He shrugged. ‘Possibly. Yvonne has never really “got” me, as they say. Thinks I’m being serious when I say outrageous things. She certainly didn’t appreciate the admittedly warped sense of humour I had as a kid.’ He suddenly smiled. ‘I was a right little horror, it has to be said. This one time, Andy and I spent ages mocking up a severed arm with a bit of old mannequin from the art department at school, and when we were helping out at the farm one weekend, I went running into the kitchen carrying the arm, pretending Andy had fallen into the hay bailer.’ He began to gulp with laughter. ‘We’d gone crazy with the tomato ketchup. Even put a sleeve on it the same colour as the jumper Andy was wearing.’
‘Oh no, Nick!’ She couldn’t help smiling.
‘Final confirmation of Yvonne’s long-held opinion that I was one sick puppy.’ He suddenly sobered. ‘And now she thinks I’m an actual psychopath.’
‘I’m sure she doesn’t, deep down. Not really. She probably feels guilty about not taking you in when you needed her. Convincing herself you’re a bad person is her way of coming to terms with what she did.’
He smiled.
She smiled back at him. ‘What?’
‘You always have to find a reasonable explanation for people, don’t you, no matter how abhorrent you might find their behaviour?’
‘No, I’m not saying that. I’m not saying that what Yvonne did was reasonable. Because it wasn’t. It was the worst, Nick. It really was the worst.’ And she burst into tears all over again at the thought of him, sixteen-year-old Nick, standing in this very spot, maybe, a suitcase in his hand, off to boarding school. And Yvonne . . . Yvonne on the doorstep, jiggling her car keys and looking pointedly at her watch.
That afternoon, when Nick had closeted himself in the study again at three o’clock, Lulu slipped out of the house into the now heavy rain and scuttled down the path to the garage. The drive forked halfway along the avenue, an offshoot going to the garage and former stables. Presumably, this dated from when the Victorian owners wanted the horses and their smell kept well away from the grand residence. The study faced the other way, so Nick wouldn’t see the car leave. Or hear it, hopefully.
She felt really bad about sneaking out behind his back, but when she’d broached the subject of the car in bed last night, after they’d made love – usually a good time to broach anything controversial – he had sighed and said he would drive her anywhere she wanted to go.
He could have driven her to Carol Jardine’s house.
Lulu could have told him why she wanted to speak to Carol. But that would have implied that she was checking up on him, that she thought he might, as Yvonne had suggested, be pulling the wool over her eyes, when nothing could be further from the truth. The problem was that people with PTSD sometimes presented with a mix of real and false memories, and it was important for the therapist to determine which was which.
The key to the garage door was kept in a safe fixed to the side of the building, but Lulu knew the combination. Nick had kept going on about how ridiculous it was that Yvonne had chosen the date the house was built – 1889. Presumably, this made it easy for the guests in case they forgot it, because the year 1889 was carved in a stone panel above the front door.
Lulu twiddled the combination lock to 1889, opened the safe and removed the key. She unlocked the garage door and slipped inside. Then she rootled around in the inner compartment of her bag for the spare car key. She’d remembered last night, as she’d lain in bed trying to sleep, that one of the random keys in her bag was the spare one for the Audi, which she’d started carrying around after locking herself out of the car for the second time.
The engine starting sounded horribly loud. Wincing, she eased the Audi out of the garage and crept to the fork in the drive. Then she cut the engine and coasted down the avenue to the public road.
Carol and Steven Jardine lived in a modern bungalow in a little hamlet by the River Esk, one of a scattering of houses amongst tree-lined fields. The bungalow was set in a large garden that had probably once been a field too and was given over mainly to lawn. Carol, a solid woman in jeans and a floral top, seemed delighted that Lulu had looked her up, and kept staring at her and saying, ‘Nick’s wife! You’re gorgeous! You must make such a handsome couple!’
They sat in the conservatory watching sheet after sheet of rain sweep across the garden, sipping tea and demolishing an amazing gingerbread cake that one of Carol’s daughters had made, as Carol talked about Kathleen, Nick’s mother, who had been her best friend.
‘I still miss her.’ She sighed. ‘Even though she’s been gone over twenty years. We used to have such a good time together. Kathleen used to joke that it was a shame shopping wasn’t an Olympic sport because the two of us would be definite contenders. We used to haunt the local auction houses for fixtures and fittings for Sunnyside, and all the sales in the posh interiors shops in Edinburgh.’
‘Sunnyside is a beautiful house,’ Lulu felt obliged to contribute.
Carol beamed. ‘Isn’t it? In a terrible run-down condition, though, when they bought it. Duncan’s elderly uncle had been living there and really let it go. Renovating the place stretched Duncan and Kathleen’s budget to breaking point. A real money pit. I didn’t like to ask, because maybe the truth was that they couldn’t have any more kids, but I used to wonder if maybe that was the reason Nick was an only. Early in their marriage, they were – what’s the phrase? Asset rich, cash poor. They maybe felt more kids wasn’t an option financially, especially given all the money they spent giving Nick the best of everything – activities, holidays . . .’ She sighed again. ‘Kathleen used to say she worried Duncan spoilt him, but Nick was a great kid. I’m so glad he’s made a good life for himself.’ And she smiled, but rather sadly, at Lulu.
‘He has, but he’s never really got past what happened. It’s still affecting him quite badly, to be honest.’
‘Of course it is.’ Carol’s eyes filled with tears. ‘That poor boy.’
Lulu had already told Carol on the phone about the PTSD therapy she was using with Nick, and now, when she started to list the things he had said he remembered about the kitchen, Carol nodded. ‘That’s right. One of the rings on the hob was on. There were three mugs of half-drunk tea on the table, and three bowls and three spoons – no one knows why there were three of everything and not two, but I don’t suppose it’s important. Isla’s rabbit was on the floor.’