Kind of Cruel (43 page)

Charlie described her meeting with Amber at the internet café, the favour she’d refused to do for her, the email she’d sent to Little Orchard’s owner.

‘Why did you bother?’ Simon interrupted her. ‘So what if some French woman who once rented a house to Amber Hewerdine doesn’t want to do it again?’

‘That’s what I thought with most of my brain,’ said Charlie. ‘But there was a tiny part of me that wondered if this Little Orchard place had something to do with Kat Allen, or the fire at Amber’s house last night, or . . . I don’t know. I just couldn’t see why she’d ask me to do it, me of all people, unless it was because she knew I was married to you. I had a feeling she thought Veronique Coudert and her house were connected somehow – but she wasn’t sure enough to talk to you about it, in case she was wrong, so she came to me with it instead. Almost hoping I’d tell you, or look into it, or . . .’ Charlie shrugged. ‘I couldn’t see any other reason why she’d ask a police officer she hardly knows to do that.’

‘Okay, so you sent an email to Veronique Coudert,’ said Simon. ‘And?’

‘I sent an email to Little Orchard’s owner,’ Charlie corrected him. ‘As an innocent holiday home seeker, I don’t know his or her name.’

‘And?’

‘Stop saying “And”. Shut up and I’ll tell you the and. I got an email back saying yes, fine, when did I want to book for?’

‘So Amber’s hunch was right,’ Simon said thoughtfully. ‘She’s the one who isn’t welcome there, her specifically. And she had no idea why that might be?’

‘No, but that’s not the most interesting part. The email from the owner, an email that made unambiguous reference to her
being
the owner, wasn’t signed Veronique Coudert. It was signed Jo Utting.’

‘What?’

‘Now, I’m guessing Jo Utting and Johannah Utting are the same person,’ said Charlie. ‘So I ask you again, with not a jealous bone in my sex-starved body: who is Johannah Utting?’

‘Amber Hewerdine’s sister-in-law and closest friend,’ Simon murmured. ‘Except Amber doesn’t like her much.’

‘If they’re so close, how come Amber doesn’t know that Jo owns Little Orchard? And who’s Veronique Coudert? Simon?’ She’d lost him to his own thoughts. ‘Simon!’

‘She was willing to let you book, you say?’

Charlie gritted her teeth. ‘Forget it, Simon. I’m not—’

‘Book it,’ he said, standing up. ‘Soon as you can. Is it empty at the moment?’

Should she pretend she hadn’t noticed that no one was due to stay at Little Orchard this weekend? Too late; he could see the truth in her face.

‘You could set off tomorrow,’ he said.

‘Me? Why me? No! No, I couldn’t set off tomorrow. I have a job, and a—’

‘Phone in sick. You’ve done it before.’

Nothing’s been decided or arranged. Nothing can be, unless you agree to it. Don’t agree. Don’t.
‘Why don’t
you
go?’

‘Jo Utting knows my name and my face,’ Simon said. ‘I’ll meet you there, but she can’t know it’s anything to do with me. Whatever she’s hiding . . .’

‘This is crazy, Simon. There’s no need to go tearing off to some random house in Surrey. You don’t even know why Amber’s so desperate to go back there. Why don’t you talk to her, or Jo Utting, or both of them?’

‘I’m going to. That’s exactly what I’m going to do. And you’re going to book Little Orchard for this weekend, so that I’ve got instant access, soon as I’ve spoken to Amber and know why I need it.’

Charlie closed her eyes. My entire life could legitimately phone in sick, she thought.

‘What are you waiting for?’ The sound of his voice chipped away at her attempt to form a judgement of her own. ‘Open your eyes.’

Nowhere to hide
. So much for privacy. And autonomy.

‘Book Little Orchard,’ he said on his way out of the room. A few seconds later, Charlie heard the front door slam shut.

Let’s have a few minutes of silence, breathing slowly and deeply, calmly and quietly, letting go of all stress and tension. You too, Simon. I’m concerned that the jagged rhythm of your breathing’s going to affect Amber. Breathe deeply into your chest, right down into your diaphragm. Better. Much better.

