Chapter 29

Tuesday, 2nd November, 3:13am

‘My battery’s nearly dead.’

The WPC looks up from the form she’s completing on the reception desk.

‘I can call a taxi for you. Weldon, is it?’

‘As soon as possible, thanks.’

She picks up the phone and dials as Oliver Lyle approaches the desk.

‘Still here, Mr Lyle?’ Her tone is full of surprise.

‘I never run out on a client.’

His insincere smile plays again on his lips. ‘I’ll drop you off at Haverscroft, Mrs Keeling. I’m going straight back to Weldon myself.’

Lyle isn’t looking at me as he speaks, his eyes scrutinise an envelope on the reception desk. The WPC holds the phone receiver and raises her eyebrows.

‘I’d rather get a cab, thanks.’

‘Really, it’s no trouble at all.’ Lyle looks into my face and smiles again.

‘Sign here for me, please.’ The WPC holds the phone to her ear with one hand, points a biro at the bottom of the form with the other. A list of my things. I sign, pick up my bag, house keys and purse from the desk as she speaks to the taxi company.

‘Here in 10 minutes,’ she says, ending the call. ‘Just wait out front.’

‘What happened to the cake, it’s just . . . the tin wasn’t mine.’

She smiles. I’m tired, anxious about the twins and just want to be away from here, away from Oliver Lyle. Why am I worried about a cake tin?

‘I’ll find out and let you know.’ She looks at the sketch pad as I flip the cover closed and pack it into my bag.

‘A lady hand-delivered this for you.’ She holds out the envelope, the paper smooth and stiff between my fingers. ‘She insisted that it’s given to you immediately. A bit difficult about it, she was. You were giving your statement when she called in. That’s right, isn’t it, Mr Lyle?’

The solicitor nods, his eyes again on the envelope as I stuff it into my coat pocket. I step away from the desk and head for the exit.

Three percent battery. I call Mark’s mobile, straight to voicemail. I could switch off the phone and save what little charge is left. I dial Jennifer’s number, it rings and rings and rings. Answer the bloody phone. I cut the call and try Shirley’s number.

‘Anything I can help you with?’

Lyle joins me as I stare out of the glazed front doors. Streetlights bathe the empty, wet road in a sodium glow. I shake my head, take a step away from the solicitor and listen to the ringing of Shirley’s phone. Her cottage is tiny, perhaps she’s a heavy sleeper. Surely she must be home at this time in the morning? No answer, I end the call. I can feel Lyle watching me, I wish he’d get the hint and leave me alone. I stare out at the street, the taxi must be here soon.

The DCI, along with his sergeant, approaches the reception desk. A hurried conversation with the WPC. She nods towards the door. My stomach drops. Aren’t they done with me? There’s nothing more I can add to the statement I signed twenty minutes ago. They stride towards me, as tired as I am I muster a smile. Maybe they have the post-mortem results, new information of some kind? They pass me and stop just beyond where I stand.

‘We’d like to ask you a few questions before you go, Mr Lyle, about Mr Richard Denning.’

 

The taxi’s headlights pick out fragments of a frost-covered landscape, bare fields, a gateway, twisted branches overhead. My temple bumps the window and jolts me awake. I’ve dozed on and off all the way back from the police station. The driver’s eyes stare back at me from the rear-view mirror. Each time I’ve woken, he’s been watching.

Her letter lies in my lap. I’d torn the envelope open as soon as the taxi pulled away from the police station and read it swiftly from beginning to end. Words and letters ran before my eyes, failed to filter through to my brain. I pick it up and try reading it again.

 

Fairfields

Weldon

November 1st

 

Dear Mrs Keeling,

Can you forgive me? I should have written this letter sooner. I wrote to you in the summer and now I fear you may not have received that correspondence. Richard urged me to act weeks ago. I procrastinated, it will not do. It is vital you understand about the house, Richard was insistent about that, and he was quite right, of course. Whatever you decide, I shall never forgive myself. My punishment is to live on without the companionship of my dearest friend. I shall miss him most dreadfully.

I deluded myself in thinking that any problems at Haverscroft related to my family alone. Not for one moment did I consider your children to be in harm’s way. I will explain about the house, but do bear with me, it will take a little time.

My late husband, Edward Havers, was a charming, witty companion, at least in public. Clever and rather handsome, he was well able to get his own way. He was my sister’s husband and for some time that was all. When I was seventeen, I stayed at Haverscroft for a few weeks during the summer. I was company for Helena, who, by then, was desperate to leave her marriage. But one thing led to another.

 

I can hardly believe what I’m reading. Mrs Havers, so careful and concerned about her reputation, is the last person I would have thought capable of such behaviour. The scandal would have been enormous back then.

 

My husband experienced things during the war that no human being should see. An injury to his ankle caused constant pain and affected his mood. He sometimes walked with a stick. Noise was a problem for him. Loud or high-pitched sound like a child crying or children shrieking with laughter tore his nerves to shreds. You have read Helena’s journal. You know some of her terror. I am sorry to say I did not believe her.

 

I drop the letter into my lap and rub my eyes with the heels of my hands. That day in the garden, before Tom fell in the pond, the children had been shouting and screaming, Riley barking in the garden. Had that noise triggered something at Haverscroft?

The taxi judders as the driver changes down a gear, the indicator, click, click, click. The moon is high and bright in a star-pricked sky. The old asylum looms above the road, its massive arched entrance shackled shut with rusting chains and padlock. How many years had Richard Denning spent in that place? I shudder at the thought of what his life must have been like. The driver slows down, searching for the Weldon turn. I sit forward and grasp the headrest in front of me.

