s not a text. Instead, a familiar name has popped up on the screen. It’s Steve Ponting. I answer immediately.
“Emma, can you talk?”
“Yes, hold on,” I say and put him on the hands-free. His voice comes on the loudspeakers.
“Go ahead Steve. How are things?”
“Not very good, Emma. Pretty awful in fact.” His voice has an edge to it.
“What’s the matter?”
“My gallery was burned down last night. Police are calling it an act of vandalism. Someone broke in, and set a fire. The alarm went off, but by the time the neighbours called the police the fire had been going for an hour.”
“Oh my God.” I am shocked. “You had paintings stored inside, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” Sorrow creeps into his voice. “It’s all been burnt.”
I indicate and pull over. This is horrible news. I am glad that I got my paintings out of there once the exhibition was cancelled. If I had left them there, it would all be destroyed now. I really feel for Steve, he must be going through hell.
“I am so sorry, Steve. What will you do?”
“I am calling up all the artists and letting them know what happened.”
“Thanks for letting me know, Steve. Was the gallery insured?”
“Yes, it was, and so were the paintings inside. But that is not the point.”
“No, of course not.” I check my watch. I am planning on getting to the school a bit early to check on Molly and speak to the sports teachers. Molly is a keen gymnast, and the school squad trials are coming up soon.
“Look, Emma, I need to ask you something.” There is a hesitant tone in Steve’s voice. For some reason it puts me on guard.
“What is it?”
There’s a pause, the Steve says, “The police are here, and they want to speak to all the artists who were connected to the gallery. They want to speak to you, if that’s OK.”
My heart races and my head feels light. I really don’t want to speak to the cops again, but given my recent history with them, what does it look like if I refuse? Besides, Steve sounds like he could use some moral support.
“No problem,” I say, keeping my voice steady with an effort. “Where are you now?”
“At the gallery.”
“I’ll come down there, Steve. In about ten minutes?”
He pauses for a while, then replies in a quiet voice. “I would like that Emma, yes.”
“Fine, I’ll drop by.”
Steve thanks me and I hang up. I change direction, going back the way I came and head for the High Street. I park in the Sainsbury’s where it’s free for two hours. Steve’s gallery is a short walk away. As I approach I see the traffic due to the police vans. A barricade has been created, and blue and white police tape has cordoned off the area in front of the gallery. I see Steve talking to some onlookers, and I saunter over.
He looks at me, and I can see his wilting posture, shoulders sagged. His eyes are blank, hollow. My heart goes out to him, and I give him a hug. Without speaking, we stare at the smoke-blackened frontage of the shop that Steve had renovated five years ago to make the gallery. The glass on either side has collapsed, and rotting, smouldering furniture is visible inside. Some paintings are still on the wall, and they look charred, dirty, a ghastly sight. I look away, horrified.
Steve shakes his head. “Who would do such a thing to works of art?” he says in a low voice. His eyes are downcast.
“Ridiculous,” I mutter, feeling a wave of nausea surge inside me. A flicker of movement catches my eyes, and I see a woman walking towards me. It’s Detective Inspector Ingram. I can see from her face that she has recognised me.
“Afternoon, Mrs Mansell,” she says without a smile on her face. “How are you?”
“Fine, thanks,” I say, on my guard. “Terrible business, this.”
“Yes, indeed.” She takes out a notebook. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
I want to tell her that I have nothing to say, but then think better of it. I excuse myself from Steve and walk over to near the police van. Ingram leans against it and I keep standing. Curious onlookers walk around us.
Ingram says, “It might be better if we step inside the van.” She holds open the passenger seat for me.
“I need to collect my daughter,” I say.
“This won’t take long, Mrs Mansell.”
I hunch my shoulders and step inside the van. It’s only me and her inside. When we shut the doors it’s warmer than outside. The upholstery smells of old leather and diesel. I watch Ingram as she opens her notebook to a page and smooths it over. She holds a pen in her hand. Her blonde hair is free today, and it falls in waves around her shoulders.
She looks at me with flat, expressionless eyes. I return her stare.
“We meet again, Mrs Mansell.”
I shrug. “Coincidence.”
“Do you believe in coincidences?” Her tone is light, blank like her eyes.
“They can happen. No point in looking for connections where they don’t exist.”
