Emily stares at the list again. She likes her customers to have a balanced diet. At a glance, she’d say this was a bit protein heavy.
And then she sees something else that makes her heart thud.
‘Tom,’ she calls into the house. ‘Come and take a look at this, would you.’
Tom emerges from behind the curtain that divides the shop from their living room. ‘What am Ah supposed to be looking at?’
‘See that?’
‘Ah can. It’s a shopping list.’
‘What does that spell?’
‘Ham.’
‘Not that, ye numptie. Look down the list: HELP ME. It spells, help me.’
‘So it does.’
‘What if she’s asking me to do something?’
‘You know what, I think yer on tae something, DI Lune. She is asking ye for something. She’s asking ye tae help deliver her shopping.’ He chuckles to himself and gives her a kiss on the cheek. ‘I’m off tae the Kames Hotel for a pint.’
It’s gone eight o’clock when Tom returns and she’s in bed with a hot chocolate, reading the remnants of the day’s newspapers. Emily refuses to let them be thrown into the fire until she’s read every last story, or every headline at least, except for the sport and the business. And if she has to read about another no-sugar diet, she’ll caramelise her own head.
Tom has a different approach to bed. He gets in and he falls asleep in an instant. His descent into sleep is accompanied by a strange sucking noise, like he’s storing air up for the whole night in a few frantic breaths.
She hears the first one of these breaths as she reads the final story on page nineteen.
FEARS GROW FOR MISSING WOMAN
She shakes him. ‘Wake up.’
‘Wha . . . Jesus Christ, is a man no’ allowed some peace?’
‘Look at this, that’s her.’
‘Who . . . what are ye talking about?’
‘This picture here – that’s the woman at Claremont Cottage. Anna.’
Tom sits up and snatches the paper. ‘It says here she’s called Charlie Pedlingham. It can’t be.’
‘For the love of God!’ She grabs it back. ‘Thank goodness our lives don’t depend on ye being a criminal mastermind. Ah’m going tae phone the police.’
Linda
‘Darling . . .’ Henry has the charm of a snake. ‘I’m back. I get to see you twice in as many days. A man really can be spoilt, can’t he? Do come and sit down. We have a lot to discuss, Linda.’
He taps the bed for me to join him. He is dressed in a thick coat rimmed with fur, sturdy boots. A tartan scarf.
‘Well, hurry up – time isn’t on your side.’
I move to the end of the bed, as far away from him as possible. ‘Oh well, suit yourself,’ he says. ‘Now, you know me, Linda, I’m fair. I always like to offer a person a second chance. Admittedly, you’ve already had a second chance and I really did think I made myself plain back then, but maybe age is mushing your brain. Why you even contemplated resurrecting this is a mystery.’
‘I never planned on giving up.’
‘The thing is, I am prepared to give you another option . . . Don’t look so overwhelmed. It goes without saying that I don’t have to. It would make my life a lot easier if I didn’t. But we go back a bit, don’t we? And I was always fond of the boy, although I dare say he’s turned into something of a let-down, morally speaking.’
His voice scratches my brain, like someone is drawing a knife along its surface. ‘Are you going to tell me what it is you want?’
‘Patience, Linda, I’m getting there. The thing is, everyone out there . . .’ he stabs the air with his finger ‘. . . everyone thinks you’re dead. You have your friend to thank for that. Bernadette, lovely woman.’
‘Bernadette has nothing to do with this.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong. You see, she turned up the morning after you left with Anna. Let herself in when you didn’t answer. The blood, that shocked her, I can tell you. She called the police straight away. When they came, it all looked a bit gruesome, that scene. If only you’d cleaned up a bit, you might have saved yourself. Anyway, one of your neighbours saw Gabriel driving away in your car and he missed his appointment at the police station. It wasn’t looking good for him even before they found him in a T-shirt covered in your blood. Blood in your car too. They assumed he’d done away with you. And, as you know, you don’t need a body to convict a man of murder. It wasn’t even our original plan – that involved Gabriel and another woman – but when Bernadette got involved and the police headed down one path, it seemed too good an opportunity to pass on.’
