The Bones of You (12 page)

17

I
t’s a Christmas that’s subtly different. Maybe in the reference to loved ones at the midnight service at our village church, in the way people suddenly have more time for each other. In many ways like any other, with an excess of food, mulled wine, and family gatherings, but with a jollity that’s muted. A New Year’s Eve party at Rachael and Alan’s follows, where our mood is defiantly riotous, after which Angus returns to work and I drive Grace back to Bristol. Then, for the first time in a month, I’m alone.

Part of me welcomes the silence, the days I have to worry only about my own life, stopping only to cook a meal for two when Angus comes home, sleeps, gets up early, and is gone again. But it’s quiet. Too quiet.

And before I have time to adjust, it changes again.

“They want me up in York for a while,” Angus tells me, late back from work yet again. Dark gray circles under his eyes give his face a haunted, skeletal look. “The senior chap up and left, just like that. They’re really stuck, Kate.”

“For how long?” I knew he had extra work, but not this.

Angus shrugs, then yawns, one continuous motion of tiredness. “They don’t know. A few weeks, most likely. Maybe longer. But I’ll be home on weekends.”

“Can’t someone else go?” Not liking the thought of having two separate lives. I know people do this, but with the exception of a few days here and there, Angus and I have never been apart.

He hesitates. “It might be a smart career move, Kate, running that office. And the trouble is, there isn’t anyone else.”

 

After he tells me, it seems no time passes before Angus leaves. Bereft, missing him more than I ever imagined, I call over to see Rachael.

“You have no idea how lucky you are.” Her blast of no nonsense is exactly what I need. “Look at this place. It’s a pigsty, Kate. No, wipe that. Even the pigs live better than this.”

We both know she’s lying. So her kitchen is a mess, piles of washing, letters from school, the detritus from breakfast covering the worktops, but it’s the kind of untidiness that shouts of family and children and purpose, all so lacking in my own home.

“Laura still thinks Alex is guilty,” she says, glancing behind her, as if any moment he might walk in. “A crime of passion. Alex wants Rosie back, she agrees to meet him, and when she doesn’t give him what he wants, he loses it.” She shrugs. “Sounds plausible to me. They just lack evidence.”

“How will they prove it?”

“Forensics, I suppose. Eventually. We’re back to waiting, aren’t we? Just promise me, Kate, because I know you go to that nursery where he worked. This time, stay away from him, okay? Coffee?”

She turns to rummage in her dishwasher. “If I can find some mugs . . .”

Against the clatter of china, my eyes are drawn to a familiar face on her small TV.

“Rachael! Quick! Look at this. . . .”

She stops what she’s doing, and I turn up the volume just in time to hear Neal’s voice. But unlike last time, this isn’t about Rosie, as instead he gives a dispassionate yet penetrating account of surviving in a war zone.

I don’t speak, just watch him disbelievingly. From his expression, his tone of voice, he gives away nothing about his own tragic loss.

“God,” says Rachael when he’s finished. “From watching that, no one would have a clue.”

 

Slowly, I rediscover the solace in ordinary things, finding I like it. A good book or a TV program Angus wouldn’t want to watch. Clearing out my desk. And
time
to do these things, where I’m not clock watching, not cooking the next meal, so busy that time itself becomes a gift. While it rains, I spring clean. Then, when the clouds clear and the sun comes out, I pull on my boots and start on the vegetable garden, clearing the weeds, digging in compost, in readiness for planting the first seeds. And with clients’ gardens to design and my horses to look after, life goes on. It’s just a different life.

I bump into Laura at the farmers’ market one Saturday. After spending Christmas at home in New York, she’s back for a few days, catching up on Rosie’s case, where nearly five months on, evidence is still sketchy and, on the surface at least, progress minimal.

“Do you think Rachael would mind if I planted some bulbs?” she says, looking at the stall laden with pots and bowls of budding narcissi and hyacinths.

“You have bulbs,” I tell her, picturing pinprick shoots just breaking the surface in her garden on either side of the front door. “It’s only the end of January. Wait a month and you’ll have flowers.”

If the murderer still hasn’t been found, if she’s still here.

