Feeling that someone had temporarily taken control of her body, Paula closed the door behind her and stood in the hush of that small space, as if in a cathedral. So accustomed had she become to the breeze and occasional cry of a gull that silence rang in her ear like a sullen bell.
Stunned, she stood there and scanned the room. Stifled a sob.
Thomas.
What were you thinking?
Hope surged, stealing breath. Could he still be alive? After all, she was too drugged to face going to view the body so Joe went in her stead. Could he have been convinced by the wrong dead man?
A number of scenarios coursed through her mind. In all of them, rather than having a heart attack in a restaurant, Thomas avoided death in some accident, put his wallet in the pocket of a faceless man beside him in a car … then walked off into the distance.
She told herself to get a grip, then looked around.
The living room spread out to her right and there were two doors, both painted a crisp white. The white-stippled ceiling was only about a foot above her head; Thomas would have to walk about in here with slight stoop, she thought.
Trembling, she fumbled her way into the room, edged past the sofa and took a seat in the armchair. Eyes smarting with tears she breathed out low and hard. Breathed in. She had to pull herself together. There was a reasonable explanation here.
Could he be alive?
Could he?
She became aware of herself – her hands were pressed together as if in prayer. She stuffed them into the pockets of her jacket. Looking down at the black, cast-iron wood-burning stove and the dried flower arrangement off to the side, she noted that was just what she would have picked.
You knew me, Thomas. You knew me.
She bit her lip. Heard a sob escape into the room. Felt a tear slide down her cheek. Shook her head. He’s dead, Paula. Dead. Don’t you go there.
She stood and walked over to what she guessed would be the door to the kitchen and pushed it open. White walls and ceiling, a blue marbled work surface, pale cupboard doors with a blue wash on her left, split by a chrome oven – facing her a half-glass back door, to the right of that a large picture window over a Belfast sink. To her right a small pine table with three chairs and a large aluminium fridge-freezer.
She walked over to the cupboards and opened them, looking for clues, but there was nothing but the usual cups, plates, cooking utensils and cutlery. Everything had the shine of the new and unused.
Stepping across the room to the fridge she noticed with a smile that it displayed one magnet, with a picture of Rothesay Castle. Christopher had loved their sole visit there. He had been particularly taken with the thought that a Viking King, Haakon Something, had taken the castle in the thirteenth century. Vikings were cool, he’d announced. And he shyly asked for a toy axe.
Hand on the cool chrome handle of the fridge, she pulled it open. It was empty apart from a carton of milk. She plucked it out of the shelf, held it to her nose and sniffed. It was fresh. Hope surged again.
No, she was being ridiculous.
She replaced the milk and closed the door. Then she turned and walked over to the sink and, with a start, noticed that there was a single mug in there, stained with two rings of dried coffee.
Paula picked the mug up and held it to her lips, imagining Thomas’s had been pressed there just moments earlier.
She let the mug drop into the sink and heard the clatter of china breaking.
Ignoring her impulse to clean up the breakage, she looked out of the window. Despite the theories that were colliding in her mind, she couldn’t help but appreciate the view. It was like someone had stood in this spot and shouted to someone outside to clear just enough shrub, branch and tree to frame the perfect scene.
Had Thomas been here to oversee the work, just before he died, or was this after his supposed death and funeral? She imagined him standing at this window, scanning the beach for her, waving as she approached from the sea.
She slapped her palm down hard on the sink. Enough. More clues; she needed more clues. What was real was the cottage. The photo on the windowsill. The key. Thomas had died and she had the death certificate to prove it.
This was surely her gift from him. His way to bring them both back together. And it would have worked.
It would have worked, you lovely, stupid man.
Paula left the kitchen and walked across to the other door. Turned the handle and pushed it open. This room was about the same size as the living room; it had one door off it – a bathroom? – and was crowded with a king-sized pine sleigh bed, the exact same as the one at home, with matching bedside cabinets, and against the far wall a wardrobe. Even the wallpaper, bedding and curtains were the same as her bedroom at home. But everything felt crowded and too busy in this much smaller space.
She quashed the urge to have any note of complaint spoil the moment. That Thomas had gone to this much time and trouble was adorable and deserved more from her.
She walked over to the other door, noting the plush feel underfoot and resisting the urge to climb onto the bed and smell the pillows, and pushed it open. The bathroom. A pedestal bath. She’d always wanted one of those. In the far corner a shower unit. The expected toilet and sink and, above the sink, a mirrored cabinet. She opened it, and inside saw a pair of bottles of scent. His and hers, as if on display. Oval bottles filled with an amber liquid. Obsession, by Calvin Klein. She imagined Thomas placing them there with a small smile of pleasure at his own wit and cleverness.
