The Things You Didn't See_An emotional psychological suspense novel where nothing is as it seems

by Ruth Dugdall

Finally, the door opens. I can’t see her face, she’s standing too far back in the porch. He walks in, hands her the milk. I can see her better now: yes, that’s the woman who was in my home that day, Monica. Dark bobbed hair, dark skin, an elegant profile like that of Cleopatra. The door closes and whatever is going on inside remains a mystery. What did I expect, full sex on the front porch?

  I’m disappointed, it’s not enough. I can’t have come all this way for nothing.

  I wait. Time passes.

  The postman arrives, whistling as he walks up Monica’s path. He leaves an envelope sticking out from the letterbox; it hangs there, like a taunt. It’s a large envelope, white and official-looking. A gift, too golden to resist, despite the risk. I try to look casual as I walk up the paved path, trampling weeds and grass that have forced their way through the cracks.

  I lift the letterbox slowly, silently, pulling the cream-vellum franked envelope free. As I’m easing the flap back, I hear a voice inside, Daniel’s voice. I want to scream through the letterbox. Then, through the glass, I see someone coming down the stairs: Dawn. I let go of the flap – slap – shove the envelope deep into my pocket, jump away and move briskly, purposefully, down the path. I run, not turning, until I’m safe. Even when I reach my car, I don’t slow down. I pull away with such force, the wheels skid under me. I make my hands loosen their iron grip on the steering wheel and wait for my heart to return to normal.

  I drive fast out of the street and a hundred yards further on I pull into a cul-de-sac, circling around until I reach a dead end. No one followed me, I’m safe. After I’ve parked, I take the crumpled envelope in my shaking hands and read it:

  Miss Monica Ray

  4 Runnels Way

  Reydon

  Monica Ray, are you my husband’s lover?

  I thought my relationship was okay. I believed that my jealousy was baseless, a sign of my suspect mental state. Two years ago, I believed Daniel when he said there was a good explanation for the missing money from our account, for all those calls that came at odd hours, for his many unexplained absences.

  You persuaded me too, Mum, that I was paranoid, that Daniel wasn’t doing anything wrong. A stay at the Bartlet and I’d be fixed.

  I want to be well, I want Victoria to stay home. Nothing can stop me now; I tear open the envelope. I need to know everything.

  Inside is a letter on paper as thick as card, creamy coloured with black type, and on the top is the Oakfield logo. It’s a bill for an outstanding payment of £3,000, a final reminder. I read the typed message, feeling the thick paper between my fingertips and imagining the scent of Oakwood’s oak panelling in my nostrils.

  We have liaised with Mr Daniel Salmon regarding the fees, but if no payment is forthcoming by the end of term we will have no alternative but to ask that Dawn is removed from the school.

  The tone, the signature, is all Mrs H. My skin turns cold on my bones as I try to decipher the lines on the page. These are the hieroglyphics that slowly become clear to me.

  Daniel is paying for Dawn to attend Oakfield. When I collected Victoria, Mrs H referred to two lots of school fees and though she said she’d made an error, I don’t think a woman like her makes errors with money. I see it all now, the secret that he has kept from me.

  Daniel and Monica are having a relationship and this is the only logical reason for him to pay for her education: Oh God, Dawn is his child.

  I can’t go home, not now. I need to keep going, to know the whole truth. Arriving back at Monica’s house, I see that the blue Mazda has gone, and I park in its place. Hands on the steering wheel, I realise this is a moment of choice, just like when I thought I heard them having sex in my house that Friday. That day I chose to flee, but I’m not going to do that any more.

  My finger shakes as I press the doorbell. No answer, no movement, so I rap my fist on the glass. Monica Ray opens up then, irritated, fixing an earring in her lobe.

  ‘All right, where’s the fire?’

  Her expression is closed, her eyes are hard; she thinks I’m here to convert her or to sign her up to save children, either way she wants me gone. Despite her face being nipped with irritation, she’s striking to look at: café au lait skin with shaped, angular cheekbones and dark eyes. She’d turn heads anywhere and, with those fierce eyes, she’s not a woman to be messed with.

  ‘Monica? I’m Cassandra Hawke.’

