‘I’ve had a few people asking for information on Gran. A man approached me saying he was a private detective and I just wanted to make sure he didn’t bother you or Gran, or come to the care home to visit her.’
‘Oh, right … How strange. But don’t worry,’ she says, her clipped, curt voice reassuringly officious. ‘We don’t let just anyone come in to visit.’
‘Thanks. And would it be okay … if someone does turn up asking to see her, to contact me first?’
‘Of course.’
‘Thank you. Also, how is Gran? I’m coming to visit her tomorrow anyway but …’
‘She’s fine. A bit confused today. She kept calling me Melissa.’
‘Melissa?’
She laughs. ‘I must remind her of someone she once knew, that’s all. A lot of the residents do it. See you tomorrow.’
As I end the call there is a bang at the front door and I nearly drop my phone in fright. Then I hear the key in the lock, Tom’s voice greeting Snowy, and I feel weak with relief.
This is ridiculous. I’m a jittery mess. Being in the house alone all day has made me feel nervy.
Tom still has his helmet on, which he looks faintly ridiculous in, and his expression changes to shock when I hurtle into his arms.
‘Hey, what’s wrong?’
I lead him into the living room. He perches on the sofa to take off his helmet. His hair is plastered to his head. He watches me without speaking while I pace the room, the words falling fast from my mouth. When I’ve finished he stares at me, his eyes flashing furiously. ‘Who the fuck does this Davies bloke think he is? I could kill him.’
‘Tom …’
‘How dare he frighten you like that?’
‘I’m more concerned about who he’s working for. He wouldn’t tell me what kind of information Gran is supposed to have.’ I sigh. ‘I don’t know, it just feels like it’s snowballing. Something bigger is going on here. Are we just blundering on, getting ourselves deeper in the shit without knowing the full picture? And now Mum has gone tearing off to fucking Broadstairs to meet a man who may or may not be the real Alan Hartall and I haven’t heard from her, and our back garden is a crime scene – and don’t get me started on those journalists. I can’t step out of the front door without being accosted. I feel like I’m under house arrest!’ I’m out of breath after my rant and sink onto the sofa next to him, my head in my hands, my shoulders shuddering. ‘I wish we’d stayed in Croydon,’ I say, through my fingers, tears falling down my cheeks and plopping onto my jeans. ‘I’m sick of it all, Tom. This was supposed to be a new start for us. For the baby … I don’t even want to go in the little bedroom any more knowing it looks out onto the garden. Seeing that hole where those bodies were …’
Tom pulls me against him, the cool leather of his jacket pressing against my cheek. ‘I’m going to take a sickie tomorrow. I’m not leaving you here alone.’
I sit up in shock. Tom has never once taken a day off work sick. Not even when he had food poisoning and had to take a sick bag on the Tube with him.
‘Tom, you can’t …’
‘I think I’m owed it, don’t you? And I don’t want you to be alone tomorrow. I can get on with decorating. And I’ll call the builders, find out when they can come back and continue the build. If they mess us around again, we’ll get someone else. Then we won’t have to look at the hole any more.’
‘Mum should be back …’ The thought of Mum makes me feel queasy with worry again. ‘What time is it?’
Tom checks his watch. ‘Just gone eight thirty.’ He stands up, shrugging off his jacket. ‘It’s not like Lorna to forget to call, is it? She’s usually always attached to that phone.’