Yeah, you were that clever you got a heart attack, or got yourself killed.
She took a step back out of the bathroom, closed the door and walked over to the wardrobe. Pulled it open. There was a suit inside. Hanging there, dead centre. The exact match of the one from which she’d pulled the locksmith’s receipt.
‘Thomas, what are you playing at?’ She said the question out loud and realised that she was feeling his presence around her. Everything within these four walls had been chosen by Thomas, with her in mind. The daft big soft lump. She hugged herself, imagining that it was his strong arms around her.
‘I never did it when you were alive, buddy. Why do you suddenly think I’m going to go around checking your pockets again?’
Yet, she instantly did, trying the waistcoat pockets first. Nothing. Then the outside pockets of the jacket. Empty. Next, she pushed her hand into the inside pocket of the jacket. Nothing. Once she’d tried all of the pockets, she started at the beginning and tried them all again.
Last, she tried the trouser pockets and found a solitary toffee still in its clear wrapper, and a folded over leaflet for a will-writing service. Why would he be looking for one of them? Their wills had been updated about a year after Christopher died. What had happened in the meantime to make him think about changing it?
The front of the leaflet showed an imposing sandstone building, with a large wooden front door and gilt lettering on the arched downstairs window. She turned it over and saw the address. It was in Dumfries. A lawyer’s office in Dumfries? What would Thomas be doing down there? That made no sense at all.
She stepped back and frustrated, ran a hand through her hair. She was missing something, she was sure of it. To the side, tucked in between the wall and the wardrobe she spotted a wicker laundry basket, stained the same colour as the furniture. She lifted the lid and peered inside. Sports clothes lined the bottom. A light-blue t-shirt and what she judged to be a pair of shorts. She lifted them out. Underneath was a pair of white socks and white underpants. As she lifted the pants something fell from inside them.
A small black rectangular shape.
A moleskin notebook.
She bent forwards, stretching to the bottom of the basket to pull it out. It had to be meant for her to find. Who else but a wife would go near a man’s dirty underwear?
‘Right, Thomas, what have you got for me here?’
Moving back to sit on the edge of the bed she opened the notebook, hoped for a message, something – a sign that all of this was him. She was sure the signals couldn’t be interpreted in any other way, but she needed a solid note, a hello – something to help ground her in this increasingly surreal moment.
The first page was blank. The second held a series of numbers and letters. With a quiver she recognised Thomas’s careful script.
But then nothing. The rest of the notebook was empty.
With a sigh she turned back and studied the numbers for some sort of meaning. She could come up with nothing.
She closed the book and moved through to the living room and took a seat on the sofa. She had another look, and noted that there were ten rows, each beginning with the number eight. Then she discerned a pattern for the first set of numbers on each row. They were clustered in sixes. The next cluster on each row held eight numbers, all of them starting with a double zero. Next came a seemingly random collection of numbers, symbols and letters. It occurred to her that each of those felt like passwords. She paused. Took a breath. Passwords. Each row ended the same, with the number one and a letter, a capital M:
1M
In her mind that signalled a total of ten million.
Money?
Was this cash?
No.
Ten million pounds? She pursed her lips and blew out a sharp breath. Utter nonsense. That’s what that thought was.
In her peripheral vision she saw movement. Someone going past the window. Her heart thumped. Calm down, she told herself. It was just a walker, heading for the beach. Though why were they moving in that direction?
She jumped.
A knock at the door. Solid. Expectant.
She stood, thrust the notebook into the pocket of her jeans and moved back towards the bedroom door, out of the sightline of anyone who might look in the window.
But then whoever it was could look in the bedroom window and see her. She darted out of view, moved along the wall and into the kitchen. But she had the thought that the visitor could walk round the back of the house and look in the kitchen window. Her heart was thumping fast now.
It wasn’t anything to worry about, she told herself. Not here. But her trembling hands told her different. She was in the middle of nowhere. Completely alone. And no one knew where she was in this house. There was another knock at the door. More insistent now.
She stuffed the knuckles of her right hand into her mouth to stifle the squeal that wanted to escape.
She heard the letterbox squeak open.
A voice sounded into the room. Deep and bassy.
‘Mrs Gadd. Paula? There’s no need for you worry. I’m friend of Tommy’s. Can you let me in? I explain everything?’
The voice held a cajoling note. But it offered friendship too. And it was accented, she realised. Eastern European?
There was an explanation? Without another thought she marched to the door, twisted the lock and opened it.
There stood a large man in a red jacket. By his leg a copper-eyed, pink-tongued, yellow Lab. It was the guy she’d seen across the beach.
He pulled the hat off his head.
She recognised him instantly. It was the ginger-haired man from the ferry.