John stands up, starts pacing up and down the conservatory. The wind rattles at the frame of it, as if determined to get in.
‘John,’ I say, ‘Rachel didn’t tell us the truth about who she was. Where she lived, what she wanted. She must have gone to some lengths. She told us she was pregnant, and she looked … So if she wasn’t, she must have been wearing some sort of prosthetic …’
I trail off. He has heard this already from the police. He is screwing up his eyes, as if the words cause him physical pain. I lower my voice.
‘I think Rachel must have had a good reason for doing all that. For coming to Greenwich. I think there was something she wanted from one of us. I can’t work out what it is.’ I pause. ‘I think that if … if we figure out what that was, it might help us find out what has happened to her.’
John looks at me, his eyes blank.
‘Is there anything you can think of that might help me work out what it was? Was there something she was angry about? Or someone? Something from her past, maybe?’
John doesn’t say anything for a long time. He turns his back to me, stares out of his conservatory at his little square of lawn. After a few minutes, I see his shoulders start to shake, his fists opening and closing at his sides. Then without a word, he walks out of the room and up the stairs.
For a while I wonder if he is going to come down again. When he finally returns, he is holding a cardboard box.
‘I saved it all,’ he said. ‘In case the police ever came back to it, you know? In case something turned up.’ There is a wobble in his voice. ‘I thought it might be useful to have it.’
He sets the box down in front of me. I take the lid off. It is full of old newspaper cuttings. I take the pile from the top and start to read.
TEN YEARS EARLIER
CAMBRIDGE
They couldn’t have known it would be something like that. They didn’t know. Really, they didn’t.
She didn’t touch him again, after that. They had walked home, fast, instinctively. When they finally got back to college, he’d said, fuck, fuck, fuck. We need to tell the police.
She had looked at him, then, as if he was mad. Don’t be stupid, she’d said. People can’t know we were there. What we were doing.
What? What are you talking about? He had stared at her. Didn’t you see what I saw?
We don’t know what that was, she’d said carefully, not meeting his eye. Not for sure. We don’t know that she hadn’t … that she wasn’t …
We do, he had said.
I mean, she was quite pissed, I could see it wasn’t the best, but …
Wasn’t the best?
We couldn’t see what was going on. Her voice had snapped like a branch in the woods. And what are we going to tell people when they ask why we were there? Alone? Together?
He had shaken his head. No. No, come on. We need to go to the police.
But she said nothing. They said nothing.
And that was their first mistake.
41 WEEKS
HELEN
I push open the cellar door and flick the light on. It takes a moment before the bulb responds. There’s a fizzing sound, then brightness, a pool of yellow light. The crack in the cement is longer now, inching towards the stairs like a lightning bolt.
The cellar smells of paint, glue, damp wood, and it is cold, really cold, as if I’ve stepped outside. Either side of the stairs are exposed copper pipes, piles of paint cans. The cat carrier from the other day is crammed into a gap on top of a pile of sandpaper and tubes of filler.
I clutch my belly as I inch onto a step. I never come down here – what if the wood is rotten? I am so enormous now. The step could give way any moment.
It’s only when I get to the third step that I can see what Vilmos is talking about. A smudge of dark red, almost black, at forehead height, on one of the low beams over the stairs. It could be a blob of paint, I think at first. It could be dirt. But then I look closer.
Vilmos hears me gasp, topple forwards. Sees me clutching at the rickety banister.
‘Please, I help you.’ Two strong arms reach out, pull me back up gently, but firmly. My heart is pounding. My stomach upside down. I feel faint.
Vilmos has pulled me up against his chest. He smells of tobacco, his jumper surprisingly soft. He leads me back into the kitchen.
‘Please, Helen, come and sit.’ I do as he says. He fetches me a glass of water.
‘I’m so sorry.’
I take a sip of water. Vilmos stands in the kitchen, hands on his hips. I see him glance at the clock.
‘Thanks, Vilmos,’ I say. ‘I’m better now.’ I force a laugh. ‘I just don’t like to see blood. Makes me feel sick!’ I pause. ‘I think it must have been Daniel who hit his head.’