Emma had been trying to remember more of her encounter with Jeanie Long since that one flash of recollection in the church. When she woke it was almost lunchtime and her book had slid to the floor so the place was lost. Upstairs Matthew was lying awake in his cot, reaching out occasionally towards a bare branch moving just outside his window. James had gone to bed. His uniform cap lay on the dressing table. His breathing was soft and regular. He claimed never to dream and looking at him there so calm and still, she could believe that was true. Emma changed Matthew then took him into the living room to feed him. She zapped on the television for the local news, and caught a piece on the reopening of the Mantel case.
“A witness has come forward who can place Jeanie Long in London on the day attractive teenager Abigail Mantel was killed. Miss Long always claimed she was in the capital on the day the crime was committed, but until now there has been no evidence to support her. Officers from a neighbouring force have been brought in to reassess the case. The Chief Constable of Yorkshire and Humberside Police denies that this shows a lack of confidence in the original investigation. “Often,” he says, “it’s useful to look at a case with fresh eyes”.”
There followed a piece of old news footage showing witnesses leaving the court after Jeanie Long’s trial.
Emma buttoned up her shirt and pulled down her sweater. She put the baby in the pram which lived in the hall and went upstairs to prepare to go out. She opened her wardrobe door very quietly so as not to disturb James and saw all the clothes she used to wear before she was pregnant, the jackets and skirts and smart little blouses she dressed in for the classroom. None of these seemed suitable today and she chose instead a pair of black trousers and a lambs wool sweater with a big collar, and her long black coat which she lay on her side of the bed. She sat in front of the dressing table, wondering about make-up, compromising finally with a splash of red lipstick but nothing more. She wrote a note for James. Needed some fresh air. Taken Matthew for a walk.
In the pram the baby looked out at her. He was wearing a bright red hat and red mittens. She pulled up the hood, forcing the hinges into place. She didn’t want the wind to blow it down as soon as she stepped outside. Matthew chortled when she opened the door and bounced the pram by its back wheels down the steps to the square. She knew Dan Greenwood was in the pottery. The doors weren’t padlocked and anyway she’d seen him arrive at nine o’clock. She knew the best time to look out for him. She’d watched him arrive and leave most days since she’d stopped work. In the summer he left the big double doors open and then she’d seen inside. But this would be the first time she would fulfill her fantasy and go in.
At the far end of the building there was a corner which he seemed to use as an office. Behind an old desk was a filing cabinet and a computer table. And today Dan was there too, sitting at the desk, lit by an angle poise lamp. He was looking at some papers and frowning and she could tell the contents irritated or annoyed him. He wasn’t a man who hid his feelings easily. Once, in the summer when the big door had stood open, she’d seen him take hold of a pot he was painting and hurl it against the far wall of the building, frustrated, she supposed, because he hadn’t managed to achieve quite the effect he’d wanted. The scene had shocked and fascinated her. James would never have given way to such a spontaneous show of feeling.
Now the lamp gave the scene a contrived, staged look. Little natural light came through the dusty windows in the roof and the strip tubes fastened to the rafters had been switched off. Emma, the audience, was in shadow. She closed the door behind her and Dan looked up.
“Emma.” He half rose, then sat back in the chair which looked as if it had been rescued from a village school. His movements were always sudden. His hands were so big that she wondered they were capable of holding the small brushes, the more delicate pieces. There was the tension she’d always sensed between them. She’d thought it was the fris son of mutual attraction. Now she wasn’t so sure.
She’d met him first when he’d thrown a party to tcelebrate the opening of the pottery. He’d held it in the pub and they’d all been invited, everyone who lived on the square. She’d been newly married, realizing even then perhaps that it wouldn’t be the escape she’d hoped, but not looking for adventures. She’d had adventures enough in her life already and she had her work then to satisfy her. Dan Greenwood had been at the door to greet them all, and she still remembered the first encounter. She’d lifted her face so he could kiss her cheek and had seen the shock in his eyes, felt it in the brief press of lips and the brush of his hair like a feather on her skin. It had been as if he were meeting an old lover, although she had been sure they had never met. And all evening, as the locals grew more rowdy on the free beer, she had been aware of his gaze on her, flattered but not surprised. She had known the effect she could have on lonely men.
He must have approached everyone else in the room to introduce himself, enquire about his neighbours. His manner was reserved, but overhearing the conversation, she’d thought there was something very blunt about his questions. Direct, like a child. He wasn’t much good at flattering small talk. Certainly he had talked to James that evening. She had watched them laugh together. But he had made no effort to come up to her. It was as if he’d sensed that there would be a danger in their being physically too close. That was what she’d thought then. Now she wondered if she’d been deluding herself. He and James had become friends in that easy, casual way that men do. They often met up for a pint on Friday nights. They both played cricket for the village team. She didn’t know what they talked about their work, she supposed, sport, gossip.
Now, she felt awkward, tongue-tied. She had often dreamed about coming here, confronting him with how she felt, but this would be a different confrontation.
“Emma.” This time he did stand up, and he walked round to the front of the desk. He was frowning, anxious. “Is anything the matter?”
She ignored the question. “You never told me you used to be a policeman.”
“It was a long time ago. Something I try to forget.”
“You worked on the Mantel case. I’ve just seen you on the television.”
He seemed to be forming an explanation but she didn’t allow him a chance to speak. “You recognized me when we first met. Did you come to Springhead the day I found Abigail? I don’t remember.”
“I spoke to your father.”
“But you saw me?”
“Through the kitchen door. Briefly. And then later James confirmed who you were.”
“Does he know you’re an ex-cop?”
“It’s not something I feel I have to hide. It came up recently in conversation.”
How? she wondered. Does James use that incident in my past as an excuse for my behaviour? We’d have you round to dinner, but Em’s not very good in company. She found the body of her murdered best friend… As if one had any relevance to the other.
“Didn’t you think I’d be interested to know that you’d worked on the case?”
“I didn’t think you’d want reminding of it.”. “It’s hard to forget,” she said. “Now, with all that’s going on.”
“Have you been bothered by the press?”
“No.”
“They’ll track you down. I know you use your married name but it might be worth changing your phone number.”
“We’re ex-directory.”
“That won’t stop them.”
The exchange seemed unnaturally loud and fast. The words seemed to ricochet off the walls. They looked at each other for a moment in silence.
“Look,” he said. “I can make you a coffee.” He wiped the seat of the chair with his sleeve. “Why don’t you sit down?”