The Red House (19 page)

Waste of my time
, I seethe, refusing to look at my watch. I know from my body that I should be home. I should be asleep, but my day isn’t done yet.

Maxwell Gant follows me down the hospital corridor, jogging to catch up. He puts a hand on my shoulder; my arm jerks up as I turn. He holds his palms up, as if surrendering. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘Please. Let’s talk.’

‘There’s nothing more to talk about,’ I say.

He walks with me. ‘Surely you’ve noticed Imogen’s resemblance to Dora Keene. She was attacked on the Isle of Wight; she was attacked today in the barn. Yesterday, someone looking like her and where she was supposed to have been was locked in. Don’t you see a pattern?’

I cock my head. ‘You believe your father’s after her? Really?’

‘I don’t know! I didn’t even know he lived on the Isle of Wight. I don’t care about him, and it’s clear that he doesn’t care about me. It’s equally clear that someone – maybe
the man my mother used to be married to, maybe not – is trying to hurt Imogen. You need to protect her.’

‘Do I, Mr Gant?’

He steps back. ‘Of course. You’re the police.’

How trusting.
I almost want to pat him on the head. ‘I don’t think you’re aware of all the facts, Mr Gant. Would you like to be?’

‘Of course,’ he says, and I stop to face him.

I jump right in: ‘The locking-in had nothing to do with Imogen. Nothing. That element of the case is closed.’

He swallows. ‘All right. Fine. That doesn’t discount—’

I hold up a second finger. ‘Two, this is not the first time today that I’ve been told about the Isle of Wight. Yesterday, when we had hope that Patrick Bell may be a relevant witness, I had the IP addresses of his online communications traced. He first appeared online a fortnight ago, registering his email address from the Isle of Wight. This week, he posted from Cambridge.’

Maxwell claps his hands together, just once, in emphasis and triumph. ‘That supports her story, then! Someone followed her from the island!’

‘Someone? Why?’

He hangs his head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know the man. Who knows why he does anything?’

‘I have no evidence that your father has journeyed from the Isle of Wight to Cambridge this past fortnight, but I know for certain someone else who has.’

His eyes are wide, earnest, inquisitive. ‘Who?’

‘Mr Gant, you can’t be this naive.’

He blinks. He twigs. ‘Imogen? Yes, obviously. And she was followed.’

‘Or …’

‘No.’ He shakes his head.

‘It’s the simplest explanation.’

‘I said no!’

‘This Patrick Bell didn’t exist online until recently. He’s a created persona. Who do you think would do that? Who would know enough to do that? Your father? How? All this about being her lost brother, only Imogen knows that.’

‘He does. Sebastian does.’

‘And he only happened to appear online two weeks ago? Tell me, Mr Gant, did something happen recently to set this off? Some change that might have affected Imogen psychologically?’

His mouth hangs open. His breathing is shallow. ‘Cambridge. We’re moving to Cambridge. This is a – stressful change for Imogen.’

My head bobs in agreement. ‘There you go. She does need protecting, Mr Gant, from herself.’ I pull my phone out of my pocket and rise. ‘We’re no longer interested in finding Patrick Bell. Nor interested in you,’ I tell him. ‘You’re free to return to London.’ I don’t include Imogen in this dispensation.

Maxwell stands to match me. ‘Wait, Inspector, please … You may be right. If you are, it’s my fault for having pushed this move on her. But what if Imogen’s right? What if my father … I don’t know why, but what if someone is trying to hurt her. The green car …’ He trails off. He must know that there are green cars everywhere.

I don’t go down that rabbit hole. ‘The remains of the barn are being investigated for signs of arson. If Imogen was responsible for the fire, she will be arrested.’

‘She didn’t … She wasn’t … If it wasn’t an attack it was an accident. What benefit could she possibly get from trapping herself in a burning building?’

I sigh. ‘Mr Gant, attention can be a powerful drug. Addicts will do anything for their fix.’

‘You’re wrong about her. You’re wrong.’

‘If I am, the evidence will demonstrate that. In the meantime, I have a meeting with the pathologist.’ I put my phone to my ear in the universal gesture for ‘conversation over’.

I finally fall asleep, but it doesn’t last. There are quiet voices downstairs. I roll over. It’s nice for once to wake up in the dark to something that’s not an argument.

I would just leave Mum and Dad to it except that the woman’s voice, I realise, is not Mum’s.

My stomach twists.
I can’t believe he’s brought her here.

I throw off my sheet and drop my legs over the side of the bed. I don’t jump down, though. I don’t want them to hear the floor creak under my feet. I listen.

It’s just talking,
thank God.
I can’t make out the words but can tell that it isn’t … noises.

My shoulders shiver. There’s that hot feeling in my stomach again. I clutch my middle and take a deep breath. I know that if I’m sick they’ll make me go to the hospital. They’re watching me for any sign that I’ve done the same as Fiona. They think it’s contagious, like the fainting, two summers ago.

