She looked round. No. They didn’t seem to be. The mothers around her seemed to be as happy as their children in the play area. She looked down at Josephina. The baby was lying asleep, arms up as if in surrender, tiny fists at the sides of her head. Completely unaware of this world – or any world – and anything in it.
And Marina felt another layer of guilt. For the baby. She should be happy, enjoying herself for Josephina’s sake. She was with the man she loved, Phil, the baby’s real father. She tried to imagine what it would have been like the other way round, what she would have felt if they hadn’t all been together. But that didn’t work.
So she tried to wish herself happy. Tried. And failed.
Marina pushed the baby buggy backwards and forwards. Josephina stirred slightly, kept on sleeping. She had tried to talk to the other mothers in the park but they seemed to have their own circles of friends. None of her old friends from teaching had small children so she couldn’t talk to them. And she couldn’t talk to Phil either, no matter how much she loved him.
Sitting there in the sunshine, with children playing all around her, the flowers in bloom and what she usually regarded as the comforting presence of the castle, she felt alone. Completely alone.
Her phone rang. She jumped. Her first response was to check the baby, see if it had woken her, if she was upset in any way. But Josephina just kept on sleeping. Good. Relieved, she checked the display, answered it. She knew who it was.
‘Hey,’ she said.
‘Hey yourself.’
Phil.
Then couldn’t think of anything more to say to him.
‘You OK?’ he said.
‘Fine. Just in Castle Park. Pushing Josephina. Letting her see the sunshine.’ She bit her lip.
‘Wish I was with you.’ He gave a small, brittle laugh that died away. ‘You’ve probably heard on the news, there’s been a murder.’
She hadn’t heard. She was barely aware of anything or anyone but herself at the moment. Still, the old, dark familiar shiver ran through her. ‘So that means…’
‘I’ll be late.’ He sighed. ‘Sorry. You know… you know what it’s like.’
That shiver again. ‘Yes. I know what it’s like. Is it…’ she said, knowing she should say something. ‘… is it bad?’
‘Like there are good ones?’ An old phrase he always used. ‘Yeah. Worse than… yeah.’ There were some other voices on the line, the sound of Phil covering the mouthpiece to talk to them. ‘Look,’ he said, coming back to her, ‘I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later, OK? Let you know what’s happening.’
‘OK.’
She rang off, looked at the phone. Only then realising he had still been talking to her, telling her he loved her.
She stood up. Looked around, saw nothing to keep her in the park, her vacation over. Started walking. She reached the top of the hill, the main road. Looked down the hill towards East Hill, upwards towards the town centre. Set off walking.
It was only when she found herself down by the bridge over the River Colne then she realised she had no idea where she had been or where she was going.
13
Suzanne stood with her back against her front door, wondering when she would ever feel safe again, hoping the locks and chains would be enough to keep out any intruder.
She could still feel the ghost of the cold metal inside her. See the screw-top pots with her different bodily fluids and samples taken on cotton buds all in a line. And Doctor Winter checking her notes, looking her in the eye:
‘
There would be more tests, but that was the conclusion.
Suzanne should have felt relieved. But…
Before her was the phone table. Her landline handset lying across her hard-back address book. Had she left it that way? At that angle? Down the hall she could see into her bedroom, see the duvet pulled back, the open curtains, the raised, wooden blind…
‘Oh God…’
She sank to the floor, her back against the front door, covered her face with her hands. Tears came. Great, wracking sobs. She pulled her hands in tighter, her fingernails digging into her skin.
‘No… no…’
Her legs kicked out, impotent with rage and frustration. Felt herself caving in to the emotion, being weakened by it like acid eating away at her, destroying her from the inside… Then she opened her eyes. Willed the tears to stop.
‘No…’ Shouting. ‘No… you’re not going to win… No…’
Suzanne felt something rise within her. Hot. Fiery. Angry. She stood up.
‘No, no, you bastard…’
She looked around the hallway for something – anything – to hold. Saw the phone. Picked it up. ‘You hear me?’ Turning round on the spot, shouting at the walls. ‘You’re not… going to… fucking… win…’
She hurled the phone as hard as she could. It hit the far wall, fell to the floor.
She stared at it, sighed. Light-headed but the emotion subsiding, breathing like she had just run a marathon. Or run for her life.
And she hadn’t mentioned Anthony. Surely they would find out soon enough. They had records, they would check them. And then they would think she was lying. Making it up for whatever reason, to get attention.
Well, she wasn’t lying. Wasn’t making it up. And if the bastards thought that…
She wiped the tears away, her cheeks burning. Sat back on the floor.
The photo of her lying semi-naked would now be in some forensic lab. She could just imagine it being passed round by strangers, objectified like some porn image. Being commented on, judged, rated. It felt like a second violation. She tried to tell herself that they were professionals, that it was only a piece of evidence from which clues could be removed. But she wasn’t convinced. She began to tremble, from anger or pity she didn’t know. Didn’t want to know.
She breathed deeply, tried to focus. Concentrate. Her fingers picking at the plaster in the crook of her arm where she had given a blood sample. She looked down the hall again, into the rooms. Everything that she had built up, the place she regarded as safe, had been violated. No other word for it. Burglary victims talked of the same thing, but this, thought Suzanne, was something more. Something deeper and crueller. A kind of rape.
‘Bastard…’ Her jaw ached. She was grinding her teeth.
Then the doorbell sounded.
And Suzanne screamed.
14
Anni Hepburn lifted the phone, keyed in a number, waited. It was answered.
‘DS Gosling.’
‘Jane? It’s Anni. You busy?’
‘Doing door-to-door. You going to be long?’ Door-to-door. The Birdies were working with Phil, of course they were. Well, good luck to them. And him.
A shudder of guilt ran through her. No. Bitterness wasn’t healthy. She should ignore it. But it had been happening more and more since Clayton’s death. The team had been shaken after that and, she told herself, they all had different ways of coping. As Phil had told her, grieve all you like, but get on with the job.
