The Beauty of the End (8 page)

15

 

A
s I stand at the back of April's cottage, nowhere is there any sign of forced entry. Had the door been open when the police found her that night? No doubt they'd have locked up when they left and taken the key. I'm wondering also if there's a spare key, hidden for whoever might need it, somewhere not too obvious. When I'd moved into my aunt's cottage, I'd found my own front door key where I'd been told it would be, under the clichéd upturned flowerpot, cracked from frost. Mad, I'd thought at first, inviting just anyone into your home like that, until I'd seen the old windows and rusted, ill-fitting locks that wouldn't keep anyone out. That sanctuary was illusory.

Here, the windows are locked tight and there's no upturned flowerpot, just a flat, moss-covered stone placed deliberately near the door. When I lift it enough to feel underneath, I find what I'm looking for.

The key fits the back door, and as I push it open, the wind suddenly picks up. Then out of the corner of my eye, I see a cat watching from a corner of the garden, before it streaks toward me and without hesitation vanishes inside.

I'm not sentimental, but there's something poignant about walking in on April's life, frozen the moment she left. Her coat thrown over a chair, the suede boots left underneath where she'd slipped them off, the heels faded from wear; her keys on a work top, as if she'd just come in from a walk.

In the middle of her kitchen table are unopened letters, next to a bowl of green apples and a pile of newly folded washing on which the scent still lingers; in a heavy jug on the windowsill are stems of lilac, cut, I'm guessing, from the bush I'd noticed in her garden.

As I explore, there are so many signs, small, but of disproportionate significance, that she hadn't planned to kill herself. From the seed packets, a neat bundle held by a rubber band waiting to be planted once the soil had warmed, to the page ripped out of a magazine advertising a weekend break in the French Riviera—in autumn. A half-written shopping list, tickets for a theater production in a month's time—all of it suggesting she was planning on being here.

The more I look around, the more I'm convinced I'm right. It's a home that's cared for, a refuge, that feels loved. Nowhere is there any indication of a disturbed mind. If she'd been in the grip of depression, there'd be no flowers, no bowl of apples, no neatly folded laundry.

April would have tidied, too, I'm sure of it. Left things in order, hidden her most private self from the prying eyes she knew would come here, after. The police, her next of kin, all picking through the remnants of her life. It wasn't her way to leave herself on display to strangers.

Something must have happened between her and Norton that night, whether she killed him or not, that was so terrible, sent her somewhere so dark, so hopeless, that ending her life was her only option.

I'm wondering what it could have been when my eye is drawn to a sudden movement in the doorway, as the cat reappears, staring watchfully at me, before arching its back. I take a step toward it, stopping when it yowls ferociously. As the hairs on the back of my neck prickle, in a moment of absolute certainty, I know without any shadow of a doubt.

April wouldn't have abandoned a cat.

I ignore the cat as I explore further, through a door that leads into a small sitting room with pale, bare floorboards and soft-colored furnishings, my conviction growing. It's as if April's just gone out—for a paper, maybe, or to call on a neighbor; as if any minute, the back door will swing open and I'll hear her footsteps in the kitchen, the sound of her soft, clear voice.

I skim a bookcase full of titles on various therapies, take in the few photos, of April with groups of other nameless people, of someone I don't know holding a baby.

Another doorway leads down the single brick step that's worn smooth with age, into what appears to be her study. In a corner, there's a small desk, with two armchairs angled by the window. Possibly a consulting room, if she's still working as a counselor, which from the books she's collected seems likely, and I picture her sitting there with her clients. Wonder how it is to inhabit someone else's world.

Nowhere is there evidence that anyone else lives here. For some unknown reason, I'm relieved to know that, assume she must have married and divorced, yet kept the name Rousseau.

I'm halfway up the stairs when I pause, overwhelmed by the strangest sense that I'm not alone, startled by the faintest trace of footsteps treading the stairs just behind me, then turn to find no one there. Frozen, as a ghostly hand I can't see brushes against my skin, as I think of her unconscious body in the hospital, so lifeless, empty of the energy, the essence of what makes her April, as I consider also that maybe that part of her has come home.

Another image comes to me, of that last night, of April coming up these stairs, for whatever unknown reason, with no choice, her despair so great it still echoes here. Feeling it crawl under my skin and become my own.

It's a picture that stays with me, grows more vivid, so that my heart is thudding as I enter her bedroom. The bedcovers are disturbed, and there's a tipped-over vodka bottle on the floor. The image of April swallowing pills and vodka flashes through my mind. It's followed by another of the police arriving, having traced her address as soon as they found her phone, the sound of them breaking in, then the urgency in their voices as they find her. Was she unconscious, already floating somewhere else, as they carried her body down the stairs?

