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  Once again I picture him in our house. In our life. And the images fire another thought. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you, by the way. Whether we can have Gemma’s laptop and phone back? It’s just she always took the most photographs in the family. And she keeps them on her laptop.’ I think of the batch I most long to see. Gemma in that pink dress we chose together. She gave her phone to the assistant to take the picture – better camera than mine. And she has pictures of her birthday tea too. I so regret now letting Gemma take all the photographs. She’s much better with the technology but never remembers to message them to me.

  ‘I’m sorry but we normally hold on to all evidence until we have a trial. A mobile phone is often crucial.’

  ‘But what about the laptop? She keeps the photos backed up there. More storage. It would mean a lot to me.’

  DI Sanders looks at me intently and I see a softening in her expression. ‘I’ll see where we are with checking the laptop. But I can’t make any promises. And we’ll need to keep the phone.’

  ‘Right. Thank you. And Alex: that’s why you came here, is it? Just to talk about the scene earlier.’ I still don’t quite understand this visit.

  ‘Not only that.’ Again, she pauses, picking at imagined fluff from her trousers. ‘Alex is suggesting that Gemma had started a secret relationship. With one of her professors. He says that’s why they broke up.’

  . . . she’s been cheating on me . . .

  All at once I’m holding my breath again. It’s both shocking and offensive; it doesn’t sound like Gemma at all and my first instinct is to defend her. And yet? I think of the change in Gemma in recent weeks. That distant tone on the phone. That disconnect which I could never understand. Her reluctance to explain her split from Alex.

  The baby. Dear God. The baby.

  ‘You knew nothing about that?’

  ‘No. Nothing.’ It’s my turn to pause. ‘Do you not think he’s just saying that – making this up, I mean. To get back at her. To cover his tracks.’

  DI Sanders rolls her lips together.

  I continue. ‘So why is Alex saying he came here? Why did he cause the scene and frighten us all? Because he’s angry. Bitter? Surely that makes it more likely that he could have been involved in the shooting.’

  DI Sanders ignores my question and presses on. ‘Have you ever been aware of either Alex or your daughter involved with guns in any way? Shooting club? Clay-pigeon shooting? Anything like that?’

  ‘No. No. Absolutely not.’ I scrape the hair back from my forehead but then I turn away. ‘Hang on. They did go on some country weekend once. Scotland. I think there was shooting but Gemma was upset about it. I don’t think she took part.’

  ‘And Alex?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t remember.’

  ‘Do you think you could check? Perhaps look back at the photographs and the dates for me. Find out the name of the place.’

  ‘Yes. OK. If you like.’ I take a tissue from my pocket and try my question again. ‘So what is Alex saying about why he came to the hospital? Is it because we ignored his note? You got the note? I asked the guard to pass it on. Alex was asking to see Gemma.’

  ‘Yes, I did. Thank you.’

  ‘And we were right to ignore it, weren’t we?’ My mind is racing suddenly, wondering if we could have handled it another way. ‘I mean – there’s no way we could let him see Gemma. Not after she finished with him.’

  ‘Yes. Completely understandable.’ DI Sanders pauses. ‘Look. Alexander says he came here because he wants to know if the baby is his. Or from Gemma’s new relationship. He says it’s his right and that’s why he made the scene.’

  ‘I see.’ I don’t, actually. I don’t see or understand anything any more. The whole world no longer makes any sense to me. More scenes are swimming in front of me. I remember Gemma’s phone call to me, explaining that they had suddenly split up and that we needed to cancel all the plans for the joint graduation dinner. The summer villa holiday together. When was that? I’m trying to do the sums.

  I also remember that when I asked questions about Alex, she started to raise her voice, to get upset. Shouting. And with the echo of the shouting, other pictures start swirling around my brain. From much further back. Years back.

  My father slumped at the bottom of the stairs and my mother shouting, shouting, shouting . . .

  Opening my lunchbox at school and finding tea bags between the bread and everyone laughing. Tea-bag sandwiches. Come here. Rachel’s got tea-bag sandwiches . . .

  I feel very hot suddenly. Confused and terribly hot.

  ‘Are you all right, Mrs Hartley?’

