Ask Me No Questions Page 10

  She had felt this way before – all those years ago, watching her mother betray her father. She had known something bad was going to happen then, and she hadn’t been wrong. She knew it then, and knew it now.

  And she was terrified.

  23

  The man was perched on a stool by the bar, turning the pint in his hand round and round. Kate saw him the moment she pushed open the door, moving from the chilling night wind to the smug and suffocating bodies inside.

  She knew why her husband had chosen this place, and why he was sat where he was. Less opportunity for a long drawn-out conversation, people around to prevent her making a scene. Plus alcohol all around them: a pathetic test. He didn’t look up as she came over, not acknowledging her until she placed a hand on his shoulder and pulled out a stool to sit next to him.

  Kate gasped her apologies, and he nodded.

  ‘I wouldn’t expect anything different,’ he said and pushed a brown envelope towards her. She put a hand on it but didn’t open it; she knew what it was.

  ‘Are we going to talk about it?’ she said, and he shook his head.

  ‘I think we’ve done enough talking,’ he replied, and when he looked at her, she saw he was tired and stressed.

  She knew his face almost better than her own. Kate had met Sam at university, when their ambitions and drinking habits had been aligned. After graduation it seemed natural they would get married, her an insignificant uniform and Sam up and coming in marketing. They both worked long hours; it didn’t matter that they socialised with different people, that she rolled home drunk in the early hours. It didn’t matter that he discovered yoga and the gym, while she moved on to harder and more toxic spirits. They were together, they would work it out, it didn’t matter.

  Until it did. He wanted her to stop drinking; she denied she had a problem. He worked longer hours, travelled, mentioned different work colleagues, female names. She got jealous, they argued. She drank some more. Not a big deal, just to forget a hard day, to have some fun with colleagues, or to help her get to sleep.

  Kate looked at him now – had they changed so much? They were both older, greyer, more lined. She had tried to cut back for him, stopped trying to be one of the lads, but she always failed. So, angry at his ultimatums, she’d moved out for a break that turned into a permanent solution. And now, here they were: the paperwork and the awkward silence.

  ‘I miss you,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Kate, please.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m not going to kick up a fuss. But I don’t want this.’ She tapped the brown envelope in front of her.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I do,’ Sam said. ‘You know what I said.’

  ‘So why ask me to meet you here?’ Kate said, angrily gesturing round the room.

  ‘I was hoping you’d tell me no. I was hoping you’d tell me you had got help, that meeting in a bar wasn’t a good idea for you.’

  Kate looked at him, tears pricking behind her eyes. ‘I don’t need help,’ she whispered.

  He paused, turning away and looking at his pint. It was almost finished, probably bought when he had arrived on time, and drunk furiously while the minutes ticked by. ‘You know it isn’t just about the drinking,’ he said, picking up his glass and studying it carefully.

  ‘So what is it about?’ she asked.

  He sighed. ‘I’m not going over this again, Kate. It’s over, we’re over.’

  She looked away from him; she didn’t want Sam to see the tears start to run down her cheeks. She angrily brushed them away. So this was it, then. He’d moved on, probably got himself someone else to occupy his time. She should do the same. She picked up the envelope and opened it, pulling out the thick white paper and flicking through the pages. Some legal wording on one, some numbers on another. Their whole marriage distilled into a monetary value.

  ‘You don’t have to look at it now,’ Sam said, ‘but I think you’ll find it’s more than generous. Just sign it and send it back.’ He looked at her, then swallowed the last dregs of his pint. ‘Do it this time, please?’

  He got up from the bar stool and put his coat on, pulling a scarf round his neck. Kate couldn’t look at him. She couldn’t watch him leave; she didn’t want to make a scene. To be that woman sobbing alone on a bar stool. She felt him pause next to her.

  ‘Look after yourself,’ he said, and left.

  Kate took a juddering breath in, and let it out slowly. She picked up the papers again. Sure enough, little sticky yellow tabs marked the places she would need to sign.

  The barman appeared and placed a shot of something in front of her, and she waved it away.

