The Birthday Girl
Page 16
‘Good job it was only the last three steps,’ says Zoe.
I’m about to protest my innocence about leaving the boot on the stairs when, once again, Andrea speaks first.
‘Carys was telling me about the walkie-talkie you found last night and how she managed to speak to the park ranger,’ she says. ‘That was a stroke of luck.’
‘I know. Thank goodness,’ says Zoe. ‘All I want is to go home. I don’t think I can cope with anything else.’
We all make agreeing-type noises as we consider our predicament and the awful events.
‘I’m going to light the fire,’ I say, not wanting to dwell too heavily on Joanne’s death. I need to keep busy. ‘It’s freezing this morning and it could be a few hours before the police arrive.’ As I stand up and look across the hallway to the dining room, I notice Joanne’s notebook on the table. ‘You know the police are going to ask us lots of questions,’ I say as I fetch the notebook.
‘Mmm. That’s their job,’ says Andrea.
‘I was thinking … it may muddy the waters if we start telling them all about this book and what Joanne thought of us.’
‘Go on,’ says Andrea.
‘I don’t particularly want the past raked up and I’m sure you two don’t either. They don’t need to see this.’
‘But that’s evidence,’ says Zoe.
‘No, it’s not,’ says Andrea. She puts her cup on the coffee table. ‘It’s only evidence if it is linked to Joanne’s death and one of us killed her as a result of the contents of that book.’
‘None of us killed her,’ I say, looking directly at Zoe. ‘Did we?’
She shakes her head. ‘No, but …’
‘If the police read this, they are going to automatically assume that one of us had a strong enough motive to kill Joanne. It will throw a tremendous amount of doubt over the truth, which is that Joanne’s death was an accident,’ I say.
‘Do you want them to go into every little detail about your relationship with Tris?’ asks Andrea. ‘Yes, I know you said you’re not having an affair with him and, quite frankly, right now I couldn’t care less, but the police will consider it a strong motive.’
‘She’s right,’ I say.
‘What are you suggesting?’ asks Zoe.
‘That I burn the book,’ I reply.
‘And those stupid game cards she gave us,’ says Andrea. ‘And we don’t mention the game or the book again.’
‘OK,’ says Zoe. She sounds hesitant but both Andrea and I reassure her that it’s the best thing to do in the circumstances.
‘I’ll get the fire lit. You get the cards. I’ve got mine here with me,’ I say. As I set the fire, Andrea helps Zoe up the stairs so they can get dressed and retrieve the game cards.
When I go outside to fetch some logs, the rain has eased and the once gunmetal-grey clouds are now a softer opaque colour. Puddles have formed in the dips and mini rivers in the gullies as the water has found its own path.
I remember how frightened I was out here last night in the dark and note how different it feels in daylight. The threat of what I can’t see has gone, but as I look up to the forest and see only the darkness within the trees, once again the unsettled feeling returns.
I turn my attention to the task in hand. As I stand in front of the log store, I notice something that I don’t remember seeing before. Hanging on a hook is a climbing rope, like the one we used to abseil down the gorge yesterday. Leaving an expensive climbing rope exposed to the elements seems odd. As I pick a couple of logs from the pile, I look at the rope again. It’s then I notice the end.
My heart misses a beat and I draw in a sharp breath that burns its way down to my lungs. My body is immobile. I close my eyes and open them again, hoping I’m imagining things.
I’m not.
The end of the rope has been fastened into a hangman’s noose. Immediately, images of Darren flood my mind. I see myself opening the front door, laughing at something Alfie has said – I can’t remember what. I push open the door and as I step into the hall, in my line of sight, Darren’s feet dangle in mid-air. He’s wearing his black lace-up work shoes and his dark-blue suit. My favourite one. My gaze travels over his body and, dear God, his face. His eyes. They are bloodshot and bulging.
I will never forget that sight. I remember screaming and trying to bundle Alfie out of the door, but it is too late. He has seen his father. And then, amongst the scuffling, Alfie is yelling at me to do something.
