The kettle comes to the boil and she pours water on to her teabag. Pokes the teabag with a spoon. Rereads the old newspaper article. The half-truths and forced joviality of it grates on her.
She clenches her teeth. Feels a muscle pulse in her jaw.
How well do you ever know someone else? She’s known Philip nearly sixty years, and they’ve been married for nearly forty, and yet he was still capable of doing something that blind-sided her. When he’d got home from having his heart surgery she’d moved into the spare room so he could have his own bed while he recovered. She’d never moved back. Had never been able to bring herself to, even though she knew that’s what he wanted. She knows, deep down, she’s never really forgiven him for what he did – for being the villain dressed in a hero’s uniform.
She pulls the teabag out of the mug and drops it into the trash. The tea’s stewed now, but she doesn’t mind. She adds extra milk and takes a sip. The tea’s fine but there’s something niggling in her mind – a suspicion that she’s kept buried all this time, but that now Philip’s set on investigating the murder at Manatee Park, Lizzie just can’t let go any longer. Because although he promised he’d told her what happened, there was something about the way he’d said it, and the look on his face as he turned away and thought she couldn’t see the despair, that has always made her wonder if there was something he wasn’t telling. She needs to be sure he did tell her the whole truth of what happened, and for that she has to find the files – the full story of his enforced retirement has to be inside their buff-coloured folders. It might have happened almost ten years ago, but she needs to be sure.
Lizzie shakes her head. Takes a big breath. This is ridiculous. She’s a grown woman – sixty-four years old – and she knows her own mind. She’s a survivor – strong, resilient. She’ll handle whatever truth she finds.
She exhales, and really hopes that’s true.
There’s only one way to know for certain – she has to find the files. There are other places they could be aside from the loft – the garage, Philip’s bedroom or the study perhaps. She needs to go through each place and do a methodical search.
Lizzie thinks for a moment. She can’t go into Philip’s bedroom now while he’s sleeping, and the garage door tends to stick and need a hard shove – that might arouse suspicion if Philip’s still awake and hears the door going. That leaves her one option that she can investigate right now.
Picking up her tea, Lizzie pads down the hallway towards the study.
25
MOIRA
Moira wakes early, blinking in the sunlight that’s streaming in through the half-open curtains. Her ankle’s throbbing and she feels groggy. Turning over, she squints at the alarm clock on her bedside cabinet. It’s almost 7.30 a.m.
She can’t believe it. Stares at the alarm clock for a couple more seconds, just making sure. She’d gone to bed around eleven last night, just a short while after Rick had dropped her home and she’d let the dogs out into the garden before feeding them. She doesn’t even remember waking in the night. So it seems her usual insomnia stayed away – which means she’s slept for pretty close to eight and a half hours. Moira can’t remember the last time she slept for so long, but she knows it was before everything that happened with McCord.
Throwing off the duvet, she gets out of bed and limps to the shower. Her ankle has swollen more overnight, and there’s an alarming purple bruise spreading up her leg from the outside of her foot. As the water cascades over her body, she bends down and presses her fingers against her ankle. Winces. It’s painful. Frustrating. She’s got a lot to do today. She doesn’t want an injury slowing her down.
Getting out of the shower, Moira dries herself off and dresses quickly – jeans, black T-shirt and her usual scuffed purple trainers. She feeds the dogs and gives them some attention – Pip and Wolfie get tummy tickles, then she throws Marigold’s ball across the garden a few times, much to the delight of the gangly pup. She walks over to the hedge bordering the street and scans the road and pavements, but there’s no sign of the silver VW Beetle or the wiry blond guy from yesterday. After a while she calls the dogs inside and locks and bolts the back door. Finding a Tubigrip in a drawer in the kitchen, Moira pulls it on to support her ankle, then takes a couple of aspirin with her coffee.