Shadow of a Doubt

by Michelle Davies

  She hasn’t said anything to me though, directing all her comments and questions at Tishk. To be fair, I was too upset to engage with her when I opened the front door to the pair of them – Tishk had to hammer on it to get me to answer, his key no longer working now I’ve had the locks changed. The first thing I did when I calmed down was to give him a new spare.

  ‘Is she going to be all right now?’ Heather asks him.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ I interject. I fix my gaze on her, but she still won’t look at me and it’s starting to piss me off. ‘I’m sorry if I scared you.’

  Her eyes widen at this and she pulls her dressing gown tighter across her ample chest. ‘The screaming isn’t what scared me,’ she says. ‘We just don’t want any trouble.’

  I catch the frown on Tishk’s face. He knew Heather’s name to introduce us, but I wonder how well he actually knows her.

  ‘What kind of trouble?’ I ask her.

  She doesn’t answer that and instead asks me how long I’ll be staying in Parsons Close.

  ‘A while.’ Her lips purse as she absorbs my answer. ‘Is that a problem?’ I ask, sensing that it most definitely is.

  ‘It’s not for me to say.’

  ‘But you want to, I can tell,’ I say quietly. ‘Go on, just say your piece and get out.’

  ‘Cara, there’s no need to be rude, she was trying to help,’ Tishk admonishes.

  His intervention appears to embolden Heather, and her stance suddenly becomes confrontational as she puts her hands on her hips and glares down at me. The front of her dressing gown begins to gape and for a second I pray she’s wearing something beneath it.

  ‘If you must know, I’ve got two small children and I don’t know if I’m comfortable with a convicted killer living across the way from us!’

  Before I can react, Tishk steps in.

  ‘You’re being ridiculous. Cara was never convicted of any crime. She didn’t kill her brother.’

  I am so grateful for him standing up for me that the look of outrage on Heather’s face doesn’t bother me in the slightest. It is about time someone in Heldean did.

  I cannot articulate how utterly defenceless and undefended I felt the last time I was here. I know from what I have read since about the police investigation that the physical evidence against me was flimsy at best. It did not matter to them, though – it felt as though my guilt was decided from the moment Matty was found with his lips turning blue. Most damning was the statement my mum made, although I only found this out much later when I applied to see my medical notes. A transcript from one of my sessions with my psychiatrist, Dr Stacey, revealed she had questioned me about my feelings towards Mum after she told the police she was one hundred per cent convinced I was responsible for Matty’s death. I had no recollection of being asked about it, so seeing it written down in my notes like that was like a knife to the heart. If the police were my judge and jury, my mother’s testimony was the unanimous guilty verdict.

  ‘Are you mad? Everyone knows she did it!’ Heather snaps at Tishk. ‘Now she’s living across the road from us like nothing’s happened!’

  Tishk shakes his head. I am not familiar with his grown-up facial tics and mannerisms yet, but the way his jaw has clenched tells me he is really angry. More gratitude floods through me.

  ‘I think it’s time you left,’ he says. ‘I’ll show you out.’

  Heather stalks out of the room without looking in my direction and I cannot resist calling after her.

  ‘Nice meeting you – pop round for a cuppa if you fancy another chat!’

  A few moments later, Tishk returns. I’m relieved to see he’s grinning. ‘I have a feeling she’s not going to take you up on that.’

  ‘Shame,’ I deadpan. Then I sigh. ‘Word’s going to get round, isn’t it?’

  ‘It already has.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘There’s this local guy, Timothy Pitt, who lives on the other side of Heldean and reckons himself as a paranormal investigator. He’s got a blog that has a fairly large following and someone tipped him off that you’re back. He’s put a post up about it.’

  I know the blog. It was compulsive reading before Anne and John intervened to wean me off my obsession with the ‘Heldean Haunting’.

  ‘That’s just what I need,’ I say morosely, ‘bloody spooktators turning up on my doorstep.’

