How I Lost You (23 page)

‘Go on,’ she says slowly.

‘I’m wondering if you can tell me why you made seventeen phone calls to Mr and Mrs Webster’s house in the week leading up to the trial, when Mrs Webster was being treated in hospital for her so-called depression? What exactly did you and Mr Webster have to discuss?’

My mouth falls open. Rachael blinks a couple of times and looks at me
. He’s got her.

‘There was some trouble with the, um, the funding,’ she replies eventually. My legal fees were paid from our joint account and I was never aware of any difficulties. ‘Mr Webster thought it best that Susan wasn’t troubled with anything to do with finances, so he dealt with me directly.’

‘Really?’ Nick asks, feigning surprise. ‘It seems that Mr Webster has a different version. He told us you were gathering evidence to help Susan in any way you could.’

He’s spoken to Mark? How did I not know about this? Rachael, to her credit, recovers well, but I can see her mentally kicking herself.

‘Of course, that was another reason for my calls. I don’t really see that this is any of your business. Who did you say you are again?’

Her tone suggests that this chat is over, and Nick, without losing an ounce of cool, gets to his feet and tells her so. I am too flabbergasted to say much except goodbye.

‘Where the fuck did that come from?’ I demand when we are outside, the door firmly closed behind us so Tamsin can’t hear. Before Nick can answer, the door opposite us opens and a face to launch a thousand ships peers out from behind it.

‘I thought I heard voices.’ The man smiles and my heart steps up its beat.

‘We weren’t speaking,’ Nick replies, quite rudely. Obviously he doesn’t play well with other pretty boys. The man frowns.

‘Weird. Wait a second, are you Susan Webster?’ Before I can answer, Nick steps in front of me.

‘Who are you?’

The man flicks his eyes to Nick briefly, then back to me. ‘Rob Howe.’ He puts out his hand, and when I give him mine to shake, he holds on to it a little longer than is usual. ‘I’m the “H” in ZBH.’ He gestures with his head towards the large letters on the wall.

‘You’re Rachael’s boss?’ He laughs at the surprise in my voice. ‘I was expecting someone . . .’

‘Less devastatingly handsome?’

Nick grunts. I feel my cheeks redden; Rob’s don’t. ‘Older.’

‘Susan, we have to go.’ Nick nudges my arm.

‘Do you have time for a quick word?’ Rob asks. He moves his eyes pointedly to Nick. ‘Alone?’

I can almost feel Nick opening his mouth to object. Before he does, I cut in. ‘I’ll meet you at the car,’ I tell him.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Nick, seriously. What do you think is going to happen to me in the hallway of a law firm?’

He shrugs, like he could think of a million things but he knows none of them will be well received. ‘Fine. See you at the car.’

As we both watch his retreating back, Rob says, ‘He’s overprotective. Who is he? Your brother? Boyfriend?’

I don’t want to give too much away so I just shake my head. ‘A friend. He’s just looking out for me. Sorry.’

‘Don’t apologise.’ Rob lowers his voice and I have to step closer to hear him. He smells expensive, and in a tailored Armani suit he looks it too. He must be under forty, well built, and his face has been chiselled by a steady hand. He’s perfectly clean-shaven. ‘I’m glad you have someone looking after you. Do you want to step in here? My PA is out for lunch.’ His hand is on the door to his own office and he gestures with his head to Rachael’s door, which we are still standing outside.

‘Sure.’

The inside of his office looks a lot like Rachael’s, expensive wood and leather tomes, although this one has certificates on the wall bearing the name ‘Robert Lewis Howe, LLP’.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet you during your trial.’ Despite all the space in the office, he’s still standing just inches away from me. ‘When your husband phoned the firm, I wanted to take your case on myself but Rachael insisted, and your husband agreed with her. I got the impression they knew each other.’

‘If they did, they never mentioned it to me.’

He shakes his head. ‘That’s what I was afraid of. Look, I might be speaking out of turn here, but I always thought there was something we weren’t being told about your case. Something Mr Webster was keeping from us. Now if I’m talking rubbish, just say . . .’

‘No.’ My answer might have been a bit quick. ‘I mean, if there’s something you think I should know, I’d rather you told me.’

‘That’s just it. I’m not quite sure what it was, more a feeling. I don’t have any actual proof. If you wanted, I could take a look at your notes again, see if anything strikes me. Of course if you’d rather put it all behind you, I’d completely understand. Start afresh, forget it ever happened.’

