‘Why couldn’t Marion babysit for you that night? She normally does, doesn’t she?’ DI Jones asks.
‘She had a church meeting, but Sasha was free so it was no big deal.’
‘What was Marion’s church meeting for, do you know?’ DI Jones asks. ‘And where was it?’
I shrug. ‘Flower rotas or something,’ I say. ‘At St Andrew’s, our local church. Marion is always organising something.’ I stare at the wall behind the detective, unable to look him in the eye. ‘It’s almost as though she needs to be in control of everything. Because she once wasn’t,’ I add, thinking out loud. Then Sean’s accident is on my mind, the pain etched on Marion’s face as she described how helpless she felt, how she should have been there for her son, done something to prevent it. But she still couldn’t bring herself to tell me exactly what had happened.
‘And if the meeting had been cancelled, would Marion tell you?’
‘Well of course,’ I say, without even having to think. ‘She’d have been round to babysit like a shot.’
‘Marion’s meeting was cancelled, Libby. Do you think that’s why she was calling your husband when you were out for a meal?’
I stare at DI Jones, not knowing what to say. ‘No comment,’ I say, coughing as something catches in my throat. ‘Please may I have some water?’
‘Can you tell us how you left things at home when you went out for your meal, Libby?’ DC McCaulay asks, turning in her chair. She pours me a cup from the machine next to her, sliding it across the table.
‘Thank you,’ I say, gulping it down, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. ‘What do you mean, how I left things?’
‘You know, was the television on, what was Sasha doing, where was Alice… that kind of thing.’
‘Um… well Sasha was sitting on the sofa with her books spread around her. Alice was in bed, though I’m sure she’d have come down a couple of times. She likes Sasha. The TV was on, yes, and Sean had lit the fire earlier. Sash would always keep it going.’
‘What do you burn on the fire, Libby?’ DI Jones asks.
I pause, twirling the plastic cup between my fingers. ‘Logs,’ I say. ‘Occasionally coal.’
‘Do you tend to throw rubbish on the fire?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I recycle as much as I can.’ I crunch the cup until it makes a cracking sound.
Cracking and popping, just like the logs on the fire – sparks spitting out against the guard…
‘Christ, oh Christ no…’ I’d yelled to Sean after we’d got back home that Friday night. My hands covered my mouth as deep, painful screams came up my throat, cutting like razor blades. I didn’t care, I wanted to feel pain as I stared at the contents of Sasha’s backpack lying everywhere – tipped out in what must have been a frenzy.
‘Shut up, Libby,’ Sean had boomed at me. ‘Let me think.’
‘Think? Think?’ I’d said, hyperventilating as I walked away, walked back again, unable to take my eyes off the mess. The plate of food was upturned on the floor, some of it spilt on the wooden coffee table – an ochre-coloured sauce mixed up with chicken and rice – some on the rug too. The fork was a few feet away, lying in front of the hearth. Sasha’s glass of water was still beside her college books, a little crescent of lip balm imprinted around the rim where she’d sipped. It seemed the only thing left of her, the only thing to mark that she was ever here…
‘Libby?’ DC McCaulay says, making me snap back to the present. ‘Can you answer the question?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Did you or Sean put anything on the fire that night apart from logs or coal, either before or after you went to the pub?’
I squeeze harder on the plastic cup, the sides almost meeting in the middle as I think back again…
‘No, oh no, no, no…’ I’d cried a hundred times until Sean had to slap me again.
‘Stop, don’t touch anything!’ he’d boomed as I reached out for the pen lying on the floor beside Sasha’s backpack.
‘How did this happen?’ I’d said, pointing at everything. ‘It can’t have done…’
‘No comment,’ I say to DC McCaulay now, looking her in the eye. ‘I would never put plastic on the fire.’
‘OK, Libby, thank you. Though I didn’t specify plastic. Can you explain further?’
I crunch the cup even harder, hearing the loud crack as it finally splits – reminding me of how I felt that night – torn in two…
‘Sean, you can’t,’ I’d said to him, grabbing his hand. ‘Don’t…’
He’d yanked his arm from my grip, doing it anyway, stoking the glowing embers despite my protests – the hottest part of the fire. Then he chucked on a couple more logs. ‘Everything will be OK, Libby.’