‘Mariela. You killed her to frame Gabriel?’
‘Me? Don’t be daft! Wouldn’t harm a fly.’
‘You’ve overstretched yourself. Didn’t you always advise people to keep it simple?’
‘Linda, they’re already bought it. Look here,’ he pulls a newspaper from his jacket, lays it out on the bed, ‘they’ve already charged him with your murder. But it must be a comfort to know people have been saying very kind things about you, myself included. Death really can be the making of a person.’
‘I’m not dead, Henry.’
‘You always were perceptive, Linda. It’s one of the reasons I liked you. You are still technically alive and so you can remain, if you choose to.’
‘I’ll drop the story, drop the book, whatever. I’ll stop digging.’ I would say anything to get out of here.
He nods his approval, rises to his feet and marches a few steps to the window. The rain smashes against it. ‘God, it’s bleak out there, isn’t it. A whole different level of dark. And the water – I passed it on my way here, looked like a giant black hole. Quite beautiful in its own way. Now, about this offer of yours, the trouble is you have promised as much in the past and it turns out that you lied. It’s all about trust, Linda, you should know that. I’m afraid once it’s gone, it is hard to restore.’
‘There’s nothing else I can offer.’
‘Oh, have some imagination. There is much more you can give. I would suggest some warm clothing. A waterproof, if you have one.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Were you not listening when I said the water was lovely at this time of night?’
Slicks of black oily water lap against the boat. ‘Quite a sight, don’t you think? And so quiet,’ Henry says. ‘Listen . . .’ He cocks his head to one side. ‘Not a soul around.’
I imagine my body slipping beneath the surface, my limbs shocked by the cold, the water closing in around me. A splash and then no trace on the smooth glass of its surface, every last particle of heat sucked from me until there is nothing left.
‘Seen enough?’ I don’t answer. ‘I’ll take that as a yes. Let’s go inside. The cold is brutal.’
I assume the boat is Henry’s, or it belongs to a friend who is willing to lend it out and ask no questions. It wouldn’t have been a rental one – not Henry’s style. Too messy.
‘You have it all planned out,’ I say.
‘Don’t sound so surprised. I’m not one for leaving anything to chance. Which brings me to you and our little problem.’
We sit down, him across the table from me, a bottle of wine, a Rioja, from which he pours two glasses. For a second I allow myself the small indulgence of believing this is a meeting of two old friends, sharing a drink and gossip, but the illusion shatters almost before it is formed.
‘I want to talk about Anna. Her name’s not really Anna, but I suppose you already know she’s not who you thought she was.’
I feed him a thin smile and consider the wine, what I should do with it. Drinking seems too risky; I need to keep a clear head, and throwing it in his face would be too inflammatory. I push it to one side.
‘But the interest
ing thing is, you are acquainted. Well, virtually, at any rate. Does the name Charlie Pedlingham mean anything to you?’
No.
‘It’s true,’ he says.
Charlie. The cabin tilts. The whoosh of a fever rushes through me.
Anna is Charlie. Charlie is Anna.
It doesn’t make sense.
‘Why . . .’ I say. The words choke me. ‘Why would she work for you?’
Henry takes a slug of wine, expels an ahhh. ‘Maybe she doesn’t know she is working for me. Maybe she thinks you are trying to deceive her, get close to her so you can cover it up again. After all, you did it once before. Poor Charlie was most upset when she read the letter you wrote asking that the police investigation be dropped.’
He stretches his arms out wide. The pleasure he derives from punishing me sets my head alight, turns it white-hot.
‘I’m sorry to be the one to remind you, Linda, but your hands are as dirty as mine.’
She has known all along. Every day she has come into my house and put on an act when she despised the very bones of me.
‘I had a reason . . .’ I say.