  I can hear DI Sanders’ voice but I feel this sort of daze.

  I close my eyes and see my parents in the kitchen. I look down. Pink pyjamas with white embroidered hearts. Rabbit slippers. And then there’s screaming. My mother is screaming . . .

  ‘Here. Sip this, Mrs Hartley.’

  I open my eyes to find DI Sanders handing me water. She must have fetched it from the corner of the ward. But I don’t remember her moving.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m very tired.’

  ‘It’s understandable. Shall I leave? Talk again in the morning?’

  ‘No, no. Go on.’ I need to know what she knows. Why she really came here tonight.

  ‘I’m sorry to ask but have they been more exact about the stage of Gemma’s pregnancy?’

  I don’t want to say it but she keeps staring at me, raising her eyebrows and then tilting her head to the side. She has quite a nice face, actually. Ed doesn’t like her, I can tell. But she has warm eyes, for all the difficult questions. I guess she’s just doing her job.

  ‘Fourteen weeks.’

  ‘Right. Thank you. And she split up with Alex when?’

  Again – I don’t want to say it.

  ‘I’m sorry but I have to ask. It’s important.’

  ‘About three months ago. I can check. We had to cancel a few things. I can look that up.’

  ‘Thank you. That would be a help.’

  I look away, my brain spinning once more as I do the sums again. I had assumed this baby had to be Alex’s. It never occurred to me it wouldn’t be. I supposed Gemma found out after they split and hadn’t wanted to tell anyone. Not even me – her mother. But could it be true about this affair? Is that why she couldn’t bring herself to confide in me?

  ‘Did he give a name? Did Alex say which professor he claimed Gemma was seeing?’

  ‘No. He said he heard rumours but didn’t know who it was. You’re right. He could be making this up but we’ll be speaking to all of Gemma’s tutors as part of the inquiry.’

  I find myself trying to think back to conversations with Gemma about her work. She was always mentioning which modules she liked best. Postmodernism was a favourite. But I don’t remember her mentioning the names of any staff. I feel bad for not knowing more. For not asking more questions.

  I glance at the window into Gemma’s cubicle and feel close to tears. How could I miss all this, Gemma?

  I expect DI Sanders to stand and to leave but she doesn’t.

  ‘Is there something else? I’m sorry but like I said, I’m actually very tired now.’

  Again, she’s looking right into my eyes.

  ‘I just wanted to ask a few questions about your husband, Mrs Hartley.’ For a moment it is as if the air cools. Yes. The ward, which I normally find so stuffy, feels momentarily colder. ‘Whether there’s been any difficulties between you. In the marriage, I mean. Again – I’m sorry to pry but we have to ask these questions. And your husband has been quite difficult with our inquiry. With me. You must have noticed that.’

  ‘Our daughter’s been shot, Inspector. Of course, he’s finding it difficult.’

  ‘Yes. Quite. But I didn’t mean that. I think you know what I mean.’ That intense stare once more as if she can read my mind. ‘I just wanted to say that if there’s anything bothering you. Anything you might want to talk to me about privately, you can. Now. Or a
t any time.’

  I wonder if I should just say it. Get it over with. On and off since we arrived here, I have wondered if I should mention her. The strange woman. I’ve been afraid of the consequence – what I did afterwards, I mean. And I can’t really believe it has anything to do with any of this. But what if I’m wrong?

  I look at the floor and get this vivid picture. I can see the scene so clearly – that first day I saw the odd woman, looking at me so strangely from the end of our drive. Right at the house.

  It was a Thursday and it was raining. I was looking out of the kitchen window and she was just standing in the rain, staring at the house. No. Not just at the house. She was staring at the window, through the window . . . at me. I’ve been trying to push all this to the back of my mind because I’m ashamed of my own behaviour afterwards. And I haven’t wanted to admit what I did to anyone; Ed will never forgive me if he finds out what I did.

  ‘So is there anything else you want to tell me? Anything at all that might help the inquiry.’

  I’m completely torn, fighting tears now.

  ‘No.’

  CHAPTER 10

  THE PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR

  Matthew has switched the office landline to answerphone but with the speaker activated. He listens to it ring – two, three, four rings . . .

