I was stupid. You saw me, didn’t you? I could have given myself away. I tried to get too close, too quickly. The time wasn’t right. I could have ruined everything. Patience isn’t my strong point. If I hadn’t stood on that fucking twig you’d never have known I was there. I was with you long before that. I was with you when you left the bar with your tarty little friend. I was with you when you both wove your way to the bus stop, giggling and acting younger than your twenty-two years. I was with you when your friend got on the bus and you waved her off. And I was with you when you walked home alone. I could so easily have reached for you, placing my hands around your long, slender neck.
You need to be more careful.
18
Una
I don’t get a chance to do any amateur sleuthing for the next week or so because Elspeth is constantly by my side. When we’re not in the house I’m accompanying her on excursions, or sitting patiently in one of her shops while she discusses business with the manager. I also have to walk her to her twice-weekly hair appointments. Unfortunately she doesn’t use the salon where Courtney works (it would have been great to catch up with her for a chat) but a more upmarket affair in the village. When I saw the price of a cut and colour I nearly passed out.
I’m sure Kathryn is deliberately avoiding me. When she comes over she’s polite but distant – even colder than usual. I think she’s angry with me for telling Peter about the necklace. Perhaps she thinks we’re ganging up on her, accusing her of knowing more about Jemima’s death than she lets on. But that’s not what this is about. Yes, I believe she lied about the necklace, but I can’t believe she harmed Jemima. Why would she?
Peter keeps in touch by text. He’s much more communicative by phone than he is in person. He had to go back to London for work. But he’s promised to visit in a few weeks, saying he’ll stay nearby in a bed-and-breakfast. I told him I’ll try to find out who Jemima’s mystery man was before he returns.
Sometimes, when I’m alone in bed at night (door locked with the chair jammed under the handle), I miss Mum so much it physically hurts. The weight of her death sits heavily on my chest so that I feel suffocated by it. I understand Peter’s pain. If I thought someone had harmed my mum I would go to the ends of the earth to find out the truth. I’m not stupid – I know that my interest in Jemima’s death is also a distraction from my own grief, from my failed relationship and my boredom in a job where I mostly have an old lady for company, even though these days – since I stopped asking probing questions – we get on well. I know all this. The only thing that gets me through these depressing cold winter days is the thought of the hot climes I’ll visit in September.
One evening after I’ve put Elspeth to bed I retreat to my room and scroll through Jemima’s Instagram page. I can’t stop looking at it: the beaches she visited and the towns. Talking to Peter has made her feel even more real to me. I feel as if I know her. I wonder if we would have been friends.
I google Peter’s name and wait while it loads. There are lots of Peter Freemans but none of them is Jemima’s brother. I try Peter Freeman + firefighter but still nothing. Even though his sister had a presence on social media it seems Peter is a ghost. He has no digital footprint at all.
It’s February and I’ve been in the job for over a month when Kathryn finally corners me. It’s Wednesday, my day off, and she’s arrived bright and early for her daughterly duties. That makes me sound scathing. Don’t get me wrong, I admire how kind and diligent Kathryn is to her mum. I’m being selfish because having her around instantly changes the atmosphere and I find that I’m on edge, as if I’m tiptoeing over a floor of broken toys not wanting to make a sound to alert her to my presence. It’s obvious she doesn’t like me and disapproves of me being here. It emanates from her every pore.
When I come downstairs I expect the house to be empty. Kathryn usually takes her mum out first thing because Elspeth is such an early riser. But she is standing in the library doorway with a book in her hand and a startled expression, as if I’ve caught her doing something she shouldn’t. She’s got what looks like a key in her hand. She slips it onto the shelf and replaces the book in front of it. She does all of this in a flash, like a magician performing a sleight-of-hand trick, obviously hoping I won’t see, and I pretend not to have noticed as I go to the cupboard to get my boots. Courtney’s got today off so we’re going shopping at Cabot Circus.
‘Una, can I have a word?’ she calls, as I’m pulling on my coat, her voice echoing around the hallway. I wonder where Elspeth is. My heart sinks but I fake a smile and go over to her. She beckons me into the library and shuts the door behind me.
I rarely come into this room, even though it’s beautiful with the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and the two high-backed armchairs in a plush mustard velvet positioned either side of the French windows. It’s peaceful and relaxing, yet apart from the books there is no personality to this room. Nothing to say who the McKenzies really are: no ornaments from a memorable holiday or a paperweight on the little round table. Not even a candle or a diffuser, which Courtney and I had in abundance in our flat, mainly to hide the smell of mould.
‘Take a seat,’ she says, indicating one of the chairs. I do as she says, puzzled and a little anxious as to what she’ll want to talk about. She doesn’t look particularly angry. Her face is set in its normal neutral repose so it’s impossible to read what she’s thinking. She sits opposite me and leans forwards, elbows resting on her lap, like we’re the best of friends about to have a cosy gossip.
‘I hope you don’t mind me bringing this up …’ she takes a deep breath ‘… but Mother asked me to have a word with you about Viola.’