Tom flicks the switch on the little plastic kettle, then comes to join us on the bed. The mattress is softer than ours at home. ‘I know. But it will all be okay,’ he says, with a return to his former optimism. ‘We’ll be able to resume our building work soon and everything will be back to normal.’
I snuggle into him, wishing I could believe him.
We resist the urge to walk past the cottage. Instead we spend the weekend either in the pub or on long walks through the village and woods.
‘At least it gives me the weekend off decorating,’ says Tom, on Saturday, taking my hand as we amble through the village square. He’s done so much to the cottage already since we moved in: taking up the threadbare carpet on the stairs, painting the living room and our bedroom a dove grey, sanding the floorboards. Next he wants to strip the wallpaper in the little bedroom ready to decorate before the baby arrives, although he put off doing this until my twelve-week scan so as not to tempt Fate.
When we eventually return on Sunday after lunch, with our bags at our feet, like visitors in our own home, my heart sinks. There are police cars and vans still parked on our driveway. Another uniformed officer – a middle-aged guy this time – informs us that they should be done excavating by the end of the day, and we’re allowed in the cottage but not the garden until they’ve finished. I wonder if they’ve searched inside. The thought makes me uneasy: I hate to think of the police rifling through our things. When I voice this to Tom he assures me that they would have said if they were going to do that.
Tom and I spend the rest of the afternoon hiding in the living room. ‘What must the neighbours be thinking?’ I say, standing at the window and sipping a decaf tea. I think of elderly Jack and Brenda next door. A hedge obscures their property from ours, but she’s definitely the curtain-twitcher type, and when Clive put in the plans for the kitchen extension they opposed them.
A small crowd has gathered at the end of our driveway, only partly hidden by the police vehicles.
‘I bet they’re journalists,’ says Tom, over my shoulder, his fingers clasping a mug. ‘You might want to ring your dad and get some advice.’
My dad is the chief reporter on one of the national tabloids. I nod grimly. I feel as exposed as if someone has ripped the roof right off our house. ‘This is a nightmare,’ I mutter. For once Tom doesn’t offer any assurance. Instead his face is grave, a muscle throbbing near his jawline as he stares out of the window, sipping his coffee in silence.
I ring Dad later to ask his advice. ‘You don’t fancy giving your old dad an exclusive,’ he deadpans.
I laugh. ‘I don’t know anything! It might turn out to be hundreds of years old yet.’
‘Well, if it’s not I should warn you, as soon as the police confirm a crime and have identified the body, you’ll be swamped by press.’
‘Should we move out?’ Although as I say this I have no idea where we’d actually go. We can’t afford a hotel. I wish Dad lived closer. Or Mum, but she’s even further away.
‘No. No, don’t do that. Just be prepared, that’s all. And if you need anything – information or advice – let me know.’ I can tell he’s in the newsroom by the sound of phones ringing in the background and the general hubbub of conversation and activity.
‘Will you be sending someone down here?’
‘I expect we’ll use a press agency for now. But if you’re going to talk to the press, remember me, yeah? Seriously, Saff, if you’re unsure about anything – whether it’s the police or the reporters – then come to me first.’
‘Thanks, Dad,’ I say, feeling reassured. My dad has always had the ability to make me feel safe.
The next morning the police take down the tent and crime tape and Tom and I stare in horror at the huge hole left in the garden. It’s four times bigger than it was when the builders left it. Tom asks his boss if he can work from home for a few days, and we spend them trying to avoid the smattering of journalists that still hover.