Halfway down I lose my footing and fall, hitting my side on the steps. ‘Careful!’ he says. I hear panic in his voice. Does he imagine he cares about me? Is that what he tells himself, his justification?
I stand up, winded but determined not to let him see I’m in pain. He is eager to show me what he calls my ‘private bathroom’. In the hall, under the stairs and opposite the entrance to the kitchen, there’s a door with a sloping top that follows the line of the stairs. I didn’t notice it before. He opens it. Inside, there’s a lavatory, shower and basin, all within a few centimetres of each other. I’m not sure there would be room for a person to stand in front of the basin if the door were closed.
‘Bijou I think is the word,’ he says. ‘This used to be the cupboard under the stairs. I never wanted to turn it into a bathroom; this house hasn’t got much in the way of storage space, and the master bedroom’s got an en-suite…’ He frowns, as if an unwelcome memory has forced itself upon him. ‘I suppose it’s lucky I lost the argument.’
‘Argument with who?’ I ask, but he isn’t paying attention. He mumbles something that sounds like ‘satisfied diffusion’.
‘Pardon?’ I say.
‘Stratified diffusion.’
‘What’s that?’ Mark Bretherick is a scientist. Could this man be one too? Is that how they know each other?
‘En-suite bathrooms. Foreign holidays, too. It doesn’t matter.’ He waves his gun to dismiss the topic, nearly hitting me in the face. Mark Bretherick told me that Geraldine and Lucy’s bodies were found in the two bathrooms at Corn Mill House. The door of one bathroom in this man’s house is locked. Does it mean anything?
‘I don’t understand.’ I look into his eyes, searching for a person I can reach somehow. How can I persuade him to let me leave?
‘Do you want to phone Nick now?’ he says.
‘Yes.’ I try not to sound as if I’m pleading.
He hands me my phone. ‘Don’t speak for too long. And don’t say anything disloyal. About me. If you even try, I’ll know.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Say you’re busy and you don’t know when you’ll be back.’ He holds the gun to the side of my head.
Nick answers after the third ring. ‘It’s me,’ I say.
‘Sal? I thought you’d forgotten we exist, me and the kids. Why didn’t you ring last night? I told them you would-they were really disappointed.’
‘I’m sorry. Nick-’
‘When are you back? We need to talk about your work situation, sort something out. Save Venice can’t expect you to drop everything and go running whenever it suits them.’
‘Nick-’
‘It’s ridiculous, Sal! You didn’t even have time to ring me? I’m not surprised your employers forget you’ve got two young children-you act like you’ve forgotten too, most of the time!’
I burst into tears. That’s so unfair. Nick gets angry so rarely. ‘I can’t discuss this now,’ I tell him. ‘The freezer’s full of stuff Zoe and Jake can have for their tea.’
‘When are you back?’
Hearing this question, answering it, is as painful as I imagined it would be. ‘I don’t know. Soon, I hope.’
A pause.
‘Are you crying?’ Nick asks. ‘Look, sorry for moaning. It’s a nightmare having to do it all myself, that’s all. And… well, sometimes I worry your work’s going to take over your whole life. A lot of women scale down their careers when they have kids; maybe you ought to think about it.’
Silently, I count to five before answering. ‘No.’ No, no, no. ‘I’m not scaling down anything. This is a one-off crisis. Owen Mellish and I had to drop everything and come and sort it out.’ Come on, Nick. Think about it. Owen has nothing to do with Venice -he works with me at HS Silsford. I’ve told Nick many times that I think Owen’s jealous because I got the Venice job and he didn’t.
‘Owen Mellish?’ says Nick. Thank God. ‘The creep with the phlegmy voice?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Oh, right,’ says my husband, sounding mystified. I wait. All I need is for him to ask if something’s wrong. Even if I can’t give him any details, even if all I can do is answer his questions with a yes or no, it will be enough to alert him. He will contact the police.
I wait, breathing jaggedly, nodding as if Nick is speaking so as not to arouse suspicion. The gun is touching my skin. ‘Great,’ says Nick after a few seconds. Something has gone wrong: he sounds amused, not worried. ‘My wife’s run off to Venice with Mr Phlegmy-voice. Listen, I’ve got to go. Ring tonight, yeah?’
I hear a click.
‘What a disappointment,’ says Mark. The man who is not Mark. ‘You should have married a man with a career, not just a job. Nick will never understand.’
I can’t speak, or stop crying.
‘You need comforting so rarely-you’re so strong, so dynamic and capable-but now, when you really need him, Nick lets you down.’
‘Stop. Stop…’ I want to ring Esther, but he’d never let me. Esther would know instantly that I was in trouble.
‘Do you remember at Seddon Hall you told me you didn’t think you were cut out for family life?’
Disloyal. I was disloyal to Nick and the children, and I am being punished for it.
‘I don’t think that’s right.’ He puts his arm around my shoulders, squeezes. ‘I told you so at the time. Trouble is, you’re trying to be part of the wrong family.’
‘That’s not true…’
‘You’re the perfect wife and mother, Sally. That’s something I’ve realised recently. You know why? Because you know how to strike a balance. You’re devoted to Zoe and Jake-you adore them, you look after them brilliantly-but you also have a life and a purpose of your own. Which makes you an excellent role model.’ He smiles. ‘Especially for Zoe.’
I try to jerk my body away from him. How dare he talk about my daughter as if he knows and cares about her, as if she is our shared concern?
‘Don’t let Nick talk you into sacrificing yourself so that his life can be even easier. So many husbands make their wives do that-it’s not healthy.’ He tucks the gun into his trouser pocket and rubs his hands together. ‘All right,’ he says. ‘Lecture over. Let’s go and get you settled in your room.’
Police Exhibit Ref: VN8723
Case Ref: VN87
OIC: Sergeant Samuel Kombothekra
GERALDINE BRETHERICK’S DIARY, EXTRACT 6 OF 9 (taken from hard disk of Toshiba laptop computer at Corn Mill House, Castle Park, Spilling, RY29 0LE)
9 May 2006, 10.30 p.m.
Today I did what I’ve often fantasised about doing but never believed I would. I underestimated my own audacity. My mobile phone rang at ten o’clock this morning. It was Mrs Flowers, ringing to say that Lucy had been sick, instructing me to come and collect her. I felt as if concrete slabs were falling inside my chest one by one, a ‘domino effect’ of horrified realisation: everything I wouldn’t be able to do if I went straight to St Swithun’s as I was being ordered to.
Children are sick all the time; usually it is insignificant. I asked how Lucy was now.
‘Subdued,’ said Mrs Flowers. ‘She’s sitting on Miss Toms’ knee, reading a story. I’m sure she’ll perk up no end when she sees Mummy.’
I heard myself say, ‘I wish I could come and get her, but I’m in Prague.’ I don’t know why I picked Prague. Perhaps because its name is short and terse, easy to bark when you’re in a foul mood. ‘Even if I got on the first flight back…’ I stopped, as if I was trying to work it out. ‘No, you’d better ring Mark,’ I said.
‘I already have,’ said Mrs Flowers. ‘He’s recorded a message on his voicemail saying he won’t be back until after lunch.’