The Burning (13 page)

‘You have to admit it. But if I have to hear something, I’d much rather it came from you.’ He looked at their hands clasped in the centre of the table. ‘So, what do you
think?’

‘About what?’

‘You know . . .’ he began hesitantly, ‘it just seems like a good time to put things on more of a solid footing.’

Jenny felt a nervous flutter in her chest. ‘What did you have in mind?’

‘It’s entirely your call, but the lease on my place runs out at the end of next month. I could always give notice and come and live here.’

‘You want to live together?’ Jenny’s heart was pressing hard against her ribs, expressing emotions she had yet to form into coherent thoughts.

Michael raised his gaze and looked her squarely in the eye for several seconds, as if reassuring himself. ‘Yes. I do.’

‘Why now?’

‘Why not? I love you, Jenny. I want to be with you.’ He let go of her hand, sat back in his chair and waited for her answer.

On the spot, Jenny found herself tongue-tied. A confusion of conflicting feelings – happiness, uncertainty, excitement, fear – combined in a bewildering mix of contradictory
responses that clamoured in her head.

‘Sorry,’ Michael said. ‘I’ve ambushed you. I didn’t know how else to do it. Why don’t we leave it for a couple of days, give you some time?’

Jenny felt her anxiety retreat. ‘Good idea.’

She leant across the table and kissed him gently on the mouth. It was intended as an affectionate, reassuring gesture, but as their lips touched, all that had remained unspoken between them
found its expression in a rush of desire that sucked the breath from their lungs. Without a word, they left the table and made their way up the stairs to Jenny’s bed.

Jenny’s eyes snapped open and were met by total darkness. For several disconcerting moments she struggled to comprehend whether she was actually awake or still trapped in
the netherworld of her strange and disturbing dream. She had been searching for a child in a rocky landscape stalked by faceless, semi-human creatures that issued siren calls as soft as a
mother’s whisper. She pressed a hand to her chest and felt her pounding heart. She drew in a slow, deep breath. She was awake, but the dream remained horribly vivid in her mind and refused to
fade. The young child she had been desperately seeking had been hers, but it wasn’t Ross – it had been an idealized and more perfect rendering of her son. It had been Ross without
flaws. Recalling the dream-child’s slender and beautiful face, she felt ashamed that her subconscious mind was even capable of forming such dark and disloyal fantasies.

‘Bad dreams?’

Michael’s voice came not from next to her, but from the foot of the bed. Jenny pushed up on her elbows and as her eyes adjusted to the faint slivers of moonlight filtering around the edges
of the curtains, she dimly made out his naked silhouette. He was standing, looking at her.

‘Me too,’ he said, before she could reply.

‘What are you doing?’ Jenny asked.

‘I’m not sure.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I just found myself here.’ He sounded confused, or was it frightened?

‘You probably forgot where you were sleeping. Too many nights in strange hotel rooms. Come back to bed.’

Michael groped his way through the darkness and climbed in under the duvet next to her. Jenny touched his arm: it was icy. She pressed her fingers between his.

‘You must have been there for ages,’ Jenny said.

Michael murmured in reply, already slipping from consciousness.

Jenny rolled onto her side and stroked his forehead until his muscles slackened and his breathing sunk into the slow, steady rhythm of sleep. Whispering goodnight, she gently kissed each of his
eyelids and tasted the salt of his dried tears.

J
ENNY WOKE TO THE SOUND
of Michael singing along loudly and badly to the kitchen radio. The house was filled with the smell of fresh coffee and
pancakes. If she really was going to live with this man, she would have to teach him some weekend etiquette. Saturday was her lying-in day; her feet weren’t meant to touch the floor until at
least nine o’clock. She groaned and buried her head under the covers, willing sleep to reclaim her.

Her peace lasted less than five minutes. First the telephone rang, then Michael appeared clutching the handset.

‘Someone wishes to speak to the coroner,’ he announced.

Jenny emerged from beneath the duvet with a pained expression. ‘Who is it this time, for goodness’ sake?’

‘Some woman,’ was all the information Michael could give her.

Jenny signed and dragged herself to a sitting position. Her limbs were leaden. She took the phone and tried to pretend that she wasn’t still half asleep.

