Their own mission, thankfully, is not only indoors but rather more likely to yield results. ‘Fawley wants us to get a feel for the Swanns,’ Gis had said as they left. ‘What sort of people they are. Neither of them will be there so take the opportunity to have a poke about in their dirty washing. And I do mean literally.’
‘But be careful,’ says Ev, as she sends Hansen off to the sitting room. ‘Make sure you leave everything exactly as you found it. I don’t reckon much gets past Margaret Swann.’
There are four bedrooms upstairs, two of them under dust sheets, and one little more than a box room, with a single bed and a faded candlewick counterpane. Though the stack of John le Carré paperbacks and half-empty packet of Rennie suggest it’s rather more than just a guest room.
There’s a lot more clutter in the master bedroom – more dried flowers, china ornaments of milkmaids and chubby Victorian urchins, an ancient TV and an old free-standing wardrobe rammed tight with flannel shirts, A-line skirts, sensible shoes and, at the far end, a dinner jacket and a dark-coloured evening dress in dry-cleaner bags that don’t look like they get out much.
There’s nothing on Richard’s side of the bed but Margaret’s more than makes up for it. A white plastic jewellery box, full water glass, wind-up alarm clock and a framed photograph of what must be the Swanns on their wedding day. Ev picks it up; Richard has slicked-back hair and a vague resemblance to the young Prince Philip, though that might just be the height; Margaret’s in a shiny high-necked ruffled dress that doesn’t look very comfortable.
Ev puts the picture frame back down but manages to jolt the table in the process, spilling some of the water. She reaches into her pocket for something to mop it up, hearing her mother’s voice berating her for her clumsiness. But something about the spill makes her pause, then raise the tissue slowly to her face. Well, well, well, she thinks. Who’d have thought.
When she goes back down she finds Hansen working his way methodically round the sitting room, taking notes and photos.
‘Anything?’ asks Ev, glancing round herself. She was in here last night, but it was too rushed and too gloomy for a proper look.
Hansen makes a face. ‘Not much, to be honest. They read the Telegraph and the Mail, they don’t have anything other than terrestrial TV and as far as I can tell they don’t have any kids, either. Though they did once own a brown cocker spaniel.’ He nods across at a now-yellowing photo in a pale-green papier-mâché frame. Benjy it says, in ornate, sentimental lettering.
Ev shivers a little. Even in her coat, it’s cold in here. The log burner has long since gone out and there’s evidently no central heating.
‘Just storage heaters,’ says Hansen, reading her mind. ‘I didn’t think you could still get those.’
‘They’ve probably been here since the 1970s,’ says Ev grimly. ‘Rather like the Swanns.’
Hansen smiles briefly. ‘Actually, according to one of those property market sites, the house last changed hands in 2005.’
Well, thinks Ev, they didn’t buy it as a do-over, that’s for sure. She doubts it’s even been redecorated; surely no one in their right mind would have actually gone out and bought this carpet.
‘Do we know where the Swanns were before?’
‘No. Sorry. I can try and find out?’
Ev shakes her head. ‘It’s not a high priority. That far back, it’s hardly going to make a difference.’
* * *
There’s nothing Somer likes about hospital, but visiting times are definitely the worst. She doesn’t actually want people coming and seeing her in this state, but everyone else assumes there’s no one here because she’s Billy No-Mates. She’s had enough surreptitious and/or kindly looks to last her a lifetime.
So when the pretty, sympathetic nurse comes over with a smile and announces she has a visitor, her heart sinks. She wasn’t expecting anyone, and poor Ev isn’t likely to be rushing back after the welcome she got last time –
‘Hello, Erica.’
Seeing him for the first time in all these weeks, and her breath catches painfully in her chest. She’d started to forget what a beautiful man he was. Is. The blue of his eyes. The smile that would catch her unawares and flip her heart. But he’s not smiling now.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Not said in anger. In sadness. Incomprehension.
She looks away, her eyes filling with tears.
‘I didn’t tell anyone.’
But Giles knows that’s a lie. He must do – otherwise how is he even here? Someone must have told him. Ev? Kath?
‘Your sister rang me. She’s worried about you. Especially with her being stuck in the US.’
So it was Kath. Kath who will be even more worried now she’s found out that Giles knew nothing about any of it. Giles – who Kath would have assumed was being the most tremendous support, because that’s the sort of man he is.
‘Can I sit down?’
And that’s the sort of man he is too. A man who doesn’t presume. Who doesn’t turn up with grapes because that’s just such a cliché. Who doesn’t bring flowers either because he knows that might be overwhelming.
She nods. They sit in silence. She can feel the eyes on them. That kind nurse who’s just glad someone’s come to see her; the women visitors who are envying her having a man like that; the other patients wondering why this bloke hasn’t turned up before. Or perhaps she’s imagining it. Perhaps no one else has even noticed.
‘Do you want to tell me about it?’
She can feel her lips trembling. ‘Not really.’
‘When are they letting you home?’
She shrugs. Easier than talking.
She’s trying to avoid looking at him. At the hurt in those sad blue eyes.
‘Look, I understand now. Why you were – well, you know. I get it. I just want to help. If you want me to.’
He reaches a hand across the bed, tentative, towards hers.
* * *
At the back of Gantry Manor, Clive Conway is on his hands and knees on the step, examining the door.
‘Mind yourself,’ says Conway distractedly as they approach, his voice muffled by his mask. ‘There’s still puke on those slabs.’
Hansen makes a face and looks down at his feet; he’s wearing rather nice shoes.
‘What have you got?’ asks Ev.
Conway straightens up. ‘Well, someone definitely jemmied this door. Pretty cack-handedly, in my opinion, but it did the job.’
Ev looks up at the security light on the wall a few feet away. ‘They wouldn’t have been put off by that? It was pretty bright last night when I was here.’
Conway shrugs. ‘Evidently not.’
Ev turns back to the door, her face thoughtful. ‘But it would be easy to stage this, wouldn’t it? If that’s what you wanted to do?’
Conway clearly hadn’t anticipated that, but takes it in his stride. ‘Yes,’ he says, after a moment. ‘Like I said, I’d hardly call this a professional job. Pretty much anyone could have done it. Probably not the old dear, admittedly, but the husband, definitely.’
Ev is silent, staring at the door.
Hansen frowns. ‘You think that’s what they did? Faked it?’
Ev’s turn to shrug. ‘I don’t know. I just think we need to keep an open mind. At least until we get the results back from the lab.’
Conway nods slowly. ‘Well, it would explain one thing, that’s for sure.’
Ev looks up at him. ‘As in?’
‘As in, if it really was your vic who did this door, what sort of tool did he do it with? And, rather more to the point, where the hell is it now?’