The Friend: An emotional psychological thriller with a twist

by Teresa Driscoll

  Mark parked directly outside and swung open the front gate, which squeaked as it did the last time he called – the front door opening before he even touched the bell, his beaming mother frantically drying her hands on her apron.

  ‘I must get that gate sorted for you.’

  ‘You said that the last time.’ She rolled her eyes in mock chastisement but then hugged him tight, hands still damp. ‘Kettle’s on. Come on in, love. I’ve made us a snack. Nothing much.’

  Inside, the true extent of her preparations peeped beneath tea towels spread over three large plates on the kitchen worktop.

  ‘It’s just I know Sophie isn’t one for baking.’

  Mark smiled a half-smile, shaking his head in resigned exasperation. As his mother then waited for the kettle, he moved through to the back room to greet his gran, who was seated in a high-backed chair in the corner with a patchwork rug over her legs.

  ‘Mark. How lovely – I didn’t know you were coming. How’s university?’

  ‘Finished uni, Gran. Got a job now. I’m just in the area on business. The family are in Devon. Sophie and Ben? You remember? I work in advertising now.’

  ‘Devon? What on earth have you been doing in Devon?’

  His mother then appeared with a large tray bearing the best teapot and china cups. She paused to steady herself before lowering it on to the edge of the dining table, and Mark quickly returned to the kitchen to carry through the plates of cakes and sandwiches, carefully offering each in turn to his gran, who protested she had no appetite before tucking in heartily. Sandwich after sandwich. Cake after cake.

  ‘So. How is university, then? Course going OK?’

  ‘University was excellent, Gran. Would you like a cup of tea? I’ve brought some new pictures of Ben to show you. My little boy. They’re on my phone. You’ll need your glasses.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t need glasses, love. I have excellent eyesight.’

  Mark frowned a question at his mother, who winked conspiratorially as he produced the phone from his pocket, turning back to find his grandmother holding an enormous magnifying glass up to her face, the single eye behind it enlarged to Cyclops proportions.

  Like Sherlock Holmes, she then examined each photograph in turn as Mark scrolled through, barely able to contain his amusement.

  Later in the car, roaring with laughter openly, Mark realised just how much good the visit had done him – the first time in so long that he had stepped outside of himself; outside of all the confusion and the gut-wrenching worry that was now Tedbury.

  It made him so sad that his mother did not ask after Sophie more often. Why on earth did she have to feel threatened? Why could she not just accept that he loved them both with all his heart? But he had learned that pushing his mother over this just made things worse. And he knew too that, despite the terrible split loyalty these visits stirred, it was like recharging his battery to spend an hour with his mum and his gran – two women who would always put him at the very centre of their world.

  As the satnav barked directions to his first appointment – a three-storey Georgian property on the edge of a much larger village, just forty minutes by train from London – he caught a glimpse of the flowerpots in the estate agent’s photos on the passenger seat. He felt his face change at the thought of those other flowers now dying in the two large pots outside Gill and Antony’s cottage. Someone had finally stopped watering them. He thought too of the pregnancy, wishing with all his heart that he had been able to answer Sophie’s expectant eyes without the worry which gnawed inside him.

  If only he could talk openly to his mother, his gran, to Malcolm, or to someone about just how torn he felt. How thrilled he was at the thought of a brother or sister for Ben. And yet? How terrified too he was of going back there, to those days four years ago when he would drive long hours through the dark to Devon, his stomach in knots with guilt and fear and dread, exhausted from work and the journey and yet knowing that the very moment he walked through the door, Sophie would immediately appear, to hand over Ben, her eyes entirely blank and dead.

  He knew that second time around he would be looking out for it; he would know the signs and get help faster for Sophie. But back then, for a very long time, he’d had no idea it was depression. It was chilling and baffling and, yes, exhausting, because at the end of his working week it was as if Sophie were handing over a parcel.

  It was not like he had imagined it would be; it was not like either of them had ever imagined it would be . . .

  You need to take the baby from me, Mark. I just can’t do this.