‘What?’ I’d cried. ‘You can’t honestly mean that. You’re mad. Crazy. I’m calling the police.’ I’d reached for my phone then, but Sean grabbed it from me.
‘Libby, stop. We don’t need to call them yet.’ Sweat glistened on his top lip and his cheeks were flushed. The flames licked around the fresh logs, cracking and popping in the grate…
‘No, no I’m sorry, I can’t explain,’ I reply to the detective, putting the plastic cup down. ‘I can’t explain anything any more,’ I whisper, staring at the ceiling. ‘I trusted him, you know. I really, really trusted him.’
‘I understand this is hard for you, Libby,’ she continues, her voice still soft. ‘Can you tell us who it is you trusted?’
I can’t help the tears rolling down my cheeks as I remember how Sean had taken me into the kitchen, talked to me, calmed me, told me everything would be OK over and over again until I’d believed him. I’d nodded, pressed my face against his chest as he’d held me, knowing he’d make everything better.
‘Sean,’ I say, wiping my face. ‘I trusted Sean.’
Forty-Two
Before
Libby woke before it was light. She’d slept fitfully and knew Sean had too – each of them tossing and turning, their backs to each other, sleeping as far apart on the bed as space would allow. She got up to use the bathroom, washed her face, saw the gaunt woman staring back at her in the mirror above the sink. The woman she’d come to hate.
‘Sean,’ she whispered, climbing back into bed. ‘Are you awake?’ She pressed herself against him, feeling his warmth against her chilled body. He groaned, turning slightly before slinging back the duvet and wrenching himself away from her. He sat up.
‘I have to get up. We’re starting the search early. Phil and the others will be up at the gatehouse soon.’
‘It’s not even light.’
‘It will be by seven. That’s when we’re meeting.’ Without looking at her or saying anything else, Sean went into the bathroom. A moment later, Libby heard the shower running, the steamy scent of familiar body wash seeping out under the door. When he came back, a towel slung low on his hips, Libby was already dressed, having thrown on some old jeans and Sean’s sweatshirt that she’d found lying over the back of the chair. Her hair hung down her back in a messy ponytail. She didn’t care what she looked like, didn’t care if she’d washed or not.
‘Where are you searching?’ she asked, sitting on the bed, watching as Sean stepped into his underpants, pulling on his socks. He opened the wardrobe, yanking out a pair of dark-green trousers, the ones he often wore when out on a shoot, followed by a clean T-shirt and a dark fleece top. He sat down on the bed beside her.
‘Near where Sasha’s shoe was found. They want to cover ground east of that, towards the Dentons’ place. I’m not so sure. I went out yesterday, to do a recce, and I’m going to tell them to go west. I’ll cover the eastern fields in the Land Rover, probably with Eric and a couple of others. There’s a track all the way up.’ Sean’s voice was devoid of emotion. ‘If there’s anything of hers still out there, they’ll find it.’
Libby nodded. ‘Fine,’ she replied. ‘I’ll make some coffee.’ She went downstairs, listening outside Alice’s door for a moment, her heart melting at the sound of her soft
breathing – the only thing keeping her going right now.
She put some coffee beans in the machine, topped up the water and pressed a couple of buttons.
‘Natalie was here that night, you know,’ she said, turning when Sean came up behind her. ‘I’m convinced of it.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Sean replied, running a glass of water and gulping it down.
‘Why are you trying to protect her?’ Libby hated that their exchange was so terse and stilted, every word measured. As though they weren’t a team any more. She looked at his back as he stared out of the window, wanting nothing more than to slide her hands onto his shoulders, rest her head on him.
‘You’ve never liked her, have you?’ Sean shook his head. ‘There was no reason for Natalie to be here. It wasn’t my weekend with Dan.’
‘She was in the village dropping Dan at Tom’s house. I’m certain it’s the reason why Alice was scared. She’s as good as told me that Natalie was here. And then there was the bracelet I found. Why would she call round, Sean?’ Libby said, her tone more accusatory than she intended. ‘What did she want? Think about it… what did she do?’