I don’t remember running into the kitchen, but the next thing I’m aware of is that I have the bread knife in my hand. Alfie is grappling with Darren’s legs, trying to lift him up to relieve the weight of his father’s body on the rope. It is the saddest and most heartbreaking sight I have ever witnessed. He looks up at me, tears, panic and sheer desperation filling his eyes. I race up the stairs and frantically saw at the rope, calling to Alfie to get out of the way as Darren’s body drops to the floor with a thud.
Now, here, at the back of the croft, as I look at the noose, my legs go numb and my knees want to buckle. I drop the log basket and reach out to grab the little roof of the log store to steady myself.
Why haven’t I noticed this before? It can’t be a coincidence. No one randomly ties a noose at the end of a rope, least of all a climbing rope.
I spit out the bile that rises from my stomach. Surely the rope isn’t another of Joanne’s games. She wouldn’t be that cruel. Would she?
Anger replaces the fear and I grab the rope from the hook and dump it in the corner where I won’t see it any more.
Fuck Joanne and her stupid games. This is one step too far.
And then I remember Joanne is dead and I can’t take my anger out on her. Why do I feel guilt for being mad at her because she’s dead?
I pick up the log basket and go inside, locking the door behind me. The whole weekend has become a living nightmare.
I spend the next twenty minutes fiddling around with the fire, getting it started, then sit mesmerised by the flames as they lick and spread their way around the kindling and the larger pieces of wood. There is something comforting about the flickering orange flames, the odd crack as the fire attacks the wood, and the heat that becomes more intense with each minute.
I curl up on the sofa and pull one of the blankets over me. I think about Joanne, her game and the clues we’ve found so far. There was the dollar bill, the wedding ring and the photograph. Each item linked to the accusation levelled at us by Joanne. So why have I now found another clue, if that’s what it is? It certainly fits with Joanne’s warped mind. The noose can only be meant for me.
I must have nodded off at some point, my sleep-deprived night catching up on me, because the next thing I’m aware of is Andrea waking me with a mug of hot chocolate.
‘Hey, you OK?’ she asks, sitting down on the opposite sofa. She drops the notebook and cards onto the middle of the table. ‘Nice and warm in here. It’s no wonder you fell asleep.’
‘Any sign of the police yet?’ I ask, sitting up and sliding my legs off the cushions. I glance at my watch. It’s now ten fifteen.
‘Not yet.’
‘Do you think we should try to contact the ranger again, make sure he got through to the police?’
‘Let’s give it a while longer. I’m sure they’ll be here soon.’
‘You’d think they’d be here quicker, especially as there’s been a death.’ I sip my hot chocolate and look up as Zoe hobbles into the room and sits herself on the sofa opposite me. ‘How’s the ankle?’
‘Still sore but not quite so bad,’ she replies, sinking deeper into the cushion. On the face of it, she looks relaxed, but on closer inspection, I can see her body language is telling a different story. Her hands are wrapped around her cup, but her fingers are drumming the side in an agitated way. Her shoulders look tense and her eyes are darting from the fireplace to the window behind me.
‘Try not to worry,’ I say. ‘It’s been an awful weekend but it will be over soon.’
I was going to mention the noose I found outside, but I change my mind. I don’t want to upset her or freak her out. Not when she’s obviously feeling the way she does. I pick up the notebook and cards. ‘Shall I do the honours?’
‘Fill your boots,’ says Andrea.
Zoe gives a shrug which I take as no objection, so I drop the incriminating evidence through the open door of the wood burner, before returning to the sofa. We all sit in silence as we watch the paper swiftly engulfed in fresh flames. ‘Have you got that walkie-talkie?’ I ask once the flurry of activity has died down. ‘I might try to speak to that ranger again. Just to check the police are coming.’
‘It’s up in my room. I don’t want to have to tackle the stairs right now.’ Zoe leans forwards and rubs her foot.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll get it if you tell me where it is.’
‘No. Don’t. I mean, I’ll get it. Might actually do me some good to exercise my ankle, you know, stop it stiffening up. I was only being lazy.’ Zoe rises from the sofa and limps out of the room, returning with the handset a couple of minutes later. ‘Probably best not to use it that much, we don’t know how long the batteries will last.’