  CHAPTER 27

  BEFORE

  I looked down at my feet. At least I was wearing the right shoes this year. Third time lucky? Twice before I had wandered around the South Devon charity craft fair in the wrong clothes and more especially the wrong shoes.

  I had confused the event with the county contemporary craft fair, which sees a huge tented village descend on Dartmoor once a year, attracting stalls of exquisite ceramics, tapestries, silk work and every other imaginable artisan enterprise.

  Turned out the local version was much lower-key, primarily a platform for artists – Heather included – who couldn’t persuade galleries to take their work. A tented village was financially out of the question; instead, a humble-jumble of linked canopies and one single marquee left the event as vulnerable to the vagaries of the weather as the Tedbury fair.

  That first visit, having so overestimated the occasion, I’d fancied being upstaged by colourful ‘artistic types’ wafting about in splendid hats, and I tried much too hard. Pink embroidered skirt, bright purple jacket and the biggest disaster – suede boots with kitten heels. Though it was dry on the day, it had been raining for most of the previous week, and I not only looked faintly ridiculous in my rainbow ensemble but sank in the soggy grass with every step, ruining the boots.

  The second year I went too far the other way – a practical black jumper, jeans and trainers, which made me feel a complete frump when unexpected sunshine brought everyone else out in pretty floral skirts and jewelled sandals.

  This year? I stared again at my feet. Rope wedges with cream ribbons tied around the ankle. Practical, but quite pretty too.

  ‘I really don’t know why we put ourselves through this.’ I raised my voice to Helen, who was across the hall in the kitchen, as I rose again on to tiptoes to better check my reflection in the mirror next to the downstairs cloakroom.

  ‘Stop worrying. You look lovely,’ Helen replied, while helping herself to more coffee from the cafetière on the kitchen worktop. I turned left to right to check the length of my floral skirt.

  Rather sweetly, Heather had telephoned to confirm that her stall was number sixteen, as if finding her at the event might somehow prove difficult.

  In point of fact, she could be spotted immediately amidst the modest array of stalls, behind which eager artists smiled and swooped just a little too swiftly on every potential customer, so that the majority of visitors were already clinging to the central grassy area, sipping coffee while pointedly avoiding eye contact with the sellers.

  ‘You realise we will have to buy something,’ I whispered to Helen, squeezing her arm as I led her to Heather’s stall.

  And then, much louder, ‘Heather, this is my lovely friend Helen from Cornwall who I’ve been telling you about. So, how’s it going? The stall looks gorgeous.’

  ‘Slow. Most of the customers are complete peasants.’ She had lowered her voice. ‘They keep trying to barter as if it’s a bloody boot sale.’

  ‘Oh, but this stuff is beautiful.’ Helen picked up two bangles displayed on a wooden mug tree. ‘Lacquer work, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve been having a lot of dreams about the sea. Marine inspiration. Sea urchins, mostly.’

  ‘Right.’

  Helen slipped on one of the bangles, rotating her arm to admire it while Heather was summoned away by a potential customer wishing to try on some earrings.

  As Heather rummaged beh
ind the stall for a mirror for her new prey, Helen suddenly turned back to me, eyes wide. ‘Oh, sugar. That’s not good.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘The bangle. I can’t get it off.’

  ‘But you must be able to. You got it on.’ I tried to help. We pushed. We pulled. We twisted her wrist this way and that but all in vain. A complete biological mystery.

  ‘I hate sea urchins, Sophie. Help me.’

  But the more we continued to try to squeeze the thumb into the palm, the more the hand seemed to inexplicably swell, until Heather reappeared.

  ‘So, how are we getting on, ladies?’

  ‘I love it. In fact I think I’ll wear it now.’ Helen held her arm out triumphantly, pushing the bangle back on to the wrist.

  ‘Thirty pounds. One of a pair, if you’re interested?’

  ‘Thirty pounds?’

  ‘Yes. Hand-painted.’ Heather tilted her chin up, eyes widening.

