Before We Met: A Novel

by Lucie Whitehouse

  The sense of comfort evaporated in minutes. She took the train to Bond Street and wandered listlessly around the huge womenswear floor at Selfridges until admitting to herself that she was never going to be able to concentrate on shopping. The interview felt a thousand miles away, like something from a different world. She left the shop and started walking, weaving her way along Oxford Street then down into Soho. She was on Charing Cross Road when it started raining, and she ducked inside Foyles and up to the café.

  She couldn’t stop thinking about Hermione; how she’d stood up and faced Nick in court, testified against him. Payback time: no wonder she’d looked so alarmed that day. Hannah felt another wash of guilt. Perhaps she should go back to the hospital this afternoon, now, and apologise? Or would that just make it worse?

  On the table in front of her, her BlackBerry started flashing and she snatched it up. She’d had it in her hand constantly this afternoon, set both to vibrate and ring at maximum volume.

  Everything all right? Starting to get worried about you.

  At first glance she thought it was from Mark – he’d already texted twice to check in – but looking again, she saw that the message was from her brother. She felt bad: he’d rung on Monday night when she’d been gorging herself on the news stories and again yesterday evening, but she hadn’t been in touch with him since Sunday, when she’d texted to let him know about the conversation with Pippa.

  Sorry, she wrote now, poor correspondent this week. All okay. How did things go with Luke and the headmaster? She hit send and put the phone down. Seconds later, it flashed again.

  Hideous. Talked to Head on Monday. Luke resigned then had meltdown in staff car park – wife had to come and get him. Feel like total bastard. How are things with Mark?

  Hannah hit reply then stopped. She had to tell him something – after asking Tom’s advice, she couldn’t just sweep the whole thing under the carpet – and she wanted to tell him, she was desperate to. Loyalty to Mark, however, pulled her in the opposite direction. She remembered what he’d said about his life dividing into two halves, before and after, and she wanted to help him keep that distinction, at least when it came to her family. It was Nick’s crime, not Mark’s, but knowing about it – knowing how his girlfriend had died – would change her family’s view of Mark irrevocably. They would never dream of saying anything but it would be there behind every conversation, at every family occasion, and she couldn’t bear that.

  Tom was different, though. He was her confidant, her best friend, and she needed to talk to him.

  You did the right thing, she wrote back, however shitty it feels. Things with Mark okay – thanks again for listening. No affair, just a long story. Pint early next week and I’ll tell you?

  His response came within a minute: Long story sounds complicated. Pint definitely in order. Monday?

  In Central London the Tube ran too deep for reception but as Hannah came up the steps at Earl’s Court a new text message arrived: she’d missed a call and had voicemail. Checking, she saw Mark’s number. It was a couple of minutes before seven and the platform was packed with people waiting for a Wimbledon train so she walked to the far end where it was quieter.

  Message received today at 6.17 p.m., the staccato female recording told her, and then, over the din of the train suddenly thundering into the station behind her, she heard his voice. Hi, it’s me. Just checking in again – hope everything’s okay. I’m about to go in to drinks with this hedge-fund guy but I’m going to keep it brief so I should be home about half-eight. Let me know if you want me to pick anything up en route.

  A pause, and in the background she heard a man’s voice say, Seventeen-fifty, mate, and a couple of seconds later, Cheers – good of you. The unmistakable sound of a black-cab’s door slamming.

  Nothing from Nick, Mark’s voice again. He’s really making me sweat. Anyway, I hope you’ve managed to have a semi-decent afternoon and have bought something lovely – looking forward to seeing it. I’ll see you in a couple of hours. He lowered his voice and she guessed there were people nearby. I love you.

  She managed to squeeze on to the train just as the doors were closing and was pressed into a corner by a man in an enormous orange Puffa jacket until Fulham Broadway, when half the people in the carriage streamed out on to the platform. The train came above ground and cut across the top corner of Eel Brook Common, now swallowed by darkness, the path that bisected it picked out by a line of solitary streetlamps casting their light on empty benches. When the train pulled in at Parsons Green, the clock at the top of the stairs said ten past seven. If Mark was on time, she thought, she’d have less than an hour and a half alone in the house.

