Chapter 4

While she was searching online for a picture of a mynah bird, her phone rang. Jon, whose daughter she was teaching how to draw, and who was heading the research project Ollie was working on. Had he been in touch? Did Jon know where he was living? But when he asked if there was any news her hopes were dashed.

‘He hasn’t been into the university?’

‘No.’ Jon’s sharp intake of breath had made her throat constrict. What was he afraid of? What did he think Ollie was going to do?

‘The baby,’ he said. ‘What have the doctors told you?’

‘I think they’re quite optimistic.’ Were they? Online she had found a list of complications that could affect a brain dead mother. Acute respiratory distress, diabetes, and something called intravascular coagulation.

‘Look, I’m sorry, Erin . . .’ There was a pause and she wondered if someone had come into the room and Jon was checking to make sure no one had heard from Ollie. But when he came back on the line it was to ask if she knew how large the baby was.

‘About nine hundred grams.’ She had decided not to tell anyone it was a girl. It had come as a surprise, a shock, but she was glad. Baby girls were supposed to be stronger than baby boys. Something else she had checked online.

‘They can tell, can they?’

‘Sorry?’ But he meant the weight, not the sex. ‘It needs to reach thirty weeks. It’s nearly twenty-four.’

‘The accident . . . has anyone . . . have the police . . . ?’

‘Have they what?’ Did he know something? If he did, he should come straight out with it. But that was not his style.

Now he was telling her it would be best to leave Maeve’s art lessons for the time being.

‘No!’ Her response was stronger than she had intended, but she had been looking forward to seeing her. Maeve was Jon’s ten-year-old daughter and she came round twice a week, after school, and on Saturday afternoon. ‘I’d like to see her. She always cheers me up.’

‘Are you sure you’re up to it?’

‘Absolutely. Oh, don’t worry, I won’t talk about what’s happened.’

‘I’ll see you later then.’

‘Yes.’ Why did he sound so uneasy? And not just uneasy, annoyed, as though he thought Ollie’s disappearance was her fault.

The first time they met she had thought his eyes had a haunted look, and she had warmed to him, partly because he was he exact opposite of Declan. Quiet, thoughtful, an introvert, the archetypal academic, his narrow face and deep set eyes had reminded her of her father, although her father had been shorter and his hair had started to recede when he was still in his twenties. Jon’s hair was thick and dark, and she had found him attractive. Until Ollie mentioned his wife. Never again would she allow herself to fall for a man with a partner.

Just now, Jon might be at home, with Maeve’s mother standing by his side, mouthing her misgivings about her daughter spending time with someone who was likely to be in a traumatised state.

Not long after she came to live in Claudia’s house, Ollie had brought Jon back with him and the four of them had shared a couple of bottles of wine. The project they were working on was about the neurobiology of how we perceive the outside world, and Claudia had asked a string of questions, designed to give the impression she was well up on such matters. She had drunk too much, clutching Ollie’s hand and starting on a childhood myth about how hopeless she was at art and how unfair it was that Erin had inherited their grandfather’s talent. Not true – their mother had taught her to draw, a long difficult process – but faced with Claudia’s highly embellished story Erin had kept quiet.

Later, Jon had phoned to ask if she took private pupils. For his young daughter, he said, who had a few problems with physical co-ordination, but loved painting and drawing. At first, Erin had been reluctant – working on the illustrations was effort enough – but as soon as she met Maeve she knew she had made the right decision.

Seeing her today would be a welcome diversion and, when Jon returned to collect her, she would take her downstairs and sit her in front of Claudia’s wide-screen TV, handing her the remote control so she could flick through the channels until she found something she liked. Maeve was no fool – she would know they wanted her out of the way – but being Maeve she would give one of her worldly-wise smiles and raise no objection.

The weather had changed. It was warmer, damper, and the loft felt airless. After pushing open the dormer window as far as it would go, she took her sketches of guinea pigs out of a drawer in the plan chest and spread them out, standing back to study them as objectively as she could. The deadline for the illustrations was seven weeks off and by then . . . But it was better not to think that far ahead, better to take one day at a time, something she had attempted to do after she told Declan she never wanted to see him again.

Someone was banging on the front door. A package that was too large to fit through the letterbox? Something Ollie had ordered. Or Claudia. If it was one of Claudia’s impulse buys, she would have to send it back. A food mixer? Lights for the garden? A cashmere jumper for Ollie?

When she opened the door, a dark-haired girl was standing on the path, twisting her hands.

‘Oh’ She looked all about her, as though she was afraid she was being followed. ‘Please, is Clowda in?’

‘No. No, she’s not.’

‘When will she be back?’

Who was she and how much should she tell her? ‘She had an accident. She’s in hospital.’

‘Clowda is hurt?’

‘Yes.’ Was she someone from the market where Claudia had sold her jewellery? ‘I’m her sister. Perhaps I can help.’

‘Her sister?’ The way the girl was staring at her was slightly intimidating. As though she thought she was lying, as though Claudia was at home but had given instructions to say she was out. ‘What kind of an accident?’

‘A bad one.’

‘Oh.’ The girl’s expression softened a little. ‘I will come when she is better.’

‘What was it you wanted?’ She was older than Erin had thought at first, possibly in her late twenties. Thick, black hair, tied back and held in place by a brightly coloured scarf. Large dark eyes. Several moles on her face. Possibly Eastern European.

‘Perhaps next week.’

