‘How did Oonagh O’Hara fit in?’ Sam asked. Proust snorted quietly. Charlie knew there were many things in which the inspector had no interest whatsoever. Evidently the complex relationships that existed between primary school girls was one of them.
‘That was another thing about Amy.’ Jean pursed her lips. ‘She wanted Oonagh to be her best friend, not Lucy’s. She’d deliberately try to exclude Lucy, tell Oonagh secrets and make her promise not to tell.’
‘What sort of secrets?’ said Sam.
‘Silly things, not even secrets. She wanted to make Lucy feel left out, that’s all. She’d whisper to Oonagh, “My favourite colour’s pink-don’t tell Lucy.” She used to say she was a princess, apparently. She was a princess and her mother was a queen. Geri said…’ Jean’s words tailed off.
‘Go on,’ Sam encouraged her.
‘Geri said it was as if Amy wanted to… to punish Lucy for seeing through her, for insisting on pointing out the truth whenever she made up her silly stories.’
‘Was Geraldine happy in her marriage?’ asked Proust impatiently, as if to demonstrate the difference between a proper question and a pointless one. ‘Did Mark treat her well? Did they love each other?’
‘Why don’t you ask Mark?’ said Jean. ‘It’s unforgivable, if you’re trying to make out he’s guilty in some way. He’s a wonderful person, and he worshipped Geri. He never raised his voice with her, not once in all the years they were together, and you’re trying to find fault with him because you need to blame somebody and you can’t think of anyone else.’
‘Let’s move on to the gloves,’ said Sam. ‘Jean, tell Inspector Proust-’
‘You tell him. You’ve obviously told him already. Why do I have to say it again?’
‘I’ll hear it from you,’ Proust barked, and the small woman shrank back in her chair. As someone who believed in the law of the jungle, thought Charlie, Jean Ormondroyd could hardly object.
‘Geri had a pair of yellow rubber gloves in the drawer beneath the sink, for washing up the things that wouldn’t go in the dishwasher. I used to say to her, why buy things that won’t go in the dishwasher when it’s just as easy to…’ She stopped. ‘The gloves aren’t there any more. I was wanting to wash a few glasses, help Mark out, and the gloves had gone. Mark didn’t even know they were there, so he hasn’t touched them. They were always there.’
‘Might Geri have thrown them away?’ Sam asked.
‘No. They were new ones. She’d keep a pair for ages before she’d replace them. The man who killed her wore them so as not to leave fingerprints.’ She shuffled her chair forward across the floor. ‘I’m not being fanciful, before you say I am. What other explanation could there be for any of this apart from what I’m saying? Well?’
Sam looked at Proust. Neither of them replied. Jean Ormondroyd’s eyes came to rest on Charlie, her expression fierce and demanding. Had it occurred to her, Charlie wondered, that getting an answer-even the right one-might be worse than not knowing?
9
Thursday, 9 August 2007
I don’t remember sleeping, falling asleep, but I must have, because I know I’m awake now. Awake in a room I don’t recognise, long and thin with a low ceiling. I haven’t seen it before, and this is the first time I’ve had this thought: that I don’t recognise my surroundings. So I must have been asleep. My clothes are twisted, as if someone has twirled my body like a skipping rope. My skin feels sticky, especially my back and the backs of my legs. I stretch out my hands, pat the surface beneath me-material, thick and fleecy.
I try to sit up, to look around, but my head aches too much. Moving it sends streaks of fiery pain shooting down my neck and back. I lower it gently, inch by inch, until it touches the bed again, closing my eyes against the glare from the overhead light, which is already, after only a few blinks, making my brain throb just above the bridge of my nose.
My throat is so dry it’s sore. Where am I? What the hell happened to me? I’ve had hangovers in my time, but never one as bad as this. And I haven’t been drinking. Fear spreads quickly around the points of pain all over my body, submerging them the way an incoming tide fills the space around small islands. I can smell new paint and a heavy fruity smell that is familiar. I’ve smelled it recently, I’m sure.
The children. What time is it? I have to collect Zoe and Jake. This is more important even than knowing where I am. I picture their eager, bobbing heads at the nursery window, the leap of joy in their eyes when they see me, and yank my body into an upright position, not caring any more how much it hurts.
I look at my watch. The digital display reads 0010. Ten past midnight-oh, my God. My stomach and heart lurch in tandem, as if someone’s tied a thick rope around them and pulled hard. That’s when I remember: Mark. I fainted on the street, and he helped me. Not Mark, I correct myself. Mark Bretherick is somebody different.
‘Mark,’ I shout, because my voice is working more efficiently than my body. I know I can’t move quickly enough.
I haul my heavy, tingly legs over the side of the bed and see that it’s not a bed, it’s some kind of high bench with white towels draped over it all the way along. ‘Mark,’ I yell again. What else am I supposed to call him? The door is open. Why can’t he hear me? Ten past midnight. Nick will have got a phone call from nursery after I failed to turn up. By now he’ll be frantic.
I need my phone. My bag is on the other side of the room, by the small convex window. I shuffle off the bench and try to stand up. Why was I lying on white towels? I wobble, try to perch on the bench again and fall. ‘Ow!’ I groan, face down on the stripy carpet. Yellow, green, orange. Dizzy, I manage to roll on to my back. I stare at the light, a transparent bulb inside a bell-shaped pink glass lampshade.
It comes to me suddenly: I’m in his house. Not-Mark’s house. He brought me home.
I haul myself forward and up on to my knees. ‘Mark! Mark, are you there?’ I call out, but my voice has lost its power. My handbag might as well be a hundred miles away. A wave of nausea sweeps over me. I think about the ginger cat’s head, the blood around its ragged neck, and have to put my hand over my mouth to stop myself from vomiting.
On all fours, I count to twenty and gulp in air until the sick feeling passes. There are balls of fluff on the carpet. Like on ours at home, after we replaced the red that was everywhere with a more soothing grey-green. This carpet is new. Yellow, green, rust, taupe. And orange, like the cat’s head. Stripes. Chosen by a woman, surely.
‘Sally?’ He is here: the man I spent a week with last year. The man from my adventure. He smiles hesitantly before coming into the room, as if reluctant to trespass on my territory. His red-brown hair is wet, three small curls plastered to his forehead. I recognise the red sweater he’s wearing; he wore it at Seddon Hall. I don’t buy that whole redheads-can’t-wear-red philosophy: that’s what he said. He’s holding a glass of water. ‘Here, have a sip of this. You’ll feel better.’
‘My kids…’ I start to say.
‘It’s okay.’ He helps me to my feet, supports me when he sees that I’m about to fall. ‘Nick picked them up from nursery. They’re fine.’
I gulp the water. It’s gone too quickly. I’m still thirsty. ‘You…’ He spoke to Nick. I close my eyes, see bursts of light that are quickly swallowed by blackness. ‘Who are you?’ I feel as if everything that’s precious to me is slipping away. I can’t let it go.
‘You need to lie down,’ he says. ‘We’ll talk later.’ He picks me up, carries me towards the bench.
‘I need to phone Nick,’ I say. ‘My head’s pounding. I need something to eat.’
‘I’ll bring you some food. And a pillow too-that’ll make you more comfortable.’ He makes a strange noise, as if he’s choking. ‘Sally, how did you get in such a state? What happened to your face? What’s… do you know what’s wrong with you?’