The Secrets Between Us (25 page)

I could just pack and go. I could call a taxi to take me into Wells, or Shepton Mallet, and catch a train to Bristol and pick up a Midlands connection there. Nobody back in Manchester apart from my immediate family knew anything about Alexander and Genevieve. Nobody knew and nobody cared. It wasn’t as if anyone would accuse me of having failed. I could slip seamlessly back into my old world. It would feel like death to me, but to everyone else it would be a small, insignificant death. It was possible. I could leave.

But I didn’t want to go. I would not leave the two people I cared for now more than anyone else in the world – not unless Alexander really wanted me out of his life, and in my heart I doubted that. I was almost certain he’d told me to go because he did not want me to know the truth about his past, not because he wanted shot of me. In his own, awkward way he had come to depend on me. What he needed was for me to be completely on his side. He had believed in me. I had not granted him the same respect.

I was at a crossroads. Now was the time to commit to Alexander completely, or to throw in the towel and walk away. Really, there was no decision to be made.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

I HAD A
hot shower and dressed, then I did what I always did first thing in the morning: I prepared supper for that evening. I made Jamie’s favourite pasta bake, covered it with grated cheese, wrapped the whole thing in tin foil, and put it in the fridge.

The weather had turned lately; it was significantly colder. My eyes were drawn outside, to the back garden separated from the orchard by its barbed-wire fence. It was small, disorganized and hidden behind the house. I had hardly been out there, but Alex used it as a place to dump stuff, and for bonfires. We’d spent all our time and energy working in the front, with its lawn and flower beds, trees and vegetable patch.

That morning, I decided to do what I could to clear the back; it might be my last chance. Then I’d pack my bag and, if Alex’s mind was still set when he came home, I’d make him promise I could visit Jamie every now and then, and I’d leave.

I wrapped up warm and went outside. The back garden was overrun with brambles and dead and dying nettles. It was so cold that my breath clouded around me, but I was ruthless with the secateurs, and soon a pile of cut-back material big enough for a bonfire was heaped in the corner.
I tugged at a bunch of twiggy dead wood with my gloved hands, and as it came away I saw the shape of something solid beneath it.

Curious, I pushed at the overgrowth until I had revealed the object. It was an unfinished statue of a woman, cut into a piece of stone.

The stone was whitish, hardly weather-worn. The woman’s head had been sculpted to look out across the orchard. I took off one of my gloves and felt the cold stone icy beneath my palm, the shape of Genevieve’s face.

I knew Alexander had made the statue.

The sad feeling rushed over me again and tears came to my eyes and ran down my face. I knew that no matter how hard I tried, I would never be beautiful and I would never be Genevieve, and Alexander would never love me enough to carve my face out of stone.

I don’t know how long I sat there by that statue; long enough to run out of tears and to begin to ache with cold. The sky above was pewter-coloured, streaked with cloud. If I stayed there long enough maybe I would turn to stone. I was lost in self-pity when I heard the crunch of car tyres on the gravel at the top of the drive. I stood up, brushing soil from the knees of my jeans, and, hobbling on cold feet prickling with pins and needles, went to the gate.

It was DI Twyford. He had parked his car and now was speaking into his phone, looking towards the open door at the front of the house. He was laughing at something the person at the other end of the line had said.

His timing was spectacularly bad.

For a few moments I toyed with the idea of hiding. I could creep behind the pile of cuttings I’d just made. Or climb over the wire fence and hide in the orchard; I could lie down in the long, wet grass and make myself disappear. He’d probably wait a while but eventually he’d go away.

But then … The rosette-room door was open.

It would look odd, the door being open and nobody there. I didn’t want to raise any more suspicions. I didn’t want to draw more attention to myself and Alexander, or behave in a way that might look strange. Hiding and running away were not options. I would have to face the inspector. I put on a cheery smile, and opened the gate just as he stepped out of his car.

He smiled when he saw me, but then his smile changed to a frown of concern.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Hay fever,’ I said.

‘In November?’

‘I’m very sensitive.’

‘To what? Frost?’

‘Actually, I had a bit too much to drink last night.’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I see.’