‘Hello. Jenny Cooper speaking.’

‘So sorry to have disturbed you, Mrs Cooper. I do hope I haven’t woken you.’ The pretence had failed. ‘It’s Clare Ashton, from Blackstone Ley. I wanted to speak to
you while my husband was out.’ Her voice was thin and apprehensive.

‘Yes?’

‘He’ll be gone half the day, you see – he’s out with his running club.’

‘I see. How can I help you?’

‘Since your visit the other day I’ve been thinking back. I looked out all my old notebooks. I wrote everything down after Susie went. I knew I wasn’t capable of thinking
straight at the time, so I tried to put all my thoughts on paper.’ She dried up, as if the emotion of the past had swept back over her.

‘What have you found?’

‘I’m not sure,’ she hesitated. ‘There are a few things. I’d need to explain—’

‘How long is your husband out? Would it help if I came over?’

Jenny ignored Michael’s silent gestures of protest as she waited for Clare Ashton’s response.

‘Yes. I think it might, if it’s not too much trouble. He’s not back until one.’

‘I’ll be with you in an hour.’

‘Thank you. Thank you, Mrs Cooper.’

‘What’s that all about?’ Michael said, as Jenny tossed the phone aside and swung out of bed.

‘Quick house call. You can be my driver.’ She kissed him. ‘Won’t take long. Promise.’

‘You’re worse than me. You can’t say no to anyone.’

‘Including you.’ She kissed him again. He smiled. ‘Let’s have some breakfast.’

The police had set up a roadblock across the main route into Thornbury, and the small amount of traffic was being stopped in both directions. Teams of officers swathed in thick
black anoraks were thoroughly searching every vehicle with the help of black Labrador sniffer dogs. Michael pulled up in a queue of three cars heading east. Until that moment he’d been in an
unusually ebullient mood, entertaining her with stories from his days in the RAF and admitting to her that, far from being a one-off, his sleepwalking episode the previous night was just the latest
in a long line of unfortunate nocturnal adventures. The most embarrassing had been during the period when he’d been flying sorties over the Balkans. He’d taken three days’ leave
in Italy and had woken naked in the corridor of a Rome hotel to find himself locked out of his room. With nothing but a vase to hide behind, he’d made his way down to the lobby to explain
himself to a bewildered night porter. They had both laughed until her sides ached, but now that Michael found himself unexpectedly stuck in a row of waiting cars, his mood shifted abruptly. Jenny
felt his tension climbing. His whole body had become rigid and tense.

‘What is this? What the hell’s going on?’ he said impatiently.

‘They’re searching for the missing boy,’ Jenny said. ‘It’s not unreasonable.’

‘Can’t you pull rank, show them your card or something?’

‘Relax. There’s no hurry.’

‘But you shouldn’t have to wait. You’re the coroner.’

Jenny thought that perhaps the sight of the roadblock had sparked painful memories of one of the many war zones he had been posted to during his military career. She tried to distract him.
‘Think about something else. Switch the radio on.’

Michael’s hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. He didn’t seem to hear her.

Jenny reached out to the radio console to find a music station.

‘Don’t!’ he snapped.

His response was sharp and instinctive and carried more than a hint of menace.

‘Michael?’

‘Shut up.’

The car at the head of the queue was waved through. The Ford van in front of them eased up to the barrier, but Michael made no attempt to move the Land Rover forwards. He stared straight ahead
with a fixed, belligerent expression that drew the gaze of one of the three police officers standing on their side of the road. Sensing trouble, the officer peeled away from his colleagues and made
his way towards them.

‘Michael, please – ’ Jenny urged.

He remained silent and unmoving, tracking the approaching police officer with his eyes.

‘Michael, lower your window.’

He didn’t react.

The police officer arrived. A burly man with a battered, rugby player’s face. He tapped the driver’s window with a large, gloved hand.

Jenny felt her toes curl as she waited for Michael to respond.

The officer knocked again, loudly this time. Jenny made to lean over and lower the window herself, but Michael suddenly broke into a smile and pressed the switch.

