‘OK,’ she managed to say. ‘Then I suppose it’s time I went.’
He nodded. The politeness, the openness of the nod, was the worst of it. This wasn’t hurting him at all.
‘But I’m right about Ralph,’ she said. ‘One hundred per cent right. He didn’t kill Lorne.’
‘Of course, Zoë.’ He turned his computer screen around and put on his glasses. ‘You’re always right.’
Chapter 32
Sally called the NHS helpline. The woman she spoke to said Steve should go to his GP, but Steve had looked carefully at the wound and said that would be overreacting, that really it was just a hole in the skin, nothing more. Together they disinfected and bandaged it, cleared up the blood and put the nail gun, chisels and hacksaw into the boot of her car ready for the DIY on her house. After that they got on with lunch – eating the tuna, picking through a bowlful of mango and raspberry sorbet, drinking coffee, and loading the dishwasher shoulder to shoulder, all without alluding to the conversation about David Goldrab. As if they’d decided, in a curious telepathic manner, to pretend it hadn’t happened. It wasn’t that they were solemn either – in fact, they were light-hearted, making jokes about Steve’s wound going gangrenous. How would it be if he lost his arm and had to walk around like Nelson for the rest of his life? Sally wondered if she’d dreamed the whole thing. If shady, raw acts like contract killings really happened, or if she’d somehow misunderstood what Steve was saying.
She got a text from Millie, who said she was getting a lift home in Nial’s camper-van, and not to worry about coming to school, she’d see her at Peppercorn. She sounded happy, not nervous. Even so, Sally still made sure she was home by four thirty, waiting by the window in plenty of time to see Nial’s half-painted van trundling along the driveway. Peter was sitting on the back seat, shades on, one arm draped casually around Sophie’s shoulders. All of them were in summer school uniform, their hair gelled, spiked and decorated as much as they could get away with at Kingsmead. The van stopped and Millie got out without a word to the others. She slammed the door and strode up the path, her face like thunder.
‘What’s going on?’
She walked straight past Sally, down the corridor, into the bedroom and slammed the door. When Sally padded softly after her and listened, she could hear muffled sobbing coming from inside. As if Millie was crying into the pillow. She opened the door, tiptoed in and sat on the end of the bed, resting her hand on Millie’s ankle. ‘Millie?’
At first Sally thought she hadn’t heard. Then Millie sat up and threw herself at her mother, arms round her neck, head pressed against her chest, like a drowning victim. Sobbing as if her heart would break.
‘What on earth’s happened?’ Sally pushed her back so she could see her face. ‘Is it him? Jake? Did you see him?’
‘No,’ she sobbed. ‘No, Mum. I can’t handle it any more. Now he’s with Sophie of all people. She’s not even that pretty.’
‘Who’s not even that …?’ She thought about Sophie, with a dreamy look on her face in the back of the van, Peter’s arm around her. She remembered what Isabelle had said about Peter being in love with Lorne and how it had upset Millie. This was all about him. Half of her was bewildered that her daughter couldn’t see past Peter’s blond hair and height, couldn’t look into the future and see his beery red face at forty, his thick torso and rugby-club nights. The other half was relieved that this wasn’t anything to do with Jake. Or Lorne.
‘Hey.’ She kissed Millie’s head, smoothed her hair. ‘You know what I’ve always told you. It’s not what’s on the outside, it’s what’s on the inside.’
‘Don’t be stupid. That’s just crap. No one looks on the inside. You’re just saying that because you’re old.’
‘OK, OK.’ She rested her chin on Millie’s head. Looked out at the fields and the trees and the clouds piled up like castles in the sky and tried to span her memory across the distance between fifteen and thirty-five. It didn’t seem an eternity. But when she put herself in Millie’s shoes and thought about her own mother fifteen years ago she saw how honest and clear that comment was. She let Millie cry, let her soak the front of her blouse.
Eventually the sobs died down to the occasional hiccup and Millie straightened up, her bottom lip sticking out. She wiped her nose with her sleeve. ‘I don’t really like him. Honestly. I really don’t.’
‘Is that it? Is that all that’s upsetting you?’
‘All?’ Millie echoed. ‘All? Isn’t that enough?’
‘I didn’t mean it was nothing. I was just thinking – you’re so unhappy. Unsettled.’
Millie shivered. ‘Yeah – it’s been such a bloody horrible day. Everything’s wrong. It’s been just pants.’
‘Everything?’
She nodded miserably.
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t think you want to know that.’
‘I do.’
Millie gave a long-suffering sigh and stretched her blouse so the cuff came down over her knuckles and drew her knees up to her chest, hugging them. ‘OK – but I warned you.’
‘What?’
‘I saw Auntie Zoë.’
Sally had opened her mouth to reply before what Millie had said sunk in. When it did she closed it. It was the last thing she’d expected. Zoë hadn’t been mentioned in their house for years. Years and years. In all of Millie’s lifetime they’d run into her twice – once in the high street, when Millie had been about five. That time Zoë had stopped and smiled at Millie, said, ‘You must be Millie,’ then looked at her watch, and added, ‘Well, got to go.’ The second time, two years later, the two women had simply nodded in acknowledgement and carried on their way. Afterwards Sally had been quiet for hours. These days, sometimes, she dreamed about Zoë – wondered what it would be like to see her again. Now she pushed the hair gently out of Millie’s face. She hadn’t even realized she knew Zoë’s name. ‘You mean you – uh – saw her walking down the street? Or you spoke to her?’
‘We went to see her at the police station. The head said we could take the morning off to do it. Nial and Peter and Ralph had something to tell her.’
‘Ralph? The Spanish one?’
‘He’s half Spanish. And he was seeing Lorne.’
‘Seeing her?’
‘Yes, and he tried to keep it secret. But it’s out now and it’s no big deal. I mean, he was seeing her, but he didn’t kill her, Mum. He didn’t have anything to do with it.’
So Isabelle had been right, Sally thought. About the secrets. The whispering. She wondered how it could be that the children they’d given birth to could have gone from curly-haired toddlers sitting on their laps to complete human beings with secrets and codes and plans.
‘He stayed at the station. With Auntie Zoë. She was, like, so nice to him. So nice.’
Sally heard the admiration in her voice. Unmistakable. She knew what it felt like to admire Zoë. ‘How is she? Zoë, I mean.’
‘She’s fine.’ Millie sniffed. ‘Fine.’
‘Fine?’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘How did she look?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know.’ Sally hesitated. ‘Is she tall? Years ago she always seemed quite tall to me.’
‘Yeah,’ Millie said. ‘She is. Really tall. Really, really tall. The way I’d like to be.’
‘What’s her hair like? She had amazing hair.’
‘Still has. It’s like mine – sort of reddy colour. A bit mad, actually – and it looked wet. Why?’
‘I don’t know. Just wondering.’ She gave a small, rueful smile, then said, ‘She’s doing well in her job, I suppose. She’s really clever, you know. You’d never think we were related.’
‘She’s got her own office and stuff. She doesn’t seem the type to be in an office, though.’