Trudy closed the door softly, so that Sean wouldn’t know she was back. She needed time on her own. She’d spent the day driving through the hills around Highford, working out what to do next. She hadn’t found any answers.
She hung her scarf and coat over the end of the bannister rail and looked around the hallway. It was quiet, their haven in the hills. A grandfather clock ticked, an affectation Sean had picked up from an antique shop, trying to finish off the cottage vibe. The floor still had the original black-and-white tiles from when the house was first built, preserved by years of carpets and brought back to life by polish.
There was a box of books on a chair in the hallway, delivered by Sean’s publisher, the contractual freebies of his autobiography. She picked one up to flick through. It was his big attempt to rehabilitate himself. He’d been cleared but too many people were cynical, not always prepared to see him as innocent, and the book advance would see them through the next couple of years, with public appearances filling the calendar.
The cover showed him outside the Crown Court, his cheeks red from tears of outrage, standing in front of a microphone as he readied himself to give the speech that he hoped would change the public perception of him. Before the retrial, he’d been the sick child-abuser who’d preyed on his stepdaughter, every mother’s fear about their new boyfriend.
The retrial had changed that for many people, and Sean had given a tearful speech about how he’d been mistreated by the system, how it had closed its mind to anyone else but him and, as a consequence, the real killer was going unpunished. He’d vowed to continue the fight; not just to clear his name, but to find the real person who ended the life of the girl he’d loved as if she’d been his own child, who’d breathed her last breath in his arms as he held her, unable to save her.
There were two sections of photographs, dark patches in the pristine white edges.
She went to the first section.
It started with shots of Sean as a younger man, unaware of the infamy that would come his way, and then some with Rosie on a family holiday. Sean, the perfect stepfather, sitting behind her on a merry-go-round, both grinning happily, his arms around her. In another, they were relaxing with Rosie’s mother, Karen, on a picnic blanket, the grass of the canal bank behind them.
She knew the rest of the pictures; she’d helped Sean compile them but it was different seeing them between the pages. It made the story seem more real.
She put the book back in the box. Not everyone would believe it, of course. They got regular hate mail, particularly by email, but they’d learned long ago to ignore it. It was part of the price for his past.
There was a noise towards the back of the house. She went into the kitchen. Wooden cupboards and unvarnished furniture. Eggs in a wire basket. Lavender in a stone vase. Pithy slogans on battered metal signs adorned the walls.
Sean was taking off his boots, grunting with exertion as he threw them on to some newspaper put there for that purpose.
‘You been out?’ she said.
‘Just checking the boat.’
‘Why?’
‘Too many vandals around here.’
She went to the window and looked out over the lawn, just for the distraction. The boat was their escape. It was complete solitude once they were away from the town. Even when gliding through, they felt apart from it, only ever in transit. Waking up to breakfast at a small country pub or enjoying a glass of wine with ducks and swans for company, damp grass trailing on the water, was idyllic.
‘Is it all right?’
‘Yes, fine. I’d have gone out in it later but I’ve got something on tonight.’
‘Have you?’
‘Just an author event at a library.’
‘Ah yes, your adoring public need to hear you speak.’
‘No, I need to sell some books. Sitting on local justice committees doesn’t put food on the table.’ He straightened, once the boots were off. ‘Where did you go?’
‘I went to see Pat Molloy.’
He unwrapped his scarf and threw it over the back of a chair. ‘Why?’
‘Why do you think? His underling came to see us yesterday and seemed pretty intent on making us feel awkward. I wanted to know what was going on. Pat Molloy was your lawyer. His job was to protect you, so why was Dan Grant here?’
‘And?’
‘Pat was just as hostile.’
‘How?’
‘It was as if he disliked you.’ She shook her head. ‘No, it was more than dislike. He kept on telling me to ask you, as if he knew you had some secret.’
Sean went to the sink and poured himself a glass of water.
‘Sean, please don’t turn away from me.’
‘I’m getting a drink.’
‘You’re avoiding me.’
‘What do you want me to say?’
‘Tell me what Pat meant.’
‘Why is it important?’
‘It’s important to me, you know that. He didn’t look well. Coughing. Grey. Does he know something about you?’
‘It’s fine, relax.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
Sean didn’t move for a few seconds. He gripped the glass tighter and Trudy braced herself, expecting him to throw it, but instead he put it down and turned around. He pulled her in close, his hand round her throat. ‘Don’t worry about Pat Molloy.’
She closed her eyes and tried not to think about what he could do. ‘How do you know?’
‘I just do. He doesn’t matter. He was my lawyer, nothing more.’
She nodded that she understood and he released his grip. She rubbed her neck as she said, ‘I worry, that’s all.’
‘You worry too much. We’ll survive. We always do.’
He pulled her in close again and held her, but she couldn’t relax. The darkness was always close by.