  ‘I didn’t order that,’ she said.

  ‘You didn’t, he did.’ The barman gestured to a figure at the other end of the bar. He smiled and slowly waved, and Kate recognised him within seconds.

  She knew him because she had been staring at his face on her whiteboard not twenty minutes before. One of the prime suspects in the attack and attempted murder of a vulnerable young woman. Someone she shouldn’t be accepting drinks from. Not now, not ever.

  Kate looked towards the door to the bar. This was bad, very bad indeed. She knew what she should do. She should push it away, stand up and go home. Drink some water, eat a well-balanced healthy dinner with avocado or quinoa or something, and go to bed, alone. But Sam’s words echoed in her head. She felt the rejection, the jealousy. She felt lonely and discarded. She picked up the envelope and stuffed it in her bag, standing up and looking back at the door.

  Kate downed the shot and gestured to the barman.

  ‘Two more, please,’ she said.

  Thursday

  24

  The noise was loud and pulsing. It jerked Kate into life and she fumbled to turn her alarm off, her brain foggy with the familiar blur, her mouth stripped of all moisture. She lay in bed for a moment, eyes adjusting to the dim light that trickled in through the window. She was at home, that was something, at least. But even in darkness, she knew she wasn’t alone: she could hear the steady in and out of his breathing, sense the presence of another person in her bed.

  He hadn’t woken, so she carefully extracted herself from the duvet, one hand resting on her thumping forehead. She tiptoed across the bedroom, picking up some clothes left on the side and opened the door, wincing at the slightest creak. Just before she closed it, she allowed herself to look back at the slumbering man. She could only see a toned arm and a mess of hair amid the jumble of bed covers. She winced at the memory.

  As she scalded herself in the boiling hot shower, she thought back to the evening before. She remembered him sitting beside her at the bar, ordering glass after glass of expensive wine. She remembered them talking: her frosty at first, cutting him off mid-sentence, distracting him from talking about the case, about Thea or Gabriella. He had moved on and talked about other things, about her, what she did, what she liked – who was that man that she had been talking to? She forgot her previous impression of him and let her inhibitions go, lubricated by yet another bottle of wine. Oh, and she had talked. She shuddered and covered her face with her hands, remembering a long rant about her marriage, her soon-to-be ex-husband; her tongue loosened by the alcohol.

  She climbed out of the shower and wrapped a towel around herself. She ran one hand across the mirror, wiping away the steam and taking in her pale face, the bags under her eyes.

  Oh shit, and then what? The night stuttered and skipped. Blank spots and snapshots where memories should be. She went to go home. She knew she shouldn’t be with him, so she took herself out of the bar. But then he left too, and somehow, outside, they were kissing. His lips on hers, soft, tasting of wine and vodka. She missed it, the kissing; the company of a man. A man in her bed. They took a cab, back here, back to do things that would ruin her career and her reputation if people found out. What a spectacularly stupid thing to do.

  The phone next to her started vibrating and Kate picked it up. She grunted a greeting.

  ‘Sarge? Are you on your
way? I’m waiting for you at the hospital,’ Briggs barked down the phone.

  ‘Just leaving the house,’ Kate lied, hastily throwing on her clothes. She gulped a pint of water, washing down paracetamol and retching as her stomach rebelled from the onslaught of the night before. She groaned and leaned on the kitchen counter, her brain woozy, willing the nausea to subside. It was going to be a long day.

  As she tiptoed towards the front door, she glanced back to the bedroom. She shut her eyes and shook her head. He would be gone by the time she got back and she would pretend it had never happened. It certainly wouldn’t happen again. She picked up her bag, and the brown envelope from the night before fell to the floor. Kate picked it up and looked at the legal document within.

  Last night, however stupid, had obviously marked some sort of watershed in her subconscious mind. She flicked through the little yellow tabs.

  The pages were signed.

  25

  Thea was stirring her cornflakes dejectedly when she saw the police officers arrive. Half of her dreaded the questioning, while the other half was desperate to have someone to talk to.

