“We’ll check the DNA results again, obviously,” he says. He doesn’t believe me.
“You should take mine,” I say. “My DNA sample. To compare.”
“Yes, of course,” he says. “I’ll just ring down and get someone to bring the swab kit. Can you wait here for a moment?” he says and makes his farewells. Very grateful for us coming in, etc.
After the test, we find ourselves outside in the sunshine.
“He didn’t believe me,” I say.
“I believe you,” Paul says.
SEVENTY-THREE
Emma
SUNDAY, APRIL 29, 2012
Kate was waiting for me in the coffee shop across the road. She’d texted me to say she was there, but I’d had to explain her to Paul. He was horrified I wanted to talk to a reporter and wanted to come with me if I insisted on going, but I said I knew what I was doing. That I trusted her. In the end he gave in, telling me to be very careful what I said. He would wait for me, and if I wasn’t back in twenty minutes, he’d come and find me.
As I turned to go, he caught hold of my arm. “Are you absolutely sure you need to do this?”
It had taken another five minutes to convince him and now I’m late. She looks as though she thought I wasn’t going to come and is beginning to put her coat on when I finally walk through the door.
A waitress appears as I sit down, and we have to order before we can even say hello properly.
The young girl writes down Two white coffees with agonizing precision, repeating the three words as she does so. I am willing her to go. And when she turns away, Kate says, “Sorry, Emma. What happened at the police station? Are you okay?”
I’ve picked up a sachet of sugar from the bowl in front of me and am fiddling with it, like a child.
She’s spoken to DI Sinclair. Everyone is talking about me. Too many whispers. I can’t trust her.
I tell her what she probably already knows. And wait.
“DI Sinclair said he showed you the photos, Emma,” she says. “I didn’t know you were among the images. I swear to you. It was only when I was being questioned by Andy Sinclair this afternoon that I spotted you. I was going to call you as soon as I came out, but you turned up at the police station before I could.”
She’s seen me. Seen Emma, I think.
She’s still saying sorry when I tune back in and I don’t know whether to believe her anymore. But I need to know more so I’ll play along.
“It was a terrible shock to see myself,” I say, sugar spilling from the ripped packet in my hand.
“It must have been,” she says.
“DI Sinclair asked if I knew Al Soames. He must think he took them.”
“But how could he?” Kate says, and I tell her about the party.
“It was Jude’s idea,” I say. “She asked Will to take me, to cheer me up. I was so excited. Jude let me wear her favorite Laura Ashley. It was midnight blue with a tiny sprigged pattern. Low at the front and tight in at the waist with a thousand tiny buttons down the back. I remember I twirled like a ballerina to make the skirt stand out and we both laughed.
“The party was like in a film with champagne and famous people and Will was urging the waiters to refill my glass. It felt like the best night of my life.
“Will introduced me simply as ‘my friend Emma,’ and I remember a couple of men winked at him and laughed. I wondered what the joke was.”
I know now, I think.
“Then a man kissed me on the cheek when Will introduced me. I wasn’t expecting it, but he looked familiar. I was about to ask a question when his hand brushed one of my breasts as he let go of me. It was like an electric shock and I must have gone bright red because Will steered me away, apologizing.”
“Al Soames?” Kate says and I nod. I don’t tell her that Will said I was looking very tempting and I got that watery feeling in my stomach again.
“He took me outside for some air,” I say. “And the door beside us suddenly crashed open and the man with the wandering hands came out. It was then I recognized him. I’d only seen him once or twice at the house—and I was shooed out of the room by Jude each time because he wanted to talk about the rent—but I noticed his funny, bumpy skin. I remember turning to Will to say, ‘Look, it’s our landlord,’ but Will was acting as if he hadn’t recognized him.”
“What happened then?” Kate says, insistent now.
I realize that my memories of the party are like one of those home movies, where a jerky camera records slices of the action, then breaks off suddenly before picking up again at another point. There are gaps. Gaping holes.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I can’t remember anything after that, not even getting home. But Will rang the next morning to say I’d done him proud.”
“Oh God,” Kate says. “Do you think it was at that party that Soames drugged you and took the picture?”
“It isn’t Soames in the picture,” I croak and concentrate on drawing a cross in the sugar on the table. “It isn’t his hand on my face.”
Kate nods. “Soames boasted about going looking for girls with a friend.”
“It’s Will,” I say. “The hand in the photograph belongs to Will Burnside. I recognize the ring on his thumb.”
“Christ, Emma,” she says too loudly and heads turn.
I start to cry as the waitress reappears with our order. She stares at me as she puts the steaming cups down and backs away as if my misery is catching. Heads turn again. Must be thrilling for them to have a bit of drama with their coffee.
Kate reaches across and stills my hand, crunching it down on the crystals of sugar.
“Have you told the police this, Emma?”
“Not yet. I wasn’t sure. I’ve told them he had sex with me in his car. That he threatened me if I told anyone.”
Kate is nodding slightly faster. She’s excited, I can see it. I have to remember she’s a reporter, not my priest. She hasn’t taken a vow of silence.
“I think I understand why he did it now. I have spent years trying to work out how I earned his contempt. But I think it was self-preservation. He didn’t want me to tell anyone I’d seen the photograph in his drawer. I thought he wanted me to keep quiet about it so poor lovesick Barbara wouldn’t be humiliated. But of course there were dozens of Barbaras.”
“And you could expose him,” Kate says.
“No one could know about his little hobby so he had to make sure he’d shut me up properly, didn’t he? Had to shame me into silence.”
I sit there and think about Will. I try to recall his face as he looked back then but I can’t. It’s a blur now. I try to remember how he’d treated me after the party, after he and his friend had posed me for the Polaroid photo. Had he been different? Had there been any looks or innuendo the next time he’d come to the house? But he hadn’t changed. Because he’d always been like that. He’d deceived us all. The monster in our midst.
The trust I’d put in him. Clever Will. The master manipulator. How he must have laughed afterwards. At my gullibility. My innocence.
I wondered what he felt when he saw me afterwards. Did he see the naked me, at his mercy?
Did he keep that image in a corner of his head, to be pulled out whenever he wanted it? Did he do that when he was sitting across the table, at Sunday lunch, with my mum there?
I try to stop myself thinking like this. But it rolls over me, crushing me. And I think about the baby. I start to sing a lullaby in my head. A lullaby that Jude used to sing to me.
“I think it’s best if I go home,” I say.
“Will you be all right?” she says.
I think she really cares. “I’ll be fine. Paul is waiting for me up the road.”
She puts a five-pound note on the table and signals to the waitress, safe behind her counter, that we are leaving. I stand on shaking legs and she leads me out by the hand.
SEVENTY-FOUR
Will
MONDAY, APRIL 30, 2012
He’d taken a shower after Emma and her friend left. Soaping away the accusations under hot water. He’d be all right, he thought. He enjoyed sailing close to the edge, always had.