The cold wakes me before dawn. Stiff. Sore. Trembling. I brush my teeth and splash hot water on my face and manage to shave. I won’t walk this morning. It doesn’t seem right. Instead I medicate and make coffee, sitting at the kitchen table, listening to Strawberry crunch her cat food.
If Gordon Ellis was having an affair with Sienna someone must have known. There would have been clues: emails, text messages, handwritten notes passed between them.
My answering machine is flashing. There are three messages.
The first is from Bill Johnson at the garage:
I found a door for the Volvo at the wrecker’s yard. It’s never going to close properly, but it should do the job. You have to nudge it with your hip. You can pick it up any time.
Clunk!
Annie Robinson.
Hi, Joe, it’s Annie. She leaves a long thought-organising pause: I don’t have your mobile number. I had a nice time the other night. I hope you did too. Call me when you get home. It doesn’t matter if it’s late. Bye.
Clunk!
Message three. Annie again.
Hi, again. I looked into that thing you mentioned . . . about Gordon. I found a few photographs from college. Hey, I was thinking about cooking dinner tonight. I promise I really will cook this time. Seven-thirty or earlier. You choose. Let me know if you can’t make it.
Clunk!
Just after eight, I shower and dress in casual clothes before walking up the hill to Emma’s school. The children are arriving, muffled up against the cold. Emma will be among the last. She sleeps like a teenager, cocooned in a duvet, ignoring every summons. I can picture Julianne dragging her out of bed and pulling clothes over her sleepy head.
Further along the street I see Natasha Ellis pull up in her Ford Focus. She lifts Billy from his booster seat and slips a rucksack over his shoulders. He’s wearing a woollen hat, pulled down over his ears, and carrying a faded Tigger. They walk hand in hand to the gate. Natasha crouches and hugs him and Billy solemnly hands her the soft toy. Then he turns and runs to a group of friends.
‘Mrs Ellis?’
She turns at the sound of my voice.
‘Hello. It’s Joe, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Please call me Natasha. Nobody calls me Mrs Ellis. Makes me feel ancient.’
‘You’re certainly not ancient.’
She laughs brightly. ‘Gordon calls me Nat - but that makes me sound like a bug. Don’t you think?’
She’s wearing skinny-legged jeans, boots and a turtleneck sweater. Her cheeks are blushed with the cold.
‘I was hoping we might talk.’
‘I hope there’s nothing wrong.’
‘Do you know Sienna Hegarty?’
Natasha raises her eyebrows. ‘Of course. She used to babysit for us. I heard what happened. What a shock! I can’t believe she’d do such a thing.’
‘I’m trying to help her.’
‘That’s good. That’s the nice thing about village life - people support each other. Don’t you think?’
Her eyes cut sideways to me and lips part slightly. She wants to leave. My left hand is tapping against my thigh. A nervous gesture.
‘How long have you been married?’
‘Nearly two years.’
‘Happy?’
‘That’s an odd question.’
‘I’m sorry. You must miss not having your family around. You’re from Scotland, aren’t you?’
She drops into an accent. ‘Just a wee lassie from Edinburgh.’
‘Gordon told me you were childhood sweethearts.’
She smiles fondly. ‘It’s funny really. He tells people we were at school together, but that’s just because he wants people to think he’s younger than he really is. He was a teacher at my school. We met up after I’d left. I saw him at a rugby game.’
‘Gordon plays?’
‘Oh, Heavens no! Gordon isn’t the sporty type. He watches.’
‘You must have been very young.’
‘Eighteen.’
She’s lying to me.
‘That’s quite an age difference. What did your parents think?’
‘Oh, they love Gordon.’
‘So Billy’s not your son?’
‘No, Gordon was married before. His wife left him . . . walked out on Billy. Gordon still can’t understand why.’
Her eyes shift from mine and she gazes along the road.
‘Did you know Ray Hegarty?’
Her face clouds with concern. ‘Not really. I might have spoken to him on the phone when I called to arrange for Sienna to look after Billy. I don’t know if I would have liked him, you know - is that an awful thing to say, I mean, now that he’s dead?’
‘Why wouldn’t you have liked him?’
‘He sounded like a bully. Some of the things Sienna said . . .’
‘She talked about him?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Saying what?’
Natasha’s voice drops to a whisper, ‘He was very controlling. He wanted to choose the clothes she wore and to stop her seeing her boyfriend. I think he used to beat her . . .’ she hesitates. ‘And there might have been worse things. That’s why we had her babysit so often. We even let her sleep over. Have you seen Sienna? Is she all right?’
‘Holding up.’
Natasha nods and raises her hand, brushing hair from her eyes.
‘Did you know that Ray Hegarty made a complaint to the school about your husband?’
Colour fades in her cheeks and her features tighten. For a moment I think she’s going to deny everything or plead ignorance, but her mind works quickly.
‘I blame myself,’ she says.
‘Why’s that?’
‘I should have seen how close Sienna was getting to Billy . . . and to Gordon. She had a crush on my husband. One night when Gordon dropped her home, she tried to kiss him.’
‘Is that what Gordon told you?’
‘That’s what happened.’ Steel in her voice. ‘Gordon was very upset. He told her parents and the school. She couldn’t babysit for us after that. That’s why we use Charlie.’
‘Pardon?’
‘That’s why Charlie has been babysitting Billy. She’s lovely. Billy adores her. Is there something wrong?’
I can’t answer her. The photographs on Charlie’s Facebook page; she was lying on a bed playing with a small boy. Billy. I replay the scenes as though I’m looking through the camera lens, watching my daughter, seeing how she responds.
I’m staring at Natasha. Sometimes I don’t realise how Parkinson’s can lock up my features, creating a living mask. It’s making her uncomfortable. She edges away from me, moving towards her car.
‘Your husband argued with Ray Hegarty.’
A flash of anger sparks in her eyes. I can see a pulse beating in her neck and her hands are opening and closing nervously on her car keys.
‘You’ll have to talk to Gordon.’
‘Was he home that night?’
‘Yes.’
‘You sound very sure.’
‘It was my birthday. He bought me flowers and made me dinner.’ She unlocks her car, fumbling with the keys, almost dropping her purse.
‘Your birthday - that’s lovely. How many candles did he put on your birthday cake?’
Her head turns and she peers at me with a cold fury that lays something to waste inside of me. Her voice comes out in a dry rasp.
‘Stay away from my family!’