Chapter Thirteen

Ipswich

15th August

Siobhan

There’s someone in the hallway. The sound wakes me from an already-troubled sleep, and my eyes flit to the digital clock: 3 a.m.. I can hear footsteps coming down the corridor, towards our bedroom, and my heart gives a little flutter. My phone is still on my chest; I must have fallen asleep still scrolling through Twitter, looking desperately for news of what happened on the tenth.

‘Mum?’

Emma pushes open the door to my room, still wearing her night clothes. For a second, her figure is silhouetted in the doorway, ghostly and white.

‘Jesus, Em. You scared me.’

‘Sorry.’ She comes and sits down on the edge of the bed, her body weight indenting the mattress. I push myself up against the pillows, fumble for the bedside light. It is strange not having Callum beside me, the heat of his body. Groggily, I put my phone on the bedside table, face down, even though she’s surely been doing the same as me, scrolling through news websites, no doubt with more agility.

‘Are you OK?’ I ask, then internally admonish myself for what is a fairly stupid question. Her father’s just been taken away on suspicion of murder; she’s not really OK and neither am I.

‘What d’you think’s going to happen to Dad?’ she says, and there’s something in the tone of her voice that makes her sound so much younger than her years, and I feel a huge wave of love towards her; despite how far apart we have drifted of late, she is suddenly a little girl again, wanting reassurance, wanting Mummy to make it better. It’s been a long time since she’s looked to me for guidance.

‘I don’t know, darling,’ I say truthfully, and I see her face start to crumple, to turn in on itself. Anxiety radiates off her.

‘Do you think they’ve got the wrong person?’ she asks me, and I take a deep breath, trying to think how best to respond.

Do I think they’ve got the wrong person?

‘I don’t know,’ I say eventually, ‘I don’t know any more than you do, my love.’

‘Why would Daddy know that woman?’ she asks me, and I meet her eyes, those blue-violet eyes that startled me when she was born, and pleased Callum because they were so like his. Strangers used to stop me in the street about Emma’s eyes, peer into the pram and come up beaming.

‘Your baby has the most gorgeous peepers!’ they’d say, ‘aren’t they unusual! Gosh, how gorgeous. She’ll be a stunner one day.’ I used to wheel her around the Ipswich docks, around Christchurch Park, showing her the trees as they changed from winter to spring to autumn and back again.

She looks back at me now, unblinking. For a second I find myself wishing that she were younger, that I could smooth this all over with milk and a biscuit, and keep her in the dark about what her daddy did or didn’t do. But she is sixteen; she’s not a child.

‘The police think he was having an affair with her, don’t they?’ she whispers, and mutely, I nod. She will find out anyway, there’s no doubt about it. I can’t keep Callum’s secrets from her any more.

‘Do you think that’s true? Did you know? Did Maria? Has he done it before?’

‘Emma,’ I say, ‘it’s very late. We both need to sleep. Things are going to be difficult over the next few days, you know they are. Us both being exhausted won’t help.’

‘Are you really not going to tell me?’ Her voice hardens, just a little.

‘Emma,’ I say, ‘of course I didn’t know.’

She stares back at me for a few seconds, the lie hanging between us like a spider’s web, gossamer thin. One poke and it would break. Eventually, she gives in, lowers her lashes and gets up to leave the room, moving silently back down the corridor to her own bed. I lie back on the pillows, my heart beating fast at the small act of deceit.

I can’t keep Callum’s secrets, but I can keep my own. It’s him who taught me how to.

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My sister is up first in the morning, bustling around the house as if it is her own. We live in a three-bedroom Victorian house on the outskirts of Ipswich, Suffolk’s county town, splayed across the River Orwell. Our house is one of a row of detached houses behind Christchurch Park; we bought it fifteen years ago, right when we were first married, before these properties became more than we could’ve hoped to afford. Maria has been sleeping in the spare room – the room that was always intended for the second child, the child that never was. The imaginary boy at the football games. It wasn’t as though we didn’t try.

When I poke my head around the door, I see that she’s opened the window, letting the fresh air in, and her clothes are draped over the chair. On the bedside table are the earrings she was wearing in France; it feels as if she has claimed the room already, the way she used to when we were kids.

