I Let You Go (42 page)

The tightness in my chest eased a fraction. I kept my foot on the accelerator and we turned left, into a long straight road lined with trees. I felt a jolt of recognition, although I had only been there once before and I could not have told you the name of the street. It was where Anya lived. Where I fucked her. The wheel slipped between my hands and the car hit the kerb.

‘Please, Ian, please slow down!’

There was a woman on the pavement, a hundred yards ahead, walking with a small child. The child wore a bobble hat, and the woman … I gripped the steering wheel tighter. I was seeing things. Imagining this woman was her, simply because we were in her street. It couldn’t be Anya.

The woman looked up. Her hair was loose and she wore no hat or hood, despite the weather. She was facing me and laughing, the boy running by her side. I felt a crushing pain in my head. It was her.

I had sacked Anya after I fucked her. I had no interest in a repeat performance, and no wish to see her pretty but vacuous face around the office. When she turned up again last month I wouldn’t have recognised her: now she wouldn’t leave me alone. I watched her walk towards the glare of the headlights.

He wants to know about his father, he wants to meet you.

She would ruin everything. The boy would ruin everything. I looked at you, but your head was dropped to your lap. Why didn’t you look at me any more? You used to put your hand on my thigh when I drove, twisting in the seat so you could watch me. Now you hardly ever looked me in the eye. I was already losing you, and if you found out about the boy I would never get you back.

They were crossing the road. My head pounded. You whimpered and the sound was like a fly, buzzing in my ear.

I pushed the accelerator flat to the floor.

‘You killed Jacob?’ I say, almost unable to form the words. ‘But why?’

‘He was ruining everything,’ Ian says simply. ‘If Anya had stayed away nothing would have happened to them. It’s her own fault.’

I think of the woman outside the Crown Court, her feet in tatty plimsolls. ‘Did she need money?’

Ian laughs. ‘Money would have been easy. No, she wanted me to be a father. To see the boy at weekends, have him to stay, buy him fucking birthday presents—’ He breaks off as I stand up, clinging on to the basin as I cautiously test the weight on my aching legs. My feet sting as they warm up. I look in the mirror and don’t recognise what I see.

‘You would have found out about him,’ Ian says. ‘About Anya. You would have left me.’

He stands behind me and puts his hands gently on my shoulders. I see the look on his face I have seen so many times the morning after a beating. I used to tell myself it was contrition – although he never once apologised – but now I realise it was fear. Fear that I would see him for the man he really is. Fear that I would stop needing him.

I think of how I would have loved Jacob like my own son; how I would have taken him in and played with him and chosen gifts just to see the pleasure on his face. And suddenly I feel as though Ian has taken not one but two children from me, and I find vigour from both their lost lives.

I feign weakness and look down towards the sink, then throw my head back with every last ounce of my strength. I hear a sickening crunch as the back of my skull hits bone.

He lets go of me, holding both hands to his face, blood seeping between his fingers. I run past him into the bedroom and on to the landing, but he’s too quick, grabbing my wrist before I can get down the stairs. His bloody fingers slip against my wet skin and I fight to get free, elbowing him in the stomach and earning myself a punch that takes my breath away. The landing is pitch-black and I’ve lost my bearings – which way are the stairs? I feel around with my bare foot and my toes touch the metal stair rod on the top step.

I duck underneath Ian’s arm, reaching out both hands towards the wall. I bend my elbows as though doing press-ups, then push back hard, slamming my whole weight against him. He gives a short cry as he loses his footing, then falls, crashing down the stairs.

There is silence.

I turn on the light.

Ian is lying at the foot of the stairs, not moving. He is face down on the slate floor and I can see a gash at the back of his head, from which a thin trickle of blood is oozing. I stand watching him, my whole body trembling.

Gripping the banister tightly, I make my way slowly down the stairs, never taking my eyes off the prone figure at the bottom. A step from the end, I stop. I can see the faintest movement from Ian’s chest.

My own breath coming in shallow pants, I stretch out a foot and tread lightly on to the stone floor beside Ian, freezing like a child playing grandmother’s footsteps.

I step across his outstretched arm.

His hand grips my ankle and I scream, but it is too late. I’m on the floor and Ian’s on top of me, dragging himself up my body, blood on his face and on his hands. He tries to speak, but the words don’t come; his face contorts with the effort.

