Greenwich Park

by Katherine Faulkner

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ I say eventually. ‘I don’t know what you want me to say.’

  ‘I want you to believe me.’ His eyes are wide. He grabs for my hand again, over the table. ‘Katie, I have no idea what happened to Rachel, OK? I had nothing to do with any of this. I was telling the truth about the cellar thing – whoever you saw her go down there with, it wasn’t me. That time you saw us together, when we were talking – that was the last time I saw her. I swear. She told me the baby wasn’t mine. We talked a bit. Then we parted as friends. That was it. Honestly.’

  We sit in silence for a while. I have another sip of wine. I can tell that Charlie is searching my face, trying to work out what I’m thinking.

  ‘I still haven’t told the police about the cellar thing,’ I say quietly. ‘I’m starting to wonder if I even saw it. Maybe I was just pissed. Maybe I was seeing things.’

  Charlie says nothing. I rub my hands over my face.

  ‘This is a fucking mess, Charlie.’

  ‘I know.’

  I finish my wine. When the waiter arrives, asking if I want another, I nod without even thinking.

  ‘How have you left things with the police?’

  Charlie scowls, rubs his knuckles against the side of his head. ‘At first they didn’t seem that bothered when I went in and made that statement,’ he says. ‘But now this new team have taken over, they’re all over me. Taken my phone, searched my flat. It’s because of getting done last year. They’ll pin something on me if they can.’

  ‘So why has Rory been arrested?’

  He shrugs. ‘No idea. If Rory knew Rachel, that’s news to me.’ He pauses. ‘Can we go for a smoke?’

  I wince. ‘It’s so cold out there.’

  ‘Have my jacket.’

  So we sit on Kensington High Street, and he smokes, and I cradle my glass of wine in both hands, his jacket around my shoulders. I look over at the blinking Christmas lights, the sparkling window displays. People are flagging cabs, gloved hands outstretched. Shiny black taxis purr up beside them, their wheels quiet in the slush.

  ‘I know what people think,’ he says. ‘What the police think. You can see it all over their faces. They talk to me like I’m a drug dealer or something.’

  He looks so sad.

  ‘Come on, Charlie. No one thinks you’re a drug dealer.’

  ‘Not you. But them. Them and my fucking brother. You know after everything, he still expects me to bring him stuff, to his parties. It’s the only reason the two of them want me around. Fucking hypocrites.’

  ‘What do you mean, the two of them?’

  Charlie shakes his head. ‘Forget I said anything.’

  ‘Charlie, come on. What are you talking about? Does Serena ask you for stuff too?’

  He exhales a plume of smoke into the night air. ‘No. Well. Not coke, anyway.’

  I stare at him.

  ‘What then?’

  ‘It was only once recently she asked me for something. It pissed me off, that’s all. I told her no way. Anyway, she wanted weird stuff – stuff I’d have no fucking idea how to get.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Some kind of benzo, something heavy-duty. Xanax, maybe, or diazepam?’

  I’m stunned. ‘Are we talking about the same Serena here?’

  He gives a sad smile. ‘I know, I was surprised too.’

  ‘What the hell did she want that for?’

  Charlie shrugs, brings the cigarette to his lips again.

  ‘Search me.’

  HELEN

  Last night, Daniel and I watched it on the news together. I pulled the blanket up over my knees, held on to Daniel in horror. They replayed the footage of Rachel’s tearful father, his voice shaking as he appealed for anyone, anyone who knew anything, to come forward. The more his voice cracked, and tears welled in his eyes, the more the cameras snapped and flashed, as if he was setting off a crackle of electricity. Then came the photograph of Rachel – her painted face, her dark red dress. Her crooked, pirate smile. They showed a view of Rory and Daniel’s office with a police officer standing guard outside, a bit of the promo film of the wharf project. Then, startlingly, there was a clip of Daddy at Haverstock in the eighties that I’d never even seen before. I gasped when he appeared on the screen, looking just as he did in our childhood photographs, with all his hair intact, grinning away as he unveiled plans for his famous redevelopment of Tobacco Docks, shaking hands with Margaret Thatcher. Then came the footage, pin-sharp by comparison, of Rory walking into the police station the other day, his face like thunder. He was wearing his smartest suit, one I’ve seen him wear a hundred times, his glamorous female lawyer trotting to keep pace with him. I could see in his eyes that he was scared. Tears had pricked my eyes then. Whatever he’s done, he’s still my big brother.

