‘Self-hypnosis,’ said Auntie Sue, with a look that told me this wasn’t the first time she’d seen it. ‘It might take a while. I’ll put the kettle on.’
Auntie Sue’s recollection of the days after the accident was slightly better than mine. She had helpfully kept a list of who had sent cards and who had phoned, knowing that she wouldn’t remember who to thank later. She’d also kept note of people who had taken flowers to the site of the accident. I had no intention of visiting the scene of the crash and had been deliberately avoiding that road out of the village. I pictured a tree on a sharp bend of a country lane, black skid marks pointing towards a makeshift shrine of wilted blooms in plastic wrappers, and shuddered.
Almost all of the visitors after Amy’s death had been at her house. That had been the family base for most of that time, where we had huddled in shock and congregated in our misery. There had been a couple of days when Mum had taken to her bed, and Auntie Sue had stayed home to watch her. Sue couldn’t remember who had called at their house during those days, but she didn’t think Mike had been.
‘There,’ said Mum, brandishing a sheet of paper.
She had scrawled a dozen names with notes beside them. I quickly scanned her list. Mum was not only claiming to remember who had been to her house, but when they had been there and how long they’d stayed for.
‘How can you even remember all of this? You were in bed.’
‘Just because I was in bed doesn’t mean I wasn’t present,’ she said with a shrug, ‘I was very much here, and focusing very hard on… not drifting away. I was practicing hyper-mindfulness.’
Auntie Sue looked at Mum’s list and nodded.
‘This does seem about right,’ she said, taking a sip of tea.
Mike had not been to the house, not according to Mum’s list at least. Rachel had been of course, several times – but I already knew that. I was only listed as visiting once. I swallowed, a lump rising in my throat.
Diana Wheeler had visited. The only other name I recognised was Richard Pringle. According to Mum, he had been over three times.
‘What’s the deal with Richard Pringle?’ I asked them. It was a question I’d been mulling over for a while.
Mum and Auntie Sue exchanged glances. Mum bit her lip. ‘His heart is in the right place…’ She hesitated. ‘And he was very fond of Amy.’
Auntie Sue frowned. ‘He’s a good person. I know what people say about him, but Amy always had time for him. And she knew him well – better than most.’
‘What do people say about him?’ I asked, trying to keep the concern from my voice.
‘Oh, nothing,’ Auntie Sue said, with a dismissing wave of her hand. ‘Nothing important. You know how people here like to gossip, no matter what truth there was to any of it…’
‘What are you talking about?’
Mum and Auntie Sue looked at each other.
‘Go ahead,’ Mum said. ‘You might as well tell her now.’
Auntie Sue took a deep breath, shook her head like she was thinking better of it, and then began to tell me before she changed her mind.
‘Richard’s not from Seahouses, so even though he’s lived here for years, clearly that still means he’s an outsider.’ She pursed her lips. ‘He’s also not married, which would make him an eligible bachelor in most places, but oh no, not here. Here, that’s a cause for suspicion. And he has the audacity to live alone in a large house. You get the picture - people are jealous. They don’t know his life history, he didn’t share it, so they’ve filled in the blanks themselves.’
She sighed. ‘There have been various rumours about him over the years, but the one that has persisted is that he left his last school after becoming involved with a former pupil. Can you imagine?’ Auntie Sue said, exasperated. ‘Absolutely no truth to it whatsoever!’
She shook her head and continued. ‘The man can’t do right for doing wrong. People decided that he’s a bit creepy, and any time something happens, the finger of blame gets pointed at him.’
‘Like what?’ I asked.
Auntie Sue rolled her eyes. ‘Underwear stolen from a washing line. A mysterious dark figure spotted in the back lane one night. An anonymous love letter posted through someone’s letterbox. Richard Pringle gets the blame for everything. It’s a wonder he still lives here.’
‘He was very keen on our Amy, though,’ Mum said, raising an eyebrow.
‘Anne! Don’t you start!’
Mum pursed her lips into a sulk. ‘I’m just saying… That man has a strange energy. And he moped after Amy. Even she got exasperated with him at times.’
The idea was needling at me, like a tiny stone in my shoe. I pictured Richard in my house, about to kiss me, then telling me that I looked just like my sister. I thought of the roses he had sent with an anonymous note, and the feeling that he was watching from the window whenever I went past his place. And he had been here, to this house, three times in the week after the accident.
Then I remembered: Richard had mentioned Amy having money worries without me having said anything. And he’d seemed to know about Mike’s affair when apparently, nobody else did. My blood ran cold.
I hadn’t questioned how he knew those things. But had he been reading it all in the messages I’d sent to my sister?
DCI Bell answered on the third ring. ‘Isabelle. To what do I owe the pleasure?’
I
