Alex sometimes wished he was less finicky and more like his father. The retired vet was very different to his son – animal hairs covered whatever jacket he was wearing and he always had bits of food in his pockets.
She let herself into his house, relieved that she was not followed. She took in the familiar surroundings; everywhere looked immaculate as always. The leather couch had a polished shine, no dust had settled on the television screen or any other surface, and on Patrick’s desk a computer, a cordless phone and a flat dish of red apples were carefully arranged. Several file boxes, neatly labelled, were on shelves above the desk, and beside the files was a photograph of her.
It had been taken in the summer and she was in white shorts and a lemon-coloured bikini top. They had just eaten ice cream and were sitting on Weymouth’s harbour wall. They had gone down for the day and had ended up booking into a b. & b. because they wanted to make love. When they checked out after only a few hours, the proprietor had given them a knowing look and they had laughed all the way back to the car.
It had been a magical day and she had returned home completely in love with him. Their relationship had grown stronger thereafter and it became normal for them to see each other every day. She had thought she would spend her life with him.
She swallowed hard and turned away from the happy memory.
She made her way up the stairs to his bedroom and saw her laptop on the bedside table on her side of the bed. The bed was made and the pillows plumped. From the drawers she took underwear and socks, a couple of T-shirts, a pair of old jeans, and stuffed them into a carrier bag. From a crystal glass bowl on top of the drawers she retrieved a pair of silver stud earrings and, with relief, her spare key fob for her car park. She’d forgotten she’d given it to Patrick, because he never used it. He always parked outside and buzzed the intercom to be let into the building. She had yet to report her missing fob to the police and give her opinion that it had been taken by whoever ran over Lillian Armstrong. In the bathroom, she gathered her few toiletries. Her things didn’t even fill the carrier bag, and she thought it sad that they had been dating a year and there was so little of hers to take away from his home.
He had left even less at hers: two CDs and a jacket. She would post them to him as soon as she could; she didn’t want to make this journey again. She took a last look around at the upstairs rooms, her eyes resting on the made bed, filled with a sense of loss. It was finally over. She would not be coming back.
He was sitting at the bottom of the stairs when she went down. He was breaking his own rules by wearing his white work coat in his living quarters. He had his back towards her.
He looked back and up at her as he heard her approach. His blue eyes were confused. ‘I really messed up, didn’t I?’ he quietly said.
‘Let’s not talk about it any more, Patrick,’ she half pleaded.
‘I love you, you know, and I really didn’t mean to hurt you.’
‘So you say.’
‘I do,’ he said forcefully. ‘And I miss you more than I can tell you.’
He caught hold of her hand as she tried to pass and his plea was desperate: ‘Don’t go. We won’t talk about anything. Just stay with me. Stay here with me for the day.’
She shook her head. ‘I can’t, Patrick. I can’t be with someone who doesn’t believe me. I can’t trust you any more.’
‘I’ve never looked at another woman since being with you!’
‘I wasn’t speaking of that kind of trust.’
‘You mean the kind of trust where you can tell each other everything?’
‘Yes.’
‘And know you will be safe to tell that person?’
‘Yes.’
He let go of her hand and stood up. ‘You didn’t trust me enough either, it would seem.’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, confused.
‘You didn’t tell me about last year. You didn’t tell me about that, did you, Alex? Did you think I wouldn’t have understood or that I wouldn’t have wanted to go out with you?’
Through trembling lips she tried to speak. ‘Who .?.?. who told you?’
‘Fiona. She’s worried sick about you. They all are. Even Pamela. She says you had a bit of a breakdown on the day of her wedding. They’re all worried about you and they don’t know how to help.’
She managed to walk towards his office, one foot blindly in front of the other as she made for the door that would let her back out of his house.
‘Let me help you, Alex. Let’s tackle this together.’
She stopped as she reached the door, aware he was only a step behind. ‘Thank you for letting me collect my things. I need to go to work now.’
‘Alex, don’t go. You shouldn’t be working in this state. We can find someone to help you. Caroline would rather you went off sick and got proper help.’
Dear God, she thought. How many people had he spoken to? How many people were out there analysing her right now? She felt bile rise in her throat and knew she had to get out fast before she disgraced herself.
‘I’m going to be late,’ she said woodenly. ‘Don’t see me out.’
He made one last attempt: ‘I’ll be here when you need me. Please remember that, Alex.’
She almost flew back along the mud track in her haste to get back to her car. Her hands were shaking as she tried to get the driver’s door open. She had parked close to the hedge to allow access for other cars visiting the practice and her clothes were soaking up the wetness as she pressed against them.
Finally, she sat in the driver’s seat with the engine off, her clothes wet, her hair dripping again, and the rain pounding the windscreen, making it impossible for her to see out, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. Her heartbreaking cries went unheard and the tears joining the rain on her face went unseen.
They were all talking about her, all thinking she had gone mad, and she could bear it no longer.
Chapter thirty-two
The briefing was a fiasco from beginning to end. Greg wanted to wring a few of the officers’ necks. Some had turned up late, some hadn’t even bothered to turn up at all and the ones that had made it on time had nothing useful to offer. They were all now shifting restlessly in their seats waiting for permission to go. Greg wouldn’t give it.
‘So to recap: Lillian Armstrong’s been dead nearly a week and we still haven’t been able to map out her last few remaining hours of life. We haven’t been able to locate a single witness. We have yet to discover the name of even one of her punters. And we still haven’t located the car or the person who killed her?’
Slow shakes of heads and nonchalant shrugs were given and Greg, furious and unable to stand the lethargy in the room any longer, stood up and banged the table hard.