The House Sitter, page 23
As she finishes writing, I go on. ‘There’s something I’ve forgotten to mention before. I think I told you, I went to the funeral. I went to the wake, too, only briefly.’ I know how weird it probably sounds, that I’d choose to be in the same room as Oliver’s family. ‘I left as soon as the family arrived back from the cremation. I didn’t want anything to do with them. But before that, I got talking to a woman called Beatrice. She used to mind Oliver and Joe when they were young, until the McKennas fired her. I think she’d expressed her concerns at their style of parenting, or rather, non-parenting,’ I add. ‘It was an interesting conversation. Richard wasn’t at all happy to see her there.’
DS Stanley looks interested. ‘Do you have her full name?’
‘No.’ My hunch pays off. ‘But what I do have is her mobile number.’
Making a note, when she looks up, she’s frowning. ‘It isn’t just Mrs McKenna’s background we’ve been looking into.’ She pauses. ‘It’s yours.’
A cold feeling comes over me. ‘Mine? I have nothing to hide, I can assure you.’
‘There’s surprisingly little information available about you, too, Ms Fontaine. If that’s your real name?’
My heart starts to race. I’ve been worried this might happen. ‘There isn’t much to know about me,’ I summon as much dignity as I can. ‘After my husband died, I moved here and changed my name. It was a very painful episode of my life that I’d rather not revisit, if it’s all the same to you.’ I wait with bated breath, praying she doesn’t ask more.
‘Was that when your problem with alcohol started?’
I grab the lifeline she’s thrown me. ‘Yes. Like I said, it wasn’t a good time.’
But she hasn’t finished. ‘The truth is you don’t own this flat, do you, Ms Fontaine?’
I look at her sharply. ‘I don’t think I ever said I did. You asked me if I was financially independent. I told you I was.’
DS Stanley frowns. ‘We made some enquiries about ownership of your flat. It turns out Mr McKenna had approached the owner about buying it, but at the last minute, he pulled out.’ She pauses. ‘Why was that, Ms Fontaine? Was he getting cold feet about leaving his wife?’
Taking in the implications of what she’s saying, my heart starts to race. I shake my head. ‘It wasn’t that,’ I say quietly. ‘He was thinking we should move further away.’
‘Have you any proof of that? Any property details or meetings with estate agents?’
‘No.’ Aware of the accusatory nature of their questions, I try to hide my unease. ‘We hadn’t got around to it yet. Oliver had enough going on.’
‘According to what we’ve found out, you’ve had quite a lot going on, too, Ms Fontaine.’
I force myself to stay calm. ‘I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.’
‘I’m talking about France. Specifically four years ago, in a small town in the south,’ she says quietly. ‘I have a colleague over there. He recognised your photo instantly, just not your name.’
As memories start flooding back, it takes iron will to suppress them. Gazing at the police, my eyes fill with tears. ‘If you already know what happened, you’ll understand that there’s nothing more I can say to you.’
After they leave, I’m shaken. I should have known when I came here, you can’t outrun the past forever.
Going through to my bedroom, the pale curtains are open, the bed made up with soft cotton linen and as I look around, my eyes fill with tears. Everything in here is the same as the day Oliver was last here – his jumper still hanging over the chair, the drawer of t-shirts and socks, the shirts hanging in the wardrobe, the pile of books he’d picked up in a second-hand shop. It didn’t matter that the flat was small, he’d told me. It was homely, something he’d never felt. It meant so much more to him than big rooms and expensive furniture. When he walked in, he felt he could be himself.
By the bed, there’s a photo. It’s of us, a selfie taken on the beach, six months to the day after we met. There’s something akin to hope in Oliver’s eyes. It corresponds to a time when for a while he was sober. But alcohol was his pressure release valve and when the stress inevitably ramped up again, sobriety didn’t last.
I can’t help wondering if Katharine’s come clean about how little time Oliver had been spending with her, or whether in her deluded mind, he was simply away more. But from what I understood from Oliver, Katharine’s take on most things had become questionable.
