The Honeymoon, page 16
Is he being defensive, or am I reading it wrong? The bashful admission of the missing photographs seems genuine. I’m about to speak but he interrupts me. ‘Anyway, if we’re pointing fingers, then what about your husband? Hmm?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I ask.
Angie casts her eyes to her lace-up pumps. ‘I remembered something else about that night. I must have put it to the back of my mind.’ She glances at Leroy and he gives her a slight nod of the head. ‘It wasn’t long after coming to see about the corn plasters when I saw a man. He was acting a bit off. I don’t know, I couldn’t put my finger on it, but you know when something just feels . . . odd?’
I don’t like the look she’s giving me.
‘He’d got caught in the rain and seemed a bit rattled, as if something had spooked him. At first, I didn’t recognise him, but then I realised later why he looked so familiar . . . It was your Mark.’
I blink, trying to follow what she’s saying.
‘I was going to ask you about it the next day but then he seemed back to his normal self and I’d had a few too many of Ketut’s cocktails, so I thought maybe I’d dreamt it. But then, when the news came out about that poor George fella, well, I remembered thinking how odd it was that Mark was out around the time it happened, especially when you said he was ill in bed . . .’
‘What?’ I feel a bubble of laughter rise up.
‘Now, it might be completely innocent. We’d all had a lot to drink and I don’t want to start finger-pointing. Bad things happen that way.’
‘Innocent until proven guilty, isn’t that right, Sophia?’ Leroy shoots me a loaded look.
Angie burrows in her handbag for the theatre tickets. Leroy looks at his watch and lets out a deep sigh. ‘Enlightening as this has been, we need to be making a move. The show starts soon.’
I can’t ask any further questions as they’re putting their coats on and calling for the bill that they insist on paying. I watch them hurry off into the gloom of the night, heads close together, talking about me and my husband.
39
Erin
After Jamie left with the police, I spent the next few hours in a daze, desperate to know what had led them to pull Jamie in for questioning. They didn’t explicitly say anything about our time in Bali or mention George Kingsley’s name, but there’s not going to be anything else they want to speak to him about.
I open my laptop. That’s when I see George’s family have set up an appeal – there’s a link to a post on Facebook. His daughter has gone off on one, blaming the Indonesian police for being so inept. According to her, they’ve either lost or stolen important evidence, as some of his personal belongings were missing. I sit up. Apart from his phone, we didn’t take anything else. I wonder what other items are missing.
If it wasn’t the police, then someone must have been there after we left him, and stolen something from him. Was that the shadowy figure that I thought I saw?
No. As Jamie said, there was categorically no one else there.
I try to remain rational. Perhaps George’s daughter is right: maybe the police are corrupt. Clearly the investigation is flawed, or how else would Sophia find out false information about George being murdered? Someone must be feeding them lies from the inside.
I’m trying to stay calm but suddenly feel shaky with hunger. I put a slice of bread in the toaster but there’s a sudden crackling noise then the lights go out. I swear aloud as I’m plunged into darkness.
Nothing happens as I flick the light switch and try to turn the oven on. The power has cut out. I knew the electrics in the house were unreliable but this is the first time there’s been a total blackout. Of course, it had to happen when I was on my own – I have no idea where the fuse box is. With a heavy sigh I decide to call it an early night and wait for Jamie to come home. The light on my cracked phone guides my way up to bed.
The morning sun is emerging from behind thick grey clouds when Jamie’s key finally scratches in the lock.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ I can’t control myself. ‘You stayed out all night!’
Drinking by the looks of it.
‘Can we talk about it later?’ he says, hoarsely.
My nails are now non-existent, bitten so much that they’re bleeding. I heard noises in the house all night; I spent hours expecting the police to come back for me too. Meanwhile, he’s been out getting drunk.
‘No! I’ve been worried sick.’ My voice has a hysterical lilt to it, my throat clogged with emotion. ‘I called the police station. They said you left hours ago. Why haven’t you answered your phone? There was a power cut here and I was alone and scared!’
‘What?’ He flicks the light switch and light immediately illuminates his face. I’ve never seen him so dishevelled. At some point during the night the power must have come back on.
‘It’s working again now, but still, it wasn’t fun.’
He winces at the shrillness of my voice. ‘I’m sorry, babe, I know I should have come home after they spoke to me but I needed to clear my head. This is getting to me too, I just don’t show it like you do. I needed to let off a bit of steam but I got carried away, OK?’
‘What did the police want? What happened?’
He locks the deadbolt behind him with a firm slam. ‘Hang on. First I need coffee.’
‘So?’ I ask, the moment he flicks on the kettle. He lets out a long sigh and rubs his eyes with the heel of his palm.
‘It’s about work,’ he says.
Work?
‘What?’ I don’t think I’ve heard him right. They didn’t want to talk to him about what happened in Bali, they wanted to talk to him about work?
‘It’s fine. There’ve been some allegations of malpractice but it’s bullshit. Rumours. There’s no basis to it, and nothing for you to worry about. I wasn’t actually at the police station for that long – the rest of the time I was trying to square stuff up with my solicitor, then he opened the whisky and, well, I lost track of time.’