He reaches his hands up to grip my shoulders, and as he pulls himself up level with my face, I bring up my knee hard into his groin. He roars, letting me go and doubling over with pain, and I scramble to my feet. I don’t hesitate, running to the door and scrabbling for the bolt, which slips beneath my fingers twice before I am able to pull it across and throw open the door. The night air is cold, and clouds obscure all but a thin sliver of moon. I run blindly, and have barely begun when I hear Ian’s heavy tread behind me. I don’t look back to see how far behind me he is, but I can hear him grunt with each step, his breathing laboured.

The stony path is hard to run on with bare feet, but the noise behind me seems fainter and I think I’m gaining ground. I try to hold my breath as I run; to make as little sound as possible.

It’s only when I hear the waves crashing against the shore that I realise I’ve missed the turning for the caravan park. I curse my stupidity. I have only two options now: take the path down on to the beach or turn right, and carry on along the coastal path away from Penfach. It’s a path I’ve taken many times with Beau but never in the dark – it runs too close to the cliff edge and I’ve always worried he might lose his footing. I hesitate for a second, but the thought of being trapped down on the beach is terrifying: surely I have more chance if I keep running? I turn right and take the coastal path. The wind has picked up and as the clouds shift the moon lets out a little more light. I risk a quick glance behind me, but the path is clear.

I slow to a walk, and then stop to listen. It is silent, apart from the sounds of the sea, and my heart begins to calm a little. Waves crash rhythmically on the beach and I hear the distant blare of a ship far out to sea. I catch my breath and try to get my bearings.

‘There’s nowhere to run to, Jennifer.’

I whirl around but can’t see him. I peer through the gloom and make out scrubby bushes; a stile; in the distance a small building I know to be a shepherd’s hut.

‘Where are you?’ I call, but the wind whips my words away and carries them out to sea. I draw breath to scream but in an instant he’s behind me, his forearm across my throat, drawing me up and backwards until I start to choke. I jab my elbow into his ribs and his grip relaxes enough for me to take a breath. I will not die now, I think. I have spent most of my adult life hiding; running; being afraid, and now, just as I’m feeling safe, he has come back to take it away from me. I will not let him. I feel a surge of adrenalin and I lean forward. The move unbalances him enough for me to twist away from him.

And I don’t run. I have run enough from him.

He reaches for me and I push out my hand, smashing the heel of my palm into the underside of his chin. The impact pushes him backwards and he teeters for what feels like seconds on the edge of the cliff. He reaches for me, clawing for my dressing gown, and his fingers brush against the fabric. I cry out and step back, but I lose my balance and for a moment I think I am going with him, crashing against the cliff on the way down to the sea. But then I’m face down on the edge of the cliff, and he’s falling. I look down and see a glimpse of his rolled-back eyes, before the waves suck him under.

Ray’s phone rang as they were skirting Cardiff. He glanced at the screen.

‘It’s the South Wales DI.’

Kate watched Ray as he listened to the update from Penfach.

‘Thank God for that,’ Ray said into the phone. ‘No problem. Thanks for letting me know.’

He ended the call and let out a long, slow breath. ‘She’s okay. Well, she’s not okay, but she’s alive.’

‘And Petersen?’ Kate said.

‘Not so lucky. By all accounts Jenna was running along the coastal path when he came after her. They struggled and Petersen went over the edge.’

Kate winced. ‘What a way to go.’

‘No less than he deserved,’ Ray said. ‘Reading between the lines, I don’t think he “fell” exactly, if you know what I mean, although Swansea CID have got the right approach: they’re filing it as an accident.’

They fell silent.

‘Do we go back to the nick now, then?’ Kate asked.

Ray shook his head. ‘No point. Jenna’s in Swansea hospital and we’ll be there in less than an hour. Might as well see the job through to the end, and we can grab a bite to eat before we head home.’

The traffic freed up as they got further into their journey, and it was a little after seven when they arrived at Swansea hospital. The entrance to A&E was thronged with smokers with hastily assembled slings, bandaged ankles and assorted unseen injuries. Ray sidestepped a man bent double with stomach pain, still managing to take a deep drag from the cigarette his girlfriend held to his lips.