  Daniel left before light this morning. I’ve never seen him so upset, so stressed. His face when the news showed footage of Haverstock. My heart is breaking for him. He has put so much into that company. I can’t help but wonder if it will ever recover. I’m only glad Daddy didn’t live long enough to see it happen.

  Rory’s arrest couldn’t have come at a worse time – the client hasn’t signed off on the next phase of the new development yet, and now they are talking about holding off until ‘things are more settled’. The police have got the offices locked down – Daniel can’t even get in.

  He’s been going to work in the library. He’s told me to call the second I need anything, if there’s any sign the baby is coming. He is only round the corner. I just nodded and turned the news back on. The police seem to tell the reporters more than they tell us. Rory still hasn’t been let go. It’s been nearly a whole day. What are they asking him? What is he saying?

  I think about scenarios over and over. I do this all the time now. I imagine Rachel on a train somewhere, speeding north, Scotland perhaps. Or in a fast car, driving between tall fir trees, brake lights like rubies dazzling behind her, the forest opening its mouth and swallowing her up.

  At night, I dream of her. I have nightmares where she is hit by cars, where she is dead in gutters, thrown out of windows, glass shattering. Sometimes, she is there even after she is dead, ghostlike, dressed in a long red cloak, the hood pulled down so that there is only darkness where her face should be. In some of the dreams, I become Rachel. I am chased by a wolf through the trees in the park, a woodcutter, an axe swinging at his waist. Or I am drowning, and then I see myself from above and I am not myself, but her. It is her pale face bobbing in the shallows of a pebble beach, her black hair splayed in the grey-green surf.

  I wake late, stumble downstairs, trying in vain to shake the dreams from my aching body. As I open the post, I wonder whether she could have been in an accident by the river. She liked drinking in the Trafalgar Arms. I think about the low wall, the brown swell of the Thames. I wonder how long it would take for a body to wash up. Hours? Days? Months? An image comes to me, unbidden, of her body, face down, rising and falling, her flesh pale, her joints bloated by river water, a blanket of maggots seething underneath. I close my eyes. Stop, I think. Stop.

  I’m so lost in thought that it takes me a moment to register what the letter is saying. No, I think. This can’t be right.

  Within minutes, I’m on the phone to Brian, our financial adviser. My battery is low, and my only charger is upstairs. I clutch the letter in one hand, my phone in the other. I’m put on hold, given some Elvis Presley to listen to. It seems to go on forever; I’m worried the phone will go dead.

  ‘Helen? Sorry about the wait. How are you? How can I help?’

  The sound of Brian’s voice, the normality of it, is calming, and I feel myself take a deep breath, my heart slowing slightly. I imagine him in his office on the parade, the little bowl of sweets in gold wrappers on his desk, the photograph of him skiing with his kids. The reassuring dullness of it all.

  ‘I know this sounds mad, but bear with me,’ I tell him, trying to keep my voice light. ‘I’ve just had this letter
addressed to me. It says something about the house being remortgaged. And obviously, um, we haven’t remortgaged, have we? I mean, you arranged our last mortgage and there’s still about five years to go on it till it’s all paid off. That’s right, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, that’s certainly what I thought,’ he says. ‘I certainly don’t remember us arranging to remortgage.’

  ‘I’m sure one of us would remember,’ I say, trying to laugh.

  ‘Quite,’ chuckles Brian. ‘Hang on, I’m just getting back to my desk. What does the letter say, exactly?’

  I read the letter out to him.

  ‘And this is the weird bit. It talks about a remortgage for home improvements?’

  ‘That is strange. To what value?’

  My heart rate creeps up again, the hand that’s holding the letter shaking slightly.

  ‘Um. It says here it’s for 85 per cent of the property value. It’s … it’s £3.6 million.’

