| |
SHE TUGGED THE BACK door open and walked to the kitchen without greeting him. He followed her in, talking behind her, some clumsy excuse about calling to check on Doris. As if it was purely coincidence, a weird stroke of luck, that this sudden need for a follow-up visit coincided with Monica’s night off. Did he think she was thick? It was downright dishonest.
What was worse, what was really winding her up, was that she was colluding in his game now. She’d been waiting for him. Expecting him to come, hoping he’d picked up on the heavy-handed comments she’d dropped about Monica changing her day off. The fucked-up rules of their arrangement were making her sneaky, and she didn’t like that in herself. Why hadn’t she told him outright? Monica’s changed her day off, so if you call round for a shag next week it will have to be on Thursday. She hadn’t said that, she couldn’t, because she wasn’t allowed to assume that there might be another visit.
And he was pretending to be here for Doris. She propped her backside against the table, and crossed her arms on her chest. ‘Sofa or bed?’
‘What?’ He glanced up from Doris.
He hadn’t heard her. She might not have meant him to. She shook her head. ‘Nothing.’
‘How has her cast got in this state? She’s meant to be resting that leg.’
Hettie shoved herself off the table and walked away from him. She didn’t trust herself to answer. The anger simmering under her skin was close to boiling over.
He followed her into the living room. ‘What’s up with you?’
She shrugged, picked up her magazine and flopped onto the sofa. What was up with her? He was. Him and this whole, sleazy, secretive farce. It was too much. Or not enough. She didn’t know anymore. She was already stressed, and the last thing she needed was the added hassle of trying to work out his rules. Friend or foe? A friend who didn’t really like her. A lover who couldn’t love her.
‘Do you want me to go?’ He’d moved to the sofa, and lowered himself to sit on the edge of the cushions. The bafflement and soft tone of his voice almost broke her. She didn’t know if she wanted him to go. That was the trouble. She felt the lump form in her throat and swallowed it hard. She would not cry, not in front of him. What the fuck was up with her? She flicked a page of the magazine over. ‘You might as well. I’m not in the mood.’
She wanted him to argue. Wanted him to stay, to prove he’d come for more than sex. But he left, of course, after ten minutes of dithering, which had been painful for both of them. She garnered some small satisfaction from the uncertainty she saw in his face and his awkward, fidgety hovering. It might have indicated a reluctance to leave on his part. Or he might simply be unused to his plans going wrong.
It was as well he’d gone, because she’d been beaten, then, by the tears that kept swimming up from God knows where.
––––––––
SHE FELT DRAINED THIS morning, washed of emotion, and she still had to speak to Zoe.
Doris nipped out through the gap in the door. She caught her and shut her in the kitchen, trying not to notice the printed envelope that still lay unopened on the worktop. She knew that typeface now. Doris’s plaintive bark followed her to the yard. She tightened the scrunchy in her hair and drew a deep breath. It had been a week since Doris had broken her leg and Zoe had found the beer can in her wheel. As far as Hettie could tell, the police had done nothing. Zilch. Zero. It was down to her to warn Zoe.
It was a conversation she didn’t want, and one she was fairly sure Zoe wouldn’t want either, but she walked onto the yard with purpose. ‘Zoe, a word in the bungalow when we’ve finished mucking out, please?’
She retrieved the pitchfork she’d set aside and worked with her head down. It couldn’t be an accident that, despite working together for months now, neither she nor Zoe had ever mentioned the coincidence of their history. Or spoken the name of the last tenant at Hardacre.
The subject was forbidden, taboo.
And after she’d spoken to Zoe, what next? A total unburdening of the whole, sordid story? Now, after all these years? The thought made her feel sick. Everything seemed to make her feel sick at the moment. Julian Greaves was to blame, and surely that was reason enough to do something about him.
Back in the kitchen, Hettie boiled the kettle and shuffled the mugs on the worktop. She couldn’t remember if Zoe took sugar or not. She set the coffee in front of Zoe and sat to face her at the table. ‘This might be awkward for both of us, so I’m sorry, but there’s something I’ve got to tell you.’
‘You’re sacking me?’
‘God, no! What made you think that? You’re a bloody good worker, Zoe. I bless the day you turned up.’