How can I tell him that’s impossible without telling him that I know Dylan is alive?

‘Look,’ I say instead. ‘Look, and see what you think. If you find anything, this’ – I pick up a pen from the desk and grab his hand, scrawl my number on the back of it – ‘is my number.’

He’s staring at the back of his hand and his face breaks into a huge grin. ‘Did you just write on my hand? All this paper in the office and you write on my hand? No one’s done that since school.’

I feel my cheeks redden. ‘I’m so sorry. What a stupid thing—’

‘It’s fine.’ He’s laughing, thank goodness. ‘Maybe we could go for a drink sometime? I’d understand if you didn’t . . . I mean . . .’

My heart’s pounding now. I don’t know whether it’s at the thought of going for a drink with Robert Howe, a real date where there’s wine, small talk and perhaps a walk home – a kiss? – or at the knowledge that I’m going to say no. No matter how attractive he is, my life is too complicated at the moment for ordinary things like dates, a boyfriend. How would that even go? ‘How was your day, darling?’ ‘Oh wonderful, thank you, sweetheart, I spent the morning chatting to a missing doctor’s wife and the afternoon looking for my not dead son.’

No, it most definitely isn’t going to work out.

‘I’m sorry, Rob,’ I say eventually, when I realise he’s going to want an answer. ‘I have so much going on, I’m just readjusting to being in the real world again – I’m not in the right place for dating at the moment.’

He doesn’t allow his face to fall even a fraction. Or maybe he’s just not that disappointed; maybe he asks out every woman he comes across, just in case.

‘Of course.’ He shrugs his shoulders easily. ‘But just in case you change your mind . . .’ He takes the pen that I’m still clutching and turns my hand over, writes a number on the back. ‘That’s me. Call me. Any time.’

My hand is tingling where he’s touched it. Eek. It’s time I was leaving.

‘Thank you for saying you’ll help. I’d better get back to the car, my friend, he’s probably sealed off the building by now. But thanks. Thank you.’

I’m embarrassing myself, babbling, and Rob Howe is smiling again. I turn and practically fly from the room, along the corridor and down the stairs. I get the distinct impression he hasn’t moved.

‘What was all that about?’ Nick asks when I sink into the seat beside him.

‘He wants to help,’ is all I can manage.

‘You didn’t tell him . . .’

‘Nothing,’ I reply a little too quickly for someone who’s telling the truth. If he notices the number on my hand he doesn’t mention it. ‘Are you going to tell me how you knew about her phoning Mark?’

‘I noticed her number in Mark’s address book. I took a swing at it and made up the number of calls, but she obviously contacted him quite a bit or she would have just said she didn’t know what I was talking about. Bit of luck really.’

‘So when did you speak to Mark about it?’

‘I didn’t, did I?’ Nick looks at me as though I am a bit dense. Well forgive me if I’m not used to playing Inspector Morse. ‘It was a bluff. I bet she’s calling him now and kicking herself that she fell for it. Wish I could see her face.’

‘Why do you think she was really ringing him? There were never any problems with my funding.’ The excuse seems ridiculous in light of what I found in Mark’s accounts ledger. ‘And surely she shouldn’t have been speaking to one of the main witnesses?’

‘Definitely not,’ Nick replies. ‘This might be a bit of an awkward question, but do you think . . .’

‘I don’t know,’ I answer unhappily, knowing what he’s about to ask. ‘You want to know if they were sleeping together and the answer is I don’t know. I don’t know anything any more, about anything.’

‘Maybe your ex-husband isn’t the saint you thought he was.’

I only allow myself a second to wonder what the hell that is supposed to mean. Nick knows nothing about Mark, or our life together. I know my ex-husband. I know Mark. I do.

37

We’re back at Nick’s house and I’ve known there has been something on his mind since we arrived. He’s been fidgeting, tidying things that haven’t needed tidying, and he’s made three phone calls in the kitchen where I can’t quite catch what he’s saying. It’s almost a relief when he says, ‘Look, there’s something I have to do.’

‘OK, that’s fine,’ I say. ‘Do you want me to go and do some shopping or something?’ I’m trying to sound easy-going, but I want to know what it is that’s so important. I selfishly want to keep him by me (what could be more important than what I’m going through?) but I know that’s ridiculous and I don’t want to sound like a petulant child. I have to remember how much of his life he’s given up to help a complete stranger; he has other commitments too. Right? But why won’t he tell me what they are?

