Julianne opens the door wider. ‘Do you want to come in?’
I step past her and wait for her to close the door. She’s been watching TV, but the sound is now turned down.
‘Where’s Charlie?’ I ask, glancing up the stairs.
‘Babysitting.’
‘Who is she looking after?’
‘A little boy in Emma’s class.’
Julianne curls up in an armchair by the fire. A book lies open on the armrest. A cup of tea is empty on the table next to her.
‘How was your date with Harry?’ I ask.
She holds up her hand and rocks her palm from side to side. ‘So-so. I discovered that he’s rather controlling.’
‘How?’
‘I asked for the dessert menu and he made such a fuss.’
I feel a stab of guilt. ‘That’s very odd.’
Julianne pushes hair back behind her ears. ‘I doubt you came here to talk about Harry.’ She smiles and effortlessly takes repossession of my heart.
‘Sienna was pregnant,’ I say, which is definitely a conversation starter.
Julianne blinks at me. ‘Who?’
‘I don’t know.’
We’re both thinking the same thing. What if it had been Charlie? What would we do?
Julianne grows pensive. ‘I walked past the Hegartys’ house today and I saw the curtains closed and I started thinking about Sienna. She was always here, Joe, staying for dinner, sleeping over, curled up on the sofa with Charlie.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘Then I started thinking about how angry I’ve been at you, and some of the things I said.’
She raises her eyes to mine, filling me with a sense that all her remembered anger, grief and impatience are gone.
‘We haven’t lost someone, Joe. We have two wonderful daughters. We’re very lucky.’
‘I know.’
Her ocean-grey eyes are shining. ‘I don’t know if I should tell you this.’
‘What?’
‘There are nights when I miss you so much I cry myself to sleep and other nights when I realise that loving you took every ounce of energy and more. I didn’t have enough . . . I’ll never have enough.’
‘I understand.’
‘Do you?’
‘Let me come back.’
She shakes her head. ‘I’m not strong enough to live with you, Joe. I’m barely strong enough to live without you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you’re not always going to be here.’
A stray lock of hair falls from behind her ear. She tucks it back again. For a moment I think she might cry. The last time I saw her tears was two years ago, in her hospital room where rain streaked the windows and it felt as if the clouds were crying for me.
‘I don’t love you any more,’ Julianne told me blankly, coldly. ‘Not in the right way - not how I used to.’
‘There isn’t a right way. There’s just love,’ I said.
What do I know?
Now she’s smiling sadly at me. ‘You’re so good at analysing other people, Joe, but not yourself.’
‘Or you.’
‘I hate it when you analyse me.’
‘I try not to. I prefer you to be a magnificent enigma.’
Julianne laughs properly this time.
‘I’m being serious,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to understand you. I don’t want to know what you’ll do next. I want to spend the rest of my life trying to solve the mystery.’
She sighs and shakes her head. ‘You’re a decent man, Joe, but . . .’
I stop her. No statement that begins that way is ever a harbinger for anything good. What if she’s clearing the decks before telling me that she’s going to marry Harry Veitch?
‘Tell me something honest,’ I say.
Julianne presses her lips into narrow unyielding lines. ‘Are you saying I tell lies?’
‘No, that’s not what I meant. I just want to talk about something important.’
‘This isn’t a necessary conversation, Joe.’
‘I like it when we talk about the girls. It makes me feel like we’re still a family.’
‘We can’t live it over again,’ she whispers sadly.
‘I know.’
‘Do you? Sometimes I wonder.’
18
On Tuesday afternoon I park the Volvo outside a house made of weathered stone with a slate roof. The small square front garden is divided by strips of grass between flowerbeds where gerberas are pushing through the loam searching for sunlight.
Grabbing my overcoat from the passenger seat, I walk up the front path and give the doorbell a short ring, putting on my friendliest professional demeanour. Nobody answers. Ringing the bell again, I press my ear to the wooden door. Canned TV laughter leaks from inside.
Retreating down the steps to the front window, I try to peer through a gap in the curtains into the murky twilight of a living room. The TV is a flickering square. I can just make out a blurred outline of someone sitting on the sofa. Perhaps they didn’t hear the doorbell.
This time I knock loudly and listen for footfalls or muffled voices or the sound of someone breathing on the other side of the door.
Nothing.
I’m about to leave when I hear a voice from the rear garden. Gordon Ellis appears from the side of the house. He’s dressed in tracksuit bottoms and a Harlequins rugby shirt. A fringe of chestnut hair falls across his forehead. He brushes it aside.
‘Hello.’
‘Hi. Were you waiting long? I was out back.’
‘No, not long.’
He looks at me closely. ‘Have we met?’
‘I’m Charlie O’Loughlin’s father.’
‘Of course you are.’ He offers his hand: a killer grip. ‘Call me Gordon.’
‘Joe.’
He’s carrying a hoe, which he rests against his shoulder. ‘Charlie is a great kid.’
‘Thank you.’
I glance at the front door. ‘I don’t want to interrupt . . . if you have a visitor.’
‘Nope, it’s just me. Natasha has gone shopping. I was just doing some chores. Almost finished. Do you mind if we talk out back?’
I follow him along the side path where a rusting bicycle is propped against the fence, alongside recycling bins. The long narrow garden has a sandbox with toys, a vegetable patch and a small greenhouse. At the far end there is an old stable block, now a garage, which backs on to a rear lane.
Through an open side door I notice a silver BMW convertible. Ellis follows my gaze.
‘You’re wondering how a teacher can afford a car like that?’
‘It did cross my mind.’
‘Natasha’s family is loaded. You could say I married well.’ He looks a little embarrassed. ‘We met at school. I didn’t know she was rich. Honest.’
He laughs and begins turning soil in the vegetable garden, swinging the hoe over his shoulder and driving the blade into the compacted earth.
‘I’m running late with this. I should have planted a month ago.’
Glancing at the house, it looks less welcoming from this angle with small, mean windows. From somewhere on the street-side I hear a door close. Ellis hears it too. His eyes meet mine.
‘What can I do for you, Joe?’
‘I want to ask you about Sienna Hegarty.’
He swings the hoe again. ‘A terrible business!’
‘You were close?’
‘She’s one of my students. She’s in the musical.’
‘I saw the dress rehearsal last Tuesday. You were very hard on her.’
‘Sienna was distracted. She forgot her lines. Her timing was off. I know what she’s capable of.’ He pauses and wipes his forearm across his forehead. ‘You didn’t come here to discuss the musical.’
‘No.’
‘Why are you here?’
‘I’m trying to help Sienna. I’m a psychologist. I’ve been asked to prepare a psych report for the court.’
‘How can I help?’
‘I talked to Sienna a few days ago. I asked her about school - general questions about her favourite subjects and teachers. When she listed her teachers she left you out.’