‘Jealousy is an ugly trait, Libby,’ he replied. ‘And it’s more than I can handle right now. I’ve got a search to lead and—’
‘I don’t understand why you’re protecting her.’
Sean grabbed a mug from the shelf and put it under the machine. While it was filling, he came up close to Libby, taking her by the shoulders. ‘Listen, Natalie was not here while we were out. Only Alice and Sasha were in this house. Got it?’ His grip tightened.
Libby stared up at him, barely recognising her own husband. ‘Yes,’ she whispered, shrinking away.
She went to the window seat and curled up on it, tucking her legs beneath her, watching as Sean downed his coffee before heading to the back hall to lace up his boots. He returned wearing his Barbour jacket and cap, holding a long walking stick – his favourite one with the silver top. As he came past, he hesitated, and Libby wasn’t sure if he was about to pull her into his arms, or hit her. That was how little she felt she knew him any more. His mouth opened to say something but then closed again and, a moment later, Libby heard the front door open and bang shut, followed by a rush of cold morning air into the kitchen.
She watched out of the window as he unlocked the Land Rover, got in and drove away. And then she sobbed for what seemed like hours. It was only when she felt a warm hand on hers, only when Alice whispered, ‘What’s wrong, Mummy?’ that she stopped crying, wiping her face on the sleeve of Sean’s old sweatshirt.
‘Oh, sweetie, Mummy’s just a bit sad,’ she said, giving Alice a hug. ‘But I’ll be OK. Sometimes grown-ups cry too, you know.’
Alice looked concerned. ‘Is it because Sasha has gone to see Jesus for a little while, Mummy? Is that why you’re sad?’
Libby stared at her daughter, nodding. ‘Yes, sweetheart, yes. That’s why I’m sad.’
* * *
Mozart’s Symphony No. 41 filled the kitchen as Libby worked on the remaining courses for tonight’s dinner party. She peeled bulb after bulb of garlic, chopping the cloves finely and setting them aside. She simmered russet potatoes, smashing them up with flour, kneading and shaping them into little garlic and truffle oil-infused balls ready for later. She braised tiny turnips to go with the scallops, spatchcocked the woodpigeon, mixed up an anchovy dressing to drizzle over the Atlantic cod, and melted a pan of rich, dark chocolate to go in the salted caramel dessert.
Then she stopped, standing motionless, head down with her hands leaning on the work surface.
Sasha has gone to see Jesus for a little while…
Libby wiped her hands and went to the stable door, leaning out over the bottom half, sucking in the cool air. She wasn’t sure if it was the heat in the kitchen or her short, sharp breaths that were making her feel light-headed. She bent her head down low, trying to get some blood back to her brain. When she thought how much she had to do before tonight, she wanted to weep again. Her mind was all over the place, what with Sean out searching with a dozen or so others, all with one purpose: to bring Sasha home.
‘Christ knows what we’ll find,’ Sean had said last night as they were trying to fall asleep. Libby hadn’t responded and Sean hadn’t elaborated – each of them locked in their own thoughts.
‘Finding Sasha’s shoe is the only thing keeping attention on the area, you realise,’ Libby had said an hour or so later when they were still both awake.
‘I know,’ Sean said quietly, almost regretfully.
‘It’s made everyone think she’s still out there, in the fields or woods, somewhere local.’
‘You heard what the detective said last time we saw him, Lib. He said it doesn’t mean anything of the sort and they’re broadening their enquiries. Yes, it’s Sasha’s shoe but she could have been bundled into a car and driven off anywhere. It doesn’t indicate she’s still in the area at all.’
Libby had sighed heavily, trying to get to sleep but failing.
‘Fuck everything to hell,’ Libby screamed into the courtyard, the tea towel knotted in her hands.
‘You OK over there, Libby?’ Arn’s head popped up over the wall.
‘Oh, God yes, yes, I’m so sorry for the bad language, Arn. Had a bit of a rubbish morning and I forgot myself for a moment.’ She wiped her eyes, hoping he wouldn’t see her tear-stained face from that distance. ‘Just a few problems in the kitchen but nothing I can’t sort,’ she added, forcing a smile.