I’ve yet to look more closely at Skyro. Maybe they are the missing link in all this. Going back out to my sitting room, I take my laptop over to the table by the window. I start googling. Skyro airline Oliver McKenna. A random set of links come up, about Skyro taking delivery of new aircraft, about contracts they have with various businesses. Oliver’s name doesn’t come up, but when I add Katharine’s name, I hit on something.
Secretary blamed for leak of confidential information. A previously unidentified whistle-blower has been named as Katharine Armstrong. Ms Armstrong is suspected of disclosing a contract detailing the export of allegedly illegal firearms. Her position has been suspended, pending further investigation. Skyro, the company who employ Ms Armstrong, have so far refused to comment.
Astonished, I read it again. If I was looking for something to incriminate Katharine, what I’ve found does completely the opposite. To stand up against something so obviously immoral, she must have balls.
Googling further, eventually I discover the identity of her boss, a Jonathon Myers. The name means nothing, but as I google him, it starts getting interesting again. Either it’s my imagination, or there’s more than a passing acquaintance between Richard McKenna and Jonathon Myers. But as I look more deeply, there are just as many links between these men and anyone else. And as everyone knows, it’s a small world.
Gazing through the window down at the street, a figure of a man catches my eye. Stationary, he seems to be staring towards my flat. Making out his face, I shrink back.
What is Richard McKenna doing here?
Moving away from the window, my heart is racing again, but I’ve already worked it out. It’s intimidation tactics – he’s warning me off. As if it isn’t enough that Oliver’s left me the money, he would hate that I’ve been to the house, spoken to Joe.
Going to the door, I check that it’s locked before sliding the bolt across. Then picking up my phone, my hands shake as I call the police. Keeping half an eye on his figure in the street, I wait only a minute before I’m put through to DS Stanley.
After the police visit this morning, I’m already on edge. I try to sound calmer than I feel. ‘I don’t know if it’s anything, but Richard McKenna is outside in the street staring at my window. I’m worried he might try something.’
She doesn’t hesitate. ‘We’ll send someone over. In the meantime, keep your door locked and don’t let anyone in until we get there.’
Given the time it will take before the police arrive, her words do little to reassure me. Perched on the sofa, I’m on edge, terrified at any second I’ll hear a knock on the door. What feels like an eternity passes before I hear a woman’s voice outside.
‘Ms Fontaine? It’s Constable Ramirez. Can we come in?’
Opening the door, I see her familiar face. Instead of DS Stanley, there’s another uniformed officer I don’t recognise.
‘We’ve had a good look outside, but there’s no sign of him.’ She looks concerned. ‘Are you OK?’
Relief that he’s gone is tempered by the possibility that he’ll come back. ‘To be honest, I felt really intimidated. I imagine that was the intention.’
‘Quite probably. He may have gotten wind of you finding those photos of him and Katharine.’
I’d guessed as much. ‘As long as he doesn’t come back.’
She shakes her head. ‘If he does, call us immediately.’
After they leave, I lock the door again. Keeping my phone in my pocket, I’m still uneasy as I go through to the kitchen. What if Richard does come here? What if he tries to break in? But surely he wouldn’t be stupid enough to take the risk of me calling the police. Putting the kettle on, I’m aware of my mind whirring as I try to distract myself. There has to be more information somewhere about Katharine. I just have to find it.
Settling in for the long haul, I close the curtains, moving my laptop over to the sofa. Sitting at one end, I put my feet up, resting my laptop in front of me. Then, opening Facebook, I type in Katharine Armstrong and start working my way through every last one of them.
24
Katharine
The conversation with Joe leaves me racked with guilt. It had been naïve of me to imagine the episode at Skyro would go away. Why couldn’t have I been honest with him, told him how, sometimes in life, you have to take the rough with the smooth? That incident at Skyro was one such time, one I’ve tried to leave behind. But from within the confines of his privileged life, Joe can’t see that. As another layer of my life is exposed, I start to wonder if there’s any point in me staying here. There are too many memories, as well as all these possessions that Oliver and I chose together, that in the light of his deception I have no desire to keep.
