‘Caroline and I had a stupid falling-out,’ Mum says, when we’re installed in the sitting room, glasses of wine in hand. ‘I can’t even remember what it was about now, but we didn’t speak for years and …’ She breaks off, and I think she’s dried up, but she swallows hard. ‘And now it’s too late.’
Mark rests an elbow on the arm of the sofa. His thumb on the base of his chin, he rubs his forefinger lightly along his top lip. Listening. Considering. Does he think it odd that ‘Angela’ should suddenly turn up in Eastbourne, a year after my mother’s death? My eyes flick between Mark and Mum. She meets my gaze for a split second, then drops her eyes away. Looks for a tissue.
‘We can’t change the past,’ Mark says gently. ‘We can only change the way we feel about it, and the way it affects our future.’
‘You’re right.’ She blows her nose and tucks the tissue up her sleeve in such a familiar gesture it’s a moment before I can breathe again. Rita is sitting as close to Mum as it is possible to get, leaning so heavily that if Mum moved her legs, the dog would topple over.
‘You’re honoured,’ Mark says. ‘She’s usually wary of strangers.’
I daren’t catch Mum’s eye.
‘It’s lovely to meet someone from Anna’s side. I know Bill, of course, and Caroline’s goddaughter, Laura, who’s practically family.’ He gives me a sidelong glance, winking to neutralise whatever’s coming next. ‘Another one for the top table.’
‘You’re getting married?’
‘No,’ I say, and laugh because that’s what Mark’s doing. I shift in my seat.
‘Maybe you can persuade her, Angela – I’m not having much luck.’ It’s a throwaway comment, meant as a joke.
‘But you’re so young, Anna!’
‘I’m twenty-six.’ As if she didn’t know that. Hadn’t carried me for nine months when she was younger than I am now.
‘You shouldn’t rush into anything.’
There’s an uncomfortable silence. Mark coughs.
‘Are you married, Angela?’
‘Separated.’ She glances at me. ‘It didn’t work out.’
Another awkward pause follows, while Mum and I think about the way that separation came about, and Mark thinks about … what? The face of a good counsellor gives nothing away.
‘How long are you planning on being in Eastbourne?’ I ask.
‘Not long. Till New Year’s Day, that’s all. Enough time to see the people who matter, and avoid those who don’t.’ She laughs.
Mark grins. ‘Where are you staying?’
A red flush colours Mum’s cheeks. ‘At the Hope.’ Mark’s face is impassive, but Mum’s embarrassment intensifies. ‘Things are a bit tight and … anyway, it’s only for a few nights. It’s fine.’
‘Why don’t you stay with us?’ He looks at me for confirmation, even though the offer’s already been made. ‘We’ve got plenty of room, and it would be lovely for Ella to spend time with you.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t—’
‘We insist. Don’t we?’
I daren’t look at Mum to see if the alarm in her eyes mirrors my own. She thought she was safe. She thought Dad would never track her down. If he knows she’s here …
‘Of course,’ I hear myself saying. Because what explanation could I possibly give for saying no?
‘In fact, you’d be doing me a favour. I’ve got some appointments I can’t cancel, and it would be great to know I’m not leaving the girls on their own.’
He means me. He’s worried I’m having some kind of breakdown. He’s not that far off the truth.
‘Well, if you’re sure …’
‘We’re sure.’ Mark speaks for us both.
‘Then I’d love to. Thank you.’
Mark turns to me. ‘Maybe Laura could come over. Do you know Laura, Angela?’
Her face is white, despite the pasted-on smile. ‘I … I don’t think we’ve met.’
I make my smile match theirs. Tell myself it’s all going to be fine. Mark will be at work. I can tell him Laura’s got yet another new job, or that she’s away with friends. As long as I can keep Mum indoors, out of sight, there’s no reason why anyone should suspect a thing.
And Dad?
My pulse picks up.
I try telling myself he won’t want to come here, where people might recognise him. Mum was hiding out up north – that’s where he found her. He’ll be looking for her there.
Except …
Suicide? Think again.
He sent the card. He threw the brick. He knows what Mum did. He knew I’d been to the police. Somehow, he can see exactly what’s happening in this house. If he doesn’t already know Mum’s at Oak View, I have no doubt he soon will.
My pulse quickens. Did Dad ring the house because he thinks Mum’s here? Was he hoping she’d pick up? Give him the confirmation he needs?
If Mum had only gone to the police when Dad first mentioned his absurd scheme, none of this would ever have happened. Mum wouldn’t have felt the only way to escape was a fake suicide, and I wouldn’t be here now, harbouring a criminal. She should never have done it.
She should never have helped him disappear.
FORTY-TWO
I would have done it unaided, if it had been possible.
It wasn’t.
The practicalities alone made it too hard for one person. One car to leave at Beachy Head, another to drive us back. Witnesses to fabricate, tracks to cover, evidence to destroy. Even with two of us, it was a struggle.
We could have asked Anna for help. We could have told her everything, promised her the world if she’d lie for us. But I didn’t want to involve her; didn’t want to make a mess of her life, the way I’d made a mess of my own.
Now she’s up to her neck in it anyway.
She’s frightened. I don’t like it, but there’s no other way. My lies are unravelling, and unless the police back off, everything we did is going to be splashed across the papers, and I’ll be heading for a prison cell – if they can find me.
I thought I had no choice but to involve someone else.
I wish I’d tried harder.
If I’d done it alone, I wouldn’t have had to put my trust in another person. I wouldn’t have had to lie awake at night, wondering if secrets were being spilled.
If I’d done it alone, I could have kept the money.
FORTY-THREE
MURRAY
Murray woke to the sound of the radio. He opened his eyes and rolled onto his back, blinking at the ceiling until the grit had cleared and he was properly awake. Sarah had fallen asleep on the sofa the previous evening, and although he had known she wouldn’t make it upstairs, he was still disappointed to see that her half of the bed was untouched.
The radio was loud. Someone was washing their car, or doing their garden, with little thought for whether anyone else in the street wanted to listen to Chris Evans. Murray swung his legs out of bed.
The spare room was empty, too, the duvet still downstairs on the sofa. Sarah had an appointment at Highfield today. Murray would try and speak to Mr Chaudhury alone. Tell him how Sarah had been over the last day or two.
He was halfway down the stairs when he realised the radio was coming from inside the house. In the sitting room, the curtains were drawn and Sarah’s duvet was neatly folded on the sofa. From the kitchen, Chris Evans laughed at his own joke.
‘Tosser. Play some music.’
Murray’s soul lifted. If Sarah was swearing at radio presenters, she was listening to what they were saying. Listening meant stepping out of her own world into someone else’s. Something she hadn’t been doing yesterday, or the day before that.
‘No tossers on Radio Four.’ He joined her in the kitchen. She was still wearing yesterday’s clothes, and a faint smell of sweat clung to her. Her grey hair was greasy, and her skin still dull and tired. But she was awake. Upright. Making scrambled eggs.
‘What about Nick Robinson?’
‘I like Nick Robinson.’
‘He’s a tosser, though.’
‘He’s a Tory. It’s not the same thing.’ Murray stood next to the hob and turned Sarah to face him. ‘Well, not always. How’s today shaping up?’
She hesitated, as though she didn’t want to commit, then nodded slowly. ‘Today feels like it might be okay.’ Tentatively, she smiled at him, and he moved forward to kiss her.
‘Why don’t I take over here, and you can go and have a quick shower?’
‘Do I stink?’