She’s probably right. But then I think about her coming into my house and taking my child, I remember the terror I felt when I saw her with Evie down by the fence. I think about that horrible, chilling little smile she gave me when I saw her outside the Hipwells’ house. Detective Sergeant Riley doesn’t know just how dangerous Rachel can be.
RACHEL
Sunday, 4 August 2013
Morning
IT’S DIFFERENT, THE nightmare I wake from this morning. In it, I’ve done something wrong, but I don’t know what it is, all I know is that it cannot be put right. All I know is that Tom hates me now, he won’t talk to me any longer, and he has told everyone I know about the terrible thing I’ve done, and everyone has turned against me: old colleagues, my friends, even my mother. They look at me with disgust, contempt, and no one will listen to me, no one will let me tell them how sorry I am. I feel awful, desperately guilty, I just can’t think what it is that I’ve done. I wake and I know the dream must come from an old memory, some ancient transgression – it doesn’t matter which one now.
After I got off the train yesterday, I hung around outside Ashbury station for a full fifteen or twenty minutes. I watched to see if he’d got off the train with me – the red-haired man – but there was no sign of him. I kept thinking that I might have missed him, that he was there somewhere, just waiting for me to walk home so that he could follow me. I thought how desperately I would love to be able to run home and for Tom to be waiting for me. To have someone waiting for me.
I walked home via the off-licence.
The flat was empty when I got back, it had the feeling of a place just vacated, as though I’d just missed Cathy, but the note on the counter said she was going out for lunch with Damien in Henley and that she wouldn’t be back until Sunday night. I felt restless, afraid. I walked from room to room, picking things up, putting them down. Something felt off, but I realized eventually that it was just me.
Still, the silence ringing in my ears sounded like voices, so I poured myself a glass of wine, and then another, and then I phoned Scott. The phone went straight to voicemail: his message from another lifetime, the voice of a busy, confident man, with a beautiful wife at home. After a few minutes, I phoned again. The phone was answered, but no one spoke.
‘Hello?’
‘Who is this?’
‘It’s Rachel,’ I said. ‘Rachel Watson.’
‘Oh.’ There was noise in the background, voices, a woman. His mother, perhaps.
‘You … I missed your call,’ I said.
‘No … no. Did I call you? Oh. By mistake.’ He sounded flustered. ‘No, just put it there,’ he said, and it took me a moment to realize he wasn’t talking to me.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said.
‘Yes.’ His tone was flat and even. ‘So sorry.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Did you … did you need to talk to me?’
‘No, I must have rung you by mistake,’ he said, with more conviction this time.
‘Oh.’ I could tell he was keen to get off the phone. I knew I should leave him to his family, his grief. I knew that I should, but I didn’t. ‘Do you know Anna?’ I asked him. ‘Anna Watson?’
‘Who? You mean your ex’s missus?’
‘Yes.’
‘No. I mean not really. Megan … Megan did a bit of babysitting for her, last year. Why do you ask?’
I don’t know why I ask. I don’t know. ‘Can we meet?’ I asked him. ‘I wanted to talk to you about something.’
‘About what?’ He sounded annoyed. ‘It’s really not a great time.’ Stung by his sarcasm, I was ready to hang up when he said, ‘I’ve got a houseful of people here. Tomorrow? Come by the house tomorrow.’
Evening
He’s cut himself shaving: there’s blood on his cheek and on his collar. His hair is damp and he smells of soap and aftershave. He nods at me and stands aside, gesturing for me to enter the house, but he doesn’t say anything. The house is dark, stuffy, the blinds in the living room closed, the curtains drawn across the French doors leading to the garden. There are Tupperware containers on the kitchen counters.
‘Everyone brings food,’ Scott says. He gestures at me to sit down at the table, but he remains standing, his arms hanging limply at his sides. ‘You wanted to tell me something?’ He is a man on autopilot, he doesn’t look me in the eye. He looks defeated.
‘I wanted to ask you about Anna Watson, about whether … I don’t know. What was her relationship with Megan like? Did they like each other?’
He frowns, places his hands on the back of the chair in front of him. ‘No. I mean … they didn’t dislike each other. They didn’t really know each other very well. They didn’t have a relationship.’ His shoulders seem to sag lower still; he’s weary. ‘Why are you asking me about this?’
I have to come clean. ‘I saw her. I think I saw her, outside the underpass by the station. I saw her that night … the night Megan went missing.’
He shakes his head a little, trying to comprehend what I’m telling him. ‘Sorry? You saw her. You were … where were you?’
‘I was here. I was on my way to see … to see Tom, my ex-husband, but I—’
He squeezes his eyes shut, rubs his forehead. ‘Hang on a minute – you were here – and you saw Anna Watson? And? I know Anna was here. She lives a few doors away. She told the police that she went to the station around seven but that she didn’t recall seeing Megan.’ His hands grip the chair, I can tell he is losing patience. ‘What exactly are you saying?’
‘I’d been drinking,’ I say, my face reddening with a familiar shame. ‘I don’t remember exactly, but I’ve just got this feeling—’
Scott holds his hand up. ‘Enough. I don’t want to hear this. You’ve got some problem with your ex, your ex’s new wife, that’s obvious. It’s got nothing to do with me, nothing to do with Megan, has it? Jesus, aren’t you ashamed? Do you have any idea of what I’m going through here? Do you know that the police had me in for questioning this morning?’ He’s pushing down so hard on the chair I fear it’s going to break, I’m steeling myself for the crack. ‘And you come here with this bullshit. I’m sorry your life is a total fucking disaster, but believe me, it’s a picnic compared to mine. So if you don’t mind …’ He jerks his head in the direction of the front door.