‘Wish I could help, love,’ he said, ‘but I find microwaving a ready-made curry a challenge.’ He held up a pair of secateurs. ‘Just off to trim a few things back in the garden while the weather’s fine,’ he added. ‘Hope you get it sorted.’ And he ducked down again, his whistling getting fainter as he disappeared up his garden.
After a few deep breaths, Libby went back inside. When she searched in the freezer, she finally found what she was looking for. ‘Useless labels,’ she said, picking up yet another sticker from the shelf underneath the tub of sauce. But, when she opened it, it wasn’t the one she was looking for, which meant she’d have to make another dip for the little chicken skewer canapés. She thought she’d had one in stock, was looking for ways to save time.
Libby took the haunch of venison from the fridge, ready to bone and marinade, thumping it down on the large chopping board. Her hand shook as she chose a knife from the block, selecting the sharpest she had. It wasn’t an easy job and, in hindsight, she wished she’d asked the butcher to do it for her. But she’d wanted to learn, wanted to get the bone and offcuts into a stock straight away.
She washed her hands, tying back her hair to keep it out of her eyes. She splashed water on her face, soothing her puffy skin, and caught sight of herself in the little mirror by the stable door. She knew she looked a state – there were even more stains down the front of Sean’s sweatshirt now. She’d somehow have to find time to shower and change before tonight.
As she manhandled the haunch, digging her fingers into the reddy-purple flesh to turn it over, the last few weeks flashed through her mind. A cruel gallery of images and uncontrollable thoughts played out in fast-forward as she slid the knife into the meat, letting the path of the hip bone guide her. Somehow, she knew it all fitted together – she just wasn’t sure how.
And right at the core of everything was Sean – her lovely, kind, loyal man. But, as she hacked at the meat, cutting deeper and deeper into the flesh, pushing the knife around the bone, loosening it, all she could see was him with another woman – a faceless woman whom, for some reason, she blamed for everything else that had happened.
Libby’s tears dropped onto the dark meat as she cried, her shoulders jerking in time with her sobs. Through blurry eyes, she managed to pull and ease away the large bone at the top of the haunch, dropping it in a big pan for the stock.
‘Ow!’ she cried as the knife suddenly slipped from the shank. Blood oozed out of her forefinger as she ran it under the ta
p; she squeezed it inside a paper towel to stop the flow. She didn’t want to contaminate the meat so managed to unwrap the finger and apply a blue plaster with one hand. Everything felt so hopeless, so futile.
As she carried on working, she imagined Sean out with the beaters, his limp getting steadily worse as he trudged the fields, leading them west over the rise and down towards the stream – a possible shortcut home for Sasha that night. Then she pictured him in the Land Rover with Eric, scouring the lower-lying ground as he headed towards the Dentons’ place. They owned most of that area and it was well marked with tracks, though Sean would be in and out of the driver’s seat opening and closing gates. But he was familiar with the area, and it was also where, according to Marion, he’d had his accident all those years ago.
Libby lifted her shoulder, wiping her face on her sleeve, sniffing back the tears as best she could. She would not give up, she would not cancel tonight, and she would trust Sean that everything would be OK. She simply had no choice.
‘Mrs Randell,’ came a deep voice at the stable door, startling her.
Libby whipped her head up, the knife blade pressing against the bone, her fingers digging into the meat to steady it.
‘Detective?’ she said quietly, wondering what news he’d come to deliver. Then it dawned on her. Natalie.
DI Jones unlatched the bottom door and stepped inside, followed by a female uniformed officer she didn’t recognise. ‘Please put down the knife and step away from the worktop,’ he instructed.
‘What? I’ve got a dinner party later and—’
‘Please do as instructed,’ he said.
Libby put down the knife and walked away from the work surface. She shivered, staring at each of the officers in turn. ‘I know this is Natalie’s doing,’ she said, rolling her eyes and trying to stop her voice from failing. ‘I know it was wrong of me, but you have to understand that she blows everything out of proportion. Whatever she’s told you, it was honestly just a tiny shove. She wasn’t hurt and—’
Date Night: An Absolutely Gripping Psychological Thriller With a Jaw-Dropping Twist Page 26