‘Breakfast,’ she says, pouring me a glass of orange juice as I shuffle down into the kitchen in my dressing gown. There is something comforting about being back here, away from the stifling heat of France, away from those police with their incomprehensible questions. I pull my gown more tightly around me. I’m going to tell her; I’ve been thinking about it all night. I’ve got to tell someone that I knew.

‘Where’s Emma?’

‘Not up yet.’

‘Maria,’ I say, before I can lose my nerve, ‘I knew about Caroline. I knew about the affair.’ The words rush out at me, and there is a certain relief in saying them, at telling someone what I have kept inside me for months.

My sister freezes for a second, her hand still clutching the carton of juice.

‘How long has it been going on for?’ she asks me, and I shrug helplessly.

‘I found out four months ago.’

There is a beat and I see her assessing me. Then, ‘Has he done it before?’

I pause, then nod. ‘Yes, but this one – Caroline – felt – I don’t know, different. Worse.’

‘Worse how?’

‘Because I thought – I thought he’d stopped.’

Slowly she shakes her head, and I can see the anger on her face, the anger which I know is on my behalf, though she quickly tries to mask it. ‘You’re better than this, S,’ she says, ‘you don’t deserve the way he’s treated you.’

‘I don’t know what to tell Emma,’ I say desperately, ‘I don’t know how much she already knows, what she suspects. And—’ I hesitate, scared to put into words the next confession, the deeper one, the one that I keep shoving to the back of my mind. ‘And I’m scared that if I tell her I knew, she might – and the police might – think I had something to do with it.’

I am keeping my voice low for fear of my daughter hearing, my words strained and urgent across the kitchen table.

Another beat. ‘And did you?’ she says eventually, her eyes never leaving my face.

‘Did I what?’

‘Have something to do with it.’

‘Maria!’ I’m shocked at the coolness of her tone. ‘Of course not. Of course I didn’t!’

‘Well, then.’ She pours orange juice out into a glass, a steady smooth flow of it. My heart is beating a little bit faster, but I take a deep breath and force myself to keep calm.

‘Tell Emma nothing,’ Maria says firmly, ‘and let’s keep it that way.’ I watch as she splashes milk into a cup of coffee and pushes it across the table towards me.

‘Did you sleep?’ she asks me, and I shrug, shake my head. She nods, and gets out a carton of cereal from the cupboard. The conversation appears to be over; it’s as if I haven’t told her anything at all, as if she hasn’t just asked me whether I might have killed my husband’s lover.

‘Not much. I was looking on Twitter, searching for news.’

She almost laughs. ‘Twitter? You?’

I roll my eyes at her. ‘I’m not a total dinosaur, Maria.’ Pulling out my phone, I google again to check if anything else has been said overnight, my stomach sinking as the words load. Maria comes to stand behind me, looks over my shoulder. I can feel her breathing, the soft push of air against the back of my neck.

POLICE QUESTION MAN OVER IPSWICH DEATH

Suffolk Police are holding a man in his mid-forties in connection with the death of a woman in the dockside area of Ipswich. The woman, named as Caroline Harvey, believed to be in her thirties, was found dead by a friend on the evening of 10th August. A child in her care is also believed to be missing, and police are conducting a widespread search for one-year-old Eve Grant, who was last seen wearing a pink Baby-gro. Eve has blonde hair and brown eyes. Anyone who has any information regarding the case is urged to call 0845 54 54 54. All calls will be treated anonymously.

Feeling sick, I move over to Twitter. Maria puts a hand on my shoulder, squeezes me twice. I can see the glint of her nails out of the corner of my eye: perfectly polished. My own are bitten and ragged now, the skin around the nails is pink and angry as a result of my worrying at them.

‘Christ,’ Maria says, ‘it’s everywhere. That poor baby. Can you imagine?’ I think of Emma perched on the edge of my bed last night, looking as pale and wan as I feel. My baby, all grown up. If everything unravels now, I have spent the last sixteen years in vain. The idea of this baby Eve being out there on her own, alone, or hurt, makes my stomach churn.

‘Do you think they’re right?’ I say to Maria. ‘Do you think the baby’s parents might be involved?’ The thought is, to me, bizarre – I can no more think of harming Emma than I can think of harming myself.

