One evening after I’ve put Elspeth to bed I retreat to my room and scroll through Jemima’s Instagram page. I can’t stop looking at it: the beaches she visited and the towns. Talking to Peter has made her feel even more real to me. I feel as if I know her. I wonder if we would have been friends.
I google Peter’s name and wait while it loads. There are lots of Peter Freemans but none of them is Jemima’s brother. I try Peter Freeman + firefighter but still nothing. Even though his sister had a presence on social media it seems Peter is a ghost. He has no digital footprint at all.
It’s February and I’ve been in the job for over a month when Kathryn finally corners me. It’s Wednesday, my day off, and she’s arrived bright and early for her daughterly duties. That makes me sound scathing. Don’t get me wrong, I admire how kind and diligent Kathryn is to her mum. I’m being selfish because having her around instantly changes the atmosphere and I find that I’m on edge, as if I’m tiptoeing over a floor of broken toys not wanting to make a sound to alert her to my presence. It’s obvious she doesn’t like me and disapproves of me being here. It emanates from her every pore.
When I come downstairs I expect the house to be empty. Kathryn usually takes her mum out first thing because Elspeth is such an early riser. But she is standing in the library doorway with a book in her hand and a startled expression, as if I’ve caught her doing something she shouldn’t. She’s got what looks like a key in her hand. She slips it onto the shelf and replaces the book in front of it. She does all of this in a flash, like a magician performing a sleight-of-hand trick, obviously hoping I won’t see, and I pretend not to have noticed as I go to the cupboard to get my boots. Courtney’s got today off so we’re going shopping at Cabot Circus.
‘Una, can I have a word?’ she calls, as I’m pulling on my coat, her voice echoing around the hallway. I wonder where Elspeth is. My heart sinks but I fake a smile and go over to her. She beckons me into the library and shuts the door behind me.
I rarely come into this room, even though it’s beautiful with the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and the two high-backed armchairs in a plush mustard velvet positioned either side of the French windows. It’s peaceful and relaxing, yet apart from the books there is no personality to this room. Nothing to say who the McKenzies really are: no ornaments from a memorable holiday or a paperweight on the little round table. Not even a candle or a diffuser, which Courtney and I had in abundance in our flat, mainly to hide the smell of mould.
‘Take a seat,’ she says, indicating one of the chairs. I do as she says, puzzled and a little anxious as to what she’ll want to talk about. She doesn’t look particularly angry. Her face is set in its normal neutral repose so it’s impossible to read what she’s thinking. She sits opposite me and leans forwards, elbows resting on her lap, like we’re the best of friends about to have a cosy gossip.
‘I hope you don’t mind me bringing this up …’ she takes a deep breath ‘… but Mother asked me to have a word with you about Viola.’
The mysterious Viola. My senses are on alert. ‘Okay.’
‘Mother doesn’t like to talk about her. She hurt us all badly when she ran off. As far as Mother is concerned, Viola no longer exists.’
Of course I want to ask questions. They’re inching up my throat, but I know it’s not the done thing in this house so I stay quiet and nod. I can feel heat making its way from my neck to my face.
She sits back in the chair, looking satisfied. ‘And also, while we’re here, I didn’t appreciate you bringing Peter Freeman back to the house. What was all that about?’
I explain about how he’d called around while they were out, and I took pity on him and walked him to the suspension bridge.
‘I know he doesn’t want to believe that his sister killed herself but, Una, you shouldn’t get involved. If there’s any doubt over her death then it’s a matter for the police.’
I nod again, feeling like a five-year-old being told off.
She gets up and I realize it’s now or never. ‘Um, weird question, I know, but do you happen to have Lewis the gardener’s number?’ I blush as I say it and she raises one of her finely arched brows.
‘No, but I can find it for you.’ She gives me a friendly wink and it’s like the Kathryn I know has morphed into a different person in front of my eyes. I’ve only seen her like this once before and it was the day I moved in. ‘If I were you, I wouldn’t tell my mother you’re planning on dating Lewis. She’s not a fan.’