All right, good. Now let me explain why it’s vital that we stay calm. A memory’s surfaced and there’s every reason to think it’s an important one, but that doesn’t mean it’s the only one that’s likely to come up. Often when you unlock one repressed memory, others spill out with it. So instead of getting excited about what Amber’s remembered, let’s put it to one side, take it for granted, start to talk about it as if it’s part of what we’ve always known. Though of course it isn’t, and that’s what’s so fascinating about repressed memories when they surface. One never doubts them. Amber, you say you’re certain. This latest detail is an integral part of the scene as you remember it. Hard as I might try, I wouldn’t be able to persuade you that you imagined it. And yet, five minutes ago, it was missing from your mental picture. Now that it’s slotted into place, you perceive it as having always been there, but at the same time you know it wasn’t. So if you didn’t know it before, if it was totally absent, and now you know it as surely as you know your name is Amber, where did that knowledge come from?

That’s how it feels when a repression breaks the surface: one minute it’s not there at all, next minute it’s always been there in its entirety. It’s very different from the sense that something’s hovering around the outer reaches of your memory, the ‘Ooh, it’s on the tip of my tongue’ feeling. Those tip-of-the-mind memories are ones we’ve left lying around and forgotten about because they don’t matter to us. When we realise we need them and look for them, they usually present themselves without too much trouble – first as a tickle in the brain, then a partial answer, then a whole one. Like a baby being born – first the head, then the shoulders . . . you get the idea.

Repression’s different. We repress things for a good reason: to protect ourselves. Amber, you expressed disappointment because, although you’ve solved a mystery – yes, you have, whether you realise it or not – it isn’t the mystery you were hoping to solve. You still don’t know where you saw those words written on that lined sheet of paper. Relax. That might be the next memory that presents itself, now that we’ve oiled your unconscious mind’s lock mechanism. And so what if it doesn’t? Sometimes the right answer doesn’t take the form you expect it to take. Going out on a limb, I’d say your disappointment is denial in disguise. It’s a safety net. You’re still trying to pull the wool over your own eyes because you’re scared of knowing the truth. If you’re disappointed, that must mean we haven’t got anywhere today, our session has been a waste of time. But it hasn’t. We have got somewhere. You’ve taken us somewhere, with the missing detail that you remembered, and it’s somewhere that’s frightened you so much, you’re trying to put your awareness into reverse.

No, don’t . . . sorry, Simon, you’ll get your chance to speak to Amber afterwards, but . . . it’s important that I continue to lead this session.

Amber, much as I understand the temptation, you mustn’t give in to it. If you force yourself to deny what you know, you’ll make yourself ill – physically, psychologically, or both.

So, what do you know? Let me throw professional behaviour out of the window again, because if I wait for you to put your new knowledge into words, I suspect we’ll be sitting here for another year.

I’m going to tell you exactly what you’ve just told me. Listen, and see if you can hear how obvious the truth is.

When you, Jo and the rest of your party left Little Orchard in 2003 – sorry, on New Year’s Day 2004 – the key to the locked study wasn’t hanging from the nail behind the kitchen dresser.

Everyone was outside, getting into cars, saying goodbye, talking about what a lovely time they’d had, nobody mentioning the disappearance and reappearance of Jo, Neil and their sons. You and Jo were the last two people to leave the house. ‘Can you get out?’ Jo said to you, abruptly, as if you’d done something wrong. ‘I need to set the alarm. You’re standing in front of the sensor.’ You were next to the door. Before you stepped outside, you glanced into the gap between the dresser and the wall, and you saw that the key wasn’t there on its string, where you found it when you and William were looking for it on Boxing Day.

Jo keyed the code into the alarm, joined you outside, closed and locked the kitchen door. She then went to replace the house keys in their hiding place in the garage, and after telling us that she did that, Amber, your exact words were, ‘I didn’t see her do it, but I assumed she did.’

What do you assume now? Did or didn’t Jo return the keys to their hiding place in the garage, to be collected later by the owner, or the cleaner? Or do you think she put them in her handbag and took them home?

