I can’t speak, but shake my head. There’s something so vile, so abhorrent about the idea of a stranger coming into our home, invading our private space, touching our things . . .
He drops the shred of satin he’d been examining. ‘Hey,’ he says softly, and takes me in his arms. ‘I’m not going to let anything happen to you. You hear me?’
‘But who could have done this? To us? To my lovely wedding dress?’
‘I don’t know. But I’m going to bloody well find out.’ He looks into my face, his eyes serious, watchful. ‘You sure you’re okay?’
I manage a slight nod. Though in truth I’m far from okay.
‘That’s the spirit.’
He kisses me firmly, then reaches into his pocket for his mobile phone. Seconds later he’s talking to a police officer as calmly as if he’s discussing work. I stand listening to his level tone, unable to take my eyes off the ruined dress while Dominic gives the police our address and a few other details. Then he rings off.
‘Could be an hour before they get here,’ he tells me. ‘Maybe two.’
‘That long?’
‘It’s not a priority.’ He sounds terse, yet seems to accept the long wait as painful but necessary. No doubt it’s something he’s used to at work. The endless frustration of lengthy waiting times. ‘Look, I’m going to check out the rest of the flat. You stay here.’
‘I’m coming with you.’
‘Catherine, for God’s sake . . .’
‘I’m not staying in here alone. Not with that.’ I shudder, nodding towards the dress. ‘It stinks, for one thing. And for another, it’s horrible. Like something out of a nightmare.’
‘I know. Come here.’ Dominic puts a comforting arm about my waist, lets me lean my head against his warm shoulder for a moment. But I can sense his impatience. ‘All right, I won’t leave you in here. But keep behind me, okay?’
‘You genuinely think there’s still someone in the flat, don’t you?’
‘I’m not taking any chances.’
‘Right, I’m definitely coming with you,’ I say. ‘It’s always the girl left behind on her own who gets horribly murdered.’
‘You watch too many horror films.’
But he keeps a tight hold on my hand as we creep out into the hallway.
Together we check the rest of the flat, quiet, careful, listening hard. But there’s nobody here. Only us, and the unpleasant knowledge that someone else has been in our space, prowling about, touching our private things.
I feel sick just thinking about it.
Trying to regain a sense of normality, I turn off the unwanted oven, then find a bowl and decant his Chinese meal from its foil box, a tangle of lukewarm noodles and fleshy king prawns. I give it a quick spin in the microwave to heat it up again.
Dominic, who’s on the sofa, googling ‘what to do after a break-in’ on his iPhone, refuses to eat at first. ‘Not right now,’ he tells me, waving the food away.
But I insist.
He shovels chow mein absentmindedly into his mouth between Google searches, and I keep him company, peeling and eating a satsuma, perched on the edge of the armchair opposite. I try to think of something else but can’t manage it. My mind keeps flashing back to that ruined dress on the bed, the stink of blood.
Animal or human though?
The police will be able to tell with their forensic tests, I expect.
It’s well over an hour before there’s a knock at the front door to the flat.
‘At last,’ Dominic says, not bothering to hide his impatience. He jumps up to open the door. ‘In there,’ he says, directing the police officers – a male constable and a female sergeant – towards the bedroom.
The officers look shocked at the state of the place.
‘Christ! They really did you over.’ The constable sounds horrified, shaking his head as he steps over debris in the hallway.
‘Oh, no, sorry,’ Dominic says, moving a few bags to one side and picking up an old jacket that’s been on the floor for weeks. ‘This is our mess. This is normal.’
The male officer grins, moving on. But his female colleague is unamused, giving me a hard, assessing stare.
‘I’m Pauline,’ she says, and shakes my hand. ‘This is Ahmed.’
Dominic introduces himself, and then I give my name, too. Ahmed writes it all down in his notebook. Throughout their visit we all use each other’s first names, like we’re best mates already. Dominic seems easy with this informality. I find it a little creepy.
They examine the bed with its vile contents, and Pauline looks horrified. ‘Good God,’ she mutters, and nods to Ahmed. ‘Take some pictures of that, would you?’
‘Yes, Sarge.’
She looks round at me. ‘The dress yours, is it? Big day coming up soon?’
I nod.
With his phone camera, Ahmed takes a few photographs of the dress, and then of the bathroom window where our intruder presumably got in. But they both seem less interested once they discover my wedding dress is the only casualty.
‘Just to be clear, the dress was torn up, but nothing was taken?’ Pauline sounds puzzled. ‘TV, laptop, electrical devices, jewellery, all still here?’
‘Yes,’ Dominic says firmly.
‘And nobody was hurt?’
‘No.’
‘We weren’t even at home,’ I point out.
We follow the two police officers into the living room.
‘So you’re sure nothing was taken?’ The sergeant takes off her cap and smooths back short red hair, glancing round at the mess. ‘Must be hard to tell. You’ve checked all your documents? Passports, birth certificates, that kind of thing?’
I look at Dominic, uncertain.
‘Sometimes people take the oddest things,’ she continues. ‘Not just TVs and iPads, but bank statements and credit card receipts. Even diaries and old birthday cards. Anything that will help them find your personal details. Your mother’s maiden name, your favourite colour. For hacking personal accounts and identity theft.’ She pauses, looking from Dominic to me. ‘You’re positive no one’s mucked about in your papers?’
‘Let me take another quick look,’ I say.
Rather wearily, I traipse back into the bedroom to check. My diary is still in the bedside drawer, my bank and credit card statements look untouched in our tabletop file holder, and I rarely keep old correspondence anyway. I had my phone with me, of course. And my iPad is still safe in my top drawer.
‘Nothing taken. So this looks increasingly like a malicious attack,’ says the constable, who’s followed me into the bedroom. He stops to write something in his notebook, then bites the end of his black pen. He’s stout, with a thin goatee. ‘A grudge, maybe? A personal vendetta against one of you. Something like that.’
‘Yes,’ the sergeant agrees, drifting into the room with Dominic behind her. Her cap is tucked under her arm now and she’s holding a clipboard, the top sheet folded over. ‘Can either of you think of someone who might bear a grudge against you? Maybe a friend who isn’t happy about the two of you getting married?’
Dominic laughs. ‘Not at all.’
‘What about ex-girlfriends?’
He looks embarrassed. ‘I’m not in touch with any of them. And besides, none of them were that serious.’
‘How about you?’ The constable glances at me.
I shake my head.
‘What about old school friends?’ Pauline asks. ‘Or enemies?’
‘I was mostly home-educated,’ I say reluctantly. Dominic knows about my unconventional schooling, of course, but it’s still uncomfortable to be the centre of attention. ‘We had a nanny who taught us.’
The two police officers glance at each other. I know what they’re thinking. Posh bitch with a nanny. The old silver-spoon prejudice.
Then Pauline frowns, looking about at our meagre furnishings. It’s obvious she’s wondering what went wrong in my life. Where all the money went.
She asks an unexpected question.
‘Us?’
Too late, I realise my slip.
Chapter Thirteen
I never talk to people about Rachel. Or as little as humanly possible. It might seem cold, but I’ve found silence the best protection against bad memories that might otherwise swamp me.
When Dominic looks at me too, his gaze searching, I scrabble for the right thing to say. ‘Me and my older sister.’
‘How’s your relationship with your sister? Could she have done this?’ The sergeant considers me, fiddling with her clipboard.