EVERYTHING DROPS AWAY: THE FLOOR, THE WALLS, the props that held me together; the hope and the belief that things like this happen to other people. The room spins and stars cluster in front of my eyes. I put my hand on Toffee’s head, and he rests his chin on my knee and gazes up at me. Beside me Cora subsides, her shoulders curling forwards.
Devon and Cornwall Police have found a carrier bag filled with things that they think might belong to Nick, close to where Izzy allegedly went in.
The WPC accompanying Marsh comes in with cups of tea and sets them down on the coffee table, then stands to one side.
‘But I would have seen it,’ I say. ‘I was right there.’
‘If it was Nick, he went to some trouble to hide it. It’d been buried under leaves and dirt in the undergrowth, about twenty feet from where Izzy’s shoes were found. You could easily have missed it. Did he really never tell you about that day?’
‘No, not a word.’
‘Well, obviously, we can’t jump to conclusions, but from what we’ve been able to piece together about Nick’s state of mind, it’s looking like he took his own life. I think you were right, Grace. I think that being approached by both Alex Wells and Anna Foreman after so many years brought all the guilt back. We’re looking at Izzy Wells’ case in the light of this.’
‘My son,’ Cora says, drawing herself up to her full height, ‘had nothing whatsoever to do with that child’s unfortunate death.’
‘Hang on,’ Tim says, leaning forward. ‘Who is Anna Foreman?’
I shrug. It’s out of my hands now. ‘Anna Foreman is Taisie Wells,’ I say. ‘She lives round the corner and her son is in the same class at Cedar Heights as Lottie. She had a conversation with Nick shortly before he disappeared.’
Tim and Cora are both staring at me, like I’ve just walked off my spaceship.
‘Why haven’t you shared this with us?’ Cora asks.
‘She asked me not to.’
‘So your loyalties are with her, rather than Nick’s family? That’s fantastic.’
‘Cora,’ Tim admonishes her. ‘Let’s not worry about Taisie now. Let’s worry about Nick.’ He turns to Marsh. ‘Surely if he drowned his body would have been found? It didn’t take long to find Izzy.’
‘I don’t have an answer to that, I’m afraid. With any luck the divers will find him – bodies can get stuck in logjams.’
I flinch.
‘How can you be so sure they’re Nick’s things?’ Tim asks. ‘They could belong to anybody.’
‘That’s true, of course, and I’ll need Grace to have a look, but we found his wallet too.’
‘Perhaps he’s faked his death,’ Cora suggests, looking pointedly at me.
‘Why would he do that?’ Marsh asks. ‘Is he involved in anything illegal?’
‘No.’ I glare at Cora. ‘Nick is not a coward. Whatever it was, he would have faced it.’
Marsh glances from me to Cora with interest, before speaking. ‘The other reason we know they belong to Nick is because he left a note tucked into his wallet. It’s addressed to you, Grace.’ He hands me a pair of latex gloves. ‘Sorry, but it’s evidence.’
I lift my eyes to his face as I pull them on. ‘Have you read it?’
‘Yes.’
I take it from him and walk away from Tim and Cora.
Darling Grace, I’ve wanted to talk to you about this for a long time, but haven’t been able to pluck up the courage. I love you so much and don’t want you to think less of me. I shouldn’t have involved you in my life, not until I’d told you everything.
The next line wavers, and my heart breaks for him. What he must have been feeling when he wrote this.
I’m sorry. I am so sorry. Please forgive me. I love you both so much.
‘He didn’t finish it,’ I say when Marsh holds out his hand. I give it back to him reluctantly. ‘I don’t believe it’s a suicide note. He wanted to tell me something.’
‘He’s asking you to forgive him,’ Marsh points out. ‘Perhaps he’s expecting it to become public knowledge, and he couldn’t handle it. He took the only way out.’
‘No. That letter has been crumpled up at some stage, so that implies he threw it away, doesn’t it?’
Marsh sighs. ‘We’ll show it to a psychologist. See what they say. But at the very least, this proves that Nick was in torment.’
I put my hand in front of my mouth to stop the moan of despair. Marsh holds the door open and settles me in the police car.
