“Do you want a sandwich before you go?” We’ve always been like this. Me looking after her. As though I’m the mother. She looks rough though.
“No thanks. I’d better be off. Get it over with. I’ll see you when I get back.”
I need to take control of things. Rob’s office is a good place to start. I generally keep the door shut on the room, as it’s always an absolute tip.
Once upon a time, this, our spare room, might have been where we had put a second child. Somehow, we lost our way with that plan.
I don’t think it’s hit me fully yet that Rob’s not coming back. And the only time I’ve really cried has been when I was first told, and in response to Jack’s pain. When I was a drinker, I would cry at the drop of a hat. Now, it’s as though my emotions are injected with anaesthetic.
“How do you find anything in this mess?” I had said to him at the weekend when I took him a coffee. Only now can I recall him jumping as I entered the room. He had slipped whatever document he was looking at into one of his file trays. I feel sure that whatever he had in his hand is going to lead me to more information about what’s gone on with his job, or who this James Turner is.
“Organised chaos,” he had grinned at me, accepting the coffee. “I’ll be downstairs shortly. I’ve got a couple more things to sort out.” In times gone by, he’d have drawn me onto his knee and invited me to distract him.
In the end, it had been a further two hours before Rob had joined Jack and me in the garden. By the time he surfaced, I was feeling annoyed and resentful. He had been out at work all week, or so I thought. It was the first day of lovely sunshine on Saturday – we should have been going out somewhere as a family. Instead, I was left to occupy Jack, whilst Rob did whatever was so important in his office. And now I’m determined to find out what it was. I start by sifting through the papers in his middle tray. The same one I watched him slide a sheet of paper into on Saturday.
All that seems to be in here are bank statements. But a closer look shows they are not from our joint account, or from Rob’s own current account. I didn’t even know he had an account with Nat West. The transactions are uniform, except for a huge payment which was made to James Turner. I gasp as I realise it’s three hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds. The statement is from six weeks ago, around the time when I gave Rob thirty grand towards supposedly his cast iron investments. Where has he got the rest of the money from? Other than what I gave him, as far as I know, we only had around forty grand in our ISA. I need to check whether that’s still there.
Rob has always worked hard, and with my inheritance, we’ve been comfortable, but monies were depleting. I was toying with the idea of getting an office job or setting something up myself where I could work from home. I didn’t realise we still had that sort of money between us. ‘Had’ being the key word. However, this James Turner seems to be the one who will provide some answers.
I rifle through one of the other trays. It’s a pile of bills, all addressed to Rob. Council tax, gas, electric, water, internet. He always dealt with the money side of things – occasionally thrusting a piece of paper under my nose to sign. I never questioned it. As far as money went, I trusted him, and have always had what I need in my own personal account.
The sunlight illuminates the surface of a notepad. Though it’s a clean page, there’s the imprint of something that’s been written on the torn off page above it.
* * *
This is the worst bit.
I’ve got to hold my nerve
until they release his body
Chapter 19
I go into the next room and pluck one of Jack’s fat crayons from the art box on his desk. I make his bed and open his window before returning to Rob’s office. As I rub the crayon over the imprint, the words reveal themselves to me. If you don’t have my money by 6pm, there will be consequences.
It doesn’t look like Rob’s handwriting, but then Rob’s is fairly standard. His half lower case, half upper case scrawl is replicated by men half the world over. But two things are clear. I need to find out who would have been on the receiving end of these consequences, and I need to find out who James Turner is. I wonder if he’s anything to do with the loss of Rob’s job.
Evidently, I didn’t know my husband as well as I thought I did. And it’s not just the financial side of things. There’s the situation with his ex-wife and daughter, not to mention the rekindled relationship with Bryony.
The landline rings, startling me.
“Where are you?” It’s Mum. She’s never one for social niceties, like the word hello.
“I’m at home. Where else would I be?” I look up at the smiling photograph of Jack at two years old, hanging on the wall above Rob’s desk. We were happy then.
“Why aren’t you answering your phone?”
“I just have.”
“Your mobile?”
“The police are looking at it.”
“Why?”
“For evidence, I suppose.”
“Where are you?”
“Upstairs. In Rob’s office.”
“What are you doing?”
“Gosh Mum. It’s like being on Question Time. I’m sorting a few things out. Bills and stuff.”
“You should leave that for now. You’ve enough to be dealing with.”
“It’s OK.” I’m amazed by her sudden concern. “It’s good to keep busy.”
“I thought I’d see if you wanted me to pick Jack up from school whilst