Footsteps. The tap. Is that the downstairs toilet? No –
it’s the sink in the kitchen. That sounds like the kettle. He’s making her a cup of tea. He’s rattling the spoons in the drawer like he isn’t worried about waking Mum. Then Mum says something about milk. That’s just the one word I get –
milk
– or maybe I just think it’s milk because that goes with tea. Mum’s down there too. They’re all three talking together.

There’s only one thing I can guess the three of them would need to talk about, and they’re trying to keep it from me.

I slide off the bed slowly, to land on the rug with just my toes, then my heels. The floor is carpeted everywhere, even the stairs, so careful steps get me halfway down without giving myself away. I sit, just at that point where the kitchen island is visible but the table isn’t.

That’s where the lights are on, over the kitchen table; I can tell from the diagonal shadows of the chair backs stretched long and pointy and sharp.

Mum is saying, ‘We should make a list.’

Tears spring in my eyes.
I don’t want a list.
Are they dividing things up? Will Dad just move out or will they sell the house? Will I still go to Hills Road? Is he going to marry her?

The other woman talks again, and I suddenly recognise the voice. It’s not the blond-ponytailed jogger from the house on the other street. It’s Chloe. I didn’t even know that I’d been holding my breath. It just whooshes out of me and suddenly my head’s between my knees, like if I was on a crashing plane. I breathe slowly, in and out, nose then mouth, to calm myself down.
It’s Chloe.
They’re not talking about a divorce; they’re talking about Fiona.

‘She’s still alive,’ Chloe says. ‘She’s been put on a
transplant list, but it’s unlikely that she’ll get a match in time. It’s a matter of days.’

That seems to be the first item on the list Mum asked for. There’s a pause. Mum’s probably writing it down.

Number two: ‘The man who died is called Erik Keats.’ I cover my mouth. Of course he has a name but it’s still a shock to hear it. ‘He’s dead from blunt-force trauma. His head hit the edge of a table as the mini-fridge that Dora pushed took him down. Dora honestly believed that he was a serious danger to her, and so it was self-defence. His innocence doesn’t change that. But you should obtain legal advice. Do you understand that?’

Another pause. I imagine writing, and nodding. I’m nodding, too. I need to ask Chloe if he had family. I need to ask Chloe if he had kids. I need to—

‘Fiona, in her confession, made it clear that she lied to Dora and that Dora did not know that she was supplying pills for a suicide. Dora honestly believed that Fiona needed them for monthly headaches. However, Fiona also stated her belief that Dora discovered her secret last night and covered for her. Those hours that Fiona eluded treatment were crucial, and the literal difference between life and death. Dora denies she knew. She claims to have believed that the pills had been given to Fiona’s grandmother. I believe her, but others may not. Fiona’s mother may pursue this. Again, you should obtain legal advice.’

Fiona had looked grateful in the hospital. Afterwards, I’d been sick in the ladies’ toilet.

‘Lastly, Maxwell Gant appears to be telling the truth about his reasons for being in the area. We have no reason
at this time to suspect that he was purposely near Dora or Fiona, with or without their consent.’

‘What about the cameras?’ Mum asks. ‘Fiona said that her mother had cameras. Can we see what’s on them?’

I hug my legs. Mum wants to see if Mr Gant was in the barn with me before I was locked in. They want to know if I’m telling the truth about that.
Well, any cameras will tell the truth.

‘We’re looking into it. Mrs Davies denies there being any cameras.’

‘What about Jesse? What did she find behind the barn?’ Dad asks her.

Chloe’s answer is unexpectedly stilted: ‘I’ve been assigned to train up and prepare Detective Sergeant Spencer for when I take maternity leave. We’re working closely together and I must be careful with information. I need you to be careful with any information that I do share. Do you understand that?’

Dad must have agreed, because she tells him: ‘There are two skeletons: a woman and a baby. Jensen has confirmed that they’ve been in the ground between twenty and forty years. Fiona’s family has been in that house for at least two generations. It’s interesting that Rowena was so desperate to die rather than move to a care home … Maybe she knew that the digging for the new houses would uncover the bodies.’

No
, I scream in my mind.
No, that’s not what Grandma Ro was afraid of.
Rowena didn’t want to leave her house, the house she loved. Anyone can understand that. You don’t have to be guarding a guilty secret to want to stay in your own home, your own bed. You don’t have to feel
guilty to feel done with change, done with starting over.

But I remember the change in Ro, since her mind had fallen more and more into the past, mistaking Fiona for her daughter instead of her granddaughter, and mistaking me for … someone else, someone she warned not to come into the house. Ro had known me for years, well, had known me years ago, but hadn’t recognised me. She’d become frantic when Fiona said my name.

Suddenly they’re all at the front door, Mum and Dad and Chloe, murmuring thanks and jangling keys. Chloe is the one to notice me on the stairs. Mum and Dad follow her stare.

‘What fire?’ I ask. That’s what Chloe was talking about as they walked through the dining room, something about a fire in the barn.

Mum and Dad freeze. Chloe swears.

