I then tried making my own sandwiches but Dad got really loud. Has your mother been talking to you? Move out the way. I . . . make . . . your lunch.
I see now that it was never about the wretched sandwiches or the lunch, but something else entirely . . .
And then we had the huge meltdown over the tea-bag sandwiches. The final straw. The day I got it all wrong; blew it. And Dad took it out on Mum and everything in my world went all the wrong colours. Angry colours. That’s it. I remember sitting up in my pink room with its pink bedspread and seeing only angry colours flashing around the walls as I heard the noises from the kitchen. Things smashing. Glass and pots and all manner of things.
I went down, in my rabbit slippers, and stood in the doorway. I was going to tell them that I would do my own lunch. I was sorry to cause this horrible argument . . .
But my mother was crouched by the bin, all ready for work in her nurse’s uniform. She was holding up her hands to try to protect herself but I could see blood on the side of her face. And this terrible rage on my father’s face.
Go to your room, Rachel. Go to your room now . . .
I don’t let myself even look at this picture in my head very often. What’s the point? It happened. It’s over. I got it wrong. I told my mum about the tea-bag sandwiches, you see. I caused the horrible argument and I made the bad thing happen. I am only thinking of it all now because I am having precisely the same feeling. Of dread. Of fear. Of confusion. The booming in my head and the palpitations in my chest. I suppose it’s the reason I just don’t feel that I can bear this . . . or handle this.
Looking at the photograph that Ed has sent me, I know that we’re all in very, very big trouble. It’s her. Sure – she’s very much younger but Laura is so distinctively tall and has such striking hair. That pre-Raphaelite Titian hair. How could it not be her?
The woman who was watching me on the drive. The woman who was stalking me outside the hairdresser’s and the woman who told me, so weirdly – he’s not who he says he is – was Laura. No mistake.
She’s here. I don’t know why. And I don’t know what she’s capable of.
All I know is that I need to wait for DI Sanders and my husband to get here. I’m going to have to come clean about the PI. And I feel all over again like that girl in the rabbit slippers who’s hearing her whole world crashing around downstairs. With flashes of dark and horrible colours blocking all the sunlight from the room.
CHAPTER 32
THE PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR
Matthew Hill’s dribbling honey on his toast when his mobile goes. He’s feeling good. More relaxed today. Amelie’s counselling is going better than they dared hope. Sally’s just back from dropping her at nursery – just the morning session for now to see how it goes. Baby steps.
It’s a week since the shooting, he’s not due at work until late morning and is hungry. His mobile’s on the work surface alongside the coffee machine and so he moves across the kitchen.
‘Leave it. Have your breakfast.’ Sally tilts her head to the side as she tosses her car keys on to the worktop. ‘Surely Mel can wait five minutes for you to have your breakfast.’
‘How do you know it’s Mel?’ He glances at the screen.
It’s Mel.
‘Sorry. Gotta take this.’ He grins. Sally rolls her eyes as he clamps the mobile to his ear, marching through the French doors to their patio, toast in hand.
‘Matt, so sorry. But I need you earlier than we said. I’ve messed up.’
‘What do you mean – messed up?’ Honey’s running down the side of the toast on to the middle finger of his right hand. The phone in his left. ‘Excuse the noise.’ He bites into the toast to stop the honey trickling further. ‘Eating toast here.’
‘I had to let Alex go.’
‘But I don’t understand. Why?’ He’s now chewing as fast as he can. Though Laura’s their front runner now, Alex remains a suspect too.
‘He got himself a good lawyer. Some new phone footage from the cathedral proved he was right at the other end, near the main door, when Gemma was shot. He was with some friends. No gun. All verified.’
‘So he got bail?’
‘Yes. First thing.’
‘And why that does that equal you messing up?’
‘Because he’s now on the top of a multistorey car park, threatening to jump unless the Hartley family agree to tell him whether Gemma’s baby is his or not.’
‘Jeez.’
‘The car park in Lakes Lane. Meet you there?’