‘It might be better if you stay in Uncle Bill’s cottage.’
‘Won’t he mind?’
‘He died, love, six months ago. Cancer.’
‘Oh, no.’ Uncle Bill was my mentor. He taught me everything I know about photography. Sadness weighs down on me. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I tried, but I didn’t know where you were. To be honest, I feared the worst, after last time.’
‘I’m trying hard not to drink, Mum.’
‘Good girl. He left you his camera in his will, it’s up in your room. The cottage is as he left it. I haven’t got round to doing anything about it. It needs a bit of looking after.’ She breathes heavily after each word, as if speaking takes up too much energy.
‘I’ll stay at the cottage,’ I say. It’ll be good to have my own space. I just hope it isn’t crammed full of stuff too.
‘You always were at home there. But you’re alright here for a couple of nights. I’ll make us something to eat.’
Mum sticks the telly on after lunch while I wash up, but when I go back into the living room her eyes are closed and gentle snores rumble out of her. Time to go and have a rummage around upstairs. I’m pretty sure I destroyed all those risky photos of us, but I promised Grace I’d make sure.
My old room is miraculously free of junk. It looks more or less as I left it, the faded wallpaper bearing marks where my posters used to be. Morrissey, Dad’s hero and mine, huge in black and white, dominated the room, his angst-filled eyes looking up to my ceiling as if all the answers were to be found up there.
The wardrobe door creaks when I yank it open, stiff after not being opened for so many years. Mum has left it untouched, and memories hit me with the smell of old clothes and dust. Long-forgotten sweatshirts still hang from the coat hangers, along with my favourite old jeans and my denim jacket. I remember packing in the dark to leave home, sneaking out when Mum and Dad were asleep in their separate rooms, exhausted by arguing once again about the same old thing. Mum was losing her energy even then. The night bus I escaped on had been empty except for a middle-aged man, and I’d sat as far away from him as possible.
Mum has left Bill’s camera on the bed, still in its original packaging. I stroke the box, remembering Uncle Bill – flat cap on, whistling a tune as he pottered around his studio, making us hot mugs of tea that we’d drink outside on the doorstep while he explained to me what he was doing. My old sports bag is at the bottom of the wardrobe, the leather split into cracks, but the photographs are still there. I sit cross-legged on the floor and pull the bag into my lap, taking out the shoebox which hasn’t been opened for years. The elastic band that held the box together falls apart in yellow clumps. My hands are trembling but they’re at least shaking less since I’ve stopped drinking. Then I wish I hadn’t had that thought because instantly I crave something to take away the cramping in my stomach that these photographs bring. Dust rises as I lift the first packet of photographs from the tissue paper which pads the box, crackling as I pull it. Dates are written on the envelopes, and I start with the oldest; the first photos I ever took. I’m only interested in the pictures Grace is in, and I flick carelessly through the ones where she doesn’t feature. The first ones are from when we were about ten, sharing bunk beds in my room. I’d forgotten those; she always bagsied the top one but I didn’t mind where I slept, I was just so excited she was there. I shuffle through the rest of the packets, but just as I thought, there are none of those photos here. There wouldn’t be; I got rid of them before the police searched my room. But I promised Grace I’d check and I’ve checked. Had Mum been through my stuff too? Unlikely, given the state of shock she was in as our family were dragged into a public enquiry. Mostly I sat in my room with my music, Morrissey misery at full blast, and she sat downstairs staring at the television, eyes glazed over. Dad meanwhile was in the shed, hiding away. I went looking for him once and he was sat smoking a roll-up, gazing at the wall. He didn’t smoke before that summer, I’m sure he didn’t.
The final photos are of our last family holiday. Me, Darren, Mum and Dad together for a week by the seaside in Weston-super-Mare. I remember that holiday. Mum and Dad in deckchairs facing in opposite directions, me sneaking off for a fag behind the rocks. Grace ever-present, despite her absence, Charlotte’s ghost hovering over the cliff.
