Clare Mackintosh - I Let You Go

‘No idea. I don’t recognise it.’

‘I take it the address doesn’t bring anything up on our systems?’

‘No intelligence, and nothing on Voters.’

‘An old business card of hers?’ He scrutinised the logo again.

Kate shook her head. ‘Not the way she reacted when I picked it up. It triggered something – something she didn’t want me to know about.’

‘Right, come on, then.’ Ray strode over to the metal cabinet on the wall and took out a set of car keys. ‘Only one way to solve this.’

‘Where are we going?’

Ray held up the blue card in reply, and Kate grabbed her coat and ran after him.

It took some time for Ray and Kate to find 127 Grantham Street, an unprepossessing redbrick semi in a seemingly endless row in which odd numbers were inexplicably far from their even counterparts. They stood outside for a moment, contemplating the scrubby front garden and the greying nets at every window. In the neighbouring garden two mattresses provided a resting place for a watchful cat, which meowed as they made their way up the path to the front door. Unlike the adjacent houses, which had cheap UPVC doors, 127 had a smartly painted wooden door with a spyhole. There was no letterbox, but fixed to the wall by the side of the door was a metal post-box, its door secured with a padlock.

Ray rang the bell. Kate reached into her jacket pocket for her warrant card, but Ray put his hand on her arm. ‘Best not,’ he said, ‘not till we know who lives here.’

They heard the sound of footsteps on a tiled floor. The footsteps stopped, and Ray looked directly at the tiny spyhole in the centre of the door. Whatever test was applied, they clearly passed, because after a couple of seconds Ray heard the door unlock. A second lock was turned, and the door opened by about four inches, stopped by a chain. The excessive security measures had led Ray to expect someone elderly, but the woman looking through the gap in the door was roughly the same age as him. She wore a patterned wraparound dress under a navy blue cardigan, with a pale yellow scarf looped around her neck and tied in a knot.

‘Can I help you?’

‘I’m looking for a friend,’ Ray said. ‘Her name’s Jenna Gray. She used to live in this road but I can’t for the life of me remember which house. I don’t suppose you know her, do you?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

Ray glanced over the woman’s shoulder to see into the house, and she closed the door a fraction, making eye contact with him and holding his gaze.

‘Have you lived here long?’ Kate said, ignoring the woman’s reticence.

‘Long enough,’ the woman said briskly. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me…’

‘I’m sorry we disturbed you,’ Ray said, taking Kate’s arm. ‘Come on, honey, let’s go. I’ll make some calls – see if I can track down her address.’ He brandished his phone in front of them.

‘But—’

‘Thanks anyway,’ Ray said. He nudged Kate.

‘Right,’ she said, finally picking up on his cue. ‘We’ll make some calls. Thanks for your time.’

The woman closed the door firmly and Ray heard two keys turn, one after another. He kept his arm through Kate’s until they were safely out of view of the house, feeling acutely conscious of the closeness.

‘What do you reckon?’ Kate said, as they got into the car. ‘Somewhere Gray once lived? Or does the woman there know more than she’s letting on?’

‘Oh, she knows something, all right,’ Ray said. ‘Did you notice what she was wearing?’

Kate thought for a moment. ‘A dress, and a dark-coloured cardigan.’

‘Anything else?’

Kate shook her head, confused.

Ray pressed a button on his phone, and the screen burst into life. He handed it to Kate.

‘You took a photo of her?’

Ray grinned. He reached across and zoomed in on the photo, pointing to the knot of the woman’s yellow scarf, where there was a small circular mark.

‘It’s a pin badge,’ he said. He zoomed in a second time, and finally there it was. Thick black lines like two figures of eight, one nestling inside the other.

‘The symbol on the card!’ Kate said. ‘Nice work.’

‘There’s no doubt Jenna’s connected in some way to this house,’ Ray said. ‘But how?’

30

I never understood why you were so keen for me to meet your family. You hated your mother, and although you spoke to Eve once a week or so, she never made the effort to come to Bristol, so why should you trek to Oxford every time she wanted you there? But off you went, like a good little girl, leaving me for a night – sometimes more – while you cooed over her burgeoning bump and, no doubt, flirted with her rich husband. Each time you asked me to go with you, and each time I refused.

‘They’re going to think I’ve been making you up,’ you said. You smiled to show you were joking, but there was a desperation in your voice. ‘I want to spend Christmas with you – it wasn’t the same without you last year.’

‘Then stay here with me.’ It was a simple choice to make. Why wasn’t I enough for you?

‘But I want to be with my family too. We don’t even have to stay the night – we can just go for lunch.’

‘And not have a drink? Some Christmas lunch that’ll be!’

‘I’ll drive. Please, Ian, I really want to show you off.’

You were virtually begging. You had gradually toned down the make-up you used to wear, but that day you were wearing lipstick, and I watched the red curve of your mouth as you pleaded with me.

‘Fine.’ I shrugged. ‘But next Christmas it’s just you and me.’

‘Thank you!’ You beamed and threw your arms around me.

‘I suppose we’ll need to take presents. Bit of a joke, considering how much money they’ve got.’

‘It’s all sorted,’ you said, too happy to notice my barbed tone. ‘Eve only ever wants smellies, and Jeff’s happy with a bottle of Scotch. Honestly, it’ll be fine. You’ll love them.’

I doubted it. I had heard more than enough about ‘Lady Eve’ to make my own judgement on her, although I was intrigued to see what made you so obsessed with her. I had never felt the absence of siblings to be a loss, and found it irritating that you spoke to Eve so often. I would come into the kitchen when you were on the phone to her, and if you abruptly stopped talking I’d know you’d been discussing me.

‘What did you get up to today?’ I said, changing the subject.

‘I had a great day. I went to an artisans’ lunch at the Three Pillars – one of these networking groups, but for people working in creative industries. It’s amazing how many of us there are, all working on our own at home in little offices. Or on kitchen tables…’ You gave me an apologetic look.

It had become impossible to eat in the kitchen, thanks to the constant layer of paint, clay dust and scribbled drawings scattered on the table. Your things were everywhere, and there was no longer a place in which I felt relaxed. The house hadn’t seemed small when I bought it, and even when Marie was here there had been sufficient room for the two of us. Marie was quieter than you. Less exuberant. Easier to live with, in a way, apart from the lying. But I learned how to deal with that, and I knew I wouldn’t be caught out again.

You were still talking about the lunch you had been to, and I tried to concentrate on what you were saying.

‘So we think that between the six of us, we can probably afford the rent.’

‘What rent?’

‘The rent on a shared studio. I can’t afford one on my own, but I’m bringing in enough money from teaching to go in with the others, and this way I’ll be able to have a proper kiln, and I can get all this stuff out of your way.’