The smell of smoke hanging in cold air was replaced with the clinical warmth of A&E, and Ray showed his warrant card to a weary-looking woman on reception. They were directed through a pair of double-doors to C ward, and from there to a side room, where Jenna lay propped up on a pile of pillows.

Ray was shocked to see the deep purple bruises that crept out of her hospital gown and up her neck. Her hair was loose and fell lankly on her shoulders, and her face was etched with tiredness and pain. Patrick sat next to her, a discarded paper open at the crossword.

‘Hey,’ Ray said softly, ‘how are you doing?’

She gave a weak smile. ‘I’ve had better days.’

‘You’ve been through a lot.’ Ray came to stand by the bed. ‘I’m sorry we didn’t get to him in time.’

‘It doesn’t matter now.’

‘I hear you were the hero of the hour, Mr Mathews.’ Ray turned to Patrick, who raised his hand in protest.

‘Hardly. If I’d been an hour earlier I might have been some use, but I was held up at the surgery and by the time I got there … well…’ He looked at Jenna.

‘I don’t think I’d have made it back to the cottage without you,’ she said. ‘I think I would still be lying there, staring down at the sea.’ She shivered and Ray felt a chill, despite the stifling hospital air. What must it have felt like, out there on the edge of the cliff?

‘Have they said how long you’ll be in here?’ he asked.

Jenna shook her head. ‘They want to keep me in for observation, whatever that means, but I’m hoping it won’t be longer than twenty-four hours.’ She looked between Ray and Kate. ‘Will I be in trouble? For lying to you about who was driving?’

‘There’s a small issue of perverting the course of justice to think about,’ Ray said, ‘but I’m pretty confident we won’t consider it to be in the public interest to pursue.’ He smiled and Jenna gave a sigh of relief.

‘We’ll leave you in peace,’ Ray said. He looked at Patrick. ‘Take care of her, won’t you?’

They left the hospital and drove the short distance to Swansea police station, where the local DI was waiting to speak to them. DI Frank Rushton was a few years older than Ray, with a physique that suggested he would be more at home on the rugby pitch than in the office. He welcomed them warmly and showed them into his office, offering coffee, which they declined.

‘We need to get back,’ Ray said. ‘Otherwise DC Evans here will be putting undue strain on my overtime budget.’

‘Pity,’ Frank said. ‘We’re all heading out for a curry – one of our skippers is retiring and it’s a bit of a send-off for him. You’d be welcome to join us.’

‘Thanks,’ Ray said, ‘but we’d better not. Will you be keeping Petersen’s body here, or do you need me to contact the coroner’s office in Bristol?’

‘If you’ve got the number on you, that would be great,’ Frank said. ‘I’ll give them a ring once the body’s recovered.’

‘You haven’t recovered it?’

‘We haven’t found it yet,’ Frank said. ‘He went off the edge about a half-mile from Gray’s cottage, in the opposite direction to Penfach Caravan Park. I believe you’ve been to the premises?’

Ray nodded.

‘The guy who found her, Patrick Mathews, took us out there and there’s no doubt it’s the right place,’ Frank said. ‘There are marks on the ground consistent with Gray’s account of a struggle, and the edge of the cliff is freshly scuffed.’

‘But there’s no body?’

‘To be honest, that’s not unusual.’ Frank noticed Ray’s raised eyebrows and gave a short laugh. ‘That is, not finding a body straight away isn’t unusual. We get the odd jumper, or a walker slips when he’s coming back from the pub, and it takes a few days – often longer – for them to be washed up. Sometimes they never come back at all; sometimes just a bit of them does.’

‘What do you mean?’ Kate asked.

‘It’s a two-hundred-foot drop from that part of the cliff to the sea,’ Frank said. ‘You might miss the rocks on the way down, but as soon as you land you’ll be smashed against them again and again and again.’ He shrugged. ‘Bodies get broken up easily.’

‘Christ,’ Kate said, ‘living by the sea doesn’t sound quite so appealing now.’

Frank grinned. ‘Now, are you sure we can’t tempt you out for a curry? I contemplated a transfer to Avon and Somerset once – it would be good to hear what I missed out on.’ He stood up.

‘We did say we’d grab something to eat,’ Kate said, looking at Ray.