An officer lays the bag on the table and opens it with latex-gloved hands, and an odour of damp leaves and dirt fills the room. There are the blue deck shoes Nick had been wearing. His wallet. A pen. A blue cotton hanky. The officer opens the wallet so that I can inspect the credit cards. There’s a lump in my throat as I shake my head and look down at my hands.
He misinterprets. ‘The items don’t belong to Mr Ritchie?’
‘Yes. Yes, they do. Sorry, I … I don’t need to see any more,’ I say. ‘It all belongs to Nick.’
It’s midday when I’m delivered home in a police car, drained and emotionally exhausted. I can hardly believe it was only yesterday that I found Cora showing an estate agent round. Too much has happened, and my mind is reeling. I let myself in, and walk straight to the fridge, take out a bottle of white wine even though it’s early afternoon. I pour myself a generous measure, wander outside and sit down. Toffee mooches around the flower beds, following the scent of Mrs Jeffers’ cats. They treat these gardens as their fiefdom. I stare at the blossom, thinking how much Nick loved this time of year, how much he loved to see things change. I changed when I met him. I blossomed and thrived, but the rot was there all the time, I suppose.
Tim puts a sandwich down in front of me. I pick it up and nibble the edges. After a minute or two Cora comes out and the three of us sit side by side, in an oddly companionable silence. Tim looks older and smaller. Cora is diminished too. All I can think is that now, surely, they will go.
A bag containing items believed to be the property of missing thirty-four-year-old banker Nick Ritchie has been discovered concealed close to the banks of the River Dart in Devon by police sniffer dogs at around 8 a.m. today. A spokesman said that investigations are ongoing and confirmed that while they are keeping an open mind, it is increasingly likely that the inquest will return a verdict of suicide. As a teenager Mr Ritchie was on holiday in the area when a thirteen-year-old girl drowned. The girl was a friend of the family. Sources close to Mr Ritchie have said that he subsequently suffered depression. Mr Ritchie was reported missing from his two-million-pound home by his girlfriend Grace Trelawney on Sunday, 15th April, after leaving his house the previous evening to go for a walk. Anyone with information should get in touch with Greater London Police on the following number.
A photograph comes up on the screen. It’s me and Nick at a charity ball, taken at least two years ago. He’s in a dinner jacket and I’m in a slinky blue dress. I remember that night; we had a good time. Nick drank too much and bid for a weekend at an expensive country house hotel. I’m glad they chose that one, rather than his work portrait, it’s truer to how he really is, but I guess they liked it because of the human interest. A happy young man with a pretty woman on his arm.
I switch off the television, and five minutes later the telephone starts to ring. That’s how long it takes to track someone these days. Even though Marsh forewarned me about the statement and its probable result, I answer that first call.
‘Miss Trelawney. James Pickett from the Mirror. How much did you know about your boyfriend? Did he murder that little girl? Is that why he killed himself? Because he couldn’t bear the guilt any more?’
I put the phone down and don’t answer it again. Within the hour, there are several journalists loitering outside my house, taking pictures. They talk to each other while they fiddle with their cameras. They don’t ring the doorbell, but I guess that’s because they know at this stage there’s no point, but their presence there makes me feel breathless. A feeling of dread descends.
I go upstairs and find an old jumper of Nick’s. I press it to my nose and sigh with relief as I breathe in his scent. I take it to bed with me and stare into space, not moving, unable to do anything. I can’t accept this. If they had found his body, then of course, but they haven’t. As far as I am concerned, Nick is not dead.
Cameras flash with a staccato barrage of clicks, blinding and confusing me as I open the door and find Douglas on my front step. Everyone shouts at once.
‘Grace! Fabulous house. Must be worth a couple of million. Who inherits?’
‘Did Nick do something to Izzy Wells? Is that why he topped himself?’
‘What’s your relationship with Grace, mate?’
Douglas moves past me and I fling the door shut. Silence descends like a fisherman’s net, trapping us together.
‘What’re you doing here?’ I say. ‘You can’t just turn up without warning me first.’
‘If you don’t answer your phone, what do you expect? I’ve had the police asking me all sorts of questions. If I get dragged into your mess, I’ve a right to know what’s going on.’
‘Well, I’m sorry. I’m still getting used to this. They were bound to talk to you; they’ll be talking to all my friends, I expect.’