Now he thinks I’m a dipso, I thought. Or else he thinks the pressure’s getting to me or that I’m drinking to numb my guilt.

He took off his sunglasses and squinted. ‘Alexander not around?’ he asked. It was a ridiculous question. It was 11 a.m. on a weekday. Of course Alexander was not there. I narrowed my eyes and gave the inspector a cynical look.

‘He’s at work.’

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Listen, I just happened to be passing …’

I toed a pebble with my boot and tucked my hair behind my ear.

‘This was going to be my last call of the day,’ he said. ‘I was hoping to have a quick word with Mr Westwood but, as he’s not here and I’m more or less off duty, would you like to join me for lunch?’

My hungover mind turned slowly. Was he allowed to ask me out for lunch? Was he asking in a professional capacity,
or was he flirting with me? If I refused, what would he think? That I was being unhelpful, possibly, or that I was afraid or had something to hide. Even if he was just playing with me, would it put his back up if I refused? I owed it to Alexander to deal with this situation, especially after what had happened the previous night.

So I said: ‘OK. That would be nice. I just need to …’

‘Slip into something more comfortable?’ Oh lord, he
was
flirting.

‘Wash my hands.’

‘Oh well …’

For a middle-aged man, he was remarkably confident of his attractiveness.

‘Are you married?’ I asked.

‘In the middle of a divorce,’ he said. ‘So I’m open to offers.’

When I came back outside again, changed, made up and holding my handbag, Detective Inspector Ian Twyford was waiting, leaning on the bonnet of his car and enjoying the winter sun. He wore his shades and a dark coat that strained slightly at the belly. He smiled when he saw me and opened the passenger door with a little theatrical bow. I thanked him, and stepped lady-like inside. I put on my dark glasses and waited for him to take us out of Burrington Stoke, the hangover rubbing away at my right optic nerve like a carpenter with a plane.

‘Where are we going?’ I asked.

‘Rather nice country pub I know called the Pony and Trap,’ he said. ‘Good ale, good food, good views.’

‘I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but could we go somewhere a bit urban? Somewhere where there’ll be loads of people and nobody will stare at us?’

He chuckled.

‘Going a bit stir crazy in the sticks, are we?’

‘More than a bit.’

‘OK. Whatever you want.’

He smiled at me. I thought it would hurt my head to return the smile so I closed my eyes behind the sunglasses and actually managed a little doze before we reached our destination.

We went to Wells, and the city was busy, heaving with the pre-Christmas rush. We walked through crowds of people and went into a nice little pub.

‘Two pubs in two days. People will start talking about me,’ I said as he helped me, graciously, into a seat beside an agreeably hot and welcoming log fire. I snuggled into the chair and felt better.

‘Like they’re not talking about you already,’ he said. He jingled the change in his trouser pockets. ‘Do you need a hair of the dog?’

I shook my head.

‘You look like you do.’

I knew I looked fine. I’d put on make-up before we left.

‘How about something to eat?’

‘OK.’

While he stood at the bar, which was all gilt and mirrors and retro-optics, I picked at a beer mat. Then he sat down on a stool opposite me and passed me a glass of what looked like iced tomato juice. A swizzle-stick protruded from the viscous red liquid.

‘Drink it,’ he said. ‘It’ll make you feel better.’

He ripped open a packet of cheese and onion crisps with his teeth and placed it on the table between us.

‘Got to be cheese and onion,’ he said, ‘if you want to cure a hangover.’

‘Is that official?’

He nodded and took a drink of his pint.

‘Why did you want to see Alexander?’ I asked.

‘I can’t tell you. Besides, I’m off duty now. I don’t want to talk about work.’

I eyed him with suspicion. Either he really did fancy his chances with me, or he was lying – or maybe both.

A few minutes later, a harassed-looking teenage girl in a white apron interrupted us to put a plate of cheese and chutney sandwiches and a bowl of chips on the table. My stomach rolled with pleasure at the hot, oily tang.

‘Those look fantastic.’

I took a sip of the tomato juice cocktail. It was savoury and it had a fabulous kick. There must have been at least a double shot of vodka in there.