  There is silence at the other end.

  ‘I’m sorry. You’ve lost me,’ Brian says eventually. ‘Your previous mortgage was next to nothing, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘That’s right – I’ve just pulled up your records here. It was less than £100,000. Just that chunk your parents had left at the time of their death. Yes, I remember now.’ I hear him click, closing a window away. ‘Why would a lender think you wanted to take out a £3.6 million debt?’

  I have no answer for him.

  ‘All right, Helen, don’t worry,’ he says. ‘I’m sure there’s an innocent explanation for all this.’ But he doesn’t sound sure at all. He sounds worried. I feel my pulse climbing, the palms of my hands starting to sweat. ‘Leave it with me, all right? I’ll look into it for you. I’ll call the lender. Who is it?’

  I read him out the name, the number it says to call. ‘I’ve never even heard of them. Have you?’

  He doesn’t answer.

  ‘Brian?’

  ‘Um, OK, Helen, I don’t want you to call that number. Don’t do anything, all right? I’ll look into this straight away for you. Keep your phone on. I’ll come back to you as soon as possible.’

  I nod, tears forming in my eyes. ‘Thanks, Brian,’ I croak, before I hang up.

  I try Daniel, but there is no answer. I tap out a message telling him to call me urgently. Then I slump down in the chair, my back aching, and stare out of the window. It is raining again, the street a gloomy watercolour, the sky and the puddles leaking into each other. My fingers find the wedding ring on my left hand and I turn it around and around and around.

  As the sky darkens, I check my phone again and again. Nothing from Daniel. The battery is dying; I’ll have to go and get the charger. Serena hasn’t returned any of my calls since I saw her. I want to let her know I’m here for her. I want to know how Rory is. But she’s been so distant ever since I told her about the notes I found, my suspicions about Rory.

  I head into the kitchen, take down the silver caddy where I keep the camomile tea. I feel so tired, as if all the energy has drained out of my body. I just want to sleep. I think about curling up on the sofa, a pillow between my knees, another behind my back.

  I hear a key turn in the front door. I turn round. There is the shadow of a figure, moving behind the cloudy glass.

  HELEN

  ‘Helen? Are you there?’

  I hadn’t realised I was holding my breath. I lean on the sideboard, cursing myself for being so on edge.

  ‘Helen, you want to see me.’

  ‘Yes, sorry. I’m so sorry. Come in.’

  It’s just Vilmos, the builder. I’d completely forgotten I’d asked him to come and look at the cellar foundations, that he’s still got his key. I usher him in.

  I feel like telling him to go away. I’m desperate to lie down, get some rest. But he is here now. I tell him about the concrete, the crack that has spread across the new foundation. ‘I know Daniel said we wanted to pause the work for a bit, but I was a bit worried about it. Can you check it for me?’

  Vilmos looks at me, confused. ‘Helen, I not work for you any more. Daniel told me. He is using other guys now.’

  ‘Who?’

  Vilmos sniffs. ‘Some other guys. Here, take these.’ He hand me the spare set.

  I close my fingers around the keys. There is an awkward silence. Why didn’t Daniel tell me we’d changed our building company? I thought he’d worked with Vilmos for years.

  ‘Helen, I don’t like ask,’ he says, staring down at my belly. It is huge now – almost comedic. I feel ridiculous even walking down the street. ‘Your husband – I need money. For my guys. He needs to pay me for work we have done. I wait a long time for this.’

  I rub my forehead, embarrassed. ‘Vilmos, I’m really sorry. I didn’t know we were behind. I thought Daniel was organising it all. He’s had a lot on his mind. I’m sure, I’m sure …’ I hold the sideboard. The world is swimming again, the little twists of black and white crinkling on the sides of my vision, like sweet wrappers.

  ‘Please, Helen,’ he says. His face is etched with kindness. ‘Do not worry for the money now.’ He pauses. ‘You said in your message there is crack. You want I have a look?’

  When he emerges from the cellar, his hair and clothes are dusted with grime. His expression seems to have clouded over slightly.