  Now her face alters, the eyes soften slightly. ‘Oh, did Dawn forget something?’ She looks behind me, expecting her daughter to appear.

  ‘No, Daniel’s driving her back to Kenley. I’m here alone.’

  The flint returns, though I also see she’s puzzled. ‘Well, I’m due out in twenty minutes.’ She’s wondering what I’m doing here, but she’s not panicked. I have my first flutter of doubt: if she’s his mistress, why is she so calm at my turning up?

  ‘That’s plenty of time. Can I come in?’

  Monica holds the door a little wider and I cross the threshold.

  There’s no emotion in the house: scuffed pink walls, a dark green carpet belonging to another decade. There are no pictures or photos hanging on the walls. It feels temporary, like a place you’d stay because you needed a roof, but it’s not a home.

  Monica leads me through to the front room and I perch on a sofa I recognise from the Ikea catalogue, but from several years ago. It sags under me, and to the side is a bare shelving unit that must have been bought at the same time as the sofa.

  ‘So when Dawn’s at school, you live here alone?’

  ‘I mainly live in hotels,’ says Monica, sitting at the far end of the sofa, adjusting her other earring and fluffing her hair. She’s dressed for work, in navy trousers and a cream fitted jumper, simple clothes that you’d have found in the high street a few seasons ago. ‘I sell office equipment so I travel a lot. This place is just somewhere for me to shower and change my clothes.’ She pauses. I can see it’s an effort for her to be civil – she’s really irritated I’m here. ‘I appreciate you having Dawn to stay. It’s a big help.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ Which was true, but how can it be now, if she’s Daniel’s daughter? If she’s a secret he’s kept from me for fourteen years?

  ‘I was surprised you still wanted her to stay, what with all you’ve got going on, but Daniel said it would help Tori. I’m sorry about your mum.’ Monica says this casually, as if your death is an inconvenience rather than a tragedy. There’s a coldness about her that makes me wonder why Daniel chose her, beautiful though she is. His ex, the Olympian athlete, was vivacious and passionate, but Monica is an ice queen. His tastes must have changed.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Do you want a drink?’ It’s an offer made in the hope I’ll refuse. Monica’s going through the motions of civility, but really I’m an inconvenience.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

  There’s a hesitation, then she looks at her watch again. ‘I’m sorry, but – what do you want?’

  I can imagine this woman in her business meetings. I bet the men she works with describe her as a ball-breaker. I bet she doesn’t have much time for the women.

  ‘Are you having an affair with Daniel?’

  To my utter surprise, she lets out a massive snort. ‘What? Are you crazy?’ She starts to laugh – loudly, as if the very idea is preposterous.

  Now it’s my turn to be confused. ‘But you did then? Fourteen years ago?’

  She looks at me like I’m something the cat dragged in. ‘I wouldn’t touch that man with a bargepole, not now or anytime. What has that wanker been telling you?’

  ‘Nothing! He has no idea I know that Dawn is his daughter.’

  Her reaction hits a new low – she looks as though she’s bitten something unpleasant. ‘You must be mad saying something like that.’

  I feel exhausted by this. ‘Please, Monica, just tell me the truth. I know he’s paying for Dawn to be at Oakfield.’ I bring the crumpled envelope out of my handbag, because I can’t bear her lying to me.

>   ‘You stole this from my letterbox?’ Monica snatches the envelope from me, reads the letter and grimaces. ‘Fuck. So, as you see, he’s not paying. That is exactly the problem.’

  ‘But why would he pay for Dawn’s education, if she’s not his?’

  Something happens then, her haughty face clears and I see a realisation dawning. ‘That bastard never told you then? I assumed you knew, but Alfie always said you didn’t. Like he said, The Samphire Master’s a sneaky fucker.’

  I’m now completely in the dark – what has Alfie Avon got to do with this? One thing is obvious, Monica isn’t a woman in love. She clearly despises Daniel and she’s warming to her theme.

  ‘I used to be one of Daniel’s clients, did you know that?’ I shake my head. ‘Breast cancer. God, I was such a fucking idiot – so vain that when the doctors said they needed to cut the tumour out, I was easy meat for Daniel. I’d heard him on the radio, of course. It was your mum’s case that convinced me.’