I place the photographs back in the box. It’s four in the afternoon but I can’t have a drink and I’m not sure what else to do. Before I leave the room I peel the carpet back, checking the photo is where I left it. I let out a deep breath when I see it. The most important photo of all. The one that Charlotte must have swiped from my bag at the summer disco, wanting to get even with Grace for stealing Jason. The only one I didn’t destroy. No need for Grace to know about it.
Mum’s bedroom door is ajar and I can’t resist a look to see what state it’s in. There’s resistance behind the door and I know it isn’t good. Jigsaw boxes are stacked on shelves and spill out onto the floor; one has split open and coloured pieces are sticking out of the thick carpet, which once upon a time was orange. Now it’s the colour of pale salmon. The wardrobe doors stand open and dresses hang over a huge ball of knitwear. A musty smell lingers in the air. I can’t open the windows or she’ll know I’ve been up here.
I take some tea into Mum, who is just waking up. My phone, which I’d left on the coffee table, takes us both by surprise. The name GRACIE flashes along with a recent photograph of her, one I’d found on the internet where she looked exactly how I remember her. Hair swept back from her face with strands deliberately stroking her cheeks, those full lips in a pout. Mum stares, her hand stopping mid-air where she’s reaching for my mug. The pretty face pouts from the screen and Mum drops back onto the sofa as the call goes to answerphone.
‘Oh, Molly,’ she says, ‘what’s going on?’
Twenty-Six
GRACE
The kitchen is calm, conducive to work. Where I need to be. Despite Molly’s call and the journalist’s words ringing in my ears, I’m determined to immerse myself in work. I slot a coffee pod into the machine and sort through my emails. For once I’m able to concentrate and I get a lot done, fuelled by caffeine. I’m about to break for lunch when the ping of a new email gets my attention. It’s from Lily at Eat Clean, informing me that the article she’s written is online. A pang of fear paralyses me when I recall the journalist pretending to be her colleague. What if he is somehow connected to her and she’s been delving into my past? My fingers hover over the keys, scared to open the link. But then I tell myself I’m being ridiculous and I open the attachment, holding my breath.
The article covers two pages. There’s a thumbnail shot of me and a photo of the cover of my book. A quick scan of the text and I let go of the breath I’m holding, relieved that I can’t see the word ‘Dorset’ anywhere.
It’s a good article, and I breathe easier. I copy the link and add a reference to it on all my social media pages, emailing it to Julia. That should keep her happy. For the first time in ages, I’m hungry for some lunch.
While my soup is heating my phone starts to ping. Over and over. I smile to myself, enjoying the thrill of the article being shared, commented on, liked. A lift after the bad press is just what I need. But when I open my Instagram, the hashtags are not what I’m expecting: ‘Queen of Clean’, ‘smoking’, ‘power couple in decline’ – words swim in front of my eyes. The source is a trashy blog piece focusing on Richard, regurgitating some anti-smoking comments he once made. Somebody else has pointed out that Richard has his own problems, and posted a link to a recent update on the Ash Fenton case, where it says Richard is ‘helping police with their enquiries’. The words pulse in big lights and tears prevent me from carrying on. I’ve seen enough. My chest tightens and I’m full of fear. He fobbed off my questions about the police; there’s something he’s not telling me. We need to have a conversation.
The tremor in my hands has transformed into a full-blown shake, which ricochets throughout my body.
I sit on my hands to stop the juddering, my mind racing. Why hasn’t Richard said anything to me? I’m his wife, aren’t I? Have I really been so distant and unapproachable lately, letting Molly get to me? I swore I wouldn’t let that happen. I search the Emily case online and soon find the information referred to. Richard apparently gave the girl a lift. I sit back, stunned. Why don’t I know about this? It hits me like a punch in the stomach that I’m doubting him. I’m desperate to talk to him, and I have no idea when he’s going to be home. He might not have had time to tell me, is that it? We’ve barely seen each other over these past few days and I’ve been preoccupied. I try to convince myself it’s not as bad as it looks. Part of me is relieved that it’s not just me who’s affecting ‘the brand’, and guilt swoops in at such a thought. But it’s true, and if he criticises me, at least I’ll have something to come back at him with. I hate that our marriage has been reduced to this.