As we walk together to the car park, she sighs. “I keep thinking someone, somewhere, must have proof. They
must.
They’re just not telling.”

“You really think it was Alex, don’t you?”

Laura nods. “You’ve got to admit everything points to it being him.”

I frown. “But if it was him, someone must know. Surely they’d tell the police—especially with an innocent teenager murdered.”

“Believe me, Kate, there are plenty of people who wouldn’t. Put it this way. Imagine, just for a minute, if Angus had done something terrible and you were the only one who knew about it.”

I look at her as though she’s mad, then think of Angus, back at home for the weekend, enjoying a rare late morning in bed. It’s impossible to imagine him hurting anyone. “Sorry. It doesn’t work. Not Angus.”

“Okay, maybe he’s not a good example.” She hesitates. “But when people are continually exposed to violence for a long time, the shocking becomes less shocking. And, of course, if you want to badly enough, you can make excuses for anyone, like ‘It’s not his fault. His uncle abused him as a child.’ Or ‘Her mother used to beat her and lock her up.’”

And while I know it happens, it’s so far off my radar, I shudder.

Laura frowns. “You’d be amazed what people will put up with, Kate. The trouble is, for so many of them, especially when they’re vulnerable, it’s easier to stick with what they know, however brutal or awful that is, than to change it or walk away, like you or I would. The devil you know wins every time.”

“But surely the most likely explanation is that Rosie got abducted by a total stranger who murdered her.”

“It’s possible.” Laura’s thoughtful. “Only, you have to ask how she ended up so far off the beaten track before she was killed. With no obvious signs of a struggle, until that point.”

Which means only one thing.

It’s not something I’ve even considered, and I think it rather than say it, but the thought sends shivers down my spine. If Laura’s right, Rosie must have known her murderer. Bringing me full circle.

Back to Alex
.

 

“Laura said something that made me think,” I tell Angus later that evening, after supper by the fire and a bottle of wine. “Because Rosie was found quite a way into the woods, she thinks she must have known her killer.”

“The police will be working on it.” Angus slumps down into the sofa and kicks his shoes off and rests his feet on the coffee table. “I have missed this fire.”

“Mmm.” But it’s back in my mind, that only someone she knew, and must have trusted, could have done that. Pointing more and more to Alex.

“I forgot to tell you. We’re moving into an apartment,” Angus carries on. “Now that Ally and Nick are up there, too.”

“What was that?” Suddenly, he has my full attention.

“I’m going to be sharing this palatial, luxurious apartment with Ally and Nick.”

“Sharing?” I repeat it as I work out how this makes me feel.

He nods. “It’s a huge place. You’d love it. Great views of the city.”

“Sounds good.” Swallowing what I want to say, because this arrangement sounds anything but. Ally’s young and very glamorous and ambitious, which is one thing. But I’ve seen her eyes on Angus, watched her body language around him give her away. And while I doubt he’s even noticed, I don’t trust her.

“I can’t wait for you to come up,” he says happily.

 

Laura asks me to keep my ear to the ground. But when I do catch sight of Alex, it’s in the distance at the nursery while I’m buying plants. Unnerved by his presence, not expecting him to be out and about, because he’s still a suspect, I don’t speak to him, and he goes out of his way to avoid me.

Then I go to see Jo.

Whether it’s the start of a new year that’s done it, the fact that she’s survived Christmas, or whether it’s superhuman reserves she’s found inside, she seems calmer and more peaceful, as though she’s turned a page and begun a new chapter.

“I need to do something more with my life,” she says. “I mean, I’m still here. I shouldn’t waste it, should I? I’ve decided to go on a course.”

Yes, she’s right, and wasting a life won’t bring back Rosie. Life
is
far too short, and too unpredictable. But it’s still early days, with Rosie’s killer yet to be found. I hope Jo’s not pushing herself too hard too soon.

“That’s great, Jo. It really is. Have you something in mind?”

She looks worried. “Actually, I’ve signed up for an IT course. Don’t look surprised! It’s not something I talk about, because I’m really quite ashamed, but I’ve never got to grips with computers. I’ve never had to use them much, apart from basic word processing for Neal. It’s residential—for a week, with another week later on. Then I can do the rest distance learning. What do you think?”

