Chapter 39
LENA
It’s awkward at work on Wednesday. Susi stays in her office most of the day and I get the impression she’s deliberately avoiding me.
Every now and again Kath glances up from her desk on the other side of the room and smiles at me in sympathy.
She knows Susi is angry with me but not the reason why.
I’m tempted to ask Susi how she found out I’d visited Drew at his home, but I’m too embarrassed to bring it up again.
So I keep my head down and hope that Drew sticks to his promise and doesn’t come in.
It was good to talk to someone who agreed with me about Henry Morgan.
Jo was supportive, as she always is, but I know she thinks I’m paranoid.
But Drew has witnessed Henry’s dark side and his lies.
When I get home that evening I google Simone Harvey again, hoping that something might have popped up since yesterday, all the while knowing how unlikely it is.
I’m not surprised when I don’t find anything.
The relentless sunshine streams through the patio doors, picking out every smudge on the stainless-steel cooker and my ivory cabinets.
From the living room I can hear the faint strains of a guitar.
When I got home Kit was already here giving Rufus a lesson.
He’s finished college now for the summer and starts his work experience next week.
I sit back in my chair with a sigh. I’m not getting anywhere with looking up Simone.
But if there is a link between her and the Morgans, the only way to find out is to call the electrical company and ask to speak to her.
My mouth goes dry at the thought of talking to Simone again after all these years.
She tried to reach out to me once, after the court case, but I had already left London and, wanting to put the past behind me, I never returned her call.
The jury might have found her not guilty, but I know very well that she was.
And there is no coming back from that. Our friendship couldn’t be saved.
If I ring her now she might hang up, but the possibility of discovering something about the Morgans is too tantalizing a prospect to pass up.
Before I can change my mind I find the number of the electrical company and call it. A woman with a singsong voice answers after two rings: ‘Herman, Hardy and Sullivans.’
I clear my throat. ‘Hi, I was wondering if I could speak to one of your electricians, Simone Harvey.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she says smoothly. ‘We don’t have a Simone Harvey working here.’
‘Ah, okay. I’m wondering, have you ever … um … had a Simone Harvey working for you?’
‘No, my love, at least not in the fifteen years I’ve been with the company. We’re a small family firm so I would know if we had anyone of that name here. Can I help you with anything else?’
‘I’m looking for a female electrician,’ I say, thinking quickly. ‘And I think you’ve got one working for you?’
‘I’m very sorry. We did have a woman electrician here, but she left last year.’
‘Can you tell me her name?’
A pause. When she speaks again there is a new frostiness to her tone. ‘No, I’m afraid not. What is this concerning?’
‘Sorry. I’m only asking as I’d love to find her because my … um, mother is very elderly and she’d feel more comfortable with a woman electrician …’ I falter, my face flaming at the lie.
‘Oh, I see.’ I sense her softening. ‘Of course. I’m so sorry I can’t help you.’
‘Perhaps if you gave me her name I could see if she’s gone to another firm.’
‘She hasn’t. She left very suddenly. I think she’s no longer in the field. I’m sure there are other companies who employ women electricians. I suggest you look around.’
‘But I …’
‘Sorry I couldn’t help. Goodbye,’ she says firmly, and ends the call.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ I mutter, under my breath, staring down at my mobile.
‘What’s up?’ Rufus lumbers into the room, closely followed by Kit. He flops onto one of the kitchen chairs and Kit stands awkwardly by the patio doors.
‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ I say, not wanting to get into it, especially in front of Kit. ‘I’m just trying to find someone I used to work with, that’s all.’
‘Why’s that?’ Rufus pushes his fringe from his eyes. His hair needs cutting.
‘It’s a long story.’
Rufus eyes me suspiciously. ‘Is this to do with the neighbours again?’ He turns to Kit and rolls his eyes. ‘Mum thinks the neighbours are a couple of psychos …’
‘Hey! I’ve never said that.’
Kit takes a seat next to Rufus, his blue eyes brightening with interest. ‘Really? What, like serial killers?’
‘Yeah,’ says Rufus. ‘She’s been watching too many thrillers with me.’
‘I don’t think they’re serial killers,’ I say, with a laugh, pushing the patio doors shut with my foot. ‘And keep your voice down. They might hear you.’
‘Mum’s suspicious of them, then,’ he says to Kit, ‘because she overheard them talking about something illegal.’
Kit straightens, his eyes widening. ‘Really?’
‘No! Rufus,’ I admonish. ‘Stop it.’
‘Oh, come on,’ he says, warming to his theme and I can tell he’s enjoying this, showing off in front of someone older, like Kit.
‘It was nothing, really,’ I say firmly.
‘So why are you looking up your old work colleague?’ asks Kit.
‘I’ve just been, um, thinking a lot about the past, that’s all, and decided it would be nice to get in touch. We were good friends once, back when we were both midwives.’
‘And this has nothing to do with the Morgans?’ says Rufus, doubtfully.
‘Who are the Morgans?’ asks Kit.
‘The neighbours,’ I explain. ‘Marielle and Henry. And, no, this has nothing to do with them, Ruf.’
I notice Rufus throwing Kit a look of disbelief, but Kit is too polite to say anything further. Instead he glances at his watch and stands up. ‘Anyway, I’d better go. I’ve got another lesson to teach at six. Nice seeing you again, Lena.’