‘No, you stay here. If you’ll be OK? You feel safe here, right?’

If I say no, will he stay? I don’t want to test him so I just say yes. I don’t want to sound like a wuss.

While he’s away, I just walk around the house, feeling like I should be doing something, keeping busy, trying to avoid looking at my son’s blanket, which has been in my handbag since Carole delivered it to me. I’m imagining him as a four-year-old child playing delightedly on a swing somewhere unknown to me. I try not to think of him being brought up by someone else, calling someone else Mummy, instead focusing on all the things we might do together when I find him. Because I’m certain now I
will
find him.

My phone rings. Cassie.

‘Hey, how are you feeling after last night?’

I don’t tell her that my eyes are aching, my face is tight with tears and my head hurts from thinking. I don’t want to worry her so I don’t say I feel like I’m a car cruising down a motorway in neutral. Instead I say, ‘I’m OK, really. We saw Rachael today.’

‘Oh yeah? And how did it go with Cruella?’

I smile. Never one to mince words. ‘It went OK. Quite well, in a grim way. Not so good with Mrs Riley.’

Filling her in, I can sense her frustration that she’s so far away, unable to help.

‘I promise I’ll keep you informed every step. I’ll call you every day. It’ll be like you’re here.’

She sniffs. ‘I guess you’re not coming to the shelter tomorrow?’

Shit, is it Saturday again already? Part of me feels like it’s been a lifetime since I received that small brown envelope; the other part feels like it happened just yesterday. The week has been a crazy blur, a snapshot out of a Hollywood blockbuster.

‘Sorry, Cass, can you make me some excuse? You understand, right? I have to see this through now, I’m not coming home until I find Dylan. As soon as this is all over, I’ll take you out for a Sunday roast, I promise.’

‘Yeah, of course. It’d better be a carvery, though,’ she grumbles. ‘And you’d better call me tomorrow. I really wish I could be there with you, but I kind of feel like I’m in the way.’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ I say. ‘You were amazing last night but I know you have a home to be at.’

As soon as she’s gone, I grab a pen and paper. Lists have always been my lifeline – back when I had a life. Maybe they will rescue me now. I start writing down all the facts about my son’s death. From the trial notes I can see exactly what my mind won’t allow me to recall, exactly what happened that day in July 2009. Well, not exactly. Because nowhere in there tells me why my son’s DNA was on that hairbrush, four years after his death.

I remember feeling so tired, so upset. Why? Why would I have been upset that day? Something that had happened with the health visitor . . . something she’d said had rattled me, made me feel like a bad mum, but I can’t remember for the life of me what it was. I came home and settled down for a nap with my son. No, wait, first I made myself a cup of tea while Dylan lay on his play mat, kicking at the toy ladybird that dangled from the arch above him. I fed and winded him . . . That was it! The health visitor had asked why I’d switched to the bottle, completely insensitive considering the trouble we’d had breastfeeding. I fumed about it the whole time I was giving him his bottle that day . . . then I placed him in his Moses basket next to the sofa and . . . nothing. The next thing I remember is waking up in hospital, two police officers outside my room and a crowd of journalists outside the front doors.

Or is it? Hazy images from a dream I’ve had, more than once, swim in and out of focus in my mind, images of people talking, arguing. Are the images just dreams, or are they real memories of that day? It makes sense that they would be real: Mark was the one to find us; if he’d found his son dead in his Moses basket, a cushion covering his mouth and nose, he would be crying, and he would assume it was me who had killed him. Something about the scene doesn’t seem right, although it’s all written there in the trial notes in black and white, but I can’t place what’s wrong. Why can’t I remember anything properly? It’s so strange. I can remember other days with crystal clarity. Taking Dylan to see the diggers when they did up the local park; visiting my mother’s grave to place a picture of Dylan and Dad on top. That was one of the main reasons why the doctors had diagnosed the psychosis: my complete lack of memory of Dylan’s death. Although I could always sense Dr Thompson’s frustration; the thought I might be acting, to lessen the impact of my crime.

I pull out the pack of aspirin I keep in my handbag to stave off the migraine that’s threatening and swill a couple down with a glass of water. Without hesitation I grab a bottle of wine from Nick’s never-ending stock and pour myself a glass of that as well. I figure I deserve it after what I’ve been through, and it might stop my hands shaking. Nick should be back soon; he can help me finish it off.