I have barely hung up from the call with Robert Phelps when my phone rings again. This time, as I look down, I see Ben’s name flashing on the screen.
The previous conversation has caught me off-guard, and the sight of my boss’s name floods me with guilt. I hadn’t said no to Phelps’ offer, not outright, though I also hadn’t said yes. I would come in and have a chat, that’s all I had agreed to.
Before I can stop myself, I shake my head to clear my thoughts and press ‘Answer’.
Before I can say a word, he speaks. ‘You’re not going to believe this.’
‘OK,’ I say slowly, pouring a dash of milk into my coffee.
‘There’s been a suicide.’
He pauses for effect and I roll my eyes, kicking the door closed with my foot. ‘Ben—’
‘It was in one of the big houses in South End Green. Yesterday evening …’
I stand straighter, noting the excitement in his tone and my mind flips back to the ambulance I’d seen by the edge of the Heath.
‘It was the wife,’ he says, his voice light with amazement. ‘Anna Witherall. The wife of the TradeSmart bloke you mentioned, David Witherall. The one who died last month. She hanged herself.’
I step backwards and lean against the fridge door, his words ringing in my head.
‘Isobel, are you there?’
‘Yes,’ I say, catching my breath, moving to the kitchen table and gathering the papers strewn across the surface. ‘I’m here.’