  Tishk comes over and sits down next to me on the sofa. Our arms are almost touching and for once I don’t mind someone sitting so close to me. I feel comfortable in Tishk’s presence, presumably because we knew each other all those years ago; it’s as though my emotions have muscle memory, and where he’s concerned, my recollection is healthy.

  ‘You must’ve been prepared for the reaction you’d get when people realised who you are,’ he ventures.

  ‘That’s the thing, I didn’t. I never expected to set foot in Heldean ever again. Never in a million years could I have predicted my mum would leave me the house.’

  ‘Why do you think she did?’

  I’m mindful of my words now, because being comfortable in Tishk’s company does not mean I trust him with my deepest thoughts yet. I may be on a mission to find out why Mum left me the house, but I’m not ready to tell him that.

  ‘Clearly she was trying to make a point,’ I say carefully, ‘I’m just not sure what. It’s hard for me to guess what she was thinking, because there was no contact between us after I went to the Peachick. I never saw her again.’

  Tishk is stunned. ‘You’re joking. Not even once?’

  ‘Nope. Apparently she and Dad came to the hospital in the first few weeks, but I was too out of it on medication to remember. Then, when I started to get better, they refused to come.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I said I wasn’t guilty and that made them angry.’ I shrug nonchalantly, but inside I am wounded all over again. The two people in the world who were supposed to love me no matter what turned their backs on me when I was at my most vulnerable. ‘When I was being discharged, I thought they might come for me then, but my social worker turned up at the hospital instead to tell me my parents had signed the paperwork authorising me to go into foster care. What’s more,’ I add bitterly, ‘my mum insisted I was sent to the other end of the country, as far away from Heldean as possible.’

  ‘Could she do that?’

  ‘I ended up hundreds of miles away in Morecambe, so yes, I’m guessing she could.’

  ‘That’s awful. I can’t imagine my parents doing that to any of us. Even when I went through a phase of drinking and scandalised our mosque elders, they stood by me.’

  I smile. ‘That’s because your parents are lovely.’

  ‘But yours were too––’

  We both jump as the rose branch clatters against the window. The wind is up again.

  ‘I can prune that back if you want. I think my dad’s old secateurs are still in the shed.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ll sort it out tomorrow.’ I set the drained brandy tumbler down on the coffee table. ‘It’s nearly two in the morning; you should go home and get some sleep.’

  ‘I can stay if you want. I can doss down on here.’ Tishk pats the sofa cushion.

  The gesture inexplicably puts me on edge and my chest tightens as though I’m about to start panicking again. ‘There’s no need,’ I say quickly.

  He hesitates. ‘You were pretty hysterical, Cara. Are you sure you should be on your own?’

  I really don’t want him to stay, but I can’t say that without sounding rude. ‘It was just the noise freaking me out,’ I shrug, faking nonchalance. ‘I couldn’t catch my breath and it spiralled, but I’m okay now, really. Mustard will keep an eye on me.’ We both look down at my dog, currently snoring on the floor by my feet, having not left my side since Tishk turned up.

  ‘Are you sure that’s all it was?’

  Something in Tishk’s expression stills me. ‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

  ‘Nothing,’ he says quickly
and stands to leave. ‘Call me any time you need me. I don’t mind.’

  ‘I appreciate you saying that, thank you.’

  After he’s gone, I go upstairs to sneak into the master bedroom at the front of the house. I say sneak, because that’s what it feels like I am doing by entering my parents’ bedroom without their permission. It’s funny how some habits never leave us: when we were little, Mum and Dad’s bedroom was strictly invite-only – it was their private space, they’d tell us, and we had to knock to enter. Bowling in without asking would especially irritate Mum, which seemed daft, because most of the time she was in there alone because Dad was away so much working. Yet here I am now, tentatively tiptoeing over the threshold, half-expecting to hear her yell ‘Knock first!’ when she sees my head peeking around the door.