Rufus jumps up to show him out and I immediately go back to my laptop.
Maybe I should try searching Marielle again.
I’m not convinced I’ll turn up anything as I couldn’t find any social-media accounts for her when I looked before, but it’s worth another try and I don’t have anything better to do right now.
I type in ‘Marielle Morgan’ and ‘university lecturer London’ and nothing comes up.
There are a few Professor Morgans, each with an accompanying photo, but no matches to Marielle.
I try again, this time typing just Marielle Morgan.
Again, a few come up, scattered around the world, but none of them is her.
I know she’s retired but I’m surprised I can’t find which university she worked for.
There is no trace of her. I try again, this time adding ‘Marielle and Henry Morgan’ to the search.
After scrolling down a few pages I spot an old Times wedding announcement from April 1988.
My heart thumps with excitement as I click on the link.
It’s attached to a main piece about property tycoon Lawrence Bishop-Smith, who, according to the article, was Marielle’s father and died about five years ago at the age of ninety-five after suffering with Alzheimer’s for a long time.
I’m more interested in the wedding announcement so I click on the photograph of Marielle and Henry, with the original write-up underneath.
It mentions the ‘very sudden’ death of her stepmother, Violet.
The photo is in black and white, stylish and shot in a studio.
They’re seated, both wearing formal clothes, Marielle’s hand (with the large diamond on her finger) rests on top of Henry’s, and I’m taken aback by how young they look, like two film stars from the 1950s.
The piece gives little away so, instead, I decide to search for Violet Bishop-Smith.
After a while I find a small newspaper article dated October 1987, which I read with interest.
SOCIALITE’S SUDDEN DEATH RULED TO BE ACCIDENTAL DROWNING
THE SHOCKING DEATH of the socialite wife of a wealthy property tycoon was today ruled as accidental drowning, an inquest heard.
Violet Bishop-Smith, 46, was found unconscious in the bathtub of her luxury home that she shared in north London with her husband, Lawrence Bishop-Smith, 64, and their daughter Savannah, 17.
Toxicology reports showed a cocktail of barbiturates in her system and prescription Valium was found in her bathroom cabinet.
Mrs Bishop-Smith was found unresponsive by her stepdaughter, Marielle, 29, at around 2 p.m. on 30 August. Miss Bishop-Smith told the inquest, ‘My stepmother had been ill for a while and she usually had at least one maid in the house with her. I called Violet’s name but there was no answer, so I went to her bedroom and was surprised when she wasn’t in her bed.
I knocked on her en-suite bathroom door and, thankfully, it wasn’t locked. That’s when I found her.’
Miss Bishop-Smith explained how she tried to revive her stepmother, but to no avail. There was no suicide note and Violet Bishop-Smith had not been diagnosed with depression. As a result, coroner Samantha Payne ruled Violet Bishop-Smith died from accidental drowning.
I read it twice, imagining a young Marielle’s horror at finding her stepmother dead and feel a twinge of pity for her.
‘I’m going to my room!’ Rufus calls, from the hallway, and I hear him charging up the stairs.
‘Okay. I’ll make dinner soon,’ I shout, not sure he’s heard me.
I go back to my laptop and, on a whim, I look up her stepsister, Savannah Bishop-Smith.
Immediately an osteopath clinic’s website pops up.
I click on the link and a photograph of Savannah appears onscreen.
She looks to be in her mid-fifties with short blonde hair and the same greeny-grey eyes as Marielle.
This must be her: the ages match the article, with Savannah being twelve or so years Marielle’s junior, and it’s an unusual name.
I scan the description under her photograph.
She’s a trained osteopath and acupuncturist based in Marlborough, and before I’ve had time to think about what I’m doing I’ve clicked on the booking form and made an appointment for tomorrow at 11. 30 a.m.
Next I do something I haven’t allowed myself to do for a long time. I bring up Facebook and search for Oliver Harvey, Simone’s brother and my ex-boyfriend. I can’t think about Simone without remembering him and how much I’d once loved him. He was the first man to break my heart.
His profile comes up immediately and I click on it, pleased that his settings are lax.
My tummy plunges when I see that he’s more handsome than I remember, with still-thick brown hair, although he’s broader, more tanned and rugged than when I knew him as the skinny, pale-faced twenty-two-year-old Cure fan.
From his photos and posts, he’s now married with two cute kids and loves surfing and hiking.
I scroll through his photos, wondering why there aren’t any of him and Simone.
And then I see one, taken about sixteen years ago.
They stare blurry-eyed into the camera with their arms around each other and Oliver has a pint in his hand.
They look like they’re at a party. Simone is wearing an olive sleeveless dress, a belt cinching in her slim waist. I click on more photos, obsessively scanning each one for the little signs that tell me about Oliver’s life.
About Simone’s – even though she’s only in that one photograph.
And then I freeze, my blood draining to my feet, as a photo of Oliver next to a white pick-up truck fills my screen.
It’s not Oliver who has caught my attention.
Or the truck. But the set of keys he’s holding because, dangling from it, is a little blue knitted bear and, apart from the colour, it’s exactly like the one Phoenix found in the gap in my hedge.