  She glares at me, and I feel guilty, though it was never anything to do with me. After Daniel cured you, it was your decision to be so vocal, crowing on the radio about the miracle of his healing. It was then that you agreed to give us the farm.

  Monica doesn’t care about my reminiscing, she’s got memories of her own: bad ones.

  ‘So Daniel prescribed a regime of juices, reiki, meditation. I was a zealot: I didn’t deviate from anything he suggested, I just wanted to keep my tits. He warned me how the medical profession would try to sabotage the programme, explained how his treatments were older than time itself or some such crap. And because I wanted to believe him, I did. Alfie warned me I was vulnerable, but I thought he was just being bitter because he’d lost his radio show . . . It cost me my marriage.’

  Here she tails off, gazing into the middle distance and suddenly I understand the unloved house. She doesn’t want to be here – she had a better life that was taken from her.

  ‘Did the cancer come back?’ I ask, hardly daring to hear the answer.

  ‘Of course it fucking did!’ She pulls down her vest top, revealing a padded post-surgery bra. I can see an ugly red scar on each side of her chest. ‘What could have been treated had been left to fester and grow. A double mastectomy was the only option by the time I finally woke up to how I’d been conned and went back to the hospital.’

  Her voice cracks, and I see how broken she is by this.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ she snaps, ‘sorry does a fat lot of good. Two years ago, it all blew up. I told Daniel I was gonna sue him for every penny he’s got, called him, turned up at his work, did everything I could to make him pay attention! Alfie wanted to put the story out on the front page, but I was too proud. Didn’t want the world to know what a fool I’d been.’

  The dreaded name makes me flinch. ‘Alfie Avon hates Daniel.’

  ‘And with good reason. We’d been married thirteen years – ironic, isn’t it? But the stress of my cancer, then this . . . it broke us apart. I was sick: I didn’t have the energy to fight for my marriage. I’d finally agreed to Alfie exposing Daniel, and it was lined up for the front page, when Daniel made me an offer: private education for my girl and private treatment for my breast reconstruction.’

  ‘And this was two years ago?’ I knew nothing about any of it. Daniel had kept it from me. The calls, the missing money: there was no affair. ‘I didn’t know anything about it.’

  ‘Yeah, well, Alfie always said Daniel was protecting you and that you were his Achilles heel – the reason he feared exposure so damn much. Frankly, as long as he paid Dawn’s fees and for my reconstruction, I didn’t give a fuck if you knew or not.’

  ‘But how can Daniel afford it?’

  ‘Well, clearly,’ she says, snapping the envelope in my face, ‘he can’t. I’ve had it with his empty promises. This really is his last chance.’

  ‘Last chance?’

  ‘He’s told me about the Spa, what a gold mine it’ll be. So I’ve given him six months and he’s promised me – promised me! – that he’ll see me right. And if he doesn’t, Alfie will get his scoop and I’ll sue him to high heaven.’

  When the door slams closed behind me, I take in a lungful of cold air, then another. Monica’s unhappiness filled the whole house, but out here in the cold air it’s gone. I feel released, and so grateful. I was wrong, Daniel’s not having an affair. Oh God, I’m almost delirious with it. He doesn’t love Monica – it really is just a business arrangement. She said it herself, he was protecting me – that was why it was kept secret. I’m dizzy with relief, I feel a stone lighter.

  He’s still mine, and he loves me.

  DAY 14

  FRIDAY 14 NOVEMBER

  41

  Holly

  It was a cold afternoon, and colder in her car where the air seemed to have set at a low temperature. She’d managed to get a few hours’ sleep that afternoon, in preparation for her night shift at the Bartlet. Tonight, with Jon’s approval, she’d be shadowing Clive at the hospital, watching as the sleep test on Hector was conducted.

  Holly’s breath travelled around her as she turned the key in the ignition and willed the heating to kick in. The windscreen hadn’t yet cleared when her phone rang. It was Leif, and as soon as she heard his hushed voice, she knew he was about to tell her something he shouldn’t.

  ‘Are you sitting down, Holly?’

  ‘Not comfortably, but yes,’ she said.

