Chapter Nine

France

13th August: The day of the arrest

Siobhan

I lie to Emma, tell her that I’ve no idea who Caroline Harvey could be or how her dad knows her. My stomach twists as I do so – haven’t there been enough lies? – but at this stage, I don’t know what else to say. I’ve never told my daughter about Callum’s affairs; I’ve always prided myself on shielding her from it. In the background, Maria swears – she is still on hold to the airline company, trying to change our return flights and get the next ones possible back to the UK. I can hear the sound of their holding music, very faintly, the noise of it tinny in the large hallway.

Suddenly desperate for some fresh air, I pull back the blinds from the large French doors, still in my nightie. The dazzling sunlight hits me, bright and unrelenting, and I twist the door handle, stepping outside onto the patio. There’s a bottle of wine, empty, standing at the foot of one of the comfy chairs, and I stare at it, imagining us all grouped out here the other night, with no idea of the shock this morning would bring. But then I think of Callum on the plane, his odd jitteriness, and I wonder if he knew exactly what this holiday might bring, had been counting the hours until the dreadful sound of the doorbell, clanging through the house. Surely not, I reassure myself, surely my husband isn’t capable of a crime. Adultery is one thing, but murder? I think of the tears in his eyes as he learned of Caroline’s death. Real or false?

The lack of internet here, once a blessing, is now a curse – I want desperately to google her name, search the British news websites for any sign of what might have happened. Surely someone will call soon, the police will come back and tell us this has all been a big mistake. Not knowing is torturous.

‘Siobhan!’ Maria is calling me from inside the house, the cordless landline phone pressed to her ear. ‘They’re saying the next flight they can get us on is tomorrow.’

I stare at her through the open French doors. ‘Tomorrow? Isn’t there anything today?’

She shakes her head. ‘We can get the 7.20 from Caen in the morning. They’ll move the booking for us. That way you won’t lose the money. Or we could drive, I guess.’ She taps her fingers against the plastic casing of the phone, raising her eyebrows.

‘Got to let them know now, S.’

‘OK,’ I say, ‘OK.’ The thought of a six-hour drive in this heat is unappealing, and this way, I have some time to collect my thoughts. ‘OK, yes, yes please. If that’s the best we can get.’

She nods at me and turns her attention to the person at the other end of the phone line. Anxiety courses through my veins. Part of me can’t bear the thought of returning to England, of all this becoming real, but then staying here feels almost as bad. None of us can enjoy the holiday now, can we? The thought is absurd. And all the while we’ve no idea what is happening to Callum, where he is, what they’re actually accusing him of.

‘Done.’ Maria appears on the patio beside me – I didn’t even hear her come outside. ‘We’ll be home by lunchtime tomorrow, I’ll leave the car here and fly back with you. I can pick it up another time. I’ll let the police know, too.’ Gently, she wraps an arm around my waist and I shiver slightly; my sister and I don’t tend to show much physical affection, not now that we’re adults. When we were younger, we did – we shared a room until I was almost fourteen – but I feel slightly stiff under her touch.

‘What am I going to do?’ I whisper to her, my voice cracking a little as I think of the next twenty-four hours stretching out in front of us.

She sighs; I can feel her breath warm against my neck. ‘S, look, I bet they’re only wanting to talk to him at this stage. Those officers weren’t charging him. Not yet.’

There’s a beat of silence. We both know that they wouldn’t come all the way out here, track him down like this, if there wasn’t more to it all than meets the eye. They wouldn’t arrest him for nothing. I need to know more – when they think she was killed, where my husband was at the time. How much they have already pieced together. I need to be a step ahead.

‘Not yet,’ I say to her, ‘but what if they do? What if he’s done something, Maria?’

She doesn’t answer me, and when I look at her again she won’t quite meet my eye.

We don’t eat breakfast – I can’t stomach it and Emma says she’s not hungry either. Maria makes a pot of coffee, black and steaming, and the three of us sit outside on the terrace for a little while, mobile phones on the table in front of us, even though it’s relatively pointless due to the lack of signal. Above us, the rock towers into the bright blue sky. The crickets continue to chirp. The sun feels like it’s mocking us, and eventually I tell the others I’m going inside to pack. I step inside, past the pile of rugs, the ornate lamp and the beautiful bookcase, the shiny life of my sister, untouched by an adulterous husband who may or may not be a killer.