My thoughts are broken by the cat, leaping onto the bed, looking at me expectantly. This time, when I reach out my hand, it blinks back at me, as if reading my mind, then comes over and rubs its head against my hand.

“I know how you feel,” I tell it, listening to the throaty purr. “Come on, buddy. Let's find you some food.”

* * *

I find a box of dry cat food down in the kitchen and tip it into an empty bowl, watching while the cat wolfs it down, then hear the phone ring in another room. After three rings, my ears prick up as it goes to voicemail.

“
Hello, you've reached April Rousseau. Please leave your name and number and I'll call you back.
”

It's unmistakably April's voice. There's a brief pause before a woman speaks.

“Hello? April, it's Sadie Westwood. We had an appointment today.... I don't know what happened, but I was hoping you could fit me in, tonight—or maybe tomorrow, if it's easier.... Can you call me, please?”

The voice wavers, almost tearful, then the caller leaves a number and hangs up. I frantically look around for a piece of paper, repeating the number to myself, and then jot it down before I forget, guessing she's almost certainly a client, but not wanting to play the message back, or leave any other trace of my presence when the police come here.

Realizing there are likely to be more clients like Sadie Westwood, who have appointments, who ought to be told, I go back to April's study, where in one of the drawers of her desk I find folders containing client details. It's on impulse that I take them. Noticing her diary, I pick that up, too. Then as I walk back through the sitting room, I find myself drawn again to the photos, picking them up in turn, curiously studying the faces as new questions come to me. Does she have a family? And if she does, do they know?

Outside again, I'm about to lock the door when a furious yowl alerts me to the fact that the cat is still inside. I open the door, and it streaks out, vanishing into the trees. Locking up, in a moment of rashness I consider keeping the key, but decide against it and slide it back under the stone.

Just moments later, I'm in my car pulling on my seat belt when a few meters farther down the lane, a police car pulls up. In my driving mirror I watch as two uniformed police cross the lane and go through April's gate. As one of them talks on his radio, I can't help but wonder: Coincidence? Or was I right? Was I being watched?

* * *

Back in my room at the B&B, I eat the sandwich I bought earlier and pour myself a drink, then another, enough to allow the tension to ebb away but not sufficient that when I sleep I don't dream vividly. As my eyes close, I'm back in April's cottage. Long grass bleached to the color of hay has grown up against the windows. I'm in her study, where the light casts shadows and twisting tendrils of plants creep silently through broken windows and cracks in the walls.

Around me, obscured by the softness of the leaves, the walls have vanished; then, as I watch, flowers start to open, one by one, like stars appearing as night falls, until there's a whole mass of them. It's eerily, surreally beautiful—but suddenly it changes. I hear the wind first, a distant howl that comes closer, sweeping past me, tearing at the leaves, and while I watch, the tendrils wilt and colors fade. The leaves start to drop, while the flowers wither, their petals falling in soft monochrome, carpeting the floor.

As the last of them fall like snowflakes, I hear a cry, and looking down, I see cushioned in their softness a baby.

16

 

T
hat I have April's notes in my possession poses a dilemma that's twofold: not only are they confidential, between April and her clients, but it's likely, also, the police will want them.

I'm trying to prove April's innocence, but I'm guilty of breaking into her cottage and potentially withholding information from the police, of blatantly flouting the law. But it's a risk I'm prepared to take. I'm here not only as a lawyer. I'm here because I knew her.

In my room at my B&B, brushing aside my misgivings, I make a call I know can't wait.

It's answered almost immediately, by a woman who sounds young, which, for no logical reason, throws me.

“May I speak to Sadie Westwood?”

“This is Sadie.”

“Ms. Westwood? My name's Noah Calaway. I'm a friend of April Rousseau's. . . . I'm sorry, but I have some rather worrying news. . . .” I pause, aware of how fragile this woman sounded when she left her message on April's phone. “She's had an accident.” I pause, giving her time to take it in, before adding, “I'm afraid she's in hospital.”

She gasps. “
Oh
. . . my goodness, that's terrible. Oh, poor April. Is she all right?”

“It's a little soon to say,” I tell her gently, then take a deep breath. “I was wondering, would you mind if we talked about her? I think she might be in trouble.”

“Oh! Of course. Anything—if it would help. Oh, poor April . . . What kind of trouble?” She sounds nervous, jittery, clearly shocked.