  ‘Okay, this is confidential, ja? There is much excitement at work, and I think you should know.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  She could hear his rapid breathing. ‘I shouldn’t tell you, you know this . . .’

  ‘But you want to. You know how much it means to me.’ She hated how coaxing she sounded, using his feelings for her to win him over, but he had called her. Whatever had happened, he wanted to tell her as much as she needed to hear.

  ‘Okay, Sötnos.’ His voice lowered, although she knew he was calling from his flat – the number was on her screen. ‘The forensics team used a Crime-lite on Daniel Salmon’s car, and the boot lit up. Blue as Portman Road when Ipswich are actually winning, the man said. He is very humorous, despite the science.’

  Holly tried to process this. ‘A blue light? What does that mean?’

  ‘It means Maya’s blood is in his car. In the boot, just like you said.’

  Holly didn’t want to get excited, but she couldn’t help her heart breaking into a trot. Her synaesthesia had been spot-on. ‘I don’t understand though – Maya was found inside the farmhouse.’

  Leif patiently explained, ‘Ja, but whoever shot Maya would have been splattered in blood. If it was Daniel, he’d have had to take off these bloody clothes before he drove away.’

  Holly closed her eyes and the image returned of Daniel balling up his outer clothes, shoving them in the car boot. And he’d disappeared for hours that Saturday, presumably getting rid of the evidence.

  ‘Is he going to be arrested, Leif ?’

  ‘Now this is completely confidential, you understand, Sötnos? Daniel will be brought in for questioning tomorrow, but the SIO wants the sleeping test on Hector to go ahead as planned. He’s still the main suspect.’

  Holly disconnected from Leif, already hearing in his voice that he was regretting his indiscretion. He had called her in a state of excitement, but he had breached every code of ethics by telling her the police’s plan. Not that she was one to judge.

  So, Daniel was now implicated, but Hector was still in the picture – could the two of them have colluded to murder Maya?

  Clive’s office was in the main part of the Bartlet Hospital – the same side as the locked ward, but towards the middle, thus benefitting from a large bowed window that looked out over the North Sea. Unlike his office at Ipswich Hospital, this was a huge room with very minimal clutter.

  ‘That’s some view,’ Holly said, walking to the window, and spying the container ships in the distance. The night sky was an inky blue,
the moon shimmering a path across the black water.

  ‘Some mornings I watch the swimmers going to the pier and back. They brave the North Sea even at this time of year.’

  She hugged her jumper more closely around her. ‘You’d have to pay me, weather like this.’ She sat in the Lloyd Loom chairs in front of the window, looking around. ‘This really is a grand place, isn’t it? It must have been amazing when it was a hospital for convalescents.’

  He chuckled. ‘Oh yes, time is and time was. I found that chair in a store room – remnants from the glory days here, and you should see some of the furniture stacked in there: Edwardian turned-leg tables, daybeds for sitting in the sun! It must have been another world.’

  Now it was a secure psychiatric hospital, and Cassandra had been incarcerated here two years ago. Holly wondered how that must have felt, locked away in this house on the hill, with the sea crashing down below like something from a Gothic novel.

  ‘Tonight feels important,’ Holly said, the room and enveloping night sky making her wistful. ‘By morning we’ll know if Hector has been telling the truth.’

  Clive collected up his briefcase and looked at his watch.

  ‘Let’s hope so, Holly. We should be going across to the lab to see the patient. It’s almost bedtime.’

  The sleep lab was on the opposite side of the hospital. Holly followed Clive down corridors and across the poorly lit central courtyard to the more modern part of the building. Their feet echoed, and Holly shivered, thinking that this weekend she really must fish her winter coat out from storage under her bed. She was glad to get inside again – the newer part of the hospital was warmer. They arrived at the double door with the sign SLEEP CLINIC to be greeted by a cheerful, chubby nurse at the reception desk, who told them to wait a moment. Minutes later, a lanky man with a broad smile and thick glasses strode down the corridor, calling jovially, ‘Evening, Clive! Good to see you. And who is this young lady?’

  ‘Francis Block, meet Holly Redwood, student paramedic. She’s here to observe, as part of her clinical case study assignment. Francis is the sleep technician here at the Bartlet.’