‘Why didn’t you call me back?’
He spoons out instant coffee with a trembling hand. Brown granules scatter on the worktop. ‘I’m sorry, I thought you’d be in bed and I didn’t want to disturb you. You deserve a decent night’s sleep.’
‘Here, let me do it.’ I take the jar of coffee from him and clear up the mess.
He leans against the counter, rubbing his chin. ‘I’m going to take legal action, mark my words.’
‘Surely we don’t need to be doing anything to draw police attention to us?’
He looks at me. ‘Erin, you don’t understand. This is my career we’re talking about.’ His jaw flickers with tension. ‘I mean, it’s bollocks, but I guess they have to take any sort of complaint seriously, or at least be seen to be doing something.’
‘I thought . . . I thought . . .’ I can barely get my words out. All the tension I’d been holding in now comes flooding out. The torturous past few hours were because of a disgruntled customer. I start to laugh and cry at the same time.
Jamie narrows his bloodshot eyes, seemingly unsure what to do with me.
‘I really thought they were coming to get you.’ I heave out sobs. The laughter has stopped now. I realise just how close I came to losing him, to all of this being snatched from us.
‘Come here.’ He pulls me into a hug and my body collapses into his. The coiled tension begins to slowly melt away as he rubs my arms and tells me it’s all going to be OK. A stale odour clings to his clothes.
‘I can’t sleep, I can’t eat. I mean, look at me, Jamie! I’m a wreck.’ My face is slick with salty tears, my throat hoarse from sobbing. A wave of pure exhaustion threatens to drag me under. I could shut my eyes and sleep, curled up on him, forever. ‘Are you not scared?’ I ask.
There’s a pause.
‘Terrified.’
40
Sophia
Friday 23 September
The relentless out-of-tune singing is giving me a headache. I’m sitting on an uncomfortable plastic chair in a sports hall that smells of bare feet and reheated vegetables. Most of my morning has been tied up interviewing local schoolchildren and their head teacher about a defibrillator that’s been installed in the playground. A group of eager Year Six students are giving a performance through interpretative dance on how to save a life. Brad the photographer is loving it. I try to suppress a yawn.
I’ve had yet another broken night’s sleep, worrying about how I’m going to get this story to stand up. Angie’s accusation has also been on my mind: I’m shocked that she’s trying to cast doubt over Mark in some way. He was out with work last night and still asleep when I left this morning, so I didn’t get the chance to bring it up with him. Not that I’d even know what to say. It makes no sense. The more I think about it, their own movements that night – Angie vanishing up to bed and Leroy taking photographs on his own, which he says he deleted because the exposure wasn’t right – might be innocent but they are highly questionable. She was clearly coming up with theories to take the heat off her husband. I just don’t know why she then had to get so defensive and bring mine into it.
I blink back the deepening headache and rub my temples.
One thing that was clear from our meet-up is that I now have a witness placing Erin and Jamie returning to the hotel hours after Mark and I left the Blue Fin. Unless I can find out where else they went on their walk, they remain suspicious.
‘Sophia?’ Brad nudges me. There is a circle of grinning pre-teens in front of me, waiting to tell me their names for the article.
‘Sorry, I was miles away then. Right, let me just . . .’ I sit up and quickly click my ballpoint, feeling the photographer’s quizzical eyes on me.
Hours later, after a full tour of the school, many questions on what it’s like to be a journalist, and trying to follow along with the children’s constant chatter, I’m back at my desk. The first thing I do is pop some painkillers to try to tackle the headache that’s not shifting. I check my emails, but no translated autopsy report for George has been sent yet. I fire off yet another chasing email.
After a subtle glance around the newsroom, I bring up the iSearch database on my screen and carefully enter the log-in details that Peter wrote on the napkin.
I start with Erin. Their marriage has been registered and recently entered on to the site. Despite relying on this database all the time in my old job, it still gives me the creeps at how sophisticated and all-encompassing it is. Erin Steele née Edwards. I then search using both her married and maiden name to see what else comes up.
Annoyingly, it’s sparse. Her name’s not on any house deeds, her Facebook page is set to private, and I can’t find any other social media accounts that could be a match. I frown. It’s almost too clean.
Next, I move to Jamie.
James Steele was born in 1990 in Hoarwick, a small town on the Scottish Borders. His mother (Jill Steele née Dawson) died in 1999. His father (Graham Steele) worked as an engineer before he retired. No current address found for him. Property records show the purchase of Renhold House, East Fern, in August of this year. Companies House lists his name as the owner of Steele Security Services.
I chew my lips and move the cursor down the screen, double-checking that the rest of the newsroom are focused on their own screens and not looking at mine.
Along with a concise background of the business, there are a couple of links to industry news articles. One is an announcement about the firm winning a major contract at a number of luxury London apartment blocks for CCTV monitoring services. The rest of the pieces are about the upcoming launch of their latest security software.
I scroll some more.
Click here for contact details for potential relatives/spouses based largely on electoral register searches.
I follow the link.
A sudden chill enters the room, as if someone has thrust a window open. I glance up but everyone is at their desk, head down, eyes glazed.
