I think about scenarios over and over. I do this all the time now. I imagine Rachel on a train somewhere, speeding north, Scotland perhaps. Or in a fast car, driving between tall fir trees, brake lights like rubies dazzling behind her, the forest opening its mouth and swallowing her up.
At night, I dream of her. I have nightmares where she is hit by cars, where she is dead in gutters, thrown out of windows, glass shattering. Sometimes, she is there even after she is dead, ghostlike, dressed in a long red cloak, the hood pulled down so that there is only darkness where her face should be. In some of the dreams, I become Rachel. I am chased by a wolf through the trees in the park, a woodcutter, an axe swinging at his waist. Or I am drowning, and then I see myself from above and I am not myself, but her. It is her pale face bobbing in the shallows of a pebble beach, her black hair splayed in the grey-green surf.
I wake late, stumble downstairs, trying in vain to shake the dreams from my aching body. As I open the post, I wonder whether she could have been in an accident by the river. She liked drinking in the Trafalgar Arms. I think about the low wall, the brown swell of the Thames. I wonder how long it would take for a body to wash up. Hours? Days? Months? An image comes to me, unbidden, of her body, face down, rising and falling, her flesh pale, her joints bloated by river water, a blanket of maggots seething underneath. I close my eyes. Stop, I think. Stop.
I’m so lost in thought that it takes me a moment to register what the letter is saying. No, I think. This can’t be right.
Within minutes, I’m on the phone to Brian, our financial adviser. My battery is low, and my only charger is upstairs. I clutch the letter in one hand, my phone in the other. I’m put on hold, given some Elvis Presley to listen to. It seems to go on forever; I’m worried the phone will go dead.
‘Helen? Sorry about the wait. How are you? How can I help?’
The sound of Brian’s voice, the normality of it, is calming, and I feel myself take a deep breath, my heart slowing slightly. I imagine him in his office on the parade, the little bowl of sweets in gold wrappers on his desk, the photograph of him skiing with his kids. The reassuring dullness of it all.
‘I know this sounds mad, but bear with me,’ I tell him, trying to keep my voice light. ‘I’ve just had this letter addressed to me. It says something about the house being remortgaged. And obviously, um, we haven’t remortgaged, have we? I mean, you arranged our last mortgage and there’s still about five years to go on it till it’s all paid off. That’s right, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, that’s certainly what I thought,’ he says. ‘I certainly don’t remember us arranging to remortgage.’
‘I’m sure one of us would remember,’ I say, trying to laugh.
‘Quite,’ chuckles Brian. ‘Hang on, I’m just getting back to my desk. What does the letter say, exactly?’
I read the letter out to him.
‘And this is the weird bit. It talks about a remortgage for home improvements?’
‘That is strange. To what value?’
My heart rate creeps up again, the hand that’s holding the letter shaking slightly.
‘Um. It says here it’s for 85 per cent of the property value. It’s … it’s ￡3.6 million.’
There is silence at the other end.
‘I’m sorry. You’ve lost me,’ Brian says eventually. ‘Your previous mortgage was next to nothing, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘That’s right – I’ve just pulled up your records here. It was less than ￡100,000. Just that chunk your parents had left at the time of their death. Yes, I remember now.’ I hear him click, closing a window away. ‘Why would a lender think you wanted to take out a ￡3.6 million debt?’
I have no answer for him.
‘All right, Helen, don’t worry,’ he says. ‘I’m sure there’s an innocent explanation for all this.’ But he doesn’t sound sure at all. He sounds worried. I feel my pulse climbing, the palms of my hands starting to sweat. ‘Leave it with me, all right? I’ll look into it for you. I’ll call the lender. Who is it?’
I read him out the name, the number it says to call. ‘I’ve never even heard of them. Have you?’
He doesn’t answer.
‘Brian?’
‘Um, OK, Helen, I don’t want you to call that number. Don’t do anything, all right? I’ll look into this straight away for you. Keep your phone on. I’ll come back to you as soon as possible.’