I stand between him and the kitchen door and don’t invite him further into the house. The light is dim, and I hope he can’t tell how much I’m shaking.
He sighs. ‘Where is everyone?’
‘Lottie’s at Hannah’s. Tim and Cora have gone home. I think they need time alone to process this as well.’
He makes a face. ‘Really? For good, I hope.’
‘I don’t think so.’ His face blurs and I turn away, fighting a wave of emotion.
‘Grace.’ His voice is soft. ‘It’s going to be OK.’
‘What am I going to tell Lottie?’ I burst out. ‘If his body had been found, it would be easier. At least she could say goodbye. But this way she’s always going to hope. I’m always going to hope.’
‘They still might find him. It’s early days. But we need to tell her the truth, because she’ll read about it. We can’t stop that happening. We’ll tell her together.’
I push my fingers through my hair and swear under my breath. ‘I think I’m going mad.’
‘It’s natural to feel that way. This would be a difficult and confusing time for anyone, let alone someone …’
He stops, but I’m easily able to fill the gap. ‘Someone like me.’
‘You’ve come a long way from that girl,’ he says. ‘A very long way. Look at you. Look at what you’ve achieved, what you have.’
He’s right. I have solid walls around me and a roof over my head. I have a community and friends who think I’m ordinary; just another mum like them. But all this stuff, all these material belongings, they’ll vanish along with Nick. Because without him, I am nothing. I fold my arms and take a deep breath.
‘Stuff’s going to come out about me, Douglas. About us. Things I really don’t want people to know. I don’t think I’ll be able to cope if the papers get hold of my history.’
He smiles down at me and strokes my hair. ‘You’re not going to be held accountable for something you did in your teens.’
‘Of course I am. That’s the way it works. Everyone loves a fall from grace.’ I smile. ‘No pun intended. What I did to you …’
‘I forgave you a long time ago.’
‘Forgiven but not forgotten,’ I retort.
‘Absolutely that.’
He untucks his shirt, and I reach to touch the scar, an inch below his ribcage. I run my fingers gently over its puckered surface. The things we do when we’re young and desperate. He holds my hand against it, then lets it go. I dry my tears and pull myself up with the banister.
‘You’ll be a fifteen-minute wonder, that’s all,’ he says. ‘You know what you have to do when the big wave comes at you.’
‘Hold my breath and dive under it.’
‘That’s right. Now, why don’t you go and get Lottie. The sooner we tell her, the better.’ He takes my jacket from its hook and holds it out for me, and I slip my arms into the sleeves, as obedient as a child.
In the hall I take a deep breath then pull open the door and dive out into the fray. I pretend they aren’t there, that their voices are geese clucking, the flashes are lightning. My heart is pounding, my ears ringing with the sound of my own name, with Nick’s name. With Izzy’s.
We gather round the kitchen table – father, mother, daughter – and I tell her what’s happened. There is no way of softening the blow. I watch Lottie’s face as it pales, as her eyes redden and her chin trembles. She gets up and buries herself in Douglas’s arms. I feel a flash of jealousy, so inappropriate that it shocks me.
‘It’ll be all right, baby,’ Douglas says. ‘Everything will be all right.’
He glances at me over her shoulder, his eyes warm. I gaze back, with a dawning sense of shame. I’m letting him in, letting him get under my skin again; and that’s what he wants. This situation suits him down to the ground. Anna warned me about this, about the temptation of old loves when you’re feeling vulnerable. I insisted she was wrong, but she was right. Douglas knows me, and he’s here, flesh and blood, whereas Nick has gone and may very well be dead. I need to be on my guard.
‘We’ll be fine now, Douglas,’ I say, glancing pointedly at the door.
He hesitates, but I stand up and wait until he has no choice but to take the hint.
I fetch his jacket from where he hung it over the banister and hand it to him without saying a word. Lottie and I accompany him to the door. He dips his head to kiss my cheek, but I twist out of reach, leaving him floundering. As if to make up for my coldness, Lottie hugs him hard.
‘See you Friday, kiddo,’ he says.
He opens the door, hesitating in front of the cameras, before striding down the steps and elbowing his way through the press. He’s taller than any of them. When I close the door the house releases its breath. It’s been tough since Nick went missing, but I have a feeling that my problems are about to get worse.