  ‘Lovely. I’ll just take the one, I think. I don’t like to jangle.’ Helen reached into her purse and began fumbling for notes as I bit away a smile and sorted through a range of pendants.

  ‘I’ve been looking for something bold to wear with black.’

  Heather, after producing change for Helen from a small blue cash box, immediately selected the largest pendant from the collection.

  ‘This one is very striking. And there are earrings to match.’

  ‘The budget’s twenty quid tops, Heather.’ I turned to wink at Helen.

  ‘You’re as bad as that lot, hiding on the grass. Oh – go on, then. Twenty quid for the set, seeing as it’s you.’

  It was as she again opened the cash box, and I noticed with a pang how little money there was inside, that I also caught a familiar flash of red linen coat out of the corner of my eye, over by the entrance to the main marquee. ‘Oh great – Emma’s here. I meant to ring her this morning.’

  ‘Yes – she’s here with Nathan. Also Tom from the village. He’s doing his bird stall in the marquee – for the RSPB. But I’d better warn you who else is here.’ Heather clamped the cash box shut and looked more serious. ‘You’ll never guess.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That woman police inspector. Or sergeant or whoever. The one investigating the Hartleys.’

  ‘Here? Today? But whatever for?’

  ‘Oh – not working. Word is she’s with an artist friend – got some rug stall in the marquee. Very good work, actually.’

  ‘So have you spoken to her?’

  ‘The artist?’

  ‘No, muppet. The police officer.’

  ‘Oh no – just nodded. To be honest, I was a bit embarrassed. I mean, I assume she’s off-duty so I didn’t really know what to say. But I haven’t had a chance to warn Emma.’

  We both looked across to watch Emma and Nathan enter the marquee.

  ‘It’ll be fine.’ I failed to make this sound convincing even to myself.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Though I’d better just go and have a word. Moral support.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  En route, I quickly summed up for Helen the unfair hassle Emma was having with the police and the village gossips. The brick through the window. The tittle-tattle about an imagined affair with Antony. I explained that I had only recently managed to stop her throwing in the towel and leaving the village after Theo was upset in playgroup. But I didn’t mention Hobbs Lane and Emma’s continuing pressure to speed up the deli opening now that she had decided to stay; I knew Helen would worry for me.

  There was a larger crowd inside the marquee and an impressive array of stalls along one side, and it was in this moment I realised, with another pang for Heather, that this was the prime spot. At the far end there was a group of smaller stands representing the charities which were to share some of the proceeds from the day, and to my surprise, it was here that Detective Inspector Melanie Sanders, looking relaxed and quite different with loose hair and a striking outfit of pale linen trousers and fitted aubergine top, was in animated discussion with Tom by the RSPB table. They were examining a map on a large display board, Tom pointing out different locations and both of them occasionally throwing back their heads to laugh.

  ‘That’s weird,’ I whispered, turning to Helen. ‘That woman in the cream trousers. She’s the police officer investigating the couple I found. The Hartleys. And that man she’s flirting with is the bird man of Tedbury.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘They look awfully pally, wouldn’t you say?’ I was genuinely shocked.

  Helen did not reply but instead moved across to a woodturning stall and picked up a fruit bowl.

  ‘What are you doing, Helen?’

  ‘I’m trying not to be so obvious, Sophie. You’re staring.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘And who’s this bird man?’

  ‘Wildlife campaigner. Tom – very nice guy, actually. He raised a packet a while back for that cirl bunting project. The one with all the pictures up on the stand.’

  ‘Right. And so what exactly do you plan to do now? I should think all this is the last thing you need, Sophie.’

  ‘It’s OK. I’m fine. Really. But I just want to make sure Emma is OK. I’ve noticed that Theo’s here too, which isn’t good. Means he isn’t back in playgroup yet.’ I was frowning. ‘Stay here, would you? I’ll be back in a moment.’

  I walked straight over to Theo, who was standing alongside another child in the corner of the tent, watching a basket-weaving display.

  ‘Hi, Theo. You all right there?’

  He nodded but said nothing, eyes uneasy, as the other child launched into a loud and highly animated running commentary on the basket-making.