I can see she is thoughtful at my remark. I suddenly realise I shouldn’t have said it. She is a detective, and it’s her job to look for connections. I need to be more careful with her. I am not used to this. I want to get out of this bloody van, and go back to living my life.
“Where were you last night?” Ingram asks.
“At my house, with my daughter and husband.”
“So your husband can verify that?”
“Yes, of course.”
She makes a note, and taps the pen against the page a few times. She asks, “You have a business relationship with Steve Ponting, don’t you?”
“I have exhibited a few of my paintings in the gallery, yes.”
“And you had a solo exhibition planned, which I understand had to be cancelled at short notice.”
“I…yes.” My answer is hesitant, and she picks up on it.
“Were you going to say something else?”
“No.” She stares at me for a while. I am aware of cars passing on the road, their sounds muted to whispers inside the van. The silence between us grows, amplifies, filling the space. I am the first to look away.
“Mrs Mansell…”
“Call me Emma, please.”
“OK, Emma. Is it true that your husband came to tell Steve that your first solo exhibition would have to be cancelled? Because of your father’s ill health.”
My heart constricts, and I tighten my fists inside my jacket pockets. “Yes.”
Ingram taps the pen again, a thoughtful look on her face. “But apparently, you came two days after that, and denied it. You said that your husband had never been to see Steve. Is that correct?”
I would like to deny it, but doing so would be contradicting Steve’s statement, which Ingram obviously has taken with some detail. I wonder why Steve had mentioned my exhibition, and I begin to feel uneasy.
“Yes,” I say with a straight face. “I don’t know who this person was, and why he said what he did. My father was not unwell, and I didn’t have to cancel the exhibition.”
“Isn’t that strange?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Do you know who was impersonating your husband?”
“No.”
“Have you asked your husband?”
The three seconds it takes me to answer causes her grey pupils to constrict, and I feel my pulse beat a little faster.
“Yes, I have,” I lie. “He doesn’t know who it might be.”
Ingram raises an eyebrow. A drizzle has started. Drops fall silently on the windscreen and course down without a sound. I can hear my heart beating.
“Are you sure it wasn’t him?” Ingram asks.
I don’t like the angle she is trying. “I trust my husband,” I say with what I hope is conviction in my voice. “He wouldn’t lie to me.”
“So someone pretended to be your husband, and cancelled your show. And you have no idea who that person might be?”
Her eyes are boring into me now, and the air inside the cabin is suddenly heavy and oppressive. The gaseous smell of diesel is cloying, itchy at the throat. I want to inhale the rain outside the windows.
“No, I don’t.”
She changes tack again. “You came back and removed your paintings three nights ago. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Your paintings weren’t damaged in the fire.”
“What’s your point?” I meet her gaze, and tilt my chin slightly upwards.
“Lucky you, I guess,” she says with a little shrug.
I break off eye contact and glance down at my watch. “Look, Inspector Ingram, if that will be all, I have a school pick-up in ten minutes. Don’t want to be late.” I reach for the handle and open the door a fraction. The sound of traffic seeps inside, with spatters of rain.
“You are sure there’s nothing else to add, Emma?” she asks.
I turn back to face her. “No. I really don’t.”
“Call me if you remember anything. I will be in touch.”
I thank her and step out of the vehicle. The gutted remains of the gallery face me. So many of my dreams were tied to this place. It’s the first gallery where I exhibited. It was also going to be the place of my first solo. Those dreams were now destroyed.
Worse than that, the police now suspected me. I could see it in Ingram’s face. Could I blame them? No.
The cat is now out of the bag. The cops know about this man, and that he is connected to me. My thoughts return to Jeremy. I have to tell him, I don’t want him to find out from the police. There just doesn’t seem to be a good time to do it. I need to bite this poisoned bullet and get it over and done with. If he hates me as a result, then so be it. He deserves my honesty, more than anything else.
Steve is nowhere to be seen, so I head for my car. I slam the door shut and start the engine when I hear my phone beep again. I pick it up, and freeze. Fear blooms inside me, and my mouth feels sandpaper-dry.
Shame about the art gallery. Your house is next.
CHAPTER 22
Eight years ago
After one drink, I left the pub, making some excuse about being tired. It wasn’t a lie, I was feeling washed out. Liam and Gary, Clive’s two mates, not only looked like the Kray Brothers, they sounded like them as well. Liam, the younger one, kept smiling at me in a suggestive way, and it was giving me the creeps.