  She’d had another visit from the doctors that morning; they’d taken the awful nasogastric tube out, but her appetite wasn’t up to much. The grey-haired one was optimistic about her progress. ‘But it’ll be a few weeks before you can go home,’ he had said. ‘And that’s only if you have someone who can keep an eye on you.’ Harry probably wouldn’t mind; she was longing to get out of here, to peace and quiet without the constant bothering.

  The police officers hovered at her bedside. She remembered them from before, but her memory was hazy, and she’d forgotten their names. The woman seemed to be in charge and waited quietly for Thea’s attention.

  ‘We’re here to ask a few questions,’ she said.

  Thea pointed to the seat next to the bed.

  The woman officer sat down, moving carefully as if she was the one who was ill, not Thea. The bloke stayed standing, shifting his weight from foot to foot, seemingly eager to get going.

  ‘What were you doing at the nightclub that evening?’ the man said.

  The woman gave him a look and gestured for him to sit down next to her.

  ‘What my impatient colleague means to say is …’ She gave him another stare. ‘We know you were at Heaven that night, and we know you were pretending to be your sister, Gabriella.’

  Thea didn’t say anything.

  ‘We are curious as to why.’

  ‘Why does it matter?’

  ‘It matters because we would like to find the person who attacked you. And it makes a difference whether they thought they were attacking you, or whether they were after your sister.’

  Thea’s head was hurting again and she lay back on her pillow, putting her hand on her forehead. It was cool and helped the throbbing.

  The woman leaned forward. ‘We won’t be long, but we would appreciate the insight.’

  Thea looked at her. She didn’t look old, but seemed tired, her smart grey suit creased and her eyes bloodshot. Thea knew she wasn’t at her best, but this woman could clearly do with a good night’s sleep.

  ‘Detective …?’

  ‘Kate. DS Munro, but please call me Kate.’

  ‘Kate.’ Thea took a deep, juddering breath out. ‘It wasn’t the only time I’d been. I mean, as Gabi. The first time I just wanted to see Gabriella and I knew she used to work there.’ Thea paused and looked out of the window. A line of grey cloud lingered over what little daylight there was; a few birds settled nonchalantly on a telegraph pole. ‘It was an innocent mistake. They thought I was her, and then … I just wanted to see what it was like.’

  ‘What what was like?’ the man asked.

  Thea looked at them. ‘What having friends, male friends, any sort of friends, was like. Being popular.’ She spat the last word out. ‘What being Gabi was like. And then I just …’ She paused. ‘I just kept on going.’

  ‘And how do you know Ryan Holmes?’ Kate asked.

  ‘He’s …’ Thea stopped. ‘He owns the club.’

  ‘And that’s all?’

  ‘I thought there might be something else. But I guess not, not now.’

  ‘And why were you arguing that night?’

  Thea shook her head. ‘I don’t remember an argument.’ She winced, the pain in her head making her feel dizzy. ‘It’s all a big blank. I remember turning up, having a cocktail. I didn’t like it, so Ryan took it off me. After that, nothing.’ She looked at the detectives. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Was there anyone there that night who worried you? Who you were wary of?’

  Thea thought back and frowned. ‘No.’

  ‘And you can’t remember the attack?’ The man again, getting another look from DS Munro.

  ‘No, nothing at all.’

  She put her head back on the pillow. Outside, it had started to rain, the sky torn and ominous. She didn’t want to say anything else.

  The police officers took their cue and left. The room was quiet again, except for the murmur of nurses in the corridor outside. She pushed her breakfast away from her.

  The truth was, she had remembered something. A flicker of memory. A smell, a feeling. It made her embarrassed; the shame burned inside her. But it was nothing she wanted to share with the police. She just wanted to forget. And she wanted to get out of this place, as quickly as she could.

  26

  Gabi’s search continued.

  After Harry had left the day before, Gabi had started on the disused study, channelling her fractured emotions into something productive. She’d lifted up large white sheets, throwing years of grey dust into the air and causing her to sneeze. But she’d come up empty-handed, and as night closed in, she’d trudged up the stairs to the four-poster bed, collapsing without dinner or even cleaning her teeth.