‘Good point. I didn’t think of that. I’ll give it a couple of attempts.’ In the hall, I slip my feet in the wellington boots and pull on my jacket. ‘I’ll try outside, I might get a better signal,’ I call over my shoulder.
Zipping up my jacket, I switch the walkie-talkie on. ‘Hello. This is Carys Montgomery. I spoke to the park ranger last night. Is anybody there?’ As I speak, I realise that I didn’t give my name the night before.
I don’t know what the etiquette is for these things but right now I don’t care. I release the button and wait for a response but all I’m met with is the now familiar buzzy sound of static. I wander down the track and try once more. This time I’m rewarded with a response as a Scottish accent comes across the airwaves.
‘Hello, Carys Montgomery. This is the park ranger you spoke to last night. Is everything OK? Over.’
‘Hello. Yes, we’re OK. Erm, I wondered if you knew what time the police will be here. Over.’
‘Ah, it won’t be until later in the day, I’m afraid. The stormy weather last night caused a landslide and the road is blocked. They’re waiting for it to be cleared and then they’ll be up to you. Over.’
Disappointment follows this news. ‘How far away are they? The town they’re based in, I mean. I wondered if we could walk there. Over.’
‘Oh no. Too far to walk. You should not be going walking in this weather. More rain is due this afternoon. You stay where you are. Please confirm. Over.’
I hesitate before replying. Part of me doesn’t want to comply with the instruction. Part of me wishes I’d never made this call and I’d taken my chances and tried to get help. The voice of the ranger comes again. ‘I repeat. Do not leave the croft. It’s too dangerous. Please confirm. Over.’
Reluctantly I reply: ‘Yes. I confirm. Over.’
‘Good. Stay where you are for now. It’s the safest option. Over and out.’
Brooding to myself, I dig the toe of my boot into the mud on the edge of the track which is now soft and mushy from the rainfall. Stay where you are. Wait for the police. How long is that going to take?
It’s then I notice something odd about the mud. Embedded in the sodden ground is the pattern of a tyre tread. Not big enough for a car but certainly the size of a bicycle wheel. Someone has been here on a pushbike. Right up near the croft.
Chapter 21
‘Honestly, Carys, I think you’re overreacting,’ says Zoe, resting her hand on my shoulder for support, her good leg taking the weight to compensate for her other one, which is resting on the ground. ‘Those tyre marks could have been made at any time. They could be dried-up ones that now look fresh because of the rain.’
‘I never noticed them before,’ I say.
‘Are you trying to tell me that you have been around the whole area, making notes of everything you’ve seen?’ Zoe gives me a dismissive look.
‘Well, no …’ I begin.
‘My point exactly.’
I’m surprised by Zoe’s sharp tone but put it down to frayed nerves.
‘To be fair, Zoe has a point,’ says Andrea. We are all standing on the track inspecting the tyre marks. ‘Even if they are fresh, this isn’t a private road, there’s nothing to stop anyone cycling up here.’
‘It’s not a very cycle-friendly place though,’ I point out, though it feels foolish to insist.
‘True, but that doesn’t mean impossible,’ says Zoe. ‘Let’s go indoors, I’m freezing.’ She gives a shiver as if to demonstrate her low body temperature and we all trundle into the croft, Zoe at more of a hobble but covering the ground with surprising efficiency.
Zoe and I sit at the dining table while Andrea warms up some soup from the pantry. ‘Good old Joanne, she got plenty of food in. At least we won’t starve,’ says Zoe as Andrea comes into the dining room with three bowls of soup. One in each hand and a third impressively balancing on her wrist. She puts the bowls down in front of us.
I don’t like the way Zoe is talking so flippantly about Joanne. It seems disrespectful. Less than an hour ago she was crying about her. I guess everyone has different ways of dealing with traumatic events and perhaps this is Zoe’s coping mechanism. I do remember going into some sort of autopilot mode for several days after Darren’s death. I had too many things to deal with, and Alfie to worry about, so I couldn’t allow myself the luxury of grieving. Maybe that’s what I’m doing now. As shocking and upsetting as Joanne’s death is, I must remain detached from the raw emotion which is patiently waiting to be set free. The denial stage, someone once defined it. I think of it more in terms of self-preservation. I divert my thoughts elsewhere.