  The silence that greets me is a punch to the gut and I gulp down a deep breath to steady myself as I enter the room fully. There’s no Mum or Dad in here, no Matty scurrying in my wake, always full of giggles, because he was one of those rare kids who was perennially cheerful. My entire family is gone and coming to terms with that is proving far harder than I thought.

  I don’t dwell on the room’s decor, quickly passing the foot of the neatly made bed to reach the window. The curtains are open and, as I suspected and the reason I’ve come up here, across the road, I can see Heather and a man I presume is her husband standing at their bedroom window staring at my house. Their blatant observation is no doubt designed to unnerve me, but, tired and numbed by the brandy, I have surpassed my limit for being rattled tonight. Let them stare. They won’t drive me out of Heldean and nor will anyone else, not while I’m searching for answers as to why my mum really brought me back here.

  I pull the curtains halfway shut, but not before I bid them goodnight with my middle finger first.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Cara

  ‘The updated interior has been done really well, good use of high-end fixtures and fittings – a definite selling point we can flag up. Same with it being south-facing, detached and in a coveted cul-de-sac on the right side of town. At Leonards, we pride ourselves on the standard of the property we sell and this place fits the bill nicely.’ There’s a pause. ‘But even I’m going to have trouble spinning that as a saleable feature.’

  The estate agent tilts his head towards the French doors in the dining room and the overgrown garden beyond. I swear the weeds have grown taller in the five days I’ve been staying here.

  ‘I’m going to get it seen to,’ I say.

  The estate agent crosses his arms. He manages Leonards, which is why I’ve had to wait until Wednesday afternoon for him to come round. I did tell the receptionist that anyone would do, because the agency had already valued the house at my aunt’s request and all I wanted was to sort out the pictures and marketing info, but apparently it had to be the most senior member of the team who came back to make sure the valuation still stood. I doubt house prices are fluctuating so much for there to be a sudden increase or decrease in price, but I decided to humour them because I am feeling too drained to bother arranging valuations with their rivals.

  Four days on from being scared witless by Tishk’s cat, I am managing to sleep undisturbed at night now – but only because I’m knocking myself out with sleeping tablets. The side effect of that is the zombie-like state I currently find myself in, which is why I’m not really taking in much of what the estate agent is saying. He’s prattling on regardless though, using six words for every one a normal person would utter.

  ‘The thing is, Ms Marshall, a garden that looks like it needs a fortune spent on it to get it to even a basic level of tidiness will drive the price down. So while I can get round the problem in the marketing details by not including a photograph, when it comes to viewings, it’s really going to put potential buyers off. So if it’s a quick sale you’re looking for, the entire garden needs to be cleared asap.’ He pronounces it ‘ay-sap’, as though it’s a word rather than an acronym. ‘It would also be wise to throw in some bedding plants, give it a splash of colour,’ he adds.

  As I stare out into the garden, wondering how much it will cost me to put it right, a thought occurs to me. ‘You came before, didn’t you, when my aunt Karen requested a valuation?’

  He nods confidently. ‘I did.’

  ‘When was that?’

  His face scrunches as he thinks. He’s an attractive man: tall, early forties at a guess, grey peppering his temples, broad shoulders that fill his well-cut suit. But the legato manner of his speech is off-putting even for me.

  ‘It must’ve been almost three months ago now, because I remember it was the week after I got back from the Bahamas and that particular holiday was in early September.’

  Three months ago? I was expecting him to say a couple of weeks. Why was Karen getting the house valued when Mum was still very much alive? Did Mum know?

  ‘What state was the garden in then?’

  ‘It wasn’t great, but not as bad as it is now. I guess the Indian summer we’ve just had did wonders for helping it grow. I don’t know what it was like where you live, but here we had a lot of rain and even some flash flooding.’

  I nod, but do not venture an answer, not wishing to get drawn into a conversation about where I live. I cannot hide the fact I’m back in Heldean, but I don’t have to divulge where I’ve been until now.

