‘Joe?’
He’s not there. Damn and double damn, I really thought …
But he has been there, or someone has – there’s a blanket neatly folded in the corner of the room, though it’s not one I recognise, and the place is surprisingly clean and tidy. He doesn’t keep his own room at home that tidy. Maybe it was someone else, but I can’t imagine who that might be. It’s not like there’s a gang of teenagers living nearby.
I lick my lips. Perhaps it was Callum and his mates.
There are candles on the floor, solidified wax spilling out across the floorboards and an empty can of baked beans. I search for any signs of drug use – needles, foils and stub ends – but there’s nothing. From what I remember of Callum’s flat, I don’t think he’d leave this place so tidy. It’s such a relief. Joe’s always denied using drugs and I believe him. His brain couldn’t cope with being out of control. But his friends are another matter.
I poke the ash in the fireplace with a stick. It’s cold and sparse; there’s no sense of warmth at all. If Joe had been here last night or the night before, he didn’t light a fire.
I push back on my heels and scan the room. I’d been hopeful after the old woman suggested I come here. She’d looked as if she knew something. I pluck a crisp packet from the hearth, turning it over to check the use-by date: two months ago. The disappointment is almost crushing. If that was Joe’s, it predates when he went missing. I spin round, taking in the damp walls, the old wallpaper and crumbling plaster. Then I swear I hear something.
My head pulls up. I’m frozen to the spot. I can’t see out into the corridor because the door opens the wrong way. This is the last room right at the end of the building and I feel an unnerving sense of being trapped.
I lean forwards, straining to hear. Along the corridor, the wind whistles beneath the doors and the dead leaves skitter in the draught. There’s the chink, chink of water dripping through the gaps in the roof and outside, in the grounds, I hear the creak and groan of the trees. The gaps between the branches open and close like the gills of a fish, giving brief glimpses of the distant silver water.
I slip through the door, easing round to peer warily along the corridor. I walk past more doors, faster now. I feel the rush of air behind me, like ice-cold fingers drifting down my back. I spin round to look the way I’ve come. I thought I heard a mewling, from the very room I’ve just left. It sounded like a cat trapped behind the door. My heart skips and I almost go back to check. Except it can’t be – I know there’s nothing in that room.
My feet stumble backwards, unwilling to turn around and look away from the source of that noise. My hand reaches out to the wall and tangles with the spiders’ webs hanging from the ceiling. They drape between the old light fitments and the walls and cornices above, with tight bundles of eggs swathed in white. Dead flies dangle suspended from the strands, wrapped like tiny Egyptian mummies. I think of the eggs breaking open, all those miniature spiders spilling out across the floor, waves of them rolling over my feet and rising up my legs, a million spider bodies crawling up my skin …
There it comes again, a keening of the wind from the far end of the corridor, there where I’ve just been, like a baby’s cry drifting from within.
I hold myself still. Then turn and break into a run.
I clatter down the stairs, disregarding the rotting wood. I run out through the front door and sprint across the gravel. Towards the shelter of the trees. This time, there’s no Duncan to reassure me.
I run in earnest, water from the puddles splashing up my legs. I trip once, crashing onto my hands and knees. I lever myself up, grit pressed painfully against the soft under-skin of my hands. I brush them off, but one of my hands is bleeding. I hold my hands in tight fists and run faster, until I’m through the gates and out onto the lane, into the village.
I swing left and right, unsure which way to go. I feel stupid, standing there, red-faced and panting. What if someone could see me, that old woman even, terrified by my own breathing? I hate this place. The faded beauty of the Hall and village speaks only of heartache and neglect.
For a moment I regret deciding to rent a house here in this valley, so near to this village. I should have gone as far away as I could, taking Joe away from here, from the Barn, the fields, the metal detectors, night hawkers – whoever they are – from Duncan … Except Joe isn’t here. Of course he’s not here. He didn’t come with me.
This is all my fault – what on earth possessed me to leave without him?
