‘Anyway,’ he continued, talking over the babble of students out in the hall. ‘I just wanted to say thank you. I hope she’s not making a nuisance of herself. She’s been a lot less . . . troubled since you began teaching her class.’ He sighed. His exhalation ended in a jagged cough. ‘I’ve been a bit lost, raising two girls on my own, and my health isn’t very good, as you can see.’ Pulling the paper handkerchief back from his pocket, he wiped his mouth before continuing. ‘Tizzy – that’s Emma’s sister – doesn’t live with us any more, and Emma spends most nights in her room. Knowing she has someone to talk to has helped ease my mind.’
I nodded, my pulse rate returning to normal. Emma had told me about her sister and how a falling out of some sort had driven her away. She really was a lost, lonely little soul – which was good, because now she was starting to rely on me. I knew from my own sister’s ditherings about boys how the female mind worked and had learned how to read the signs from an early age. The first person to arrive and the last to leave the class, Emma just couldn’t keep away. The fact she had told her father about our blossoming friendship displayed just how naive she was.
‘I’m glad she’s feeling better,’ I said. ‘I’m always on hand to offer counsel, but Emma’s a bright girl and she’s growing stronger in her own right. I’m sure she’ll be very successful in whatever field she chooses.’ I wanted to ask more about her background but thought it better to rein my interest in. It was only a matter of time before Emma became attracted to me. Coaxing young women into my bed came as no trouble at all. Trust took longer; I had to build enough that she would lie for me if the shit hit the fan.
‘Thank you, that’s good to hear,’ Mr Hetherington said.
‘She often talks about her mother,’ I said, giving in to the temptation to find out more. ‘I think it’s why she’s so interested in art. A shared interest helps her feel closer to her.’ I sighed for effect, lacing my fingers together. ‘She used to blame herself for her disappearance, but we’ve talked it through. She’s feeling a lot better about things now.’
Mr Hetherington shifted in his chair. ‘Isobel was very unhappy. She’d been talking about leaving for months.’ His eyes glazed over as he recalled a memory. ‘She wasn’t cut out for motherhood. Didn’t bond with her children like most mothers do. Then she started drinking and, well . . . let’s just say the girls are better off without her.’ He rose, offering his hand once again. It was warm and clammy and I fought the instinct to wipe my palm on the back of my trousers after we shook. No wonder Emma was happy in my company, if this was all she had waiting for her at home. A doddery old man on his last legs in a bungalow in the wilds of East Mersea. I had seen it from a distance, when I followed the bus as it brought her safely home. My previous encounters with fifteen-year-old girls taught me they could be economical with the truth. But Emma was a good girl and had not let me down. She just needed some extra lessons in discretion before I advanced my plans.
CHAPTER TWELVE
EMMA
2017
Tiny needles of rain spiked my face as I waded through the greasy leaves and muddy track to cover the ditch I had just disturbed. I worked on autopilot, dragging the broken branches back into place. My breath ragged from exertion, I worked swiftly as I camouflaged my tracks. The icy wind had permeated my clothes, numbing my fingers and toes. My mind had been hurled into chaos as I tried to comprehend what had happened to Luke. By the time I returned to the house, I had only minutes to spare. But I had not expected to see my husband as I opened the back door.
I don’t know which of us was more surprised. The shock on Alex’s face told me how much of a state I must have looked with my mud-stained clothes and wild hair. He wasted no time in firing questions at me.
‘Where have you been? I’ve been trying to ring you. Why didn’t you take your phone?’
I glanced at my mobile on the kitchen table. In my rush to get going, I had left it there. I stammered as I tried to formulate an answer. ‘S . . . sorry. I went for a ride on the quad . . . I fell off.’
‘Look at your hands,’ he said, turning my shaking palms over. ‘They’re bleeding. You’re filthy.’
‘I hit a bump in the road, fell into a ditch,’ I said, relieved that my bleeding blisters were consistent with a fall.
Alex smoothed back my hair, his frown growing as he focused on my face. ‘Sweetheart, you look spaced out. You could be concussed. Do you want me to take you to A&E?’
‘No,’ I said, gripping the back of the chair for support and immediately regretting it as my blisters cried out in protest. I was still trying to come to terms with what I had found. ‘I . . . I’ve got to collect Jamie from nursery.’
‘He’s in his bedroom. I picked him up on the way home,’ Alex said, still eyeing me up and down. ‘I finished early and went to the shop, thought we could all go to McDonald’s as a treat. Then Theresa said you’d left early and I tried to ring. I was worried when you didn’t answer your phone.’
‘Sorry,’ I said, still feeling dazed. My face felt tight from where the mud had dried in. I pulled the scarf from my hair, which was wild and matted from the wind. ‘I need a shower. I won’t be long.’
‘I bought you something to eat,’ he said, pointing to the microwave. ‘I’ve left it on a plate. Want me to heat it up? I can make you something healthier if you prefer.’
‘I’ve already eaten,’ I replied flatly. ‘We can talk about the move when I’m changed. Why don’t you show me the places you’ve got your eye on in Leeds.’
His face brightened, and I congratulated myself on coming up with a diversion. I peeped in on Jamie as I passed his room. His hair damp, he was already bathed and changed into his pyjamas and was sitting on his bed, cosied up to his army of teddies as he flicked through his new Fireman Sam book. He could be an introverted little soul, enjoying his own company when the mood took him. I gently withdrew from the door, having caught sight of myself in the hall mirror: my appearance would only concern him.
I stood in the shower, streams of mud and blood swirling down the plughole. The palms of my hands felt as if they were on fire as I shampooed my matted hair. I ran the soap over the curves of my body, feeling a familiar anxiety bloom. I had gained weight; I could feel it. Despite my efforts it had crept on just the same. I mentally recounted the calories I had consumed this week against the exercise I had done to burn them. Not enough. It was never enough. I dropped the soap, cursing myself for allowing my self-deprecation to creep in. How self-centred could I be? At a time like this I should be focusing on my family and how I was going to get us out of the mess I had created. I would tell Alex I had been having one last look at the land. I should have been pleased: by the look of the ditch, it had been undisturbed for some time. It was over.
A familiar voice rose in my mind. Who are you kidding? You should have dug deeper. It will never be over, you know that. I swirled conditioner in my hair, my thoughts wrapping themselves around me like a python, squeezing harder until I felt like I was going to pop. Tilting my face towards the shower head, I stood under its hot spikes, feeling out of breath as I tried to comprehend just what had happened that day. Luke was dead. Dead and gone. But if by some miracle he had survived . . . my heart lunged at the thought. He couldn’t be alive. Besides, he was not the sort of person who would just leave me alone. We were too far off the beaten track for anyone to have wandered on to our land and found him accidentally – even if they had, there were still the No Trespassing signs my father had erected dotting the adjoining field to warn them away. But I had dug deep enough to find him. So where was he? Was it really possible that he could be out there, waiting to return? I almost jumped out of my skin as Alex banged on the bathroom door.
‘You all right in there?’ His voice was husky, laced with concern.
I took a breath before responding, turning off the tap and grabbing my towelling robe from the hook on the wall. ‘I’m fine, be with you in a minute.’ I sighed, wishing my husband did not feel the need to monitor every minute of my day.
‘I’ve made you a sweet tea. Don’t let it go cold.’