It was an ordinary semi-detached house in sand-coloured brick, with a decorative wooden wheel attached to the wall beside a small covered porch.
The front garden was an immaculate triangle of grass, the path to the front door fringed with lavender, and blinds were drawn over the windows, presumably to stop the sun from fading the furniture inside.
My hands were gripping the steering wheel, my face prickled with sweat. Even with the window down, there wasn’t much air coming in.
Children were playing in the street, riding their bikes up and down, reminding me again of Jamie and me during school holidays, before our trip to Cornwall, playing in the quiet alley at the side of the house with our friends.
I looked for signs of life and saw the downstairs window was open. Someone must be in. Was Angie thinking about me right now, wondering when I was going to call, planning what to say to me – speculating about what I was going to say to her? Would there be anger, after all this time?
Part of me wanted to stay in the car, to turn round and drive back to the cottage, but a bigger part – the part that had been waiting for an opportunity like this – propelled me out and up the neatly paved path to the front door.
As I raised my hand to knock, I paused. It felt significant, as if the moment should be marked with a fanfare. I heard shrieks and laughter from somewhere next door, and the splash of a paddling pool, which sounded ironic somehow.
Quelling a rush of nerves, I rapped on the door and stepped back. I looked at the open window. I couldn’t see in, but sensed someone looking out, checking to see who was there. I arranged my face in a smile so I didn’t look threatening, and seconds later, a blurred shape appeared behind the frosted glass. The door opened a couple of inches and a woman’s face peered round, knotted into a frown. ‘Hello?’
‘Angie Pascoe?’ My throat felt full of cotton wool.
‘Who’s asking?’
I swallowed. ‘My name’s Beth Turner … Abbot.’
The door swung wider, revealing a short, barrel-shaped woman about Mum’s age, in cropped white linen trousers with navy flats, and a floaty top that matched her vivid blue eyes. She pushed her short, ash-blonde hair behind her ears, revealing big hooped earrings. ‘You’d better come in,’ she said, her Cornish accent strong. ‘I thought you might pop over. Your friend said you was staying round ’ere.’
‘Near Penzance.’ I entered a cream-carpeted hallway painted primrose yellow, a smell of citrus air freshener making my nostrils itch. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’
‘This is a real surprise,’ she said. ‘’Aven’t thought about you in years.’ She closed the door and looked me up and down with open interest. I must look a mess. I hadn’t bothered with make-up, and my hair had been whipped around from driving with the windows down. I smoothed it back and tugged my top over my shorts, self-conscious under her scrutiny. ‘You’re the little girl who nearly drowned.’
‘That’s me!’ It came out jaunty, as if I might do jazz hands. ‘I didn’t though, thanks to your husband, Mike.’
She made a noise, between a laugh and snort of derision. ‘Only decent thing that bastard ever did, pardon my language.’
I froze, not sure I’d heard correctly.
She turned, indicating I follow. ‘Let me get you a drink – you look hot.’ As she headed down the hall, I noticed she had a slight limp. ‘This weather’s starting to get on my nerves,’ she said. ‘If I’m ’onest, and I never thought I’d say this, we could do with some rain. Mind you, there’s a storm brewing. I can always tell because my arthritis plays up; it’s in my hips, see?’ She patted the left one. ‘Tea, coffee, or something cold?’
I managed to unglue my feet from the floor. ‘Water will be fine, thank you,’ I said faintly, following her into a small, square kitchen that smelt faintly of last night’s dinner – something spicy. In contrast to the hallway it was a messy jumble of colour, mostly due to the number of teapots in various shapes and sizes lining every surface.
‘I collect them,’ she said, seeing me blink at the huge array. ‘Got a cabinet in the other room, full of them. My kids and grandkids buy me one every Christmas and birthday.’ She shook her head, hooped earrings dancing, and her tanned face relaxed into a smile. ‘I won’t be able to move for them soon,’ she said, taking a glass from a pine cabinet above the worktop. ‘George reckons he might have to move out.’
It felt so surreal, standing there, listening to her everyday chatter, trying to work out why she’d spoken like that about Mike. A ginger cat came through the open back door and wound around my ankles, purring loudly.