Going around the house, I start photographing items to advertise on Marketplace. The Moroccan clock is first to go up, followed by the sofa, Oliver’s sound system, the kitchen table, the chairs. The more I think about anything in this house, the less of it I want to keep.
Once I can access Oliver’s affairs, I’ll know where I stand. I’ll also find out whether he’d taken out life insurance. But even without probate, as our house is in both our names, there’s nothing to stop me putting it on the market – after what Joe said, I checked. Sitting down, I check out a list of local estate agents, before going upstairs and beginning to sort through my clothes, pieces I’ve carefully selected over the last few years. Uncharacteristically ruthless, anything I haven’t worn in recent months, I place in a bag for the local charity shop. I do the same with my boots and shoes, then books, remembering how I felt when we moved in and I first unpacked them; swallowing my grief for the dreams I’ve lost.
I’m mid-sorting, the house in disarray, when the police turn up again. Irritation flares inside me as their car pulls into the drive, as I wonder what they want this time.
Going downstairs, I open the door to find DS Stanley and Constable Ramirez again.
‘Mrs McKenna? May we come in?’
Without speaking, I stand back, closing the door behind them. ‘The house is a mess. I’m sorting through what to keep and what to sell before it goes on the market.’ Reaching the kitchen, I gesture to the table. ‘Please.’
Nodding, DS Stanley sits next to her colleague. Her hair has been cut, and there are highlights that weren’t there before. Suddenly aware that my own hair needs cutting, that it’s a long time since I’ve made any effort with my appearance, I envy her the luxury of uncluttered time for such indulgences.
I pull out a chair opposite. Sitting down, I look at them.
‘How can I help you?’
‘A good question.’ DS Stanley’s quiet for a moment. ‘Why didn’t you tell us you worked for Skyro?’
While I should have been ready for this, I’m taken aback by her directness. ‘It was years ago. It has no relevance to anything that’s happened recently.’
‘How sure are you about that?’
‘Completely.’ But it’s obvious why she’s asking. ‘Have you spoken to Joe?’
Frowning, DS Stanley shakes her head. ‘Not recently. But some new information has come to light.’
‘Not from Ana Fontaine, by any chance?’ I say sarcastically.
‘As it happens, yes, though indirectly.’ DS Stanley puts down her pen. ‘There are some interesting photographs of you and Richard McKenna – taken, what, a year or two before you met his son?’
Knowing it must have been Joe who told them, I’m shaken, wondering what else he’s told them. My heart starts to race as I shrug. ‘I haven’t mentioned it because there wasn’t anything to tell. I honestly didn’t expect Richard to have remembered it. Our paths crossed fleetingly. It’s a small world, Detective Sergeant. These things happen.’ Getting into my stride, I’ve had enough of their thinly veiled accusations.
‘Did your husband know?’
I gaze at them both. ‘I haven’t a clue. I wasn’t hiding anything. There wasn’t anything to hide.’
‘Except maybe this.’ Passing me her notebook, she shows me a photograph of a press release.
But I don’t need to read it. I feel cold all of a sudden. It seems wherever I go, whatever I do, it’s only a matter of time before this awful chapter of my past catches me up. ‘It’s exactly as it looks. I lost my job for standing up for what I believed in. It didn’t go down well.’
‘Did your husband know? I mean, your principles were admirable.’
‘I didn’t talk about it.’ I shake my head. ‘I wanted to leave it behind. It wasn’t an easy time. After losing my job, money was tight.’
‘But of course, in this world of social media and Facebook, nothing ever really goes away, does it?’
‘Clearly not,’ I say shortly.
DS Stanley looks curious. ‘What did you do before you worked for Skyro?’
I have a sudden yearning for a time when life was simpler. ‘It depends how far you want to go back. I used to work in a school. When I left, I travelled. I went to Australia for a year. Then when I came back to the UK, I did whatever work I could get until Skyro offered me a job.’
‘So how did you fit in training as a therapist?’