‘Everyone has a reason, Linda. Yours doesn’t make you special. We are the sum total of our actions.’
Suddenly, the freezing waters appeal, the heat inside me too fierce, all consuming. Breathing the same air as Henry is scorching my lungs. I would run on to the deck and jump, end it all.
But.
Gabriel.
If I die, there’s no hope for him.
‘What are you going to do with Charlie?’ There is no vestige of anger left towards her. I understand, completely, utterly why she would hate me. I don’t blame her for anything. After all, who am I to apportion blame, given what I have done? But I know she presents as much of a threat to Henry and Curtis as I do. It is no coincidence she is here.
‘Funny you should say that, Linda, because I was about to ask you exactly the same question.’
Henry’s Choice. Not the sort you experience every day – the salad or the beef? Walking or taking the bus? Henry has me mapped out, the locations of my pressure points, the secrets I hide under my skin, what and who I value. He has drawn on this knowledge to present me with a question.
How far would I go to save my son?
It is not enough for me to drop the exposé. I’m a fool to think Henry would ever accept such a crude offer. Not when he has something far more sophisticated in mind.
‘It seems poor Charlie has been having a rough time. She couldn’t cope with the pressure of running the website. No one has heard from her in months, no chat on the threads – that is the correct term, isn’t it? – no updates on her crusade for justice. She’s been missing from her flat too . . . And now this.’
From a stack of magazines, he lifts a newspaper and pushes it across the table towards me.
‘You’ll have to search through it. Charlie has none of the front-page appeal of Gabriel. To tell you the truth, I’m surprised her disappearance even made the papers.’
He watches as I turn the leaves of the paper, scan the columns of political tittle-tattle and royal gossip and the birth of a baby panda, until I find it.
A small square of news, hidden away where no one cares to read.
FEARS GROW FOR MISSING WOMAN
The owner of a car abandoned on the Sussex coast has been identified as Charlie Pedlingham, a hotel manager from Hammersmith in London. Miss Pedlingham’s white Volkswagen Polo was found at Rottingdean near Brighton a few days ago. Detective Inspector Victoria Rutter said police were growing increasingly concerned for her safety.
‘Charlie Pedlingham told neighbours she was going on holiday some months ago. She has not been seen since. On Monday, her car was found in a secluded spot near Rottingdean on the East Sussex coast.’
DI Rutter said the car contained several items thought to belong to Miss Pedlingham, including a copy of the children’s book Wonderland inscribed with her name.
The missing woman recently worked at the Langdale Hotel in Kensington, although she had previously lived and worked in Loch Lomond in Scotland.
‘I want your help, Linda. I’d like to see you get more involved. Don’t look at me like that. She was going to kill you. You could almost justify it as self-defence.’
‘There is no way—’
‘Don’t be too hasty. If you do it, you are free to go and so is Gabriel.’
‘And Mariela’s murder?’
‘We can clear that up too. Let me show you these photographs. I should warn you, they’re quite upsetting.’
I look down to see three images of a man carrying a body. They’re grainy, appear to have been digitally magnified, but they’re good enough to reveal the woman’s mane of dark hair and the man’s face.
Huxtable’s.
It is not a promise Henry wants from me, it is blood on my hands. Anna’s blood. Charlie’s. He could do it himself, sure he could, but it wouldn’t be the same. This way he holds the axe over my head. I would be bound to him for the rest of my life, if he let me live.
The boat tilts and tips and when, seconds later, I hear footsteps on the gangway, panic crushes my internal organs.
Charlie is on board.
Anna
‘Where are we going?’ I ask.
‘You’ll see.’
‘I’d like to know before I see.’
‘It’s a surprise,’ John says. We are in the driveway, the two porch lights throwing geometric shapes on to the ground.
‘In you get,’ he says, opening the back of the van.
‘Not before you tell me where I’m going . . . Jay?’ I reach out to touch him but he ducks past me into the passenger seat as if I’m not here.