I feel a stabbing pain right between my eyes. It’s as if my head is trying to deceive me, protect me. I clench the blood seeping from my hand and plunge up the road, my lungs heaving up and down. Stumbling towards the top lane and that small ramshackle cottage on the brow of the hill.
CHAPTER 49
CLAIRE – BEFORE
I lie on the bed with no sense of time. I have no reason to move or linger. I listen to the wind and the rain that buffets the window. The rain grows louder until the noise of it fills my head, as if the world outside has been crying for me all this time, so that I don’t have to.
It’s very late when Duncan comes home. Earlier, I nudged open Joe’s bedroom door to see him sprawled safely comatose, fully dressed on the bed, his laptop screen blank beside him. Arthur gives a distant, welcoming woof and I lie frozen under the covers listening to the sound of my husband moving about in the kitchen.
It’s one thing to imagine his betrayal, the doubts and questions churning in my head. But quite another to actually see it.
I reach out to grasp my phone. He’s betrayed not only me, but also his best friend. What would Martin say if he knew? Martin’s one of the good guys. But I bet he’s seen some dirty stuff. You don’t rise that far in the police force without seeing the worst side of humanity and learning how to deal with it. I reckon if he really wanted to, Martin could play it pretty rough himself. He adores his daughter; he’d do anything for her. Isn’t that how she ended up getting the job at the surgery, Martin asking for a favour from his best mate, finding her a job that kept her close to home, where Martin could keep an eye on her? He sure as hell wouldn’t be giving Duncan his blessing, whether or not Duncan is married.
I almost ring Becky instead, never mind how late it is, but I can’t bring myself to tell her. It couldn’t be worse.
No, it couldn’t be better! Think, Claire, think! Whilst this is all a secret, I’ve got him over a barrel. How would Duncan feel if this leaked out? Oh, Duncan, I’ve got you good and proper now. What if I tell Martin exactly what you’ve been up to?
I veer from rage, to shame, to pure elation. Foolish, foolish Duncan.
So, I lie here awake, pondering what to do, almost enjoying the moment, despite my pain. I hear the kettle coming to the boil downstairs and the clunk of the fridge door. After about ten minutes, Duncan leaves the kitchen and the door to the media room at the far end of the house slams shut.
I lie awake all night. By the time morning comes, I’m burning with rage.
Anger – watch me, Duncan, I can really do anger.
And this is an anger held in for too many years.
CHAPTER 50
DUNCAN – AFTER
It was eleven o’clock at night. Duncan walked down the corridor to the kitchen, if walking was what you could call it, and pushed an empty bottle of vodka into the recycling bin. He could scarcely feel his legs beneath him and his brain felt detached from its stem. In a pleasantly, muzzy, good way. But Sally’s face still intruded on his thoughts – her defiance, her rejection of him. Numbness was all that he wanted to feel right now.
Outside, beyond the kitchen sink window, the light was unusually bright.
He blinked. There were floodlights splayed across the drive. Vehicles were parked higgledy-piggledy one behind another, rain dripping from their bumpers and slapping against the windscreens. There were even vans on the grass under the cherry trees, smeared with mud. Duncan ground his teeth; they were wrecking his lawn. Surely, at
this time of night, the drive should be empty?
They had wrapped things up – the police side of things, at least. That’s what Martin had said. The archaeologists from the university had taken over and they were usually all gone by five o’clock. Yet the police food van was back, lit up in a haze of steam, and two generators grumbled at full throttle.
Duncan peered blearily through the window at men and women in plastic overalls moving up and down the slope like workers on an anthill. Parked behind his Lexus SUV were two more vans, plastered with the insignia of Derbyshire Forensics. Duncan hadn’t been aware of all this down in the media room.
The doorbell rang. Duncan groaned as he turned his head. He walked into the hall. He grappled with the door and it swung back, a beautifully crafted smooth plane of contemporary pale oak. There was a small but satisfied smile on his face as he watched the door move. He slid slightly to lean against the door.
‘I need a word.’