Richard might not be home for hours, so I go back to reading the online news, unable to resist looking at Alex Foster’s page. Since Molly’s call he’s never far from my mind. The fridge makes a loud cracking noise. It’s not unusual but it makes me jump. The article he wrote about The Orchid Girls has been picked up by the Daily Tribune. I pick up the phone without thinking and call Molly. As it rings out I wonder whether she really has gone to Dorset. I can’t stand it if I can’t talk this through. But she doesn’t pick up.
I can’t settle after she doesn’t answer. Why wasn’t I more careful? It doesn’t take much to set Molly off, and now she’s angry with me. It’s the last thing I need. I throw open the balcony doors and drop onto a chair, lighting a cigarette and inhaling hard, wishing I could blow the past few weeks away into the starry sky. I haven’t posted on my blog for days now, not since the photograph episode, and I need to take control. But Michael’s death is a factor, distracting me on top of everything else. That gives me an idea and I email Julia, letting her know about Michael and telling her that I need to take a week off to deal with everything. A week should be enough to sort this mess out, get myself back on track.
Decision made, I can’t stay cooped up in the house, so I grab my keys and purse and walk down to the local shop, heading over to the paper rack. When I see the headline on the Daily Tribune I stop and stare: NEW EVIDENCE IN EMILY MURDER CASE. I take a copy of the paper, pick up a carton of soya milk and pay for my purchases. I stop at a cafe on the way home and take my coffee to a table at the back of the room, where I can read the newspaper privately.
I read through everything that’s written about Emily, partly to put off reading Alex Foster’s crime series, partly because the case is like a magnet, drawing me to it. The similarities are uncanny – the news headlines; communities uniting; a missing girl of a similar age, last seen arguing with her friends. But no, that’s the difference – we weren’t seen arguing. Emily is once again allocated the front page, as Graham Atkins, forty-two, father of Emily’s school friend, has been taken in for questioning. I read how Emily Shaw and her two school friends had spent the afternoon in their local park. I know the park well – Richard took me there before I met his parents for the first time and I was so nervous, shivering by the duck pond. I remember the overwhelming relief that he came from such a normal family and that they accepted me so readily. Jean so free with her affection, filling me with sadness about my own mother. Des welcoming me with a handshake, less emotional but friendly, so like his son. Carefree times that seem so long ago. I continue reading. The girls argued and Emily ran off. One of the girls rang her father and he came to pick them up in his car. This is the man who is helping police with their enquiries. All the while I’m reading, the thought niggles that Richard also gave this girl a lift. Why hasn’t he talked to me? I need to hear about it from him.
Afterwards, I can’t resist another look at Alex’s latest article.
My attention goes straight to the photograph of Alex. I study his features; his cocky smile, oozing confidence. There’s a résumé of the cases he’s been looking at, but what worries me is the last paragraph.
All these cases are unsolved, each of them has ends that need following up. I will do as much as I can to help bring resolutions to end the suffering of the many friends and families involved.
A number is listed for anyone with information to call. Our names aren’t mentioned, but we already know that Alex is on our case.
A chill envelops me and I need to get outside. On my way out I drop the newspaper in the bin, where it slides into a pool of cold coffee and soiled tissues. My phone rings and I pick it up without thinking, my mind still rooted in the past.
‘Grace Sutherland?’
‘Yes.’
‘My name’s Alex Foster, I’m a journalist. I’d like to talk to you about––’
‘I have nothing to say to you.’ I’m shaking as I press hard on the screen and swipe the call away. But I can’t swipe him away so easily. He’s on to us, and it’s only a matter of time.
Something in me snaps and I know what I have to do.
I’m going to find Molly in Lyme Regis.