‘See, no one’s listening.’ John forces me inside.
It is dark. The cold snaps at my body. They don’t feel the need to fool me any more, the pretence has shattered. I hadn’t realised how reassuring it was until it was gone.
A breeze rises from the water, sneaks through my coat and down my back, where it settles like a promise. It chips at my face, draws tears from my eyes. Above, a smattering of stars are nailed to the black velvet sky. A sound rings in my ears, the slow haunting rhythm of the water slapping the boat.
‘She’s in here, since you’re so keen to see her,’ John says, tugging at my arm.
It is the tang in the air that hits me the moment I enter the cabin. A woody scent, cinnamon or something close.
Henry Sinclair is standing in front of me.
‘Anna! Come and join us. We were just talking about you,’ Henry says.
Linda is hunched at the table. She shifts her gaze in my direction. Her skin is pale like she is half dead. Blue and red veins knit together under her eyes.
‘My name is Charlie,’ I tell him.
‘Then you have my sympathies.’ He thrusts a newspaper in front of me.
FEARS GROW FOR MISSING WOMAN
The owner of a car abandoned on the Sussex coast has been identified as Charlie Pedlingham, a hotel manager from Hammersmith in London . . .
DI Rutter said the car contained several items which were believed to belong to Miss Pedlingham, including a copy of the children’s book Wonderland inscribed with her name.
The book. My book. They must have taken it when they went to my flat, the plan already laid. Close me down. Erase my life. I’d made it so easy for them, agreeing to move home, to stop posting on the website. I had shrunk my world until I ceased to exist.
The wine glass, the nearest thing to me. I grab it and run at Henry. Don’t care what happens to me, all that matters is to gouge him, make my mark on his skin like he had on mine.
‘Get the bitch off me!’ he screams. John moves quickest; the man is a spring, hands impatient for action. I ki
ck him, spit, tear at his eyes.
‘Help me out here, for fuck’s sake,’ John says.
Jay pulls me back and John’s fist swings in, punches my face. The cabin spins and whirls around me. And then it goes black.
Emily Lune
Emily calls the Crimestoppers number in the newspaper and speaks to a man who sounds sleepier than Tom, so it comes as something of a surprise when, fifteen minutes later, her phone rings and a proper police officer announces herself as Detective Inspector Victoria Rutter. Emily repeats the story because she is not confident the man from Crimestoppers would have registered all the details.
‘I’m sure it’s her. Her hair is different – short, like a man’s,’ she tells DI Rutter and, seeing the way Tom rolls his eyes, wonders whether that’s classed as un-PC. ‘And she didn’t say her name was Charlie. She said it was Anna . . .’ Emily is beginning to lose faith in her own story. Now that she’s saying it out loud to a proper officer of the law, she can see it sits on the wrong side of outlandish. ‘Oh yes, Ah can tell ye where she’s staying: Claremont Cottage. It’s a rental place owned by an English fella. Well, he says he’s Scottish, but ye know the sort . . . his great Aunt Aggie once had a cup of tea in Gretna Green . . . Tom, what’s the fella’s name? Ah can’t remember.’ Tom is sitting up in bed now and takes the phone from Emily. ‘Henry Sinclair, that’s who owns the place. Some big cheese in Government a while back, and my God does he let you know it. He’s here at the moment. Ah’ve just seen him get on his boat down by the moorings at the Kames.’
She recognises a pulse of excitement in Tom’s voice, his words run breathless into each other. ‘Yes, he was with someone. Ah couldn’t tell ye who, though.’
When he’s finished talking, he takes a few gasps to make up for the lost breaths and holds the phone out in front of him as if it’s some kind of wonder.
‘What is it? What did she say?’ Emily is annoyed that Tom stole the phone and is now in possession of more information than she is.
‘She said they’re going tae send a team.’
‘A team?’
‘That’s what she said.’ He swings his legs out of bed and pulls on his jeans.
An Act of Silence Page 28