It was Martin, his features schooled and unreadable. A woman in uniform stood behind him, her black hair impeccably pinned under her hat.
‘I’m sorry it’s so late,’ said Martin. His eyes took in Duncan’s state. ‘I have an update for you and we really felt you should know before the press get hold of it.’
Duncan looked at Martin, holding his gaze a second too long. The wind roared through the doorway, rattling the blinds on either side of the door.
‘You’d better come in,’ he said.
They followed him through to the sitting room.
Here, the glare of the floodlights was particularly intrusive, stretching out across the carpet through the floor-to-ceiling glass. Duncan flicked a switch on the wall. Then regretted it and flicked another. The room filled with discreet swathes of ambient colour. He let his hands drop to his hips.
‘Would you like to sit down?’ It was Martin speaking, like this was his house.
‘No, thank you,’ said Duncan. ‘What is it?’
Martin gave a sigh. ‘I think you should sit down, Duncan,’ he said.
Martin stood in front of him, legs apart, watching Duncan’s face. He frowned, reaching out a hand to Duncan’s elbow and manoeuvring him on to a seat. Martin and the policewoman sat opposite. The woman pulled the hat from her head, her eyes sliding towards her colleague.
There was a pause. It vaguely sank into Duncan’s brain that his friend was finding it difficult to speak the next words.
‘We’ve made a mistake.’ Martin leaned forwards. ‘The bodies we found, we thought they were historic. And most of them are. Like I said, we believe they’re the remains of burials relocated from St Bertram’s Church. But now I’m led to understand that there may be one that’s much more recent.’
A silence fell between them.
‘How recent?’ Duncan struggled to sit upright, clutching the arms of his chair.
His brain had kicked into gear but he wasn’t sure that he wanted it to.
‘We don’t know exactly – not yet. The material needs to be examined in greater detail at the lab. That may take a few days.’
Material … Duncan ran his tongue across his lips.
‘What material?’ he said.
Another hesitation. As if Martin was weighing up how much he could say.
‘Fabric. Remnants of clothing.’
Duncan shifted his balance, trying to remember exactly what they’d all been wearing.
‘But the whole thing is so badly damaged … I’m sorry, Duncan.’
Duncan. Duncan felt his body stiffen, his brain painfully alert. There was something about the way Martin had said his name. An image flashed up in his head.
The whole thing is so badly damaged …
There was another grinding pause.
‘Who?’ he said.
Martin didn’t reply.
‘Who?’ Duncan asked again, energy pushed into that one word. ‘Come on, man, you must have some idea, or you wouldn’t be looking at me like that. You wouldn’t be here. What’s going on?’
There was still no reply. Duncan held his breath. He realised then that Martin was struggling with this just as much as he.
‘I’m really very sorry, Duncan. At this point, until our test results come back, we can’t confirm an identity. That’s as much as I can tell you.’
Duncan felt his eyes sliding shut. They both knew they were skirting the facts. He’d already known, hadn’t he? He knew this day would come, sooner or later.
‘Male or female?’ he said, his voice quieter. ‘You must at least know that.’
His voice was vibrant with emotion.
‘A man,’ Martin said. ‘But you mustn’t infer anything from this.’
Then Martin gave a sigh.
‘Possibly a teenager.’
CHAPTER 51
CLAIRE – BEFORE
I don’t have to sneak off anymore in fear of what he might do. I am so in control of this now.
A headache hammers at my head and my eyes are dry and crusty. I’ve been awake all night, telling myself to keep it under control. I have a phone full of evidence. I can negotiate whatever I want. But divorce is somehow not enough. Today, I am going to leave, but how can I do that without first confronting Duncan?
I pull my dressing gown around me and descend the stairs. Dawn has started to ignite the horizon and the Barn is filled with a barren solitude, the first sliver of orange-red light sliding across the floor. I don’t think Duncan went to bed at all; at least, I didn’t hear him come upstairs. His car – oh God, his car – is still parked outside, sullied by the memories of him and Sally last night.
I bet it stinks in there, I think maliciously.
