Chris had been right in one sense. After Abigail’s death, school had become more bearable. In the few weeks before the summer holidays and in the first half of the Christmas term she was known only as Abigail’s mate. Afterwards, she had become an object of interest in her own right; the pupils had been curious about the murder investigation, the teachers sympathetic. Under their attention she had flourished.
Was it that autumn term she’d discovered her facility for languages? It had been a piece of translation, German into English, and when it had come to her turn she’d rattled it off, understanding immediately what the writer had been trying to say.
“Very good, Emma,” the teacher had said automatically. Emma had come in for a lot of praise since Abigail’s death. As if that was some compensation for the shock of finding a strangled body. Then the teacher had repeated, meaning it, surprised. “Really, that was very good.”
So language had become her thing. French and German to A level and Spanish as an extra GCSE in the sixth form, then Russian for her degree. She hadn’t been brilliant. She’d just scraped a 2.1. But it had been more than her teachers would have predicted when she was fifteen. Her parents too had been surprised by her success, though they’d tried not to show it. How could she explain it? Well, it’s much easier to speak in other people’s voices. It’s more comfortable. How would they understand that?
That had led to her meeting James. After university she’d taken a job with a small shipping company based in Hull. Why had she come back? After being in Exeter for three years and Frankfurt for one, she’d thought herself free of the influence of Robert and Mary. She could have found work anywhere in the country, anywhere in the world. Yet, almost without making a conscious decision, she’d found herself back here. She had felt some responsibility for her mother of course. She couldn’t imagine what it could be like for Mary, with just the two of them rattling round that big house. Even now her parents’ marriage was a mystery to her. What was it about Robert which inspired such devotion? Not just from her mother but from all the women in the parish. But that hadn’t been the only reason for her return. She’d been scared all the time she’d been away. Of the strange places and the jostling cities and of people she didn’t know. Of the unexpected. Perhaps that had been the legacy of discovering Abigail’s body. She was terrified of stumbling across another horror. She knew she wouldn’t cope with it on her own. Here, her parents drove her to distraction, but they’d be there to support her, as they had the first time.
There’d been some translation work in the Hull office, but she’d felt her grasp of the languages slipping away through lack of use. When she’d been approached to teach an adult education class she’d taken it on reluctantly, just as a way of keeping Russian at least real in her mind. And at the first class James had walked in, straight from work, still in his uniform. Her dreams about him had been just as vivid as those about Dan Greenwood. Hadn’t they?
She moved across to the window, had to fight against the compulsion to relive her favourite day dream: Emma sees herself slipping out into the square and, keeping to the shadows, walking across to the forge. She pushes open one of the big doors which form an arch, like the door of a church, and steps inside. It would be so hard to let this go. But how could she continue now she knew there was no attraction, just an embarrassed recognition of a schoolgirl who had once been on the edge of one of his cases? She would miss those languid afternoons when she lost herself in daydreams, the nights when she looked out to see if he was there.
A light was on in the pottery and the door was not padlocked. Dan was working late. Emma supposed Vera Stanhope had demanded his time all day and he had to catch up. Or perhaps the night shifts with the police had given him a taste for working late. The light went off. Dan emerged from the pottery and stood for a moment, looking up and down the square. He locked the door and fixed the padlock, but still he stood where he was. Emma had a sudden and irrational certainty that he was waiting for her. She stared down at him, willing him to look up. But as there was no light in the bedroom how would he notice her? The orange street lamp would be reflected in the glass forming a barrier he’d not be able to see through. She considered pushing up the sash window as she had on the night when he and James had discussed Jeanie’s suicide, wondered if she could do it without waking her husband.
A car drove into the square. It was black and long. It pulled up smoothly besides Dan and he climbed in. Emma couldn’t see who was driving. She supposed it could be Vera Stanhope with more questions, though there had been something furtive about the way Dan looked all around him before getting in. Perhaps it was a woman, a lover he’d managed to keep secret from the rest of the village. The car revved its engine and drove off very fast. Emma climbed into bed and lay with her back to James.
She woke to light, in a panic.
“Where’s Matthew?”
James was dressed. The light came from the lamp on the dressing table. He was stooped in front of the mirror, knotting his tie.
“Asleep,” he said. “It’s still early.”
“Are you sure? He never sleeps through.” Her heart was thudding. She felt clear headed, wide awake.
“I checked.” He pulled a face to confess that he’d panicked too.
As if on cue there was a grizzle from the monitor they’d bought, then a small cry.
, “You stay there,” James said. “I’ll get him.”
She propped herself against all the pillows on the bed and wondered why she couldn’t be happy with this: a good husband and a baby to feed.
She kept Matthew with her and read until the light came through the window and the traffic started moving. James had long gone. She changed the baby and put him back in his cot, then went downstairs to make tea. She half expected to find Chris where she’d left him, slumped over the table amidst the remains of the meal, but there was only the debris. He must have roused himself sufficiently to drag himself to the spare room. It would have been late though. She hadn’t heard him. She filled the kettle then stacked the dishwasher and switched it on.
When the tea was made she decided to share it with Chris. She pictured herself sitting at the end of his bed, the duvet tucked around her feet, continuing the conversation of the night before. It wasn’t too late for them to become close. She had to set the tray on the table on the landing so she could knock at the door. There was no reply. She wasn’t surprised. He must be practically unconscious after all that booze and so many nights without sleep. Still she persisted. She knocked louder, then opened the door.
The bed was empty and still made, though it was slightly crumpled, as if Chris had lain on top of it. The rumpled cover was the only sign that he had ever been there. His bag was gone and he hadn’t left a note.
Downstairs, Emma sat in the warm kitchen. She drank the tea while it was still hot. After two cups she telephoned her parents’ house. There was no reply.
Chapter Sixteen
Michael was coming back to life, thawing out. And it was painful. Like when a numb foot gives way to pins and needles or cramp. It had started in the church: the stab of fury, which had caused him to spit the wine at Robert Winter, had cut through the dead iciness. Then Vera Stanhope, big and warm and generous, had continued the process. Now he was restless, fidgety. He couldn’t sit in the bungalow waiting for things to happen.