Zoe lifted her coffee mug, but set it down again without taking a drink. ‘You’ve been a bit off lately, and now you’ve called me in here—’
‘It’s about Julian Greaves.’ Hettie watched Zoe’s hands tighten around the coffee mug, then a flicker of uncertainty before the girl looked away and rearranged her face into a mask of boredom. She recognised that face. She’d used it herself often enough. ‘That beer can you found in your bike wheel...’ She rested her hands on the table, inclining her body forwards. ‘There’s a chance, well more than a chance... Julian...’ Her fingernails drummed on the surface of the table.
‘Sorry, I’ll start again. I know you worked for Julian, and you probably know I did too, years ago.’ With no visible reaction from Zoe, she carried on. ‘Your story is none of my business, but I’ll tell you a bit of mine.’
Her heart was racing now; she could feel her cheeks heating. She took her gaze away from Zoe, and focused on something behind her. ‘I started riding for him when I was just a kid. It got... complicated, and somehow we ended up in a sort of relationship. It was messy, and sordid. Carol found us...’ Her gaze swept back to Zoe. ‘You don’t drink coffee, do you?’
‘No, never have.’
‘Sorry, I’ll make you a tea.’
She overfilled the kettle and had to tip some water back down the sink. With her back to Zoe she waited for the water to boil, and the words started flowing more easily. ‘It was a relief when Carol found us, to be honest. It was all so bloody grim and seedy.’
‘Grim how?’
Hettie glanced over her shoulder, then stirred two sugars into Zoe’s tea. She stirred even after the sugar had dissolved. ‘Grim because he took advantage. Grim because he just took. I’m not sure I ever consented. I don’t think I knew I had a choice.’ She put Zoe’s tea in front of her. ‘I assumed getting caught would be the end of it, but he made my life hell for two years. Stalking me, telling lies, spreading rumours. I didn’t do anything about it. It did stop. Eventually.’
Out of the window, she watched Snoop and Apache grazing in the field. Two buzzards circled lazily in the sky above the wooded hillside. The sun broke cover, lifting the shade across Hardacre paddock. ‘It bothers me now that he might have stopped because he’d found someone else to...’
She sat down again. ‘Anyway, I managed to stay out of his way for the next few years, but then I ran into him at the Fox last year, and the bastard jumped me in the car park.’
‘He attacked you? Did you call the police?’
‘No. I should have, but I wasn’t really thinking straight. A mate laid him out.’
‘That bastard nearly got my dad locked up.’
‘I know, I heard a bit about that. The thing is, Zoe, I think he’s back. And I think he might be hanging around here. Leaving beer cans in the paddocks—’
‘You think?’
Zoe’s usually pale skin had become even whiter. Hettie heard the fear in her voice. Her anger at Julian surged up again, and she welcomed it. Her anger made her strong, and she had to be strong now, for Zoe. ‘I know he’s back. I know someone has been leaving beer cans in the paddocks. And I’ve been getting cards, anonymous ones. I got one this morning. I have told the police, but I haven’t mentioned his name. I told them about the can in your bike wheel too.’
‘And what did they say?’
‘They think I’m a nutter.’
They looked at each other. Hettie rested her elbows on the table and knitted her hands together. ‘Zoe, do you think he’s stalking you too?’
‘I haven’t seen anything, apart from that can. You’ve scared me a bit now though. My dad will go ape. Stupid sod probably would get himself locked up if he saw him again.’
‘Tell him anyway. Better that than...’ She shrugged and let the sentence finish itself.
‘What does he write in the cards?’
‘Hello, mostly. Nothing that gives him away, nothing that sounds like a threat.’ Hettie reached for the latest card, still on the kitchen worktop.
Zoe watched her pick at the flap of the envelope. ‘He’s a nasty piece of work, isn’t he?’
‘Yeah, he is. He’s a bully who gets his kicks out of scaring other people.’
‘So what do we do now?’
The envelope tore. ‘I’m going back to the police, and I’m naming him. I’ll make them take me seriously. I wanted you to know before I did that, in case they get in touch.’
‘There is one copper, a woman. Inspector Caroline Thanet. She’s alright. Ask for her. She’ll listen to you.’
A bright comedy card slid out of the envelope, a cartoon image of a man with his leg in plaster. Poor little dog the message read. Hettie scrunched the card in her hands, shoving it under the table, fisting her hands around it to stop them shaking. ‘Thank you, Zoe. I’ll do that. Tell your dad. Julian is dangerous.’