Maria shrugs. ‘God knows. You do see it, don’t you? People holding their own kids to ransom. Or custody disputes gone wrong. Maybe that Grant couple weren’t as happy as they seemed.’

I go silent, trying to imagine it, my mind racing with the possibilities. I wonder what the police are thinking, whether they’re on the right track, or even close. I think about that night, trying to remember it as clearly as I can. I came home from book group a little tipsy, I admit. I wasn’t drunk, I was OK to drive, but still the memories are a bit hazy. I stopped at the shop for a bottle of white wine and some milk – I knew we were about to run out from that in-built instinct that anyone trying to keep a household afloat has. I remember pouring myself another glass of wine when I got home, checking in on Emma and finding her asleep. Digging out my passport from the drawer, ready for the flight the next day. Going upstairs, doing my teeth and getting into bed, alone. I looked out at Callum’s studio, I know I did. Was the light on? Or was it off? Was my husband out that night? Did he come into our room? If the police ask me, I don’t know what to say.

The first car pulls up outside the house just as I’m trying to force down some muesli. It tastes strange in my mouth, dry and ashy, and I manage only a few spoonfuls. Emma seems to be skipping breakfast. Maria finishes her own muesli then puts on some toast, and I wonder how she can manage it, but then she always has been able to cope in tough situations. It’s her who dealt with Mum when she needed to go into the nursing home, it’s her who helped me once when I got into trouble at school, lying to the teachers on my behalf. And after all, it’s my husband who’s suspected of murder, not hers. My clever sister, free from the clutches of cheating men. Jealousy scratches at my throat.

‘It’s the press,’ my sister says now, going over to the large bay window that looks out onto the road. ‘There’s a couple of them. Get Emma to come down, now. We need to make a plan.’

But it’s too late – there is a knocking at the door and the sound of rattling at the letterbox.

‘How do they know?’ I say helplessly, and Maria gestures at my phone on the table.

‘Same way we do, I guess. It’s only ever a matter of time until these things come out.’

My phone pings with an email from work – one of my associates, asking me to call her. As soon as you can manage. Shit. Does that mean they all know too? Have they somehow got wind of the fact that my husband is the man in the article?

‘Mrs Dillon!’ The reporter’s voice is loud and clear, slightly nasal as it echoes through our hallway. No one has moved the pile of post just inside the front door that built up whilst we were in France, and there’s a vase of dead flowers on the table to the right. I should have thrown them out before we left, but we were in a hurry to get to the airport. The water will be smelly and stale.

‘Ignore them,’ Maria says. ‘God, they need to send someone to help us, advise us or something. I’m going to call the station in Ipswich. This is ridiculous – they can’t just leave us in the dark like this, not with Callum in custody and none of us knowing what the hell is going on.’

‘How do they know my name?’ I say to her, panic beginning to flutter inside me, and I could have imagined it but I think my sister rolls her eyes.

‘S, they’re reporters. It’s their job to know your name.’ She pauses. ‘One of them probably saw Callum going into the station and recognised him.’

‘What’s going on?’ Emma appears in the kitchen, her hair pulled back off her face, her phone clutched in her hand. ‘People on Twitter are saying they’ve arrested the baby’s father, it’s all over everything.’ She looks at Maria, a panicked expression on her face.

I shake my head. ‘There’s an article saying a man in his forties,’ I tell her, ‘but the press seem to know it’s Callum. They’re outside.’ As if on cue, there’s another shout through the door and Emma jumps, fear flitting across her features.

‘Go get dressed,’ Maria says, and I think she means Emma but then I see she’s directing her words at me, that my daughter is already wearing jeans and a T-shirt with the Friends logo on it. Not knowing what else to do, I do as she says, pulling a long-sleeved cardigan from the wardrobe, my fingers brushing against Callum’s shirts, ironed and ready for his return to work after our holiday. He always dresses smartly for the office, as if he’s some sort of New York media mogul. I think momentarily of the villa, of the crisp blue of the pool, the sound of the crickets rubbing their legs together. It feels a million miles away, another lifetime. I think of Callum sitting beside me out on the terrace, his arm around my back and his phone buzzing with a message.

I need to know what happened that night.