  ‘Your aunt did say she was going to get the garden sorted herself. I even gave her the details of a landscape gardener we use a lot for our rental properties. I can give you his number, if you want?’

  I nod and he reaches for a business card from his breast pocket.

  ‘This is my card, but I’ll write his details on the back. Do you have a pen?’

  As I forage for a biro in the bottom of my handbag, I decide to ask him the question I’ve been building up to since he arrived – and it has nothing to do with how much money he thinks the house will sell for. I decide to lay it out plainly, so there is no miscommunication.

  ‘I’m sure you’re aware of what happened in this house in 1994,’ I say, as I hand him the pen. ‘Is that going to affect me selling it?’

  He stares at me for a moment, his expression inscrutable, then he gathers himself.

  ‘I’m not going to pretend it won’t put off some people from making an offer. Knowing a child died in the property in violent circumstances might be too much for some.’ He pauses, as though waiting for a reaction from me, but again I don’t give him the satisfaction. ‘On the other hand, it’s the first time the property has been on the market since the eighties and it has been altered considerably since then. This is a really nice house in a lovely quiet street – the ideal family home for buyers who want to move up the property ladder.’ He breaks into a smile. ‘Why don’t you let me worry about that side of things – I’ll even handle all the viewings personally to smooth over any concerns potential buyers might have.’

  I have no doubts about his ability to persuade people round to his way of thinking. If nothing else, he’ll talk them into submission.

  ‘Okay, that sounds great. How soon can you let me know what price you’d market it for?’

  ‘I can tell you now,’ he replies, and gives me a figure. It’s a bit less than I was expecting, but it is still comparable to what I’ve seen on Rightmove for this area.

  ‘That’s with the garden done, though,’ he adds.

  ‘I’ll definitely take that gardener’s number then,’ I say wryly.

  The estate agent smiles, scribbles the number on the back and hands the card to me face up with his own details showing, picture included.

  ‘Ian Leonard, managing director and founder,’ I read from it. ‘So you don’t just run the agency, you own it?’

  ‘Started it from scratch when I was twenty-two using my own savings. Now we have three branches across the county and another in the pipeline,’ he says with obvious pride. Finally I warm to him: I know how much determination and grit it takes to build a life from nothing and
I am admiring of anyone who has done the same.

  We discuss a few more details and he promises to send a letter of engagement via email by the end of the day.

  ‘I don’t have a spare key to give you at the moment, but I can drop one into the office in the next day or so.’

  He eyes the bunch of keys on the ceramic heart key ring that I’d left by the front door then shoots me a quizzical look.

  ‘I had to get the locks changed. Those are the old ones,’ I explain.

  ‘Oh. Okay. No problem. Drop one in when you can.’ He glances at his watch. ‘I’ve got another appointment straight after this. Can I please use your toilet before I go?’

  ‘Sure.’

  When he goes upstairs, I look out over the garden again. From the state of it, I’m guessing it could take weeks to clear it and get it looking nice again – but I don’t mind if it does. Contrary to what I’m telling Leonard, I’m in no rush to get the house sold. This is a going-through-the-motions exercise to deflect my aunt and everyone else from my real intention: that I won’t give up this house until I’ve unearthed the truth about it. It’s all I’ve thought about since being spooked by the tapping noise and Tishk’s cat. I need to establish why Mum left it to me and, at the same time, I’m also looking for evidence of what forced me out in the first place. Proof of Limey Stan, in other words. The more I mull it over, the more convinced I am the explanation as to what killed Matty is also still within these four walls. If I can show it really wasn’t me who hurt Matty, I can clear my name. Needless to say, the nine-year-old Cara in my head thinks it’s a terrific idea and it’s her badgering me to do it.

  I hear Leonard coming back down the stairs when he’s done with the toilet and go into the hallway to let him out of the front door. He shakes my hand, then launches into another spiel.