  She’d woken that morning in that big bed, alone, feeling fragile and unsure. Every moment she spent in that house she could feel the memories swirling around her, mocking her attempt to get away. The smells were the same; the way the light fell through the dirty windows, lighting up specks of dust in the air; it was all so familiar, yet surreal, like a long-forgotten dream.

  She could leave; she had other places to live, after all.

  Her tiny rented flat on the other side of town was magnolia and soulless. She’d had it for six months but had barely been there, living out of Mortimer’s almost the moment after she’d met him. And oh, Mortimer. Poor Mortimer. She knew she needed to make amends there, too. She’d lied without thinking; it had been mean, unforgivable, to fool him in that way. He didn’t deserve that. She didn’t deserve him.

  She should have told him, when he’d shown up at Thea’s door on Tuesday. She should have told him everything. About why she’d come home. About what had really happened all those years ago. But to do that would have meant trusting him and saying sorry. It would have meant accepting some sort of responsibility for the mess she continued to make of her life.

  Mortimer was different. He looked at her in a way she hadn’t felt before: a small smile as she talked, his eyes locked on hers. He was quiet when other men bombarded her with words; he was still when she was jittery. And now she’d fucked it up.

  She felt the anger take hold of her and she rolled over in the bed, screaming face down into the pillow. She screamed out of frustration and rage and pure bloody hatred of all the people around her who had made her life this way. Of Thea, of her parents, and Harrison, still rotting in prison.

  Gabi rolled over onto her back and stared at the ceiling. She had to get out of there. It was making her crazy. Do what you came here for, then leave, she told herself.

  She took a hot shower, cleaned her teeth and put on clothes that belonged to her, rather than Thea’s misshapen wardrobe.

  She had breakfast. She made a cup of coffee and carried it to the back of the house where she hadn’t yet begun to search, to the small studio her mother had used for her art. Art was a generous word – the works she
produced could only be described as junk, naive sculptures at best. Wood and metal stuck together with nails and glue, approximating people and shapes and animals; crude and immature despite years of art school. Nobody bought them, and Gabi could see Thea had cleared them out, to a destiny she could only guess at.

  She blew dust from her finger, then caught a glimpse of a large cloth covering something at the end of the room. She pulled a corner of it and there stood three huge boxes, their ends taped shut. On the side, in black marker pen, were the words Photo Albums.

  Curiosity tugged at her and Gabi opened the top of the closest, selecting an album at random. She sat on the floor, cross-legged, and opened the pages, turning them over one by one.

  This first showed laughing toddlers, fashion from the Eighties, colour-faded. Two identical babies, dressed the same, their smiles the same, their podgy hands and chubby arms matching. She could see why her mother got adoring stares – they looked picture-book gorgeous: dark shocks of hair, black eyes, full red mouths and rosy cheeks. And their mother was stunning, too. Long curly hair, dark eyelashes, fashionable flowing dresses and high-heeled boots, pushing a Silver Cross pram, two babies inside.

  She flipped the pages again, looking for a shot of their father, eventually coming across one of him holding them both, grinning to the camera. His face was thinner than she remembered, his hair thicker. And he looked in love; they both did. Gabi struggled to remember the last time she had seen her parents happy together.

  She put the album down and pulled out another. They were older, maybe four or five. First day of school, in matching red uniforms. Already their differences starting to show: Thea scowling, her hair coming out of one plait; Gabi playing up for the camera, a big smile, face thrust forward.

  The photos progressed; they grew older, and here was Harry. She smiled at the image of the ten-year-old boy – long legs, long arms, knobbly knees. Trousers a bit too short, T-shirts needing a wash. In boyhood, Harry wasn’t so different to the man she now knew, but adulthood had been kind to his long limbs. He filled out, became tall and handsome, building a carefully constructed confidence over the gawkiness. But somehow the awkwardness resurfaced when she least expected it. Poked out from the arrogant charade and disarmed her.