‘Tommy’s come to say hello.’ Angie beamed fondly as she handed me a glass of tap water, which I drank in a few gulps. ‘Biscuit?’
At a loss for words, I nodded.
‘Sit down.’ She nodded to a table jammed against the wall, a chair at either end. I obeyed, and while she peeled the lid off a Tupperware box, I glanced around, looking for evidence of the other occupants of the house. ‘You have children?’
‘Three, all grown up now.’ She offered me the box of biscuits, watching as I took one and ate it quickly. ‘Have another.’
I shook my head and she replaced the lid before settling herself opposite me, wincing as she got comfortable. ‘They’re not his,’ she said, without preamble. ‘The kids. They’re not Mike’s, if that’s what you were wondering.’
‘Right.’ I tried to work out what that meant. If they weren’t his children, there was no history with me – no need for revenge for the loss of their beloved father. It sounded as if Angie hadn’t lost any sleep over his loss, either.
‘You said he … Mike …’ For some reason, I stumbled over the name. ‘You said saving me was the only decent thing he’d ever done.’
Her mouth puckered, creating grooves in her peach-coloured lip liner. ‘He wasn’t a good person,’ she said starkly. ‘I should never have married him; he was sixteen years older than me for a start. My mother tried to warn me. “Once a cheater, always a cheater,” but I was in love, thought he’d be different with me.’ She shrugged. ‘I was wrong.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be.’ Her face hardened. ‘He got what he deserved.’
Her words hit me like a slap. This wasn’t going remotely how I’d imagined. There was no shrine here to a well-loved husband, no grieving widow and children. Angie sounded as if she’d hated Mike.
She was talking again. ‘I thought at first he’d gone into the sea to impress her.’ She spat the word like venom. ‘His other woman, one of many I may add – he left a trail of broken hearts – but when I found the note and discovered he’d been planning to go, it must have seemed like divine intervention, you getting into trouble like that. A chance to die like a hero. Not that I was having any of that.’
She looked at me darkly, in the grip of an old emotion. ‘I told the police not to release his name, said I didn’t want any publicity, any contact with family.’ The family. Me. ‘I knew she wouldn’t want it getting out, not that she was capable of much anyway, bloody mess she was – I think he’d woken up to that. It’s why he wanted out, and me telling him I’d never divorce him didn’t help, but why should I have made it easy for him?’ Her gaze was faraway, somewhere tangled and dark. ‘He’d had it easy for too long. Anyway, he took the coward’s way out, because that’s what he was, deep down. A coward.’
Her stream of words ran out and she refocused her gaze on me, as if trying to solve a riddle. ‘I don’t suppose this is what you were expecting to hear.’
My thoughts were running like mice. I couldn’t seem to arrange them into any sort of order. ‘Not exactly.’ I gripped my half-empty glass. ‘I’ve thought about him for so long, you see, about how he died saving my life, feeling so guilty and wondering how his family had coped, thinking you must hate me—’
‘Hate you?’ Her voice sharpened. ‘You did us a favour.’ Her hand came to rest on my knee. ‘My life improved no end after he’d gone.’
I reeled back. ‘That’s … harsh.’
Angie sniffed and sat back, seeming to deflate a little. ‘I wouldn’t have met George if Mike hadn’t died. He made me believe in love again.’ Her face softened, the lines around her eyes smoothing out. ‘Twenty-five years we’ve been married, and never argued once. He treats me like a princess.’
I clutched at her words, knowing them to be true. It was comforting to know she hadn’t suffered, even if her reaction was a bit extreme. ‘Are his parents still alive?’
She sat back, seeming startled by the question. ‘They were getting on when they had him, were dead before I met him,’ she said slowly. ‘Partly why I fell for him, to be honest. He made out he was some lonely orphan who needed love, needed a big family … very charming he was. Until we were married, then he went off the whole idea and started having affairs. He liked the thought of being in love, not the reality.’ Her eyes darkened. ‘He could get nasty sometimes.’
The picture she was painting wasn’t pleasant, but I had to say it. ‘If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be here. I … I thought I could visit his grave, at least.’