  The rain had stopped, or perhaps it had never reached here, but only the hardiest smokers were clustered under the heaters outside the White Horse, everyone else holed up inside in the warmth. Hannah walked quickly, pulling the collar of her coat together under her chin, wishing she had her gloves. She’d light a fire when she got home, have it really roaring by the time Mark got back. She rounded the corner on to New King’s Road, passing the estate agent and the hairdresser’s, raising her head again when the buildings sheltered her from the wind. Approaching the delicatessen, she turned to look at the banks of cut flowers in the buckets outside, their riot of extravagant colour against the dank November pavement. Spot-lit by an electric bulb clipped to the awning, the flower man was wrapping a huge bunch of peonies and eucalyptus for a young woman in a bright red raincoat. Another man stood behind them, looking at roses.

  For a moment she thought it was Mark, home early: the height, the build, his posture, even the short dark jacket that looked like the pea coat he wore when they went walking at weekends. She must have stopped for a second or started to say something because he turned and Mark’s face looked out at her from beneath a black beanie.

  Almost Mark’s face.

  Their eyes met. He recognised her, too, or guessed at once who she was. For a moment she was immobilised but then she turned and ran. She ran back the way she’d just come, past the estate agent’s and up the road parallel to the Green, the pavement now twice as long as it had been a minute before, the streetlights further apart, the houses darker, drawn further back into their gardens. Her heart was pounding, her whole body tensed for the sound of footsteps behind her, the hand grabbing at her coat, but it didn’t come and it still didn’t come and at last she reached the pub, yanked the door open and plunged into the light and safety of the bar.

  She threaded her way to the loos at the back, locked herself in a cubicle and leaned against the wall, breath coming in great heaves. The outer door swung open, banging back against the wall, but it was two girls having a loud conversation about their boss. When she thought she would be able to talk, Hannah dropped the lid of the loo and sat down. The hand-driers stopped and there was a snatch of noise from the bar as the girls swung out again. She held her phone with both hands to stop herself from dropping it.

  Mark picked up on the third ring. ‘Hannah – is everything all right?’

  ‘He’s here,’ she said. ‘In Parsons Green.’

  ‘What? At the house? Christ – fuck.’

  ‘No – no.’ She took a shuddering breath. ‘Outside the deli. I thought it was you. He looked just—’

  ‘Where are you?’ he demanded. ‘Where’s Nick?’

  ‘I’m at the pub – the White Horse. I don’t know where he is – I just ran. I just saw him and ran.’

  ‘Okay, look,’ he said, and she knew he was trying to think, to sound calm for her sake. ‘Stay where you are. Get a drink and stay where you are. I’m leaving right now – this minute. Stay inside. Don’t move until I get there.’

  ‘You’re sure he knew who you were?’

  ‘Yes, sure. I don’t know if he did before – how could he? – but when he saw my reaction . . . Who else could I have been? I was fifty yards from our house and I stopped – I honestly thought it was you. I was about to talk to him.’

  Mark stab
bed at the fire as if he hated it. His knuckles were white on the handle of the poker. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe that he . . . But I can – of course I can. Why did I even think for a minute he would phone first? Why would he do that when he could show up here and terrify my wife instead?’

  ‘We should call the police.’

  Mark stabbed again, sending up a shower of sparks. An artery was leaping at the side of his neck. ‘What could they do, Hannah? What could they actually do? Technically, Nick’s done nothing. He’s a free man; he’s served his time. He didn’t even talk to you.’

  ‘It’s harassment. Coming here, to where you live, and . . .’

  ‘He’s my brother. There’s no restraining order, he’s not breaking any laws. And it’s not like he’s even trying to extort the money – he’s a DataPro shareholder, there’s paperwork that says I have to pay him the value of his twelve per cent on the day of his release. If anyone’s on the back foot legally, it’s me.’