‘Tris and the kids are going to be devastated,’ I say. ‘How will they manage without her?’
‘Don’t worry about them now,’ says Zoe, ‘it won’t help. You’re right, they will be devastated, but you know what?’
I look expectantly at her. ‘What?’
‘They will be OK. They’ll manage. That’s what people do. That’s what you’ve done, right?’ Zoe tucks into her soup. ‘This is delicious.’
I say nothing as I consider Zoe’s sudden upbeat and pragmatic view on this. I know she’s always been a complete optimist but she is taking it to the nth degree now. How can she find her soup delicious and even be in a frame of mind to comment on such a trivial thing? To me, it tastes bitter. Much like this weekend. As for her they’ll manage attitude, it sounds so insensitive. I can feel myself getting angry. Zoe has no right to make such assumptions about Tris and the kids. Or me, come to think of it.
I put down my spoon rather more heavily than I intend. ‘Honestly, Zoe, sometimes I wonder about you,’ I hear myself saying. ‘If you think those kids are simply going to dust themselves down after their mother’s death and summon up a “we’ll get over it” attitude, then you must be living in a complete fantasy world.’
‘Easy, tiger,’ warns Andrea softly, placing a hand on my arm. I shrug it off.
‘I think it’s time for some straight talking,’ I say, with no intention whatsoever of backing down. ‘Unless it’s escaped your air-head, I’m still dealing with the aftermath of my son’s father dying. Alfie has not just had a cry and then got on with life. He has lots of issues to deal with.’
‘But that’s different,’ says Zoe.
‘How?’
‘Because Darren killed himself and Alfie saw him … hanging. I don’t mean to upset you, Carys, but that’s the truth of it. Joanne’s kids haven’t seen their mother dead. She didn’t do this to punish them.’
I jump to my feet, sending the chair tipping backwards. ‘Darren did not do w
hat he did to punish Alfie. I’ll tell you for nothing, he did it because he was ill. He was sick. Mentally ill. If there was anyone he wanted to punish, then it was me.’ I can hardly get my words out. I’m gulping for air as if I’ve competed in an Olympic hundred-metre sprint. ‘We don’t know for sure what happened to Joanne. What if it turns out she was murdered? How are her children going to cope then? And what about Tris? He’ll have to live with the fact that he couldn’t protect his wife. And don’t give me that look – it’s true. Archaic as it might sound, we all feel protective towards our families and Tris is no different. It’s not going to be easy for them, having to live with the fact that they may never know exactly how Joanne died.’
I turn on my heel and storm out of the dining room and up to my bedroom where I fling myself on the bed. While my rage bubbles inside, I lie staring up at the ceiling. Of all the things I had Zoe tagged as, a bloody idiot wasn’t one of them.
It takes a few minutes, but finally I bring my anger under control by calming my breathing and putting into practice my relaxation strategies. Gradually, I feel my emotions levelling out.
I come to the decision that I am not prepared to sit around waiting for the police to turn up. I can’t think why we aren’t their top priority; there’s been a death here, for goodness’ sake.
After thirty minutes’ meditating and trying to put myself into a better frame of mind, I return downstairs. I’ve decided to put Zoe’s lack of empathy and tact down to the difficult situation we are in.
‘Oh, Carys, I’m sorry,’ says Zoe as I walk into the living room. She gets up from where she is sitting and holds out her arms to me. ‘I didn’t mean to sound as cold and heartless as I did. I was only trying to keep up a positive front.’
‘It’s OK,’ I say, returning the gesture and hugging Zoe. ‘I’m sorry too for overreacting. I know you better than that. I didn’t mean to upset you either.’ As I speak, I’m aware of a certain lack of conviction in my sentiments, but it feels the right thing to say at the right time. We need to stick together and not let our emotions divide us. Not here, anyway.