Chapter 3 Carla
Carla
NOW
Ash is late, as usual. His inability to arrive on time for anything was one of the things that drove me mad when we were married.
It still does, but I no longer feel I have the right to nag him about it.
Sitting in the café where we’ve arranged to meet, I drum the fingers of one hand on the table and bite the nails of the other hand.
I would have gone straight round to Ash’s house last night after Jo’s phone call, but I’d downed two generous glasses of white wine after dinner.
I texted him to ask if we could have lunch together today instead.
I don’t make a habit of eating out with my ex, although we often have lunch or dinner together – just the two of us or with one or both of our kids – at his place.
He lives in the hamlet of Shallowcott, a five-minute drive from Holtleigh, where we live, but he works – as a bank manager – in Barnstaple, which is a good twelve miles away.
I’m sure Ash senses something’s up, even though I was careful not to say anything in my message that would alarm him.
When he finally shows up, a wave of relief instantly extinguishes the spark of annoyance that was flickering inside me.
He strolls towards my table, his muscular body stuffed into a suit.
I’m used to seeing him in casual clothes – jeans and a worn T-shirt of some defunct Seventies or Eighties rock band like Queen or Nirvana.
He’s in his fifties and he’s still incredibly attractive, an older version of Olly.
Ash might look uncomfortable in his work clothes, but he scrubs up well.
I brush away this thought, feeling disloyal towards Daniel.
‘You all right?’ Ash asks, sliding onto the bench opposite mine. The concern in his voice brings a lump to my throat. I’m an emotional yo-yo today. I order myself to get a grip. ‘How are the evil twins?’
Presumably, he means Oliver and Iris. Obviously, they’re not evil.
They’re not twins, either, although they look very alike.
They’re both blond – naturally, at least; Iris has dyed her hair dark – and they’re both blue-eyed, like Ash.
Olly is the elder of the two. By almost eleven months.
But they’re in the same year at school, Olly having been born in September and Iris the following July.
Ash and I didn’t plan to have children that close together.
I was breastfeeding Olly, for goodness’ sake.
Ash claims that’s what drove the two of us apart, trying to bring up two babies at the same time.
For me, the catalyst for our divorce had more to do with my husband shagging our next-door neighbour when Iris was only a few weeks old.
We muddled through another five years, but the damage was irreparable.
Anyway, water under the bridge. We’ve both moved on since then.
Ash has moved on so many times I struggle to keep track, and I moved in with Daniel six years ago.
Ash and I might have failed in our marriage, but we consider our divorce to be successful.
We are close, far closer than we ever were when we were together. I know I can count on him.
‘Are you OK, Carla? You’re not, are you?’ He reaches across the table and takes my hands in his. It’s all I can do not to burst into tears. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Josh is dead,’ I whisper. Ash’s sapphire eyes widen. ‘They’ve found his body in Lower Buryknoll Wood.’
‘How appropriate,’ he remarks wryly. ‘How did he die? How did you find out?’
‘Joanne told me.’ I lean towards Ash and lower my voice. I don’t want the people on the tables around us to overhear. ‘Looks like he was killed.’
‘Murdered, you mean?’ Ash says this too loudly, but no one so much as glances in our direction.
I nod.
‘Shit. How? When?’
I shrug. I can’t seem to get any more words out.
‘I’ll ring Roly.’ Ash looks around. The café is full now, not to mention noisy. ‘I’ll just pop outside.’
He gets to his feet and extracts his mobile from an inside pocket.
He heads for the door, scrolling through his phone.
Ash met Ian – Roly – at university. They were both at Birmingham.
They hit it off straightaway, although they’re poles apart.
Ash is tall, burly and blond; Ian is short, skinny and dark-haired.
Ash was born and brought up locally and has the North Devon burr to prove it; Ian grew up in Northern Ireland and speaks with a lilting brogue.
Ash is athletic; Ian smokes his way through at least one pack a day.
I could go on, but you get the picture. Anyway, Ian was Ash’s best man at our wedding, which is where Jo met him.
Ian, I mean. They got engaged a year later and married a year after that.
I watch my ex-husband through the café window, as he paces up and down in front of it, talking animatedly into his mobile and raking his hair with the fingers of his free hand.
It’s a nervous gesture and the familiarity of it tugs at one of my heartstrings.
Olly has also picked up this mannerism, though Ash’s hair bounces back into place, whereas Olly’s remains sticking up.
When Ash comes back in, he’s pale. He sits down and locks his eyes onto mine.