Daily Tribune
30th September 2002
ORCHID GIRLS ARRESTED
A police spokesman has revealed the cause of death in the Charlotte Greene case. The autopsy has determined the fourteen-year-old did not drown as originally thought, but that death was caused by a blow to the head prior to immersion in the sea. Two schoolgirls are being held in connection with the murder. Dubbed ‘The Orchid Girls’ by the local paper on account of matching tattoos the three girls have, the teenage girls were arrested after the discovery of one of the girls’ diaries. Comments in the journal hinted at a rivalry over a local boy, along with suggestions that two of the girls were more than close friends. While being questioned, conflicting accounts of what happened that afternoon were given, and the girls vehemently denied any romantic involvement with each other. Inaccuracies in their statements led to the girls’ arrest, but police have refused to comment on whether they hold any evidence.
Twenty-Seven
MOLLY
Mum stares at the phone even though Grace’s picture has long stopped flashing. She didn’t leave a message.
‘It’s her, isn’t it? Why are you in touch with her?’ Her voice is filled with dread.
‘I saw her on television. Don’t you know who she is?’
‘What do you mean? I know who she is alright.’
‘I wasn’t trying to find her. She was on the London news. Her name is Grace Sutherland now. She’s well known in London, she does food stuff on the internet. Her husband is standing to be Mayor of London.’
‘I don’t watch the news much. I’ve heard about the Mayor but I don’t know who any of the people are. Why are you in touch with her? I thought you’d stopped all that, Molly.’ Mum looks older, her skin more lined, her eyes more sunken, but her words take me back to that time, when she said the same thing. It was all over by then, and I wondered whether she had guessed. Prayed that she hadn’t.
‘I wanted to know why she never answered my letters. After she moved away I wrote to her. I know I wasn’t supposed to but I couldn’t help myself. We were best friends, Mum. I sent loads of letters and she never replied.’
‘I know you did, love.’
‘What?’
She nods, but looks sorry. ‘Deborah phoned me, told me to stop you sending them. She said if Michael found out – well, you know what he was like. I tried to explain you would carry on whatever, I hadn’t got the heart to tell you to stop. But I was glad, I can’t deny it, that Grace didn’t reply. After everything that went on that summer I didn’t want her in your life.’
‘Why did you let her come and stay here, then? If you hated her so much?’
‘I didn’t hate her, Molly. And it was only after the trial I began to have doubts. That summer I had to take her in, for Deborah’s sake. When she was having treatment she couldn’t cope with Grace, and I didn’t like to leave her alone with Michael. I tried to tell
him he should spend less time at church and more time with his family but he wouldn’t listen.’ Mum collapses into the chair, the cushions wheezing behind her in sympathy.
I wonder what Dad made of all this. He and I were always close – he would have told me, surely? And he usually got things right.
‘Promise me you’ll forget Grace, Molly. Don’t get involved with her again. She was a bad influence on you.’
‘No she wasn’t. Tell me what you mean.’
Mum sighs. ‘You’re defending her even now.’ She picks up the mugs, which clatter against one another. ‘I’m not wasting any more breath on her. We’ve got enough to sort out. Spaghetti bolognese alright with you, is it?’
We eat in front of the television, Mum engrossed in a quiz show, her hand dipping into a box of chocolates at her side. Every now and then her glance flickers at me when she thinks I’m not looking. Her earlier words are going round in my head. So it was Deborah who intercepted my letters, not Michael. Why did Mum turn on Grace? Was she suspicious about our relationship even then? Questions taunt me.
I’m knackered from the journey and not drinking makes me narky so I take myself off to bed at nine. I should call Ellis, but since I had that drink I know I have to tell her and I can’t face it now. I text her that I’ve arrived and leave it at that. I haven’t drunk today, that’s what counts. As soon as I’m settled in bed my mind keeps replaying everything, struggling to make sense of it all.
I don’t drop off until long after I’ve heard Mum’s steps coming upstairs.
The next morning the front door bangs as Mum heads off for work. In her nurse’s uniform I’m relieved to see she’s more like the capable mum I remember, always taking charge. Downstairs everything is still apart from the old clock which thuds mechanically as it ticks off the minutes. It feels weird, being here alone, memories crammed into this house. I need to find something to do or else I’ll go mad.
The Orchid Girls Page 24