  Hannah hugged her knees tighter. She couldn’t stop shaking – neither of them could. When he’d arrived at the pub, Mark had looked almost wild. She’d been sitting at a corner table, hidden from view from the door, and he’d come in and scanned the place so desperately it was as if he was expecting to find she’d been taken. When he’d put his arms round her, crushing her face into his chest, his heart had been hammering so fast she could barely differentiate the beats. It was a five-minute walk to the house, if that, but he’d kept his cab waiting at the kerb outside and he’d stood right behind her and almost pushed her into it, looking over his shoulder all the time.

  ‘He must have been here,’ she said. ‘He must have come to the house. What if I’d been in? Through the glass I would have thought it was you, that you’d forgotten your keys or something.’

  Mark dropped the poker on to the hearth with a clatter and stood up. He couldn’t sit still – he’d been sitting then standing then sitting again every two minutes. ‘I’ve got to warn Hermione.’ His coat was slung over the arm of the sofa; he got his phone from the pocket and brought up her number, fingers fumbling on the touchscreen. With the phone pressed to his ear, he crossed to the window, pulled the curtain aside and looked out.

  ‘Herm,’ he said, ‘it’s Mark.’ He paused and for a moment Hannah thought he’d got through. ‘Look, I don’t want to panic you but Nick’s been here in Parsons Green this evening. I didn’t see him; Hannah did, my wife – I think you’ve met.’ Despite everything, there was a hint of humour in his tone at that. ‘Call me when you get this. He’s obviously come out all guns blazing so . . . Anyway, I thought I should let you know in case you wanted to organise some company for tonight or stay with someone. You’re welcome to stay with us, too, obviously – give me a ring or just get in a cab and come over. We’ll be here all night.’ He hung up but held on to the phone, gripping it tightly.

  ‘Does Nick know where she lives?’ Hannah said.

  ‘I don’t know. She’s moved since it happened – she was still junior then, she lived in residences at the hospital – but if he wants to know, he’ll find out.’ Mark went back to the window then turned to look at her again. ‘He doesn’t even need to know where she lives.’

  For a moment she didn’t understand.

  ‘You found her, didn’t you?’

  He was right. All Nick had to do was go to the hospital.

  Mark went out into the hall and she heard the rattle of the door handle as he checked the lock for the third time. A few seconds later, the kitchen light snapped on and she heard the clink of bottles. When she went in, he was pouring an enormous measure of whisky. She watched as he drank half of it in a single swallow.

  Hearing her, he turned. For a second or two he looked at her then he put the glass down and came towards her, arms out. The force with which he hugged her was enough to knock her off balance and by instinct she held on to him tighter to stop herself stumbling. To her surprise, he half lifted, half pushed her backwards against the wall. Her head bumped off the plaster but before the small cry had left her mouth, he was kissing her, his face crushed against hers, his tongue pushing itself between her lips. His left hand was on the wall, his forearm creating a barrier, and now she felt his right hand fumbling with the button of her jeans. ‘Mark . . .’ She twisted her head away, trying to free her mouth to speak, but he followed her, kissing her harder. His fingers popped the button and found the zipper. His chest was heaving, his breath hot and fast, whisky-scented.

  ‘Mark!’ She put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him away. He took a big step backwards.

  For a second or two they stared at each other but then he seemed to come to himself again. The intent dropped from his face and he looked first blank then embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, touching his lip with his fingers in disbelief. ‘I don’t know what came over me. I—’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘I just couldn’t – not tonight.’

  ‘I know. I know. I’m so sorry, Han.’ He swallowed hard. ‘I don’t want to be the kind of person who . . . God, I just feel so . . . messed up. When you rang and said you’d seen him, he was here, I was terrified. If anything happened to you – if he hurt you – I couldn’t live with it.’

  Chapter Twenty

  The knocking tore through the house like the rattle of gunfire, rat-tat-tat-tat, ripping the peace of the morning wide open. Hannah jerked awake just as Mark reared up in bed next to her. They stared at each other. For a few seconds the knocking stopped, leaving a silence that rang with echoes, but then it started again, louder still. In a moment he was across the room, pulling a T-shirt over his head.