Jamie has been married before.
According to the dates on here, his divorce was made official in June, only three months ago. His first wife was Claire Steele née Connelly.
I force myself to slow down, not to get carried away.
Her address is listed. I shake my head as things become clear. It’s one of the luxury London apartments for which Jamie’s security firm won a tendering contract. I wonder if her moving in was part of the divorce agreement. I vaguely remembered him saying at the Blue Fin how he used to live in London. I’d had no idea he was talking about living here with his ex-wife.
A quick search on Google Street View reveals a sheet of solid oak with the name of the building in matt steel. There is a rotating door leading into a glossy tiled lobby. It looks very smart indeed.
I tap open the links to her social media pages.
The most recent post on her Instagram is from 2 July. It’s an arty black and white shot of a woman looking wistfully into the distance. Her plump lips are in a sort of Mona Lisa smile, her wide, expressive eyes gazing past the camera lens. She’s copied some melancholy song lyrics under the image.
However, it’s what’s in the comments that makes me sit up. I stare at the screen. I have to re-read the information before it sinks in.
RIP Claire. A new angel got her wings today.
My brain is whirring, ten paces ahead of what my eyes are taking in. There’s a pounding in my head. All my senses are firing off.
I look back at iSearch for what I’ve missed. Further down, the page confirms this information. Her death was registered on the fourth of July. Just a fortnight after the divorce from Jamie. The noise of the office fades away behind me as I shift closer to my screen.
My fingers race over the keyboard. I need to find out how she died. She was a young woman, a similar age to me. There’s nothing mentioned in her other Instagram posts. No illness she had been living with or any hints that she was battling in private.
I discover an article from a local newspaper ahead of her funeral. Her parents, Marie and Richard Connelly, gave a brief interview with a journalist sharing how broken-hearted they were and how much their daughter would be missed.
And then I finally find what I’m looking for.
A familiar sensation trickles up my spine, that same release of adrenaline that comes from doing this job for so many years. A scent for news. Spotting a story and knowing, without doubt, that you’re on to something. It’s innate and tiring and exhilarating all at the same time.
Jamie’s ex-wife fell to her death down a flight of stairs.
41
Erin
Friday 23 September
Our wedding photos have arrived. Jamie had thought it was unnecessary to have a professional photographer capture the day, given how small the ceremony was, so we compromised. I looked after the wedding – including booking the photographer I wanted – and Jamie looked after the honeymoon. It was his choice to go to Bali. I’ve spent so long wondering how different things might be if we’d gone somewhere else.
I spend the day flicking through the thick, creamy pages of the expensive photo album. My chest clenches at the shots of us standing in front of the registrar, hands clasped, immovable smiles, huge, innocent eyes fixed on one another as we vowed our lifelong commitment, oblivious to what the future held in store.
I don’t recognise myself. We’ve both aged in such a short time. Deep wrinkles that weren’t there before now mark my forehead. Jamie used to drink me up; flash his eyes in a way that made my stomach flip with heady anticipation. I was his universe. He hasn’t looked at me like that for a while.
It’s not just our appearance that’s altered. Everything has changed. I can’t sleep until every window is checked and the front door bolted shut. I’m not sure what I’m keeping out but I must follow this nightly routine if I’m to get any sleep at all. A slow, torturous drip, drip wakes me most nights. That, or my fractured dreams. The drips are driving me insane. Yesterday evening I went outside to see where the noise was coming from. I padded out without any shoes on, the cold, hard ground biting my toes, sure that there must be a leaking pipe, a loose tile, rainwater inching its way down the ivy-covered bricks, something that was the cause of such torment. The windows are as dark as mouths, the house looking even more ominous from this angle. Moths flutter against the thin windowpanes. I hear their tiny heads butt against the glass and think how stupid they are not to realise they’re trapped. But I couldn’t see anything that might be causing the noise. Jamie tells me he can’t hear a thing. He looks at me as if I am losing my mind. I hear it in my sleep and now I hear it when I’m awake. All day long.
This interrupted silence accompanies me as I move from room to room.
The floorboards creak under the weight of secrets trapped there. At night, my breath is visible and the thick Indonesian heat feels like it was all a dream. Then I remind myself that it’s because of our honeymoon that life has become a nightmare. Sometimes I dream about how easy it would be to tear this house apart. Take an axe or a hammer to cave in the white plaster, let the sky fall through the roof, rip the bricks from the walls with my bare, bloodied fists.
Nearly every morning I run a chilly arm across Jamie’s side of the bed. He hasn’t slept here for a few nights. He works late downstairs. Occasionally, I can hear the rumble of the kettle as he makes himself a late-night coffee. I see the bags under his eyes the following morning and smell the sour scent of whisky on his breath. I feel like that boiled lobster from our first date: screaming, using all the air in my lungs, knowing that no one will hear. My cries will be dismissed as hot air.
‘Can you seriously not hear that dripping sound?’ I ask again.
We’re sitting at the kitchen table under the low light, a bland spaghetti carbonara being pushed around both of our plates.
‘I think I’m going to have to call a plumber out,’ I continue.
