Chapter 45
FORTY-FIVE
‘Apparently, being angry with someone who’s killed themselves is quite a common reaction,’ she told Matt. ‘I read a blog post about it. People are upset that the dead person didn’t realise, or didn’t apparently care, how much they were loved.’
‘I get that,’ Matt said doubtfully. ‘But, from what you’ve told me, Rosemary’s anger was different. It was specifically about leaving here.’
They were in the kitchen at Trade Cottage, while the children were upstairs, getting on with homework.
At least, Kate hoped they were. Will in particular was still taking Paul’s death very hard.
Someone at school had told him that Paul shot himself, and, although he didn’t seem to have made the connection with the gun he’d learnt to shoot clay pigeons with, Kate had noticed he wasn’t playing video games just now.
Normally, she’d have been pleased by that, but this listless, quiet child wasn’t the Will she knew.
‘True,’ she admitted, bringing her attention back to Matt.
‘But Tray isn’t just a house, it’s a whole way of life.
I think she’s been grieving for that ever since they moved out – Paul’s death has just given it a focus.
It’s not necessarily even rational. After all, even if he had killed himself a year ago, she’d still have needed to move out in the end.
This house is way too big for an eighty-three-year-old woman on her own. ’
‘Perhaps she’d have moved into a granny annexe, and Jamie and family would have been in here,’ Matt said.
Kate shuddered. ‘Horrible thought. I can’t believe she’d have been happy with that kind of set-up.’
Another thought struck her. ‘She said something, actually – just after Paul died. At the time, I was too shocked by everything to take much notice, but . . . She said, if the ambulance crew rang the doorbell, Jamie would get an alert and be able to see them. She was in a real panic to get the gates open so they wouldn’t have to use the Ring. ’
‘That’s understandable, though, surely?’ Matt said. ‘She wanted to tell him about his father’s death herself.’
‘Yes, but setting up doorbell alerts so he can see who’s visiting? I could understand if she was some frail old lady who might let scammers in, but Rosemary’s hardly at a stage where she needs her son in America overseeing who visits her house.’
‘They were probably just future-proofing it for when she is old and frail,’ Matt said gently. ‘We already know he takes an interest. The first time we came, Rosemary said it was him who’d been pestering them to get a wet room.’
‘I guess.’ She sighed. ‘I’m not looking forward to seeing him at the funeral, let alone Guy and Gordon and the rest. But I suppose it’s inevitable.’
Matt shot her a look. ‘You’re going?’
She nodded. ‘I feel I should, to support Rosemary. It’s clearly going to be rammed, so hopefully I can just sit at the back and keep my head down. And obviously I won’t go to the wake afterwards.’
There was a sound from the direction of the front door – not a knock, more like the soft thump of a package hitting the mat. ‘Did you hear that?’ she asked.
Matt frowned. ‘What?’
‘Never mind – I’ll go.’ Getting up, she followed the passageway round to the front door and opened it.
There was no one there. And – she glanced down – no package. Just something red and liquid, dripping—
She gasped as she saw that more red liquid was dripping from the open door on to the flagstones.
She had to go outside and step back to look at it properly, to see the great scar of red paint that had been flung across Trade Cottage’s ancient oak door.
No, not paint, she realised a moment later: it was too thin. Their door had been covered with blood.
Matt heard her cry and came running. Taking the situation in with a glance, he said, ‘It’ll stain.
We need to get it off before it dries.’ He darted into the loo and came out a few moments later with the hand towel, which he’d run under the tap.
He wiped the door swiftly, then went back to rinse the towel so he could do it again.
Kate, meanwhile, stayed rooted helplessly to the spot, trying and failing to get the image of the wet-room wall out of her head.
‘It’s fake,’ Matt added, as he dabbed and swabbed. ‘Fake blood. It was in all the shops for Halloween.’
She didn’t ask him how he could be so sure. She could think of half a dozen locals who could get hold of real animal blood.
‘Even if it is,’ she said slowly, ‘the message isn’t.’
He glanced at her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Blood on our doorstep,’ she said. ‘I think someone’s trying to say we bear responsibility for Paul’s death.’