‘Hey, Wes. You okay?’
‘Not really, no.’ His voice sounds subdued, and from the sound of cars whizzing past and the way he’s breathing, she gathers he’s walking along a busy street.
‘Why aren’t you at work?’
‘I’ve had to come all the way to fucking Devizes, haven’t I?’
‘What? Why?’
‘I had a phone call just as I was about to leave for work. From the police.’
Olivia’s heart speeds up. ‘The police. Why?’
‘They want me to answer some questions, apparently.’
‘You haven’t been arrested?’
‘Of course I haven’t been fucking arrested. Jesus, Liv. They’ve asked me to come down to the station and that’s what I’m doing. I’m being a good boy.’ He sounds thoroughly pissed off but Olivia senses a trace of anxiety in his voice too.
‘What do they want to talk to you about?’
‘I’ll let you know.’
Is it about what happened last night? The box he was carrying. The burner phone. The suspicion he’s involved in something dodgy intensifies.
‘I hope everything’s going to be okay.’
‘Sure,’ he says, but he doesn’t sound confident. ‘I’ll ring you later.’
He ends the call abruptly. Olivia hasn’t got time to worry about it. She has more pressing matters to think about.
Her mother is sitting at the pine table in the centre of the kitchen nursing a cup of coffee. She still has her padded jacket on and her riding boots. There is a streak of mud on her cheek and her hair, usually in a sleek grey bob, is dishevelled.
She knows her mother loves this job and being outside with nature. But it’s a physically demanding job. Olivia keeps telling her they need to get a yard manager or someone to help out, but her mum insists they can’t afford it, that the books are barely ticking over. Not that Olivia would know. She’s not allowed to touch the books.
‘Mum,’ she says, pulling out a chair and sitting opposite her, ‘I got your text. Is everything okay?’
Her mother looks up at her with tired, bruised eyes. ‘I need to talk to you. Can I get you anything to eat?’
Olivia couldn’t possibly eat. She wants to get this over with. Rip off the plaster once and for fucking all. ‘Just tell me,’ she says, in a low voice.
‘I’ll make you a coffee,’ says her mother, getting up as though unable to contain all her nervous energy and going to the kettle. She’s worried about telling me. Why? Olivia watches as she opens one of the old-fashioned farmhouse kitchen cupboards to get a mug. The whole place needs updating but her mother has never been that bothered with fancy things. ‘Wholesome’， ‘unpretentious’， ‘capable’ and ‘earthy’ are words people use to describe her. She watches her straight, proud back, the horse hair still clinging to her padded gilet, and Olivia feels a lump in her throat. She wants to savour this moment because after their conversation she knows everything will change.
It’s true what they say. Ignorance is bliss.
Her mother hands her a coffee and sits down at the table. She already has one in front of her, growing cold, as though she’s been sitting in the kitchen for ages just waiting for Olivia to get home.
‘Go on, then, tell me,’ says Olivia, bracing herself. This is the moment she’s going to hear that her father is some kind of monster, a rapist, a psychopath.
‘I think your father might be in town,’ she says, and Olivia is so surprised she nearly knocks over her mug. ‘He was seen.’
‘What? Who saw him?’
She waves a hand dismissively. ‘It doesn’t matter. And I’m sorry I never told you much about him. The truth is I loved your father. Once, I thought I loved him very much. But there was an … incident and we split up. Then I found out I was pregnant with you.’ A shadow passes behind her eyes and, for a moment, Olivia knows her mother is recalling the pain that was inflicted on her.
‘Why have you decided to tell me this now?’
‘Because I think he wants to meet you. I’ve been told he’s here, in Stafferbury, and the only reason he would want to come here is to see you.’ There is a desperation about her that Olivia’s never witnessed before. She’s usually so composed.
‘Why would he want to see me now when he didn’t bother for years? When he left you pregnant?’ Her head pounds. This is all too much.
‘Well, he was away for a long time.’ Her mother pushes her fringe from her eyes. Olivia notices her hand is trembling.
Olivia fidgets in her seat. ‘Where was he?’
‘This is the thing … This is why I didn’t tell you.’ She laces her fingers around her mug. ‘He’s been in prison. For a long time.’
‘What did he do?’
Her mother’s next words make Olivia go cold all over.
‘He killed someone.’
41
Jenna
My mind is still full of my conversation with Madame Tovey as I pull up outside the cabin. I climb out of the car, slightly distracted, and start when I see a figure standing by my front door. I put my hand to my chest, my heart in my throat, then relax when I realize it’s the man, Samuel, from Foxglove.
He blows on his hands and stamps his feet. The ground is covered with patchy frost. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m sorry if José and I were rude last night. We arrived late and we were tired and grumpy,’ he says, smiling broadly.
‘Oh, no, not at all. It was totally my fault.’ As I explain my mistake, his expression grows more sombre.
‘So, let’s get this straight,’ he says, when I’ve finished. ‘You came over last night because you previously saw a man staying in the cabin who shouldn’t have been there and thought he was back?’
I nod. I pull my bag more firmly over my shoulder.
‘What did the man look like?’
‘Um …’ I cast my mind back to that first night. ‘He was wearing a long raincoat with a hood – you know the ones, like fishermen wear. And I didn’t get the chance to see his face. Not properly. He was tall. I’m assuming it was a man but I suppose it could equally have been a tall woman.’
‘Can I ask you to take a look at this?’ I notice then that he’s holding a photograph, which he passes to me with an unsteady hand. It’s of him when he was younger with another man. They both have the same dark hair and eyes but the other man looks thinner. Samuel has his arm around the man’s shoulder and he’s in profile. ‘Could it have been this man? He’d be older now. Mid-sixties.’
‘I don’t know. I mean, perhaps. I didn’t see the man’s face closely enough to tell. Who is this?’
‘He’s my brother – well, half-brother. We had the same father but we’ve lost touch. And then I heard he was in Stafferbury so we travelled down from where we’re living now in Cumbria to see him. I’ve had someone looking into his whereabouts, and there was a booking made here in Stafferbury under his name, a few days ago at the local B-and-B. But when I went there to ask they said he didn’t turn up.’
I try to imagine the man older with a long waxed coat on. I hand him back the photo. ‘Is your brother tall?’