‘So?’
‘Roly wasn’t at all pleased that Jo has been bringing you up to speed. Josh’s parents haven’t even formally identified the body yet. They’re doing that later today. It’s a murder inquiry. Roly’s home patch. He’s the senior investigating officer.’
I know my ex-husband. I’ve known him for years. I can read his expressions and body language like a book. I know what he’s thinking and feeling, as much from what he leaves unsaid as from what he says. And right now, I can tell he’s stalling. ‘Go on.’
He inhales a deep breath and lets it out slowly. ‘Josh was stabbed.’
I gasp. ‘Oh God. How awful.’
I’m not sorry Josh is dead and, I admit, several times over the past few months I’ve wanted to kill him and his parents myself, one after the other – throttle them with my bare hands or blast all three of them into the afterlife with a shotgun.
But this is shocking. I can’t imagine what it must be like to lose one of your children, and it must be even worse to lose a child in such a violent way.
It’s not something I would wish on anyone, no matter what they or their offspring had done.
‘What else did Ian say?’
Ash breaks eye contact.
‘Ash?’
‘His body had started to … decompose, according to Roly. Tests will confirm it, but the police believe his body has been there for a few days.’
Ash’s words escort me inside the forensic tent my imagination conjured up yesterday and I look down on the face of a dead teenager, barely recognizable as Joshua Knoll, his lips black, his face swollen. I blink rapidly to expel the grotesque image from my mind.
‘Carla?’
Ash’s voice jolts me back to the café. ‘Sorry, Ash. What did you say?’
‘Do you want me to take you home? What can I do? Will you try to eat something?’
I’m nauseous, and right now I can’t imagine ever feeling hungry again. My mouth is dry, though, and I’m thirsty. ‘I’d like some tea, please.’
Ash signals to the waitress, who bounces over to us. When her smile inverts to a frown, I realize that, without meaning to, I’m scowling at her. When she comes back with my tea, she fixes me with narrow eyes, smirking, and I wonder if she’s spat in my cup.
It’s one of those metal teapots with a spout that seems to have been deliberately designed to drip all over the place.
Ash pours. He knows I don’t put sugar or milk in my tea or coffee, but he opens a sachet of sugar, empties it into the cup and stirs it with a wooden stick.
He gets up and fetches a handful of those cheap, unabsorbent paper napkins, then attempts to mop up the tea he has spilt.
‘Shall I call Dandr— sorry, I mean Dan.’ He pulls an apologetic face. ‘Shall I call Dan for you?’
My partner’s name is Daniel Duffy. Dan Duffy, to his mates.
Ash calls him Dandruff. Which is ironic because Daniel’s completely bald.
Ash doesn’t use the nickname in Daniel’s presence, obviously – he calls him Dan, although they’re certainly not mates – but Daniel knows.
Unsurprisingly, my partner doesn’t find my ex-husband’s nickname for him amusing.
He gets his own back, though. He insists on calling Ash by his first name – Quentin.
Behind his back as well as to his face. Ash hates it.
Daniel is the only person who calls him Quentin. Even Ash’s mother calls him Ash.
‘No, it’s OK. He’s away until the day after tomorrow. I haven’t told him about any of this yet.’
‘Why not?’
‘He wasn’t …’ I trail off. I was about to say Daniel wasn’t as supportive as I’d have liked with everything Iris went through during the last school year, but I stop myself.
That’s not fair on Daniel. Iris isn’t his daughter.
She’s Ash’s. And Ash was an absolute rock.
Neither Iris nor I would have got through any of that without him.
Ash was dependable and available; he said and did all the right things.
‘I’ll tell him when he gets back,’ I say. ‘He’ll be home the day after tomorrow.’
‘I can drop in on my way home this evening if you like,’ Ash offers. ‘I’ll bring a takeaway.’
‘That would be nice. Thank you. Ash, Iris doesn’t know yet either.’
Ash is silent for a few seconds. He strokes imaginary stubble on his chin, the way he always does when he’s thinking something through. Then he says, ‘She has to know, Carla. We could tell her together later, if you want.’
‘OK.’ I’ve finished my tea, and I’m fiddling with the stirrer.
‘Don’t worry. Everything will be all right. We’ll be fine.’
I look up, into Ash’s eyes, and something passes between us. I know Ash is thinking along the same lines as me. He’s worried, too. He can’t possibly know for sure that we’ll be OK. A teenage boy has been murdered. The police will be looking for the killer.
And our daughter has motive. She’ll be the main suspect.