That gave Angie pause. ‘Like I said, at least he did one good thing in his life before he died, and I’m glad for you.’ She shook her head. ‘But you shouldn’t have spent all this time feeling bad about it, love. You don’t owe him anything. You were only a child. It was his decision to swim out after you that day.’
Hearing the words so often repeated over the years by family, friends and counsellors sounded different coming from Angie. His decision. You were only a child. I could feel them seeping through me, wrapping around my heart. Would it have made a difference, knowing – as Angie had viciously put it – that Mike hadn’t been a nice man; that he hadn’t been mourned, there were no heartbroken children, that his parents had been long-dead? Probably. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, thinking of all the times I’d imagined the lives ripped apart by his death. ‘I’m who I am, because of that day,’ I said. ‘I became an art therapist so I could help other people, make my life worthwhile to justify Mike losing his.’
‘There you go then.’ Angie became brisk, matter-of-fact. ‘Another good thing that came out of him dying.’ She smiled properly, her eyes friendly. ‘You know what, I’m glad you came. It’s good to know things turned out well for you. I couldn’t have cared less the day he was found, if I’m honest. I was so bloody angry with him.’
‘You said there was a note,’ I said. ‘What sort of note?’
Her smile dimmed. ‘He pushed it through the letterbox that morning. Not here, we lived in Truro then, big house with all the trimmings. He weren’t short of money, even if it was inherited. Anyway …’ She gave herself a little shake. ‘I’d been out at work and when I got back it was there, on the mat. Said he’d had enough, he couldn’t take any more, that I wouldn’t be seeing him again.’
‘Like … a suicide note?’
She raised one shoulder, let it fall. ‘Either he was planning to do away with himself, or do a runner, get away from her. I don’t know why he was there that day, unless he was planning to jump in the sea. There’s a notorious spot nearby for jumpers.’
I was trying to get my head around what she was saying. ‘You think maybe he didn’t make it back to the beach deliberately?’
Both shoulders lifted this time. ‘All I know is, Mike was a really strong swimmer. He competed at national level when he was younger. It was his favourite way to keep fit, or so he said. He used a friend’s pool a lot, though it turned out he was sleeping with the wife.’
I ignored the last bit. ‘You said he was seeing someone else when it happened.’
Angie’s eyes frosted over. ‘Linda Taylor,’ she said, making a face as though the words tasted sour. ‘An alcoholic. You could tell, even though she was pretty. Lot younger than him, that’s how he liked them. She lived with her mum on the Gadsbrook Estate near Truro, probably still does, if she hasn’t drunk herself to death. Worked nights in a fancy bar in the town – that’s where she met Mike. God knows what he saw in her. I think he liked being in charge, or maybe he really loved her. Who knows?’
She stopped as a man appeared in the doorway. He was big, his fleshy face topped with thick grey hair, with eyes that twinkled behind round glasses. ‘I didn’t know you were expecting guests today.’
‘This is George.’ Angie got up and rubbed her hip with a wince. ‘George, this is the young lady I told you about.’
I rose, returning his slightly bemused smile. ‘I’ve got to go,’ I said, desperate for some space to process all the new knowledge. ‘Thank you so much for talking to me.’ I turned to Angie. ‘I can’t tell you how much it’s helped.’ It was true. I felt lighter than I had half an hour ago – maybe than I had for years – even as my brain still seethed with questions. Had Mike really intended to take his own life and I’d unwittingly been his way out? It was an odd sort of consolation, if it was true.
‘It was nice to meet you.’ Angie’s face worked briefly. ‘You look after yourself now.’ She opened her arms and I moved into them, not sure what to do with the rush of emotion in my chest. ‘Don’t give that man another thought.’ She pressed a clumsy kiss on my cheek and I breathed in her flowery scent. ‘Just get on with your life.’
I wanted so much to do exactly that, but as I left Angie and George on their doorstep and drove out of sight, my mind returned to the newspaper I’d found that morning; to Vic, and to everything that had happened since my birthday, and I knew it wasn’t that simple.
Someone wanted me dead, and I still didn’t know who, or why. All I knew was, it had nothing to do with Angie.
Maybe Linda Taylor would have some answers.