In our room, I pick up my suitcase from the bottom of the wardrobe and place it on the still-unmade bed. I always unpack fully upon arrival whenever we come away; I hate the way my clothes feel after being crumpled up inside a suitcase for days on end. I run my fingers over my dresses, sliding them from their hangers. As I do so, I find myself wondering what she wears – or wore. Caroline Harvey. I try not to think about her, have tried not to for four months now, pushing away the thoughts of what she might look like, what she might sound like. I googled her name, of course, when I first found out, but reams of them came up. I had no way of knowing which Caroline was the one my husband had decided to screw. I’ve been thinking what to do for all this time, if I’m honest – debating whether to leave, whether to stay, whether to confront or ignore. I’ve ignored for so long, let all these women pass me by for the sake of our family, but Emma is sixteen now, older. I feel differently to how I used to. Somehow, him starting another affair after a period of fidelity feels much worse. I suppose I let my defences come down. I paw through my clothes, wondering whether my daughter and I could weather a broken marriage. But what has happened today will change everything, won’t it? The same options are no longer available.

A red dress slithers through my hands, one Callum bought for me on our anniversary, a few years ago now. He’d presented it to me with a flourish, and that night I’d put it on for him, feeling giggly and young, even though I was well into my thirties, my stomach marked with the scars of Emma’s birth. A difficult birth; torturous almost. My daughter still tortures me, I think wryly, just in a different way. Callum used to buy me things a lot earlier in our relationship – clothes, jewellery, trips away. He hasn’t bothered for years. Too busy with other things – or other people.

In spite of what’s happened today, of the stab of pity I felt when he walked out of the door, I feel now a splash of rage against him, and in quick, decisive moves I yank the rest of my dresses from their hangers, begin stuffing them into my suitcase, taking none of the care I normally exhibit when it comes to my belongings. I scoop up my jewellery from the dresser, catching sight of myself in the large, ornate mirror – I look like a mad woman. My hair is all over the place, my nightie clings to me oddly and the clutch of bright jewellery in my hands glitters strangely against the pale of my skin. For a second, I stare at my reflection, as though it is someone else, and then I resume my frantic packing, shoving everything into my case, leaving only my toothbrush, my passport, and a change of clothes out on a chair for tomorrow.

Then the sound comes again – the clang of the bell. My insides freeze. Pulling on the cardigan I’d left out, I make my way back into the hall and see Maria and Emma standing at the door with the female police officer who was here before. For a moment, my heart leaps – she’s going to tell us it has all been a mix-up, and any second now, Callum is going to appear behind her – but even as I walk towards them, I know that isn’t the case. Maria is nodding, Emma biting on her lip beside her, a strand of blonde hair falling over her face.

‘What?’ I say quickly, ‘for Christ’s sake, Maria, what is it now?’

‘Your husband’s things.’ The policewoman surprises me by speaking in English, her heavy accent distorting the words. I feel a flicker of anger, wondering if their refusal to speak anything other than French this morning was designed to unnerve us all, intended to purposely confuse.

‘They want us to leave everything as it is,’ Maria says, ‘they’ll need to search the villa.’

‘Can we take our own things?’ I ask, stunned, and the policewoman shakes a head. ‘Just yourselves,’ she says gruffly, ‘leave everything else. Including the car. We need to check it.’

She looks at me, and emboldened, I take a step forwards, pulling my cardigan over my breasts. She isn’t better than me, this woman with her uniform and her orders.

‘What will happen to my husband?’ I say to her, ignoring the way Emma is anxiously watching me, and the nervous energy radiating off my sister.

‘Your husband is being flown to England,’ she says, her words short and sharp. ‘He with English police.’ She sniffs, as though the thought of the English constabulary is distasteful to her somehow. Maria, as if sensing my annoyance, steps forward and puts a hand on my arm, pulling me gently towards her.

‘Bien sur, nous laisserons tout comme ça.’ She turns to me. ‘We will leave everything as it is.’