34
There were times when Estelle thought it was only the garden which kept her sane. If sane was what she was. Her friends, of course, had she really had any friends, would have said, Darling, you've got the children, and while it was true that they still accounted for a large part of her life, they were no longer hers in the way they used to be. Jake acted and sounded more like his father every day, and Amber, at five and a half, was lost much of the time in a world of ballet shoes and tutus and the right shade of pink for her cardigan, the right shade of blue for the band which held back her hair.
As for Gerald, he was, of course, the perfect gentleman, so polite at times it was as if he'd forgotten who she was and imagined her some distant cousin come to stay. He left early each weekday for the City and often returned late, occasionally phoning to say he was sorry but he'd have to miss dinner, and if that happened sometimes he'd bring her flowers and a little note. Once she found in one of his pockets a card advertising a members-only gentlemen's club in Soho and she'd been careful to put it back, pleased that he'd found somewhere to relax and unwind. If he asked her for sex now it was once a month at most, the light always out beforehand; when his leg slid over hers in the way she recognised, she would put her bookmark carefully in place and excuse herself to the bathroom; quite often, by the time she returned, he would be asleep and snoring.
Estelle stood now by one of the rose beds, late morning, wearing an old green woollen coat, slacks tucked down inside calf-length Wellington boots, a pair of scuffed brown gardening gloves on her hands. The trouble with January, it was too late to plant more bulbs, too early for much else; all she could usefully do was tidy up the beds, cover the mess left by one or other of next door's cats, nip off the odd brown leaf with her secateurs.
She thought how ugly the rose bushes were, pruned back, their hard green stems poking up blind into the air.
Somewhere in her mind she heard the car approaching, then a silence, then, faint, the front doorbell. If the door to the conservatory had not been open, it was unlikely she would have heard it at all. Not that it mattered: whoever it was, another of those smartly dressed Mormons or someone collecting for the church bring-and-buy, they would soon lose patience and go away.
Nearer the bottom of the garden a sparrow was giving itself a bath in the dirt, its wings spraying up a film of loose soil. Helped by the cold air overnight, the ground had dried out quite well; the sky today a washed-out blue-grey smeared with cloud and the temperature in single figures, eight or nine at most.
The side gate clicked open and when Estelle turned she saw the black detective who had, for a moment, held her hand. Tall, she hadn't remembered her as quite so tall; as tall as Gerald she could swear, the heels of her boots making sharp indentations in the lawn.
'Mrs Cooper. Estelle. How are you this morning?' Smiling, smiling, smiling. 'I rang the bell, but I suppose being in the garden, you didn't hear. I hope you didn't mind me finding my own way round?'
'No, of course not. Not at all.' What else was she supposed to say?
'You do all this yourself?' Karen Shields said, looking round. Though in all probability meant as praise, to Estelle's ears it came out more as accusation. Is this all you do with your life?
'Gerald helps with the heavy work sometimes, that is, he used to. And Jake, now he's older, he -' Abruptly she stopped: why was she saying this?
'Estelle?' Karen asked gently. 'Are you okay?'
She looked up at her, that large commanding face with those red, red lips. Beautiful, was that the word?
'Estelle?'
'Mm? Yes, of course.' Of course what? She didn't know.
'Why don't we go inside?' Karen said. 'That cup of tea you offered last time. Something to keep out the cold.' Walking back towards the house, she took Estelle's arm.
They sat in the conservatory, the door now closed, the corners of glass beginning to mist over. Here and there a flower, brick red or butterfly white, still clung to one or other of the geraniums, their upper leaves healthy and green, those gathered round the base shrivelled brown and paper thin.
Tea was in broad-brimmed white cups with a gold line faded around the rim; the china teapot in its cosy sat on a tray with a matching milk jug and sugar bowl, though the sugar remained untouched. Rich tea biscuits fanned out on a plate. Paper serviettes.
Karen took her time, listening while Estelle pecked at conversation like a bird, waiting for what might be an opportune moment.
In the end she dropped her question into the silence, like a pebble falling slowly into the well.
'Estelle, I know this will be difficult, and if there was any way I could avoid asking you I would, but when you said there were things Steven Kennet wanted you to do, things you felt uncomfortable with, I need you to tell me what they were.'
Estelle's hand shook and tea spilled from her cup into her saucer and from there into her lap. 'How silly of me,' she said, dabbing at it with her serviette. 'I'm sorry, what was it you said?'
When Karen left an hour and a half later, her face was rigid with anger and hurt, her mind alert. During the course of their relationship Kennet had persuaded Estelle to take part in a number of scenarios in which they played out the act of rape. Sometimes where they were living, sometimes in cheap hotels, and sometimes, after dark, on Wimbledon Common and Hampstead Heath.
In those instances, what he had her do, against her will, was walk along the path pretending to be lost, whereupon he would appear as the apparently kind stranger, offering to show her the way. Or sometimes, wearing a mask, he would jump out at her, grab her arms and throw her to the ground.
Towards the end of the relationship, when she wouldn't agree to play along, he raped her for real.
Karen called Mike Ramsden from her car before switching on the ignition and slotting the seat-belt buckle into place.
'Mike? I want Kennet back in for questioning. ASAP. Drag him down off a roof if you have to.'
One last glance back at the house before she drove away.
Steven Kennet was nowhere to be found. He had failed to show up for work that morning, no reason, no excuse. His home address was a flat off Seven Sisters Road, between Finsbury Park and the Nag's Head. No reply. One of the couple who lived above said they didn't think he'd been home last night. Came in and drove away. A van. 5 cwt Ford van, dirty white. They hadn't seen him that morning either.
'Keep looking,' Karen said. 'Keep a watch on the flat. Let's get a description ready for circulation, details of the van.'
When Tara's mother delivered Jake and Amber back home just before four and there was seemingly no one in, she simply bundled them back into the Toyota and drove them along to number 35 with Tara, where she gave them all chocolate biscuits and juice and then, after they'd played together and the Cooper telephone remained unanswered, some pasta with M & S tomato sauce.
As far as Jake and Amber were concerned it was an unlooked-for treat.
Tara's dad went to the house as soon as he came home and knocked loud upon the door; he let himself into the garden by the side passage and found the conservatory locked, the whole house in darkness. Shouting yielded nothing.