––––––––
THE DESK SERGEANT GLANCED across at his colleague when Hettie walked in. His throwaway gesture stiffened her back. ‘I would like to talk to Inspector Caroline Thanet, please.’
‘I’m not sure Inspector Thanet is free at the moment. Did you have an appointment?’
‘No, but I can wait.’
‘I’ll have to call upstairs.’ He turned his shoulder to the glazed window, and lowered his voice when he spoke on the phone. ‘Inspector Thanet would like to know what you want to talk to her about.’
‘It’s about Julian Greaves. Zoe Medcalf said I should ask for her.’
The sergeant replaced the handset and turned back to her. ‘Inspector Thanet says she’ll be right down and would you like to take a seat.’
She suffered a swell of nausea as she perched on the edge of the plastic chair in the cramped beige lobby.
Inspector Thanet swept in, plump and dishevelled. She was squeezed into a business suit, glasses perched like a wonky tiara on greying curls. Her approach was as direct as her arrival; she thrust out her hand as Hettie stood up.
‘Inspector Thanet. Call me Caroline. Thank you for coming to see me.’
The front desk had become a study in diligence since her arrival.
‘Interview room, Bob?’ She shouted the question over her shoulder at him.
‘Room three, ma’am.’
‘Ms Redfern, please follow me. Can I get you a tea or a coffee?’
They sat at a grey table and spoke about the weather until an officer delivered plastic cups of tea. Hettie fidgeted with the buckle of her handbag and tapped the sole of her boot on the floor. As the door closed behind the PC’s departing back, she stamped down the urge to tell Caroline Thanet she’d changed her mind and had nothing to say at all.
‘So, Julian Greaves,’ Caroline prompted.
Hettie tensed at the sound of his name, stumbling over her words in her rush to get them out. ‘It might be nothing. I might be wasting your time. Most of this happened ages ago...’ She paused, drew a shaky breath and reached into her bag for the card, dropping it on the table between them. Her palms felt clammy, her mouth too dry.
Caroline glanced at the card and leant back in her chair, the picture of a woman who had all the time in the world. ‘How long ago, Hettie? Do you mind if I call you that?’
The room was too warm. There was a stain on one of the carpet tiles. Spilt coffee maybe, or tea? Why was she even thinking about that? She shook her head. ‘Ten, eleven years. When I was fifteen.’
Caroline’s voice was encouraging. ‘In that case I have a feeling what you have to tell me will be quite significant. It’s never too late, Hettie.’
––––––––
THE HOUR SHE SPENT in the police station was draining, but Hettie left the building lighter of step, mind and conscience.
Inspector Thanet, Caroline, had listened. She’d asked questions, taken notes and taken Hettie seriously. The gleam in her eye, her rapid nods and the jotting of her pen kept her talking. She felt she’d found an ally in Caroline Thanet, whose path had crossed with Julian’s before. The clench of her mouth suggested that she’d formed an opinion of him, too.
Hettie told all. Facts she hadn’t realised she even remembered spilled out of her mouth. She surprised herself with the detail and the telling, somehow detached, as if she were talking about someone else. Maybe it was because she spoke to a stranger, this woman had no connection to her, who only asked for facts, who listened and believed. Hettie felt like she’d opened a door and let the bruised, confused teenager she had once been step out into the light.
Caroline promised her the police would follow up, that she would take control of the investigation herself. She nodded as she spoke, to emphasise her point, nodding so vigorously, in fact, her glasses toppled from her head to her nose, and they both laughed.
Hettie felt able to get excited about her mum’s wedding now. Riding her wave of new energy, she went late-night shopping to hunt for an outfit, bolstering herself with a latte when the drudge became tiring. The wedding was only a week away; she had to find something.
And finally, she did find it – the perfect dress.
The assistant turned the department store’s closed sign and hovered by the door as Hettie raced into the changing rooms. The dress wrapped around and hugged her form in emerald silk, its slim gold belt circled her waist. Bright for the happy occasion, green for spring and a new beginning. Hettie turned in front of the cubicle mirror. The fabric felt decadent on her skin, and the plunging neckline gave her a reckless thrill.
She looked at the price tag. It was more than she’d planned to spend, but it wasn’t every day you got to buy a dress for your mother’s wedding, and her strappy gold stilettos would suit the dress perfectly, so she was saving money really.
Hettie changed back into her jeans and rushed her purchase to the cashier’s desk.