“I think she's been framed for something she didn't do.” I give her a few seconds to take it in.

“Oh . . . That's terrible.” She hesitates. “Are you another therapist?”

“No. I'm her lawyer.”

At the word
lawyer
, there's another gasp. I'm not sure what emotional landscape Sadie Westwood occupies, but I'd hazard a guess it's an unstable one—which presumably is why she needs April.

“Oh. Oh dear. Yes.” She sounds confused. “Of course. If it will help her. But she's always so calm—and such a happy person. She never has any problems, you know. She's just one of those incredible people—who copes.”

“I'm sure she is. Did you ever discuss her personal life with her?”

“Not really, I'm afraid. You see, I haven't been well; she was helping me. . . . It sounds so selfish, doesn't it, when you put it like that?” Her anxiety is obvious.

“No. Not at all.” Telling her what she wants to hear, because even if April had confided in her, I'm not sure Sadie Westwood would have noticed.

“Look, could I leave you my number? If you think of anything, can you call me?”

I recite the number twice because she gets it wrong, then end the call, irritated. Not just by Sadie Westwood's assumptions that April's life was easy and that April somehow mysteriously “coped,” but because something about her dimly reminds me of a small part of myself that only ever saw what it wanted to. A part of which I'm not proud.

* * *

The presence of April's client notes continues to make me uncomfortable. They're deeply private and confidential, yet with nothing else to go on and carefully avoiding more personal information, I know also I need to go through them.

After making a list of names, I speak to six clients initially, half of whom used to see her once or more weekly, though none of them recently, and learn nothing that appears significant.

The next morning, I return to the hospital. But as I go through the swing doors into the ICU and approach April's room, I hear a voice, raised, as if in conversation just inside, and my heart twists in hope. Has she come round? Is a doctor with her? As I reach the door, I see it is a doctor, one I'd hoped not to see.

He looks up just as he falls silent, arms folded as he stands over her. There's a policewoman there today, awkward as she looks uncertainly at him.

He's still lean, his red hair prematurely grey, dressed for work in a suit, the ID that's slung round his neck gaining him entrance where I was refused. I look for a flicker of surprise, but Will's face is blank as he walks out and closes the door behind him.

“Noah . . .” He pauses. “I wondered if I'd see you.” His air one of indifference as he appraises me. “I had a patient to check on. I thought I'd call in, see how she is.”

This—after so many years, so many wrongs. As though nothing has happened. Minimizing, trivializing the part he played in it. As he stands in front of me, my searing hate is reflexive.

“Any change?” Not trusting myself to say more, because I have no more to say to him. From the way I curl up inside, I know with certainty,
you can never truly forget the past
.

He shakes his head. “Not so far. They're running tests—as yet, they don't know what damage was done to her internal organs. One thing is pretty clear, though. She didn't intend on being found.”

I'm silent.

“Well, you've got to admit, it doesn't look good,” he adds.

“Maybe not,” I tell him. “But the truth will come out. It usually does.”

I remember the way his eyes narrow, just slightly, in the corners. His voice is deceptively light. “You still believe she's innocent?”

I hold his gaze. “Until proven otherwise . . . I do.” Watching his split-second hesitation before he glances at his watch.

“I have to go.” He reaches into his pocket. “If you feel like a drink sometime, give me a call.”

I stare at the card he's handed me; then curiosity gets the better of me. “Just one question. Why did you call me?”

If I've caught him off guard, he hides it well.

He frowns. “I thought you should know.”

Which tells me nothing, as he turns and strides out, his footsteps fading down the corridor. I already know I won't call him. Then pushing thoughts of Will from my head, I turn back to look through the slatted blinds at April, because this isn't about him. It never was.

She looks the same as yesterday, just as small and lifeless, her existence simply a trace on the monitor she's wired up to, her only movement the slight rise and fall of her chest, in time with the machine that's breathing for her.

“Hey,” I say silently through the glass, like the last time. “It's good to see you.”

I hold my breath, waiting for a sign that she's heard me, wishing she'd turn her head toward me and open her eyes, so that I could watch them widen with disbelief.

Then I'm chastising myself for my choice of words. It isn't good to see her, not like this. And what had Will been thinking, if not exactly shouting, then talking so angrily to her. Why didn't that WPC stop him? In my pocket, my fingers find his card.

As I read it, a faint echo comes to me of April's voice, warning me not to trust him. Clear enough that it startles me, so that I look toward her face as another memory comes back to me from a happier time, of the same words spoken a long time ago.