‘No.’ Erin made a decision. ‘Look, my sister is very seriously injured. If you could explain why you need to see her?’

‘Tell her I am sorry. I don’t know . . . Lara – tell her it is Lara.’

‘Your name’s Lara?’

‘Goodbye.’ And she hurried away, hugging herself as though it was a freezing cold day, instead of a muggy one with the threat of rain.

Erin closed the front door. With any luck, the girl, whoever she was, would find out what had happened and stay away. Would she find out? How many people knew? Only people who read the local paper or watched the local news bulletin. Had the accident been reported on the television news? It must have been, but surely there would be no bulletins from the hospital. Claudia’s condition would be confidential.

Back in the loft, Erin sat on her bed with the duvet pulled up to her chin. Her head ached and she remembered reading how the bereaved feel worse if their relationship with the person who has died was stormy, unhappy. Not that it was death that had separated her from Declan, but was it true of her relationship with Claudia? She was full of regrets. She should have given her better birthday presents, taken more interest in her life, visited her stall in the market, asked about her friends.

During the past few years, the two of them had met up only rarely so it must have come as a massive surprise when Erin asked if she could stay in her house for a few months while she decided what to do next. As long as you like – Claudia had actually sounded as though she meant it – although, arriving in Bristol almost five months ago, Erin had been mildly put out to find her bursting with excitement. She had met “the love of her life”, she said, and as soon as some silly minor arrangements had been made he would be moving in. No, don’t worry, there’s plenty of room for all three of us.

What minor arrangements? Erin had thought, but when she met Ollie she discovered he was less impetuous than her sister. The room he was renting had to be re-let and he had paid a month’s rent in advance. As if it mattered, Claudia had protested, but Ollie had dug in his heels. Perhaps he was being tactful – he knew Erin had only just arrived, and was not in a good state – but if that was the reason for his hesitation he was wrong. When he finally moved in, she had been heartily relieved she could now spend more time on her own.

Throwing her duvet aside, she decided to do something she should have done before, go downstairs to Claudia’s kitchen and clear away the remains of Ollie’s breakfast, left there the day he went missing. It felt like ages ago, but was only a few days.

The kitchen, with its moss green units and built-in cooker with a separate hob, had been one of the reasons Claudia bought the house. When she told her, Erin had laughed – Claudia had never taken any interest in cooking – but everything would be different now Ollie had moved in, she had insisted, buying herbs and spices, and even a string of onions, together with an impressively thick chopping board and six expensive kitchen knives and, for a finishing touch, a blue metal jug, filled with artificial sunflowers.

Collecting the bowl of dried up cereal, and mug of cold coffee, she added them to the rest of the stuff in the sink and filled it with hot, soapy water. Hot water was always a comfort and, like Ollie, she preferred her surroundings to be clean and tidy, something Claudia had teased him about. I don’t know how I managed without you, Ol. Proper little housewife. No, don’t look like that. It’s brilliant. The place has never looked so smart.

Erin had never seen Claudia cook anything more than an omelette or cheese on toast, but when Ollie arrived he had taken advantage of the set-up and produced several ambitious meals to which she had been invited. Shoulder of lamb with green and red peppers. Trout with cheese sauce. How could they afford such banquets? Ollie was a research student and Claudia sold handmade jewellery in the market. It was possible she had a little of her inheritance left, but not enough to splash out on the kind of clothes she wore and food she ate, let alone the plentiful supply of wine.

Opening the fridge, Erin was relieved to find it virtually empty. As she carried a rotten cucumber, slimy as a slug, to the bin, together with the remains of a tub of evil-smelling liver pâté to the bin, she felt some satisfaction that she was doing something sensible, facing facts. But a moment later the emptiness of the place bore down on her and she crossed to the window and stared out at the damp, gloomy garden.

A paved area led to a strip of muddy grass, surrounded on three sides by flowerbeds, with a few straggly shrubs. During the summer months, Claudia had crammed in whatever was easily available at the local garden centre, mostly Petunias and Nicotiana. Now, it looked bleak, deserted, a garden in mourning.

According to Claudia, when she bought the house it was in quite a run-down road, but it had come up in the world. The walls at the front needed re-pointing and the cast iron gate could have done with a coat of paint. And the burglar alarm was defunct. In contrast, the adjoining house was in a good state of repair, and Erin wondered what they thought of Claudia’s. A week before the accident they had left her a note, saying they would be away for three months, in Brazil, and would be grateful if she could keep an eye on their house. They must have given her a key, but Erin had no idea where it was and had no intention of venturing next door unless she heard an intruder.

The landline started ringing, reminding her how she had still failed to find Claudia’s mobile. Racing to Claudia’s living room, she snatched it up, hoping it would be one of her friends. ‘Yes?’

Silence.

‘Who is that?’

More silence. One of those maddening cold calls. They put through six and talked to the first person who replied. But just as she was about to ring off, a male voice asked if she was Claudia.

‘Who are you?’

‘You know who I am.’

‘You’re a friend of Claudia’s?’ But a friend would know what had happened. ‘She’s been in an accident. I’m afraid—’

‘What kind of an accident?’ He repeated the word in a voice that made her angry. Like Lara, he thought she was fobbing him off.

‘Look, tell me who you are and—’

‘Tell her to telephone – today. If I don’t hear from her—’

‘I’ve told you. An accident. She’s in hospital.’

But the line had gone dead.