‘Just up here, on the left.’

The driver nods.

‘The house is all the way through the village, left immediately after the church.’

The driver nods again, I sit back in my seat. Haverscroft will be empty, Mark will have taken the twins to his mother’s, I’m sure of it, but I have to check. I have to be sure the children aren’t at the house.

I dial Mark’s mobile and leave a voicemail to say I’ll be staying at Shirley’s. The line goes dead before I finish speaking, the battery flat. I can call from Shirley’s once I’ve checked out Haverscroft. I continue reading the letter.

 

He used me, of course, to torture Helena. She was horrified when she discovered our liaison. Edward would allow Helena to leave and have a divorce, but if she left, she did so without her son, Freddie, and without me. Helena refused to go.

Unfaithful himself, Edward was convinced his wives were too. He thought Freddie was Richard Denning’s child. I am ashamed to say, he convinced me too, for a time. You see, it seemed on the face of it to be quite plausible. Helena and Richard were childhood sweethearts – it wasn’t improbable that they allowed things to go too far after Helena married.

We were newly engaged the first time he accused me of infidelity. I denied it. He said he loved me and forgave me. By then I knew what he was like, but it was too late. I dared not leave him and we were married the following summer. Our union was an outrageous scandal, gossiped about for years and brought us nothing but sorrow and misfortune.

When I could stand it no longer, I made plans to take Andrew and Michael to Canada. We had family there to stay with. Edward discovered my intentions before I managed to leave. He told me to go but leave the children behind. Like my sister before me, I would not consider it.

Why he was set on keeping the children I do not know. If they were not his, as he claimed, why not let them go? There were no witnesses to the events in the loke that sunny afternoon. If I raised a finger of suspicion, who would believe me? No father kills his own children.

 

I gaze through the taxi window, headlights pick out a deserted high street, a front doorstep, a shopfront shuttered against the night. My body sways with the motion of the taxi, the air, hot, stuffy and stale. It’s difficult to take in all this woman has endured. Just a few minutes before we reach Haverscroft, I pick up the letter again.

 

I was devastated by my sister’s death. I have never truly come to terms with her loss. The horror of her passing, of poor dear Richard finding her beside the pond. We both sensed her in so many ways in the years that followed. A hint of her perfume, a feeling of her near me as I dug the borders or as Richard sat watching the pond. I believe you thought my golly rather a fearful thing. When Helena gave him to me one birthday he came with a short note in his breast pocket. We continued to exchange messages and secrets that way, as sisters do, until her death. I can not tell you of my alarm when that old toy reappeared. And the shock of your drawing too, of your son, the very image of my nephew, Freddie. Helena was riddled with guilt before her death. She was quite certain it was her fault that Edward had taken an interest in me. She swore she would always keep me safe and I believe she keeps that promise, even after all this time.

Edward suffered a massive heart attack, brought on by sheer terror, so Richard believed. Did Helena haunt him? Of course, we can never know. After he died, a malevolence entered the house I had never detected previously. If Edward’s presence remains at Haverscroft, and I somehow believe it does, your children should not be there. You should not stay. Take them to Shirley’s, anywhere away from Haverscroft.

 

My heart is racing, my throat tight. Buildings crowd more thickly now as we head along the narrow street, Haverscroft is only minutes from here. Her letter is almost done.

 

There is something more I must explain, but I have been writing to you for more than two hours. Exhaustion addles my brain, but I will not sleep. I never sleep. And now, I have no Richard for solace. I have no choice but to finish here. The rest I must tell you in person if you can bear to hear it. Try as I might, I have found it impossible to write it down.

 

So there is something at Haverscroft, something that may threaten the twins. I look back at the letter, it isn’t even signed. She must have been utterly exhausted by this point. What else can she possibly have to say? Isn’t this enough for one family? Shirley suggests it was Edward, not Richard Denning, who attacked Helena. Does Mrs Havers know what happened the night her sister died? Richard said he did.

I look at the rear-view mirror, the driver watches the road as it curves and bends along the empty street. The moon slides out from behind thin cloud, huge and bright, washing ghostly silver light across the village. The cafe window is full of Christmas, Halloween swept away. Who will the twins spend the festive season with this year? I can’t tolerate Mark’s behaviour any longer, I’ve done all I can to save our marriage, perhaps I have tried longer than I should have. For now though, the most important thing is to make sure the twins are safe.

My body jerks forward, the seat belt snapping like a steel band across my chest. Tyres scream against wet tarmac, a horn blaring. The taxi lurches left, judders, front wheels smack the kerb. I grab the front headrest and hold tight.

Nothing. No crash or bang of a collision. Only silence draws out.

‘Stupid fucking cow! Are you blind?’

The driver shouts out of his open window. Damp night air rushes into the car. I sit up and peer out at the street. The cab is on the pavement at an acute angle to the road, the front bumper inches from the black railings outside Lyle’s office. The driver has his head out of his window raising a middle finger. A figure stands stock still in the road, deep in the shadow of the bus stop.

The driver thuds back into his seat as the window whines closed. He puts the car into gear, glancing at me as he does so.

‘You alright? Stupid woman. Came from nowhere. I could’ve killed her.’

I’m still staring at the figure, dressed in a dark coat, collar pulled up high and muffled deep into a thick scarf. My fingers fumble to find the catch for the seatbelt. I release it and grab the door handle.

‘Wait! I’ll get out here,’ I say.