I was watching TV when I heard a crash in the doorway. Clive appeared soon after, and stood swaying in front of me. His breath stank of alcohol, and something else. Some sort of perfume.
He grinned at me, his dark eyes dull and flat. His face had a lecherous, rabid look. It frightened me. I had never seen him like this before. He crashed on the sofa next to me, and reached for me. His hands were rough.
“Stop it!” I shouted, and got up. I left the room and went to bed, leaving him on the sofa.
When I woke up the next morning, Clive had left already. I wasn’t feeling well. My body felt bloated, and I was nauseous. I tried to heave, but nothing came out, save a trickle of bile. I called up the office and told them I wasn’t coming in. When I pulled my jeans on, the buttons felt tighter.
As I made coffee, I checked the calendar. It felt like the time for my periods and I was right. Only, it wasn’t right. Something felt off. I didn’t feel like this normally when I came on. I got dressed and walked to the pharmacy in the corner.
Half an hour, and three tests later, there was no doubt. I sat in the loo, my back straight, staring at the double bars on the pregnancy test kit. I was filled with a nervous elation. I tried calling Clive, then sent him a text to call me back. This was news he had to hear in person.
He would be excited. We had talked about a family in the past. Maybe this was what we needed to get our lives back into gear. I waited all day for Clive to get back to me. I left messages at the office, on his email and phone. I didn’t break the news to anyone. The father of my future child had to hear it first.
I stayed up again, waiting for him to return. I must have dozed off on the couch, because I awoke with a start to find another body on me. It was Clive, and he was trying to take my bathrobe off. He smelt of booze again, and his eyes were defocused, hazy.
“Clive!” I shouted, brushing him off.
He smiled and slurred his words. “What’s the matter, princess? Playing hard to get?”
I shook my head, anger filling every pore of my body. “Did you get the messages I sent you?”
He put his feet up with a thump on the table, and leaned his head back on the sofa. I repeated my question. He waved a hand.
“Yeah, what is it?”
“I’m pregnant.”
He went very still for a while. Then he put his legs down, got up, and trudged up the stairs. His silence, the complete lack of response, was like a slap in my face. Inadvertently, my hand went to my belly. Tears came to my eyes, and I brushed them off furiously.
Was his excuse just being drunk? But my words had penetrated his drunken stupor, I knew that. Hurt and ang
ry, I took myself to bed, curling myself into a ball, as far away as possible from him. If the business went under, then I wouldn’t have a job. If I lost Clive as well, then so be it. I had a little nest egg that Dad had prepared for me. A fifty grand trust fund. I could have used it after I turned twenty-one, but I hadn’t. I had saved it for a rainy day. I was glad I had.
When I woke up next morning, Clive was still in the house. I could hear him pottering around downstairs. I heard him coming upstairs. He came into the bedroom with a tray. He put the tray on the bed. He had made breakfast for me, bacon, eggs, croissant, coffee and orange juice.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his eyes bleary and red from last night. “I’ve been working too much these last few days, and my behaviour last night wasn’t right.”
The clouds of bad mood lifted from my shoulders. Maybe there was hope for us after all. I sipped the coffee, and nibbled on the croissant. I still wasn’t hungry.
I asked, “Do you remember what I said last night?”
He rubbed his forehead. “Yes. Yes, I do.” Silence. My heart sank again. This was not the reaction I had been expecting. He might have been drunk last night, but now it was the clear light of day.
“What is it?” I asked in a trembling voice.
He spread his hands, standing up. “Nothing, Emma. It’s just that things are really hard right now. The offices in Putney and Richmond are not going to open. I have more or less been told that. Without those branches, we can’t win new business.” He looked at me and attempted a smile.
“We can have a baby, that’s fine. I just wish the timing was different.”
Hope fluttered inside me. “So you want to have the baby?”
He looked vague, non-committal. I could see he was struggling, but he hid it with a smile on his face. “Yes, I do.” I locked eyes with him. He looked away.
“I do,” he repeated. “We just have to accept that things will be difficult. We need to pinch and save.”
Clive stood up and walked over to the window, looking at our postage stamp-sized garden. He swung around suddenly, a gleam in his eyes.
