He kissed her, then hesitantly said, ‘Managed to escape!’
‘Good!’
‘What are you reading?’
‘It’s by Laura Whitmore.’ She held the book up and he looked at the catchy cover.
‘No One Can Change Your Life Except For You,’ he read out. ‘Is it good?’
She nodded. ‘It is, yes, very. I bought it because I thought I might learn something for Bruno. I like the way she writes, really down to earth, no nonsense. Listen to this.’ She flipped back a couple of pages and read aloud, ‘“We can blame the selfish or thoughtless actions of others for our circumstances, but we can’t change those actions. We can change how we comprehend them or how we act.”’
He nodded. ‘Very true. So, how are you?’
She gave him a wan smile. ‘I’m bearing up, I suppose — how about you?’
He took a deep breath. ‘The same. I’m fine so long as I’m busy. The moment I stop, I start thinking about everything. How’s Noah?’
‘Kaitlynn said he’s been bloody awful all day. She reckons he’s finally entering the terrible twos.’
‘So if he’s started late, let’s hope he finishes them early,’ Roy said, peeling off his jacket, loosening his tie and fiddling with the top button of his shirt until he prised it open. ‘We can only hope!’
‘Chance would be a fine thing.’ She grimaced. ‘I’ve been working on the music for Bruno’s funeral.’
He looked solemn. ‘Thanks, that’s great.’
‘I’ve only made a start — I need your help.’
‘Sure.’
‘I’ve been going through Bruno’s Spotify playlists on his laptop.’
‘No password?’
‘I found it on a Post-it stuck to the inside of a drawer in his bedroom.’
‘I’ve always said you’d make a great detective.’ He smiled.
She shook her head. ‘No, I wouldn’t — I have a life.’ She gave him a strange look.
It wounded him. Even more at this moment, when he was about to break the news about his commitment for Thursday night. ‘Hey! Meaning?’
‘You know exactly what I mean. I would never want you to change, I know how much you love your work. I’m not saying it as a criticism, it’s what you are, it’s what makes you the man I married. It’s what makes you the man I love.’
He sat down on the sofa and put an arm around her. ‘You do an incredible job, too, being with people, comforting them at the worst moment in their lives.’
‘Thanks, but I’m worried for how much longer I’ll be able to do that,’ she said. ‘It’s the thing I love most about my job. But new technology is taking that away from me. Nowadays identifying a victim is dealt with mostly by DNA or dental records, and relatives are no longer identifying their loved ones in person. I’d really miss that human contact. It’s always tough. Someone leaves home and drops dead, or is killed in an accident, and I feel a real sense of achievement if I’m able to give the loved ones some crumb of comfort. I’d hate that to be taken away. You’re lucky, in one way, no matter how grim — you’ll always have that human contact.’
Grace mentally skipped over the times when, as a junior copper having to deliver the death message, he’d been punched in the face, had furniture thrown at him, had to try to calm someone lying on the floor screaming, clawing at the air. ‘I guess.’
He bided his time; this wasn’t the moment to tell her that he’d be working Thursday night. ‘Can I hear what you’ve put together on the playlist so far?’
She leaned forward and tapped a couple of keys.
102
On what felt like the longest evening of her life, Eden was a bag of nerves. Riddled with doubts. Thinking how few killers ever actually got clean away with it. There was almost always something, one mistake or one witness or one clever, probing detective who finally got the killer to crack. And even when that didn’t happen, oftentimes killers found themselves tormented by guilt.
She couldn’t stop reflecting on a novel she had read, years ago, called Thérèse Raquin, because it reminded her so much of her current situation. Maybe stupidly, she’d downloaded it onto her Kindle a few days ago and had been reading it again during her isolation. Thérèse was married to her useless husband, Camille, but desperate to be with her lover, Laurent. They murdered her husband and life should have been wonderful from then on, except it wasn’t. They were both so haunted by the knowledge of what they had done that ultimately their guilt destroyed them.
Could she live with the knowledge that she had sent Niall to his death? However much she hated him? However much he had hurt her in the past? And despite knowing he had been planning to kill her?
Would he really have gone through with “getting rid of” her? Was she being pushed by Rebecca, coerced by her into doing this? Was she being weak in not standing up to Rebecca and telling her she couldn’t go through with this? And — she churned this over and over — what was going to happen when she met Niall, face to face, shocking the hell out of him?
Or would it shock him at all?
Niall knew she was almost certainly alive and he would be mad as hell with her. Crazy mad for all she’d put him through. And she’d seen him mad before. Scary. Very scary. Definitely capable of killing, like he did with their baby. Was it smart to meet him, in pitch darkness, on a remote clifftop?
As if further dampening her thoughts, a heavy shower was pelting down outside, rattling as loud as hail on the roof of the small conservatory adjoining the kitchen. It was just gone 10 p.m.
She craved a drink, but didn’t dare risk it — being stopped and breathalysed would screw everything up. Although, she reasoned, as she sat at the little dining table beneath the glass roof, digging her fork into a microwaved pasta — turning it over, letting the steam escape, her stomach too knotted to consider eating even a mouthful — maybe that would be the easy way out of all of this? Just get drunk. Pass out at home. Apologize to Bex later.
Or have a couple of drinks and take her chances. That was so tempting right now. And if she got arrested for drunk-driving, fess up and see what happened. Surely it wasn’t illegal to disappear? OK, she’d left a trail of evidence to implicate that bastard, but she hadn’t harmed him, she hadn’t made any false claims against him. Rebecca was wrong, surely — she hadn’t committed any offence, had she?
More wisps of steam rose from the white slop in the tinfoil carton. Tagliatelle or rigatoni or cannelloni — she’d forgotten what it had said on the label. The cheesy smell made her stomach churn.
Just a small drink? A tiny whisky to settle her? One wouldn’t do any harm, would it?
She got up, poured herself a finger of Macallan and downed it in one gulp. Wincing at the burn as it went down her throat and hit her stomach, she stood tight. Then it began working its magic and she started to feel better. Not much, but a little. Dutch courage.
What the hell.
She raised her glass and toasted her weak reflection in a windowpane. ‘Cheers, Eden!’
Although she wasn’t actually Eden any more. According to the driving licence and passport that Rebecca had somehow obtained for her — no questions asked — well, only a few — she was now Ginevra Mary Stoneley, tenant of Woodbury Cottage, Chiddingly, East Sussex, and the not very proud owner of an inconspicuous, dark-blue, ageing Nissan Micra.
She even had a new appearance, a brand-new hairstyle and bright blonde colour, courtesy of a hairdresser friend of Rebecca who’d spent two hours at the cottage this morning.