You’ve already told us that the cleaner, when you went to Little Orchard yesterday, didn’t recognise the name Veronique Coudert, said she wasn’t the house’s owner. I’d like to pick up something else you said before, too. Dinah and Nonie wanted to have a go on the trampoline in Little Orchard’s garden yesterday, and you told them they couldn’t. If they waited till the weekend, they could have a go on William and Barney’s trampoline, which is exactly the same kind, and which I assume was chosen and bought by Jo, since she makes all the decisions in that house? And if Jo knows which she thinks is the best kind of trampoline . . .

Amber?

All right, since you won’t say it, I will: I think Jo is the owner of Little Orchard. Jo and Neil. They didn’t rent it for the whole family to stay in over Christmas in 2003 – they invited everyone to stay in their second home. Replacing the key on the back of the dresser didn’t matter. Guests have to leave things as they found them, but if a house is yours, you can move whatever you like.

Simon, you’re nodding. You knew? No, sorry, don’t answer me. This can’t become a three-way conversation.

Amber, keep your eyes closed, keep breathing slowly and deeply. Think about that locked room, Little Orchard’s study. Think about what might be in it: everything in the house that proves it belongs to Jo and Neil. That’s why Jo was so frightened when you wanted to go in there.

Think about what else you know. It’s odd that Jo and Neil chose to keep their ownership of Little Orchard secret. Think about whether you know the reason for their secrecy. You know more than you think you know. Is anyone else in the family well-off enough to afford a large, luxurious second home? From what you’ve said, I doubt it. Jo and Neil might be embarrassed to be seen to be as wealthy as they are. They give money to Jo’s brother Ritchie, you said before. Neil, who earns all the money, doesn’t mind Jo supporting her work-averse brother. That would make more sense if they have plenty to spare. If they don’t want people to envy their wealth, perhaps that also explains why they live in a house that you’ve said several times is too small for them.

Sorry, Simon, I know you’re desperate to speak, but please just bear with me. There’s more coming, and we need to get to it. It’s starting to be a real problem, Amber, that you’re intent on withholding so much. I wouldn’t normally break confidentiality like this, but then I wouldn’t normally have a detective in the room during a patient’s hypnotherapy session, so what the hell. Before you arrived, Simon, Amber was telling me how much better she was sleeping at Hilary’s house, Jo’s mother’s house, than she does at home. I suggested a reason for this and she got angry, told me I had no idea what the reason was, that
she
knew exactly what it was. When I asked her to set me straight, she clammed up.

Tell us now, Amber. Why are you sleeping so well at Hilary’s, if not for the reason I suggested?

And for the hundredth time: what’s the secret you told Jo? What does she know about you that you’re so ashamed of?

11

Friday 3 December 2010

I am awake, and not in the usual way. Newly awake, without the scratchy sandpaper lining inside my eyelids that I’ve grown so used to. I feel substantial and defined – as if I’ve come back from somewhere far away – a place you only know you’ve been to once you’ve got back safely. Luke sits on the edge of the bed, staring at me as if an authority figure has ordered him to guard me, watch my every movement. ‘You’ve been asleep,’ he says. ‘All night.’

‘Is that an accusation?’ I miss the heaviness of sleep already – a blanket that has been pulled away.

‘You got into bed, closed your eyes and slept. What’s going on? How come you can sleep here and not at home?’

‘I’ll take that as a “yes”. I was joking, but . . .’ I’m stalling, and it’s not fair. ‘Forget my insomnia. Where are the girls?’

Luke gives me an odd look. ‘At school. I put them on the bus ages ago. It’s ten to nine.’

I nearly laugh. He sounds like a concerned doctor talking to an amnesia patient. I find it hard to believe that Dinah and Nonie got up and dressed and had their breakfast without waking me.

I crawled into bed at eleven o’clock last night. I’ve slept for nearly ten hours. Incredible.

‘Did either of the girls . . . say anything this morning?’ I ask Luke. I have to be at Ginny’s by ten and I need a shower before I go anywhere, but this conversation can’t wait.

‘No, but it was pretty obvious there was something they weren’t saying. Why did you take them to Little Orchard last night? What happened there? What’s going on, Amber?’