Clare Mackintosh - I Let You Go

‘But we’ve got a name?’ Ray said, unable to hide the surge of excitement he felt.

‘We’ve got a name,’ Kate grinned. ‘No trace on PNC or voters’ register, and I can’t find anything online, but we’ll crack it today. I’ve got data protection waivers in with the utility companies, so now that Christmas is over we should start getting some call-backs.’

‘We’ve made some progress on Jacob’s mother, too,’ Stumpy said.

‘That’s great,’ Ray said. ‘I should take annual leave more often. Have you spoken to her?’

‘There’s no phone number,’ Stumpy said. ‘Kate finally got hold of a supply teacher at St Mary’s who knew her. Apparently, after the accident, Jacob’s mother felt that everyone blamed her. She was consumed with guilt and furious that the driver had been allowed to get away with it…’

‘“Allowed to get away with it”?’ Ray said. ‘We sat back and did nothing, did we?’

‘I’m only repeating what I’ve been told,’ Stumpy said. ‘Anyway, she severed all ties and left Bristol to make a fresh start.’ He tapped the file, which seemed to have grown an extra inch since Ray last saw it. ‘I’m waiting for an email from the local police, but we should have an address by the end of the day.’

‘Good work. It’s really important we get mum onside in case we end up in court. The last thing we want is some anti-police maverick mouthing off to the papers about how it’s taken over a year to charge someone.’

Kate’s phone rang.

‘CID, DC Evans speaking.’

Ray was turning away in the direction of his office when Kate began gesticulating wildly at him and Stumpy.

‘Amazing!’ she said into the phone. ‘Thank you so much.’

She scribbled furiously on an A4 pad on her desk, and was still grinning when she put down the phone a second later.

‘We got the driver,’ she said, waving the piece of paper triumphantly.

Stumpy broke into a rare smile.

‘That was BT,’ Kate said, bouncing up and down on her chair. ‘They processed our data protection waiver on the ex-directory entry and they’ve got an address for us!’

‘Where is it?’

Kate tore the front sheet from her pad and gave it to Stumpy.

‘Brilliant work,’ said Ray. ‘Let’s get moving.’ He snatched two bunches of car keys from the metal cabinet on the wall and threw one at Stumpy, who caught it deftly. ‘Stumpy, take the file with what we’ve got on Jacob’s mother. Head for the local nick and tell them we couldn’t wait for a call – we need that address now. Don’t come back until you find her, and when you do, make sure she knows that no one’s getting away with anything – we’re doing everything we can to bring someone to justice for Jacob’s death. Kate and I will go and nick the driver.’ He paused and chucked the other set of keys at Kate. ‘On second thoughts, you had better drive. I need to cancel my plans for this evening.’

‘Were you going somewhere nice?’ Kate said.

Ray grinned. ‘Trust me, I’d rather be here.’

21

The knock at the door makes me jump. Is it that time already? I can lose hours editing photos. Beau pricks up his ears but doesn’t bark, and I ruffle his head on my way to the door. I pull back the bolt.

‘You must be the only person in the bay who locks their front door,’ Patrick grumbles good-naturedly. He steps inside and gives me a kiss.

‘City habits, I guess,’ I say lightly. I slide the bolt home again, and battle to turn the key to lock the door.

‘Has Iestyn still not fixed this?’

‘You know what he’s like,’ I say. ‘He keeps promising he’ll sort it, but he never actually gets round to it. He said he’ll come up this evening, but I’m not holding my breath. I think he finds it absurd that I want to lock it at all.’

‘Well, he’s got a point.’ Patrick leans on the door and grips the big key, forcing it into the lock. ‘I don’t think there’s been a burglary in Penfach since 1954.’ He grins, and I ignore the jibe. Patrick doesn’t know how I search the house at night when he’s not with me, or the way I wake with a start at a noise outside. The nightmares might have stopped, but the fear is still here.

‘Come and stand by the Aga and warm up,’ I say. It is bitter outside and Patrick looks frozen.

‘The weather’s set to stay like this for a while.’ He takes my advice and leans against the ancient range. ‘Have you got enough logs? I could bring some tomorrow.’

‘Iestyn’s given me enough for weeks,’ I tell him. ‘He comes to collect the rent on the first of the month, and he generally turns up with a load of firewood in his trailer – he won’t take any money for it.’

‘He’s a good bloke. He and my dad go way back – they used to spend all evening in the pub, then creep home and try to pretend to my mum they weren’t drunk. I can’t imagine he’s changed much.’

I laugh at the thought. ‘I like him.’ I take two beers from the fridge and hand one to Patrick. ‘So what’s the mystery dinner ingredient?’

He phoned this morning to say he would be bringing supper, and I’m curious to see what is in the cool-bag he has left by the front door.

‘It was delivered today by a grateful client,’ Patrick says. He unzips the bag and reaches inside. Like a magician producing a rabbit, he pulls out a glossy blue-black lobster, its claws waving lazily at me.

‘Oh my goodness!’ I am at once delighted and daunted by the proposed menu, having never attempted anything so complicated. ‘Do many of your customers pay you in lobsters?’

‘A surprising number,’ Patrick says. ‘Others pay in pheasants, or rabbits. Sometimes they’ll offer up front, but often I’ll turn up to work and find something on the doorstep.’ He grins. ‘I’ve learned not to ask exactly where it’s come from. It’s tricky to pay the tax man with pheasants, but fortunately we still have enough people with cheque books to keep the practice afloat. I couldn’t turn away a sick animal just because there was no money to treat it.’

‘You’re an old softie,’ I say, and I put my arms around him, kissing him slowly on the lips.

‘Shh,’ he says, as we pull apart, ‘you’ll ruin the macho image I’ve been building up. Besides, I’m not too soft to skin a fluffy rabbit or boil a lobster.’ He gives the over-the-top laugh of a cartoon villain.

‘Idiot,’ I say, laughing at him. ‘I do hope you know how to cook it, because I certainly don’t.’ I eye the lobster warily.

‘Watch and learn, madam,’ Patrick says, draping a tea-towel over his arm and bowing extravagantly. ‘Dinner will be served shortly.’

I find my largest saucepan and Patrick zips the lobster safely back in the cool-bag while we wait for the Aga to boil the water. I fill the sink to wash the lettuce and we work in companionable silence, Beau occasionally weaving between our legs, reminding us gently of his presence. It’s easy and non-threatening, and I smile to myself, sneaking a glance at Patrick, who is engrossed in the sauce he is making.

‘Okay?’ he asks, catching my eye and resting the wooden spoon against the pan. ‘What are you thinking?’

‘Nothing,’ I say, turning back to my salad.

‘Oh go on, tell me.’

‘I was thinking about us.’

‘Now you have to tell me!’ Patrick says, laughing. Reaching into the sink, he wets his hand and flicks the droplets of water at me.

I scream. I can’t help it. Before my head has a chance to reason with me, and tell me this is Patrick – just Patrick messing around – I spin away from him and pull my arms about my head. A visceral, instinctive reaction, that sends my pulse racing and makes my palms sweat. The air swirls around me and for a second I am transported to another time. Another place.