  I waited for the child to finish, then smiled at Theo. ‘So what do you like best at the fair so far then, Theo?’

  He shrugged, lips clamped tight, then looked across the tent to point out his mother, who was examining a display of silk scarves.

  ‘Yes, thank you. I’ve seen her – I’m just going over. Now, you won’t wander off? Promise me?’

  Theo stared at me a little oddly, then shook his head and turned his attention back to the woman twisting the basket as she expertly wove the next row of straw into place.

  By the time I reached Emma and Nathan, they had both just spotted the off-duty Melanie and Tom.

  ‘Emma.’ I kissed her on the cheek, trying to read her expression and resting my palm on her arm by way of reassurance. I took in the red coat and the large buckle and felt guilty for my stupid mistake in Cornwall, for letting it unsettle me. It was a Boden coat. There must be hundreds out there . . .

  ‘I’m really sorry I’ve been so tied up the last few days. Are you two still OK for supper on Wednesday? We can catch up then. Helen’s looking forward to meeting you.’

  ‘Yes. It will be lovely.’ Nathan was staring at his shoes, shuffling uncomfortably. I realised he was probably wondering why I had gone for a midweek invitation, while Mark was away. I half-opened my mouth to explain that I wanted a little social while Helen was staying, but changed my mind. I’d explain on the night.

  ‘You’ve seen who’s here?’ Emma sounded wary.

  ‘Yes. Heather says she’s with an artist friend. A rug stall or something. Not an official visit.’

  ‘Oh. Bit odd, don’t you think? Seems she’s quite friendly with Tom. I didn’t realise—’

  At that moment there was the sound of a motor from behind us and we turned to see a disability scooter moving through the middle of the tent. We all stepped aside as the very tanned woman driver, accompanied by a tall, grey-haired man, meandered her way past us to the RSPB stand, where to my continued surprise she was greeted with a warm hug by DI Sanders. Next there were introductions to Tom, who was soon shaking hands and leading them over to the map, where he pointed out two or three locations before handing them a selection of leaflets from the stall.

  ‘So what’s all that about?’ Emma looked both puzzled and concerned.

  �
��No idea.’ I squeezed her arm and smiled, hating to see her this anxious; so unfair that some of the locals were being so small-minded. For a moment I took in how striking she looked; the contrast of the coat and her long dark hair. Jealousy. Yes. That was probably at the root of most people’s problem with her.

  ‘Look – I’ve been trying to persuade Em to leave. That police officer’s caused enough trouble. And from what I hear, Tom isn’t helping.’ Nathan’s voice was clipped and evidently angry.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ I looked back across at Tom. ‘I thought you two were mates?’

  ‘We are. Were. Look – let’s just leave it there. Things got a bit tricky while you were in Cornwall. Come on, Em.’ He had his hand protectively on Emma’s back, trying to steer her away, but she didn’t move.

  I waited before adding my own encouragement more softly. ‘Come on, Emma. Nathan’s right. You go on outside and I’ll fetch Theo.’

  Reluctantly Emma finally allowed herself to be led away while I returned to the basket-weaving display and took Theo’s hand. He looked uneasy and withdrawn still, saying nothing at all as I led him off to join his mother.

  ‘I really am sorry I haven’t been over this week, Emma. With Helen staying, I mean.’

  ‘It’s OK. But I do need to talk to you again about Hobbs Lane . . .’

  ‘Yes. I want to talk to you about that too. And so how’s our lovely Theo?’

  Emma paused to let Theo pull away again, wandering across the grass to watch a Great Dane being led a merry dance by its owner. ‘Not good. I’ll tell you Wednesday.’ She was whispering now. ‘He’s stopped talking.’

  ‘What? Shy spell suddenly, you mean? That’s not like him.’

  ‘No. He’s stopped talking completely, Sophie. Nathan thinks I should take him to the doctor but I don’t want a fuss.’

  And now there was a truly uncomfortable sensation in my stomach. ‘Oh, Emma. So he’s not back in playgroup?’