‘In Rowena’s barn? Is everyone okay?’ I demand, my voice rising.
What if there had been a fire when I was in there?
I start to shake. Mum runs up the steps and plops down next to me, arms squeezing the air out of me. Her physical touch is the end of my composure. ‘I know he was trying to get me out. The man, I mean.’ Erik Keats.
He has a name,
I remind myself. ‘But Fiona told me that her mum said he was bad. She said he had a gun and looked in their windows. Do you think he really did? Maybe he was going to hurt me anyway?’ My chin tilts up. I’m hopeful. If he had been going to hurt me, then what I did wasn’t wrong.

‘I don’t know, Dora.’ Chloe says. ‘I’m sorry; I can’t talk to you. Your mum and dad know what to do now. Everything’s going to be all right.’

She means that probably I won’t have to go to jail. But
Fiona is still going to die. Erik Keats is already dead. And others, too – a woman and a baby.

‘Chloe!’ I say, standing up. I almost knock Mum over, and standing on the step makes me taller than Dad. What I have isn’t much, but I think I can help.

‘The woman with the baby, buried in the garden. I might know her name.’ That’s what Rowena had reacted to. Not to my presence; Ro had smiled benignly at me, nodding. Then Fiona had reminded Ro of my name. Ro, in her sudden anxiety, had repeated it, or something like it, with increasing horror. ‘Dora. Or Nora, or Laura,’ I tell them, explaining why. I have their full attention, three faces aimed at me. ‘I think her name sounds like mine.’

Everyone holds still, except for Chloe, who holds up the palm of her hand. ‘Stop, Dora. You have to tell it to Spencer, not me. I can’t help you.’

‘I don’t need your help! I’m the one trying to help
you
!’

‘Chloe’s right, Dora,’ Dad says. ‘Go back to bed.’

‘No!’ I shake off his arm. ‘I can’t sleep. I don’t want to sleep. Fiona’s
dying
.’

No one says anything. Fiona
is
dying. They can’t deny that.

They’re all afraid to upset me. A nurse had told Mum to keep an eye on me. They were worried about copycat suicide, ‘Like in that Welsh town,’ Mum had whispered to Dad, when she thought I wasn’t awake. Then, later, ‘What if she thinks she could force the doctors to use her liver? What if she tries to die to help her friend?’

Anger pushes acid up my throat. I’m not going to do anything like that, but no one believes me. They think that that’s what a real friend would do. They’re all watching me
now, all three of them, that same way, as if I love my friend so much that I might give up my own life. They think that I’m that good but I’m not. I didn’t even think about doing that until it was clear that that’s what I was expected to try to do. I’m selfish. I want to live more than anything. That’s why I killed that man, that man who wasn’t doing anything. I want to live.

I make them listen, about Rowena reacting to my name. I add, ‘You think Rowena knew about those skeletons, and that’s why she wouldn’t sell. That’s why she wanted to die. Well, maybe she did know about them but that doesn’t mean she hurt anyone.’ An idea flashes: ‘She was a midwife. Sometimes things go wrong with babies …’ Chloe’s belly becomes a sudden focal point.

‘We know about Rowena’s work,’ Chloe says quietly.

I strain to recall things that Fiona once told me in passing. ‘She worked at Hinchingbrooke,’ I remember. ‘Did you know that?’ That’s a hospital north of Caldecote; Addenbrooke’s, where Fiona is, is south, in Cambridge, and better for livers. ‘Rowena would never hurt anyone. What if she was
helping
someone?’ I need it to be true.

‘Dora …’ Dad says.

I hit my fists against my thighs and shout: ‘If you won’t talk to me, ask Fiona. She’ll know more than me anyway. Maybe things Rowena said …’ I trail off. Fiona’s mother has forbidden any further police questioning, or visitors of any kind. That afternoon had been the last of it.

Mum’s hands land on my shoulders. ‘Shhhh …’ she says, turning me, guiding me up one step, then another.

Behind us, Dad sees Chloe out. I drag my feet, listening.

‘Thanks, Keene,’ Chloe says, changing tone. ‘I’ve got to
speak with Morgan Davies, tell her about the fire. I went to see her earlier, but she was asleep in a chair. I left her messages that we need to talk. She’s camped out at the hospital, so I’ll find her there after I check in with Spencer in the morning.’ Here Chloe turns her head, and the rest of her words get muffled. It doesn’t matter; I’ve heard what I need to.

Tomorrow morning, Morgan Davies will be distracted. Perhaps Chloe will guide her to a private office, or at least to a cluster of chairs away from the room. That will be a chance for someone who understands the situation – who knows what needs doing – to talk to Fiona. Fiona maybe has secrets that she doesn’t even realise matter, but they do matter, a lot.

If Rowena didn’t mean to hurt anyone, but somehow did anyway, that’s different from murder. I know that better than anyone. Rowena being dead herself doesn’t make it stop mattering.

Mum tells me to sleep, but I’m not going to willingly close my eyes. Sleep will have to come and get me; I’m not turning myself in.