‘Sorry, officer, I was miles away,’ he said charmingly. ‘I should have moved forward, shouldn’t I?’

The policeman nodded, regarding him suspiciously. ‘If you would, sir.’ He glanced at Jenny. ‘Everything all right, ma’am?’

‘Fine, thank you,’ she lied, aware that he was carefully scanning her features for signs of physical abuse.

Detecting none, and with no solid reason to do otherwise, he finally stood aside as Michael pushed the car into gear and closed the gap.

The search took less than a minute. The dogs found nothing to interest them and Michael maintained his cheerful demeanour even as they drove away from the barrier in the direction of Blackstone
Ley.

Jenny remained silent for a while, bracing herself for the moment when the mask slipped, but as they left the town behind and headed out into the country lanes, the angry persona she had
glimpsed showed no sign of returning.

‘Michael, are you all right?’

He seemed surprised, as if her question had sprung from nowhere. ‘Fine.’

‘Then what was that about?’

‘What?’

‘Back there. You got so tense. I thought—’ She stopped herself mid-sentence.

He kept his eyes on the road. ‘Bit of a flashback. Soon passes.’

‘Is it happening often?’

‘Hardly ever.’

‘You should probably go back to the therapist.’

‘You’re all I need.’ He glanced over, with a smile intended to put the matter to rest. ‘It’s nothing. Just an echo from the past. I’m sorry. Forget about
it.’

Jenny nodded, hoping he was right.

Jenny left Michael to take a walk in the snow, while she called on Clare Ashton. As she made her way towards the cottage it dawned on her that in no sense would this be an
anonymous visit. She already had the sensation that she was being watched from behind the windows of the neighbouring properties. People would recognize her car and know that she was the coroner,
and Clare would know that they knew. While Jenny waited for her to come to the door, she wondered whether that was part of the reason she had asked her over – that she wanted her neighbours
to see that she hadn’t let go, and that if any of them still harboured secrets, she remained determined to root them out.

Clare Ashton appeared even paler and more fragile than she had two days before, as if the tumult of the fire had loaded her with an extra burden. She thanked Jenny for coming, especially in such
bad weather, and steadying herself against the wall, led her along the hallway to the snug kitchen at the rear of the house.

‘I prefer it in here,’ Clare said, easing herself into one of the upright pine chairs. ‘It feels more homely. My husband’s the orderly one. I always say I like a house to
feel lived in.’

‘I can only dream of being this tidy,’ Jenny said, noticing that to the left of a shelf containing a neat arrangement of cookery books, there was a solitary framed photograph: Clare
and Philip with their small, dark-haired daughter, all three of them dressed up in their best clothes, standing outside a church.

‘My sister’s wedding,’ Clare said. ‘Susie was one of the bridesmaids. It’s the only one of her Philip can bear to have up.’

Jenny stepped over for a closer look. It slowly dawned on her that something about the picture was familiar. ‘I think I recognize that church.’

‘It was over in Monmouthshire,’ Clare said. ‘Penallt Old Church.’

‘I know it well,’ Jenny said, dismissing the odd sensation that Clare’s mention of one of her favourite buildings had prompted. The church at Penallt was a little further north
along the Wye Valley from her home, and unusually it stood alone amongst fields, rather than at the centre of a village. It was one of the handful of places to which Jenny would often return on her
solitary weekend walks, for no reason other than it seemed to exert a sort of magnetism, as if there were hidden truths locked up in its ancient stones.

‘Why did she choose there?’

‘It’s where we grew up. You take a place like that for granted when you’re a child. You don’t see how beautiful it is. I long for it now.’

Again pondering the strangeness of this coincidence, Jenny took a seat at the table. Clare reached several hardcover notebooks from the counter behind her. She opened the one on top of the pile,
her frail fingers shaking from this small effort.

‘I told you I’d been looking back at my notes. I’d forgotten I wrote this about Ed Morgan.’ She pushed the notebook across the table. ‘On the right-hand
page.’

Clare’s handwriting was educated and precise. The journal entry she had indicated was dated 4 April, and in brackets she had written, ‘
D+6
’, meaning, Jenny guessed, six
days after Susie’s disappearance. It read: