Wesley balls his fists at his sides and his expression darkens as he stares at her. ‘What are you keeping from me?’
‘I’m not keeping anything from you, Wes, I promise,’ she lies. ‘But you have to trust me. I don’t question you about where you went last night.’
‘I told you, Stan needed –’
‘And I don’t care,’ she says, in the same calm tone. She’s learnt that to raise her voice to Wesley just makes him rear more, like Sky, the hot-tempered grey at the stables.
‘I’m just trying to look out for you, to protect you,’ he says. ‘But you seem to thwart me at every turn. You’re vulnerable, emotional. It’s the twentieth anniversary today and you’re not thinking straight. But if there was something going on between you and Ralph I need to know.’
She wants to laugh in his face. Something going on? Surely he can’t think there was anything romantic between them. But she knows better than to laugh at Wesley.
‘I felt sorry for him and I felt I owed him. That was all. I was upset because I knew he wasn’t going to change. That he was killing himself with the amount of drinking he did … the drugs.’
Wesley doesn’t say anything, just presses his lips together and assesses her. She concentrates on keeping her face impassive to give nothing away. She knows Wesley can be jealous, irrational, watching for signs of betrayal that aren’t there in a raise of an eyebrow or the quiver of a lip. She’s learnt how to deal with it over the years. Ralph – a lonely man in late middle-age who drank too much – was her only friend, yet Wesley even begrudged her that. She has often wondered over the years if they would have stayed together if she’d never had the accident, if her friends hadn’t gone missing. She wouldn’t have been so dependent on him. Sally would probably have made her see sense. And then she feels a rush of guilt and compassion. Wesley isn’t a bad man. And he does love her, she knows that.
‘Wes …’ she begins, but he turns away from her.
‘I need to go back to work. You’ll have to visit the bench without me.’
‘But I thought we were going to grab lunch.’
He swivels around to face her, his eyes flashing spitefully. ‘I’ve lost my appetite. I’d rather spend my precious lunch hour with someone who actually gives a shit about me.’
She’s confused. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘You. Running to Ralph. Confiding in him. You were talking about me, weren’t you? I know you don’t want us to buy a place together. It’s so obvious.’
A man has died and all Wesley can think about is himself. ‘Not everything is about you,’ she finds herself saying.
His eyes widen in surprise, his face reddening. ‘Fuck you, Liv.’ And then he storms off.
‘Fuck you too,’ she mutters. She stomps across the field, her heart racing with fury. How dare he speak to her like that? He knows this is a hard day for her and he’s just abandoned her here to lay these flowers by herself. Where is his support when she needs it? And her leg is really aching after walking here from the stables. She’d hoped Wesley would give her a lift back on his way to work but he’s just fucked off and left her. Angry tears form in her eyes and snake down her cold cheeks. And then she slows when she sees that she’s not alone in the field, like she first thought, but that someone is sitting on the memorial bench under the oak. At first she’s worried it might be Sally’s parents, Katie’s mum or, even worse, Tamzin’s, but as she gets closer she recognizes the mane of red hair, the familiar green bobble hat. Shit. She can’t face Jenna Halliday right now. She’s tempted to turn and head back across the field, but her leg really hurts and she’s exhausted.
Jenna stands up when she sees her approach. Olivia notices that she has a bouquet of pink roses in her hand. She’s brought flowers with her?
‘Hi,’ says Jenna, smiling sheepishly. She lays the flowers on the bench. ‘These were already here when I arrived. I’m sorry to impose …’ She must notice the pain etched on Olivia’s face, her tear-stained cheeks. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I … need to … sit …’ she manages, before collapsing onto the bench.
Jenna gently takes the flowers from her and places them next to the roses. ‘You look really pale,’ says Jenna. She reaches into her bag. ‘I have a bottle of Coke. It might help.’
Olivia reaches for it and takes a swig. It’s flat and warm but she’s grateful for the rush of sugar. Jenna perches next to her – the flowers between them.
‘Thanks,’ says Olivia, handing it back. ‘My leg … It’s a long walk.’
‘Can I give you a lift home?’
Olivia would rather sit here all night than get into a car with Jenna Halliday. ‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’ She’s aware her voice is curt.
‘I’m sorry to hear about Ralph,’ Jenna says, much to Olivia’s surprise. Although she shouldn’t be surprised. Of course Jenna will know. The whole town will by now. Jenna touches the back of her bobble hat. ‘I think the same person attacked me last night too.’
‘What?’ Olivia stares at her in disbelief. ‘You were attacked last night?’
Jenna then launches into a story of walking through the forest on a mission to follow Dale and find out the scoop on the murder when someone hit her over the head. ‘Dale was really kind and took me to A and E. I had to have a stitch,’ she finishes.
‘What time did this happen?’
Jenna deliberates. ‘I think around ten-ish. I can’t remember exactly.’
Olivia wonders who would do such a thing and why. She was at home by ten. Thank goodness she hadn’t walked home from Wesley’s – although she rarely did after dark.
‘I’m sorry that happened to you. It must have been scary,’ says Olivia, as the silence stretches between them. She wants to get up and walk away from this woman, despite how nice she’s being right now. But she doesn’t think her leg will carry her. She’s a captive audience. Jenna must be thrilled.
‘Olivia …’ Jenna hesitates. ‘When this podcast is broadcast by the BBC it might trigger a memory, a clue to someone listening.’
‘Like what?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. A tiny little detail that maybe they hadn’t thought at the time was important. Maybe seeing someone on that day … someone who, in hindsight, might have been acting suspiciously. Or if your friends were abducted maybe someone will confess. Will a relative remember that their son, husband, father was acting strangely that day? Or on the days after?’
Olivia has never thought of it in that way before. She glances at Jenna. Maybe she’s right. She sighs. ‘Wesley would go mental if I spoke to you – or any journalist. He’s dead against it.’
Jenna frowns. ‘Really? But why?’
‘He doesn’t trust authority. The police. The press. The government.’
‘Hmm,’ says Jenna, crossing her legs.
‘He’s just trying to protect me.’
‘I understand that but, Olivia, it’s a podcast. I’m not writing a piece for the tabloid press. And it would only be a quick interview with you. About what happened that night. In your own words. You and Ralph were the only two there when you came to. And now …’