  Matthew Hill, private investigator. Please leave a message and I’ll get right back to you.

  He grimaces through the long beep. A puzzle that, away from a microphone, his voice echoing in his head sounds utterly unremarkable, yet on playback it’s excruciating.

  He clears his throat, wondering which version of his voice other people hear. At last the beep ends. A pause. And then the voice of a woman with an alarmingly breathy tone.

  I need you, Matthew.

  There’s a longer pause after which the caller rambles about her love of good jewellery – and why shouldn’t a widow wear her good jewellery, Matthew? Am I supposed to be embarrassed by my wealth? She talks of the problems of isolation since her husband’s passing. He was a very successful man, Matthew. Another pause. Potent . . . Matthew hears himself gulp. At last the caller continues and it rapidly becomes clear that what she actually ‘needs’ is a bodyguard to accompany her on holiday while she wears her biggest diamonds. Two weeks. South of France. She mentions having booked a wonderful villa but in a rather remote area. She’s prepared to pay a premium on his usual rate and will be happy for him to join her for restaurant reservations. I know some wonderful places. She leaves her details. Matthew finds that his eyes are still wide, uncomfortable now through lack of blinking.

  There have been a number of similar approaches in recent months – all politely declined. He should laugh it off but in truth, it depresses him. Why don’t people take his work more seriously?

  Sal reckons it was the stalker case he worked on. His wise wife had always warned against anything too close to security work. He took on the stalker case strictly as a one-off as he felt very sorry for the woman involved. A journalist – Alice Henderson. It was a legitimate and intense inquiry – at times emotionally gruelling, also dangerous – and although it worked out in the end, he’s promised Sally not to take on anything remotely resembling bodyguard duties ever again.

  No Kevin Costner gigs, Matt. It sends the wrong signal. Promise?

  Promise.

  Sadly, despite greater clarity on his website, potential clients – many of whom appear purely rich and lonely – are not yet taking the hint. Matthew fears he’s losing credibility while Sally is losing patience.

  These women clearly fancy you, Matthew. It was that picture in the paper. And that new TV series. People get the wrong idea . . .

  Don’t be ridiculous, Sally.

  The ‘local hero’ newspaper coverage of the cathedral shooting hasn’t helped. The local Sunday ran another big feature yesterday. And while high-profile cases are technically good for PR and hence business, Matthew’s still quietly disappointed he’s not being offered the kind of legitimate and complex investigative work he craves. Interesting cold cases. Shoulder to the wheel. Is that really so much to hope for?

  Matthew pours a dash of hot milk from the jug on his tray into the remnants of his coffee and sips. Better. It’s borderline obscene how quickly good coffee revives him. He’s just about to google advice on options to help Amelie – whether in fact they should turn to a professional counsellor – when the entry buzzer signals someone at the door downstairs.

  Matthew frowns and checks his watch. Mondays are normally quiet. There’s nothing in the diary and ‘walk-in’ clients are rare now that his website urges a phone call or email as first contact. He moves across the office to the intercom, praying it’s not someone breathy who wants him to go on holiday . . .

  ‘Hello. Matthew Hill. Can I help you?’

  ‘I’m so sorry to turn up here without an appointment, Mr Hill. It’s Ed Hartley. Gemma Hartley’s father. Can I come up? I really need to speak to you, please.’

  Matthew’s puzzled. His office is nearly an hour from Gemma’s hospital. He presses the buzzer and issues his regular warning about the steepness of the flight of stairs.

  He holds the door ajar and waves his arm to signal for Ed Hartley to take a seat over to his right.

  Matthew sits in his own chair behind the desk but, seeing the ashen nature of Ed Hartley’s face, gets straight back up.

  ‘You look quite shaken, Mr Hartley. Must be such a difficult time for you. Can I get you a coffee? Or a glass of water?’

  ‘Both please. Very kind.’

  ‘No problem. To be perfectly honest, I’m surprised to see you. I imagined you’d be at the hospital.’

  ‘I’m on my way back there right now actually. Haven’t had time for breakfast. My wife’s staying at the hospital full time still. I’ve just been nipping home to fetch bits and bobs.’

  ‘Oh right. I see.’ Matthew doesn’t see at all but parks his surprise and moves straight through to the adjoining kitchen to make yet more coffee.

  ‘I used to live in this flat next to the office.’ He raises his voice so that Mr Hartley can hear him through the door connecting the two spaces. ‘We sometimes think about letting it but I rather like having the kitchen space. And strictly between us, I’ve been known to take a little nap in the flat after a long night.’

  Ed Hartley lets out a small, nervous laugh but his mouth remains tight and Matthew watches as he taps his hand against his lips. Tap, tap, tap. His visitor runs his fingers through his hair, crosses his legs and then jerks his right foot up and down repeatedly.

  By the time Matthew emerges with a cafetière and hot milk in a jug – he decided against the noise and delay of his espresso machine – Ed’s face is even paler.

  ‘Are you sure you’re alright, Mr Hartley?’

  ‘Well no, I’m not actually.’ He takes the mug and nods as Matthew offers to pour in some hot milk but shakes his head to sugar.

  ‘How’s Gemma doing? Any change?’

  Mr Hartley just shakes his head again. Matthew takes in a long breath.

  ‘OK. So why are you here? What can I do for you?’

  Gemma’s father starts a strange rocking in response to the question, his eyes darting around the room as if trying to find the answer among the furnishings.

  Matthew waits.

  Mr Hartley sips at his drink and then stares at his feet. ‘This is probably going to sound a little odd. Irregular even. But I was wondering if you might help me find someone, Mr Hill. It’s to put my mind at ease. Purely to put my mind at ease.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m not following you. Find who?’

  He does not reply.

  ‘I’m very sorry, Mr Hartley, but you are going to have to spell this out for me. Is this something to do with Gemma? With the inquiry? Because if it is, I need to be clear that this is perhaps something you – we – should be discussing with the police. With DI Sanders. This is a live and complex investigation as you know. There’s no way I could be taking on—
’

  ‘No, no. I can’t talk to DI Sanders. And this isn’t connected to Gemma. At least – I’m ninety-nine per cent certain it’s not connected. I just need the reassurance, you see. That’s all this is. To set my mind absolutely at rest.’

  Matthew glances at his mobile on his desk. Mel Sanders will definitely need to be updated on this, but he will need to tread carefully.

  ‘How about you just tell me what this is. This one per cent of worry. Who are you worried about? Who’s missing?’

  ‘My wife, Mr Hill.’

  ‘She’s disappeared from the hospital?’ There’s a punch to Matthew’s stomach. He’s picturing the police guard. Has something gone wrong again at the hospital?

  ‘No. No, no. Not Rachel. I mean my ex-wife. My first wife.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you’d been married before.’ Matthew’s frowning again. He doesn’t recall Melanie mentioning this when they’ve gone over the case.

  ‘No one knows.’ Ed looks up to take in Matthew’s expression.

  ‘I think you’d better tell me everything, don’t you?’

  Ed resumes rocking, his agitated expression heightening. ‘She’s called Laura. My first wife. And she became unwell. It was all very difficult. It was why we parted.’

  ‘Unwell?’

  ‘It’s complicated. I really don’t like to talk about it; not to anyone. But the thing is . . .’ Another pause. ‘The thing is it’s probably just a coincidence . . . Not connected in any way at all. But it’s been preying on my mind, you see.’

  ‘What has?’

  ‘We met in a cathedral. Me and Laura. We met in a cathedral, Mr Hill . . .’

  CHAPTER 11

  THE FATHER – BEFORE

  Ed Hartley has come to spend a lot of his time wondering about fate. The weather. Timing. He will muse most of all about the rain that Thursday in Wells; had it been dry, he would never have met Laura.

  Fact is, his first marriage only happened because of a deluge. He was in Wells to give a presentation, pitching for new clients for his agency, but it was all cancelled at the last minute because the rain was so severe it caused a landslip and disrupted all the trains. And the only reason he went into the coffee shop was to shelter from the relentless downpour. And if he hadn’t gone to the coffee shop, he would never have gone to the cathedral.