Clare Mackintosh - I Let You Go

‘Crazy.’ I’m mindful of the girl who drowned, and I wonder how he can bear to be near the water after such tragedy. Beau rushes at the waves, snapping his jaws at each surge of seawater.

‘How about you?’ Patrick says. ‘Any mad family traditions?’

I think for a while, smiling as I recall the excitement I had felt as a child when the Christmas holidays arrived. ‘Nothing like that,’ I say eventually, ‘but I used to love our family Christmases. My parents would start getting ready for Christmas in October, and the house would be full of exciting packages hidden in cupboards and under beds. After Dad left, we did the same things, but they were never quite the same.’

‘Did you ever try to find him?’ He squeezes my hand.

‘Yes. When I was at university. I tracked him down and discovered he had a brand-new family. I wrote to him, and he wrote back saying the past was best left in the past. I was heartbroken.’

‘Jenna, that’s awful.’

I shrug, pretending I don’t care.

‘Are you close to your sister?’

‘I was.’ I pick up a stone and try to skim it across the surface of the water, but the waves are too quick. ‘Eve sided with Mum after Dad left, and I was furious with Mum for throwing him out. In spite of that, we looked out for each other, but I haven’t seen her in years. I sent her a card a few weeks ago. I don’t know if she got it – I don’t even know if she lives in the same place.’

‘Did you fall out?’

I nod. ‘She didn’t like my husband.’ It feels daring to say it out loud, and a shiver of fear runs across my shoulders.

‘Did you like him?’

It’s a strange question, and I pause to think about it. I’ve spent so long hating Ian; being scared of him. ‘I did once,’ I say finally. I remember how charming he was; how different from the college boys with their clumsy fumbles and gutter humour.

‘How long have you been divorced?’

I don’t correct him. ‘A while.’ I pick up a handful of stones and begin throwing them into the sea. A stone for every year since I felt loved. Looked after. ‘Sometimes I wonder if he might come back.’ I give a tiny laugh, but it sounds hollow even to me, and Patrick eyes me thoughtfully.

‘And you didn’t have children?’

I bend over and pretend to be searching for pebbles. ‘He wasn’t keen on the idea,’ I say. It isn’t so far from the truth, after all. Ian never wanted anything to do with his son.

Patrick puts an arm around my shoulders. ‘I’m sorry, I’m asking too many questions.’

‘It’s okay,’ I say, and I realise I mean it. I feel safe with Patrick. We walk slowly up the beach. The path is slippery with ice and I am glad of Patrick’s arm around me. I’ve told him more than I ever intended to, but I can’t tell him everything. If I do, he’ll leave, and I’ll have no one to stop me from falling.

20

Ray woke up feeling optimistic. He had taken Christmas off, and although he had popped into the office a couple of times, and brought work home with him, he had to admit the break had done him good. He wondered how Kate had got on with the hit-and-run investigation.

Out of their list of nine hundred or so Bristol-registered red Ford Focuses and Fiestas, just over forty had triggered the Automatic Number Plate Registration system. The images were deleted after ninety days, but armed with a list of index numbers, Kate was tracing each registered keeper to interview them about their movements on the day of the hit-and-run. In the last four or five weeks she had made swift inroads into the list, but the results were slowing down. Cars sold without the correct paperwork; registered keepers moving with no forwarding address – it was a wonder she had eliminated as many as she had, especially given the time of year. Now that the holidays were over, it was surely time for a breakthrough.

Ray stuck his head round the door of Tom’s bedroom. Only the top of Tom’s head was visible from underneath a mound of duvet, and Ray closed the door again silently. His New Year optimism didn’t quite extend to his son, whose behaviour had worsened to the extent that he had been issued two formal warnings by the head teacher. The next one would result in temporary exclusion, which seemed to Ray to be an absurd sanction for a child who was already skipping more classes than he attended, and clearly hated the very idea of being in school.

‘Is Lucy still asleep?’ Mags said, when he joined her in the kitchen.

‘They both are.’

‘We’ll have to get them into bed early tonight,’ Mags said. ‘They’re back to school in three days.’

‘Have I got any clean shirts?’ Ray said.

‘You mean you didn’t wash any?’ Mags disappeared into the utility room and returned with a stack of ironed shirts draped over her arm. ‘Good job someone did. Don’t forget we’ve got drinks with the neighbours tonight.’

Ray groaned. ‘Do we have to?’

‘Yes.’ Mags handed him the shirts.

‘Who has the neighbours round on the day after New Year’s?’ Ray said. ‘What a ridiculous time for a party.’

‘Emma says it’s because everyone’s so busy over Christmas and New Year. She thinks it’s a nice pick-me-up once the festivities have finished.’

‘It’s not,’ Ray said. ‘It’s a bloody pain in the neck. They always are. All anyone wants to talk to me about is how they got caught doing thirty-seven in a thirty zone, nowhere near a school, and what an utter travesty of justice it is. It turns into a massive police-bashing.’

‘They’re only trying to make conversation, Ray,’ Mags said patiently. ‘They don’t spend much time with you—’

‘There’s a very good reason for that.’

‘—so all they have to talk to you about is your job. Go easy on them. If you hate it that much, change the subject. Make small talk.’

‘I hate small talk.’

‘Fine.’ Mags banged a pan on the counter with unnecessary force. ‘Then don’t come, Ray. Frankly, it would be better for you not to be there than to turn up in this sort of mood.’

Ray wished she wouldn’t speak to him as if he were one of the children. ‘I didn’t say I wasn’t going to come, I just said it will be dull.’

Mags turned to face him, with a look that was now less impatient, and more disappointed. ‘Not everything in life can be exciting, Ray.’

‘Happy New Year, you two.’ Ray walked into the CID office and dumped a tin of Quality Street on Stumpy’s desk. ‘Thought it might make up for having to work over Christmas and New Year.’ The office ran on a skeletal shift on public holidays, and Stumpy had drawn the short straw.

‘It’ll take more than a box of chocolates to make up for a seven a.m. start on New Year’s Day.’

Ray grinned. ‘You’re too old for late-night parties anyway, Stumpy. Mags and I were asleep long before midnight on New Year’s Eve.’

‘I think I’m still recovering,’ Kate said, yawning.

‘Good party?’ Ray said.

‘The bits I can remember.’ She laughed, and Ray felt a pang of envy. He doubted Kate’s parties involved tedious conversations about speeding tickets and littering, which was what he had to look forward to that evening.

‘What’s on the books for today?’ he said.

‘Some good news for you,’ Kate said. ‘We’ve got an index number.’

Ray broke into a grin. ‘About time. How confident are you it’s the right one?’

‘Pretty confident. There have been no ANPR hits on it since the hit-and-run, and although the tax has lapsed, it hasn’t been declared SORN, so my guess is it’s been dumped or burned out. The car’s registered to an address in Beaufort Crescent, about five miles from where Jacob was hit. Stumpy and I went out to see it yesterday, but it’s empty. It’s a rental property, so Stumpy’s trying to get hold of the Land Registry office today to see if the landlord has a forwarding address.’