But I’m thinking of Delphine, without her mother yet again.

She picks up on my hesitation. “I know. I could have found a course closer to home. It’s just . . . I need to do this, Kate. To get away. Think about something different.” Her eyes pleading with me to understand.

“Sounds perfect,” I tell her, silencing my misgivings. It’s clear enough she needs to do this. “And when you’re an expert, you can teach me!”

‘I start next week.’ She smiles, too brightly, but then it falters. When she looks at me, the same devastating, blinding sadness is back in her eyes.

“You can be honest, Kate. Do you think it’s bad I’m doing this? Now? So soon after . . .” Her voice breaks.

“Jo, of course I don’t. . . .” I reach out and touch her arm. “Anyway, it’s not for me or anyone else to say what’s right. And even if it only distracts you, there’s nothing wrong with that, either.”

“It’s hard to know what I should do,” she says quietly. “Everyone likes to tell you to do this and that, and
not
to do this and that, until you want to scream. And if I stay in this house, I’ll go crazy, I know that much.” There’s an edge of panic in her voice. “I’m firefighting, Kate. This course will get me through another hideous week and give me something else to think about. It may be too soon, but I have to try.”

She takes a deep breath, battling with herself, and I feel my own heart twist inside me.

“You’ll have to tell me if I can help. With Delphine? Or anything. . . You will say, won’t you?”

She nods. “Thank you, Kate. But we should be all right. Neal’s taking some leave.” For a moment, she looks anxious. “It’s about time. He needs a break . . . after, you know,
everything.
. . .”

“I’m glad, Jo. Maybe it will be good for all of you. And do tell him, won’t you? About next week? That he only has to ask . . .”

 

A weekend follows when Angus doesn’t come home. That work gets in the way of a precious weekend infuriates me; that he appears unbothered makes it worse. And then, swept along with work, I forget about Jo being away and my offer, until one morning halfway through the following week, Neal arrives at my back door. I’m mid-call to my newest client, trying to gently talk her round to what I know is best for her garden, when he waves through the kitchen window at me. I beckon him in.

“Two minutes,” I mouth at him, scribbling notes as I watch him stand looking out the window, with his arms folded.

“Sorry,” I say when eventually I put down the phone. “That was one rather elusive client I’ve been trying to talk to for days. How are you?”

“Yeah. Fine. I’d no idea you were so busy. It wasn’t urgent. I can always go. . . .”

“No! Have a cup of coffee with me, if you like. Is everything okay?” I turn away, aware of his presence dominating my kitchen, as I fill the kettle and rummage for mugs.

Behind me, I hear him pull out a chair. “Thanks. I’m adjusting, I think you could say.”

“Milk and sugar?”

“Just milk. I’m not so sure my charity work’s a good idea.” Not sounding at all happy about it.

“What? You mean the orphanage?” I ask him.

“I’ve stepped back a bit—for now.” There’s a pause. “I don’t know what she’s told you, Kate, but the truth is, these days it’s much harder to leave Joanna.”

I feel my breath catch. “I thought she was doing so well, especially now that she’s started this course.”

“You think?” He’s silent. “I don’t know. Maybe you’re right. It’s hardly the best timing, though. There’s Delphine to think of, for one thing.”

“She’ll be fine, won’t she? You’re home at the moment.”

Neal’s eyes narrow, creasing at the corners, as he looks at me. It’s a very direct look, and for some reason it unnerves me. “You probably think I’m old-fashioned, but I’ve seen hundreds of orphaned kids, Kate. In Afghanistan. They’ve witnessed the most horrific violence. Their hearts and homes are broken, and their families destroyed. They might be three, nine, fifteen years old. It doesn’t matter—they all have
nothing.
You should hear them, Kate. Crying for their mothers. Always the mothers.” He lowers his eyes. “You are right, though, about Delphine. It isn’t the same at all.”

“It’s amazing what you do out there, Neal.” Rarely venturing out of my own very small world, I find it truly humbling to think of how selflessly he confronts war and poverty, putting his own life at risk, and all in the interest of humankind.