Chapter 52 Imogen
Imogen
A few minutes after Rachel has ended the call, my phone pings with a text: Irene’s address in Corsham.
I make myself a cheese sandwich – Are you watching, Josh?
Are you laughing at my crap attempt to cook for myself?
– and after I’ve eaten it I leave Solly snoozing in his bed and call a taxi.
I really need to get myself a car. I have the intrusive, petrifying thought that Josh might sneak in while I’m out and do something.
Add more cameras, hurt Solly in some way.
Then I tell myself that no, Josh might be controlling and crosses boundaries, but he’d never hurt an animal.
I saw the way he was with Solly when he thought I wasn’t watching; he was caring towards him, giving him an extra treat or bending down to ruffle his neck.
Josh is many things, most of which stem from insecurity. But he’s not a psychopath.
The taxi drops me off in Corsham half an hour later.
Irene Fuller lives in a modern house on the edge of a rabbit warren of an estate.
As I step from the taxi a wave of uncertainty washes over me.
How am I going to handle this? I can’t very well ask her whether she knows that Dorothea killed her brother and if she’s hell-bent on revenge.
I could say I’m writing a piece about Dorothea’s life.
I decide I won’t tell her I’ve inherited Dorothea’s house.
The less she knows the better. Although, if she was the one to send someone to break into Dorothea’s studio, she might already know the truth.
I shake the thought out of my head. No. I’ll stick to the journalist story.
I knock twice before I hear a shuffling from behind the door and then it’s wrenched open by a tall woman with white hair clipped back from her face.
She’s less old and frail than I’d been imagining.
Her eyes are a bright, startling blue and she’s dressed in varying shades of creams and neutrals.
From over her shoulder, I see a navy wool coat hung up over the end of the banister.
‘Yes,’ she barks. She has a lot of lines on her face, particularly around her mouth.
‘Hi, are you Irene Fuller?’
‘Yes,’ she says again in the same loud tone.
I explain that I’m a journalist writing a piece about Dorothea Roe. As I talk she narrows her eyes at me, and I experience a ripple of anxiety that she can see right through my lies.
‘Dorothea Roe?’
‘She was married to your brother, Bobby. Dorothy Bird as was.’
Her expression closes up. ‘I have nothing to say about that woman.’ She has a faint London accent.
‘You didn’t like her?’
She purses her lips together which I take as a no.
‘My brother took off because of her. Moved to the other side of the world. Lost contact with everyone.’
I think of what Rachel said about a Robert Falkner in Australia. It can’t be her brother if he’s dead. But has someone – Annette perhaps – made her think the Robert Falkner in Australia is her brother to stop her being suspicious?
‘Had you seen Dorothea in recent years?’
‘Absolutely not. Why would I want to see her?’ She takes a step back into the hallway. Worried she’s about to close the door on me, I blurt out, ‘Did you know any of Dorothea’s friends? Annette Baker-Hume or …’
‘I met Annette once or twice. She was the one who encouraged Dorothy. She stirred in their marriage, if you ask me. Things were fine until she became friends with Annette.’
‘In what way?’
‘That woman gave Dorothy ideas.’ Her expression softens a touch. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I understood Dorothy’s predicament, I really did. But Bobby was my brother. My family. And if it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t have missed out on all those years with him. All those wasted years.’
‘But …’
Her expression hardens again. ‘I don’t want to talk about it any more. Now if you’ll excuse me …’ And she shuts the door in my face.