  ‘What do you think?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Could be too much water in concrete mix, wrong type of concrete. But … I don’t know. It doesn’t look like this.’ He scratches the side of his head. ‘Can I ask another guy, bring with me?’

  ‘Of course,’ I say. ‘It’s not urgent really.’

  He nods. ‘OK, I come back tomorrow. And you are OK now?’

  I force a smile, look up at Vilmos. ‘Honestly, I’m fine.’ I get up, flick the kettle on. I will have that tea, try and sleep for a bit.

  ‘OK, good,’ he says, smiling back uncertainly. ‘I see mark.’ He motions to his own forehead, then gestures at mine. ‘I worry you bang your head.’

  The kettle clicks off, the steam rising between me and Vilmos, clouding the windows. I stare at him.

  ‘What are you talking about? What mark?’

  ‘In here.’ Vilmos frowns at me. ‘Come, look.’

  And he beckons me towards the cellar door.

  KATIE

  I’ve never been to this part of Cambridge – it’s a new housing estate, the homes like little rabbit hutches, the lawns perfectly manicured. I pull up round a corner – I know what these places are like about parking. Even so, as I approach, I feel the pale shrouds of net curtains twitching at me.

  An overcast sky bears down overhead, huge and flat as the fens. An icy wind blows, a spinning washing line creaking on one of the front lawns. All the houses look the same. It takes me a while to find the right one, towards the end of a cul-de-sac. I see a shaft of movement inside after I press the doorbell, its artificially jaunty tune jarring in the wintery quiet.

  The door opens, and I’m faced with him, a beaten-looking man, small and slight like a jockey. The man from the press conference.

  ‘Thanks so much for agreeing to see me,’ I say. He just nods, steps aside so I can pass.

  He leads me into a conservatory at the back of the house. It’s chilly, the wind whistling loudly against its plasticky exterior. In the back garden is a rusty barbecue, half-heartedly coated in a rain cover. It looks like it hasn’t been used in years. Next to it is one of those plastic poles with a ball on a string attached, two broken racquets leaning against a shed at the back.

  I didn’t tell Helen I was coming here – in truth, I hardly knew myself. I’d planned to go for a run on the heath, wander round Hampstead, find a new book, enjoy my day off. Instead, I’d found myself in my car again on the Archway Road, passing under the bridge and speeding out towards Cambridge, that same album playing over and over.

  The other media had been warned off. Press conferences only, that was the deal. No door knocks. Family liai
son were all over him. I broke the rules even by trying him on the phone. But I had to talk to him. He might know why Rachel was hanging around us, what she wanted. There must be a reason. He might know something that could help Charlie.

  I tried not to think about the other possibility. That he will know something that will make Charlie look even guiltier than he already does.

  John brings me a coffee and I sip it gratefully, even though it’s milkier than I’d usually like, and the instant coffee grains haven’t completely dissolved. They float on the surface, like little brown ants.

  I gesture to a large silver frame, with the word ‘FAMILY’ engraved across the bottom. It shows John with a bottle-blonde woman and two little blonde girls.

  ‘That’s a lovely picture. Which one is Rachel?’

  I realise after I’ve asked the question that neither looks particularly like her.

  John looks embarrassed. ‘That’s me and my missus, and our two girls,’ he says. He picks up the frame for a closer inspection, as if he hasn’t really looked at it in a while. ‘My two youngest. Mine and Stacey’s. That’s Holly on the left and on the right is Abby.’ He sighs, puts the picture back, winces a little. ‘Rachel had left home by then. She and Stacey … well, they didn’t always see eye to eye.’

  I look around the room, at the other photographs on the wall. There are pictures of the two blonde girls everywhere – in a holiday swimming pool, in their school uniforms, on a log flume in bright T-shirts and baseball caps, waves of water flying up either side of them. I can’t see any of Rachel.

  ‘So you and Rachel’s mother separated a long time ago?’

  He snorts. ‘She just left one day. Rachel was only six.’ He sniffs. ‘Liked a drink. You know. She died a few years after that.’

  I nod, slowly. ‘So you were a widower. That must have been hard.’

  John shrugs, looks out into the garden. ‘I did my best,’ he says. ‘I always did my best for her.’