I glance towards the media room – the door is firmly shut. I’ve been working myself up to this all night. I march down the corridor and thrust open the door.
He’s there. Slumped on one of the big cinema chairs. One hand hangs over the side of his chair and the other is folded over his chest. There are several empty cans of lager piled up on the floor and the big screen is flashing a blur of frozen figures against a solid black background. He must have crashed out mid-film.
I give his leg an unrestrained, vicious kick. He starts awake and looks at me.
‘Zombies not good enough to hold your attention, today?’ I say.
He doesn’t even seem to have noticed that I kicked him, too far gone in his sleep, or drunk. But then very little of what I do gets his attention.
‘Claire, what is it now?’ he says.
‘I saw you last night.’
He sits up a little and rubs his eyes.
‘You saw me … do what, Claire?’
‘I mean, I saw you.’
Plural, that is.
‘You and Sally. In the stables. Well, let’s say not the stables exactly, but your car in the stables. Our only son is out of his mind with worry and you’re shagging your girlfriend, right on our doorstep!’
‘What do you mean—’
But I scarcely draw enough breath for him to interrupt.
‘What if he’d seen you, not me? You know he wanders off around there sometimes. Well, you know what, it doesn’t matter anymore. I simply don’t care.’ Liar. ‘You’re not a father to our son, you’re not a husband to me. All those clients of yours who think you’re so clever and virtuous, what would they say if they knew you were shagging the hired help? What will the staff say? The good folk of Belston? And Martin, eh? What about him? What’s he going to say, when he hears you’ve been shagging his daughter!’
Duncan tries to pull himself out of his chair, lunging towards me, but in the semi-darkness, he trips over a change in the floor level. I back up and run for the door. It slams against the wall, so hard the handle bashes into the plaster. I feel a sharp flash of fear. I dart along the corridor, but he’s right behind me. He’s still drunk, I realise, his breath stinking of alcohol as he grabs my arm and pulls me round.
‘And what about you, Claire? The perfect wife and mother!’
His fingers tighten
around my arms and his voice curls with disdain. He pulls me towards him then shoves me back against the wall. My head hits hard and my eyes fire off white sparks behind my eyelids.
‘There’s two of us in this marriage,’ he says, his pupils wide and black. ‘Or at least there were supposed to be, but you just couldn’t hack it, could you?’
‘Hack it? I’ve stuck it out over twenty years. Ever … ever since …’ I give a muffled spit of a sob. ‘It’s been one woman after another, and now her. Your own receptionist. Your best friend’s daughter. Feeling your age, Duncan? Trying to recreate your youth? Can’t you even relate to a grown woman anymore? Or have you fancied her ever since she was a little girl? Uncle Duncan, was it?’
It’s a nasty, cheap shot but nonetheless satisfying.
‘That’s beneath even you, Claire,’ he says. ‘Absolutely nothing happened until Sally was a full-grown woman. I didn’t even notice her until she came back from uni.’
Oh God, I think. How long has this been going on for? That was over three years ago. I thought it had been a sequence of unrelated strangers up until now. Is this why he offered Martin’s newly graduated daughter a job at the surgery? I feel sick, revulsion overwhelming me at the very idea of how long this has been going on, right under my nose.
‘You have to sack her,’ I say, my voice shaking with rage. ‘I won’t have her working at the surgery for one more day!’
He laughs at me then.
‘Why on earth would I do that? Sally’s very good at her job, thank you very much.’
‘I won’t tolerate it. What wife would put up with that?’
‘Jealous, Claire? At least she wants me. Hitting middle age, Claire, and feeling it, are we? You’re as dry as a bone in more ways than one!’
I gasp. He lets go of my arms, as if he can’t bear to touch me.
‘And Joe,’ he says, bitterness dripping off his tongue. ‘It’s always Joe. You’re obsessed with him. There’s no room in your life for anyone else! Why should I live out my life in the cold? Why should I even continue to support you? Either of you. I’d be better off never seeing either one of you again!’
The House of Secrets Page 21