  ‘Stay here,’ he said but she was already out of bed, too, grabbing yesterday’s clothes from the back of the chair, nearly falling as she caught her foot in the leg of her jeans. He took the stairs at a run but then, as he neared the bottom, she heard him slow down. When she came out on to the landing, he was standing on the bottom step, looking at the front door.

  ‘Leave it, Mark. Don’t open it.’

  ‘No,’ he said, glancing up. ‘It’s not . . .’ The knocking started again, just as insistent. ‘Okay, okay, I’m coming.’ The heavy thunk of the deadlock, the brush of the door against the mat. Hannah gripped the banister.

  ‘Morning, sir.’ A deep male voice with a Liverpool accent. ‘Mark Reilly? Detective Inspector Wells, DS Andrews. Can we come in?’

  Police? Hannah let go of the banister. She went to the top of the stairs and saw them just as they looked up and saw her. The man was in his late forties, Mark’s height but bulky, wearing a dark waxed jacket. With him was a woman her own age in a black trouser suit and short wool coat, her sandy-blonde hair cut in a shoulder-length bob. Mark opened the door wider and they stepped inside, the male officer standing back to let the woman go ahead of him. As Hannah came downstairs, Mark turned to look at her, his eyes full of uncertainty.

  The police waited for her then indicated the sitting-room door. ‘Can we?’

  ‘Please,’ said Mark.

  Inside they positioned themselves in front of the mantelpiece, side by side. The air held the thick, ashy smell of the dead fire. Like every other room in the house, the sitting room was large but even so, the detective – Wells, was that what he’d said? – seemed disproportionate to it, a looming presence. ‘Perhaps you’d like to sit down, sir – Mrs Reilly?’

  Mark stayed standing. ‘What’s going on? What’s happened?’ His voice was loud. Hannah reached out and put her hand on his arm.

  ‘Do you know a woman called Hermione Alleyn, sir?’

  ‘Yes. We don’t see each other much now, but yes. We were at university together, at Cambridge.’

  Wells nodded slightly. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this but she’s dead. Her body was found late last night.’

  Hannah’s heart gave a single great thump. Dead. The word fell like a drumbeat, the reverberations fanning out after it, vibrating in the air.

  ‘Dead?’ She heard Mark say
in disbelief. ‘Do you mean . . . killed?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, yes.’

  He turned to face Hannah, giving her a wild look. ‘How?’

  ‘We won’t know for sure until after the post-mortem,’ said the woman officer, speaking for the first time, ‘but mostly likely it was from head injuries – blunt-force trauma to the skull.’

  Mark slumped on to the arm of the sofa, his hand over his mouth. His eyes were wide with horror.

  ‘When?’ Hannah asked.

  ‘Again, we’re waiting for the post-mortem to establish that more exactly but some time in the late afternoon. She left the hospital just after four.’

  Mark moved his hands over his face and rocked forward. The woman gave him a moment then spoke again. ‘Mr Reilly, we found Ms Alleyn’s phone with her body. You left a message for her last night, at quarter to nine.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, through his fingers. ‘I rang her but I didn’t get through. I wanted to tell her . . .’

  ‘We’ve listened to it. You seemed to be warning her, suggesting she might not want to be alone last night. Can you tell us more about that?’

  He raised his head. ‘I wanted to warn her about my brother,’ he said. ‘Nick. He got out of prison yesterday. There was history between them – they used to go out, she testified against him at his trial, and he’d been in touch with her before he was released, threatening her. She’d been ringing me, to talk. I knew she was frightened and—’

  ‘What was he threatening?’

  ‘She told me he said it was “payback time”.’

  ‘Payback?’

  ‘Nick thought it was her testimony that got him convicted. He blamed her.’ Mark’s hands squeezed into fists on his knees. ‘Where was she? Who found her?’