‘This is how people become alcoholics, you know,’ I said. ‘By being given drinks that taste like pure vitamin C when they’re feeling awful.’

‘So have you found any more letters in Avalon?’ he asked, completely wrong-footing me. ‘Have you found Genevieve’s laptop?’

‘No, no, I haven’t.’

‘What about emails? Have you had a look on Alexander’s computer?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘He keeps it in his office and I don’t go in there.’

‘So you haven’t had a chance to look?’

‘I don’t need to. I trust him.’

‘What about his mobile phone? Have you checked to see if Genevieve’s number is still on there?’

I had and it was, but all the messages, both sent and received, had been deleted.

‘No.’

The inspector smiled. ‘I don’t believe you. Everyone spies on their partner’s texts.’

‘I’m not his partner, I’m his housekeeper.’

‘That’s not what I’ve heard, my lovely.’

DI Twyford brushed the crumbs from his lips with a
paper napkin and took a drink from his glass. The whites of his eyes were ever so slightly pink, and his eyebrows were dark and bushy. I couldn’t work out if he was my friend or not.

I thought I would give him something to make him like me. I’d give him some information.

‘I found something out last night,’ I said. ‘I think I know who Genevieve was seeing, who she might have gone away with.’

The inspector raised an eyebrow.

‘Go on.’

‘I heard she was in love with the boy who died in the quarry. And that after he drowned, everyone thought she’d marry his brother.’

‘Luke Innes.’

‘You know about him?’

‘His name has come up a few times.’

‘Then shouldn’t you be looking for him?’

‘We do want to speak to Mr Innes, yes.’

‘Do you know where he is?’

The inspector shook his head.

I felt a twinge of frustration.

‘If he’s missing too …’

‘We don’t know that he’s
missing
, we just don’t know where he is. We’re trying to track him down, but he pretty much disappeared off the radar after university. He went to the same one as Genevieve, at the same time. Did you know that?’

‘No.’

‘He was brilliant, by all accounts, and devoted to her but something happened. He dropped out in his second year and spent a while with a group of eco-activists trying to sabotage the Churchills’ quarrying business. He must have blamed them for his brother’s death.’

‘He and Damian would have been soul mates,’ I said quietly.

‘They were in it together.’

‘And after that?’

‘Nobody knows, or at least nobody’s saying. According to Damian, Luke went off travelling on his own. He may have settled abroad somewhere. He certainly doesn’t appear to have returned to Somerset.’

‘He might have stayed in touch with Genevieve.’

‘It’s possible.’

‘You don’t seem to think much of the idea.’

The inspector puffed out his cheeks and shook his head.

‘It seems, to me, highly improbable that Luke Innes and Genevieve Churchill would have had anything to do with one another after he left university. I don’t know what it was, but something came between them – most likely their families. Luke teaming up with Damian would have seemed like the ultimate betrayal to Genevieve, don’t you think?’

‘Perhaps. But if they really cared for one another …’

DI Twyford gave a little shrug.

‘You don’t think Genevieve had a lover, do you?’ I asked.

‘I’m keeping an open mind. The point is, Sarah, that no man, married or otherwise, vanished from the area at the same time as Genevieve disappeared from Burrington Stoke. There’s been so much publicity we’d have expected someone to come forward and give us a name if there were any likely candidates, either locally or further afield. We’ve talked to a lot of people and nobody – not one single person – has said anything about Genevieve having an affair. She didn’t mention a lover in the letter to her parents, either.’

‘Perhaps she thought they wouldn’t approve.’

‘Perhaps. Let me get you another drink,’ he said.

He did and I drank it. The pub had filled up. It was packed with a mixture of shoppers and young, attractive professional people. I felt something of a country bumpkin in my seat in the corner, getting quietly sozzled with an older man.

‘Is something wrong?’ the inspector asked. ‘You’ve been very quiet.’

‘I might go home,’ I said. ‘Back to Manchester, I mean. I’m not sure yet.’

He raised an eyebrow but did not seem unduly surprised.

‘Things not working out?’

I shrugged.

‘Oh come on,’ said the inspector. ‘Did you really expect an easy ride with a man like Alexander Westwood? In his situation?’