‘During evenings and weekends. It wasn’t easy. But I guess when you want to do something, you prioritise, don’t you? I made the time.’
‘And would you say your business is successful?’
I frown slightly. ‘It has been, but more recently, it’s been quieter.’
‘I imagine you keep client notes?’ She seems inordinately interested in my work all of a sudden.
I nod. ‘All therapists do, but they’re confidential.’
‘I wasn’t suggesting we look at them. But one thing does puzzle me. There’s a BACP register of accredited counsellors. I was surprised to see you weren’t on it.’
‘It isn’t a prerequisite,’ I explain. ‘When it comes to practising counselling, there are no laws, only guidelines.’
She sits back in her chair.
‘Where did you train?’
‘It was a course associated with Canterbury University.’ I shake my head. ‘If you check with them, they’ll confirm I completed it. I don’t see how any of this is relevant, though.’
‘I can assure you it is, for one simple reason. We’re trying to establish facts. But we’re hearing two very different stories. Yours, that your marriage was going through a rough patch but was allegedly sound, while your husband, from what we’ve gathered, was building a life with Ms Fontaine, at the same time keeping a foot in the door here with you.’
I stand my ground. ‘I’m still not convinced Ms Fontaine wasn’t lying about him planning to leave me.’
DS Stanley looks disbelieving. ‘Surely you had your suspicions? And now, of course, you know he wasn’t flying these last two months. Isn’t it plausible he was spending time with her? He’s had a lot of hours to account for somehow. If he wasn’t flying, he must have gone somewhere.’ As she looks at me, I don’t have to say anything as she goes on. ‘Unless you have any other explanation, I think it’s pretty clear he must have been with her.’
25
Jude
Having handed in my notice, I’m aware of the pressure lifting, a sense of relief filling me, though I’ve yet to tell Richard about my decision. The opportunity hasn’t presented itself, but I’m also slightly worried how he’ll react.
Taking the leave I’m owed and craving quiet, I alternate between spending time in the garden and going through the mementos of our children’s childhoods. I’m not sentimental, but as I look at the old school books and reports, the school yearbooks, certificates for sports courses, I’m overtaken by an unfamiliar nostalgia.
One such afternoon, I’m at home alone when the police call me. Half an hour later, they pull up outside. Letting them in, I’m grateful Richard’s at work. After the last time they were here, he was in the foulest mood. Showing them into the kitchen, I gesture towards the table. ‘Do sit down. Would you like tea?’
‘Please.’ Unusually, DS Stanley accepts. I can’t help noticing that today she seems preoccupied. ‘Is your son at home?’
‘No. I’m not sure where he’s gone. He could be at Kat’s.’
‘We’ve just come from there. We didn’t see him.’
Bringing over a tray of tea and mugs, I place it on the table. Pouring it, I offer them milk and sugar.
‘Thank you. We have discovered some new information, and we’re still looking into it, but it appears that when Katharine met your son, she already knew your husband. Were you aware of that?’
‘Surely not.’ I’m incredulous. ‘That can’t be right.’
Thinking back to that evening, I don’t remember any sign of recognition on either part. If Richard and Kat had met before, when Oliver first introduced her to us, surely he would have said something.
DS Stanley passes me some photos.
‘These were taken at a charity evening to raise money for St Margaret’s hospice.’
My confusion clears. ‘That I do know about. Richard’s business has always been generous towards them.’
‘Apparently so was the company that your daughter-in-law worked for, or Katharine Armstrong as she was then.’ She pauses. ‘The company was called Skyro.’
A frown settles across my face. ‘You mean the same company that had offered Oliver a job?’
‘So it would seem. Odd that she didn’t mention it when she found out, don’t you think?’
I’m silent, thinking. It is extremely odd.
DS Stanley goes on. ‘She told us it was because she left in difficult circumstances and she wanted to leave it in the past. We found a press release. In many ways, it’s understandable.’ She passes me her notebook. ‘But even when your husband discovered that Skyro had offered Oliver a job, she didn’t say anything?’
