Chapter 38
Thirty-Eight
EMILY
‘Here we go, your home for a couple of nights.’ Lara pushes open the door at the end of the landing and ushers me inside. ‘It’s not very big, I’m afraid, but it’ll do until things are sorted.’
‘It’s perfect,’ I manage. Saying anything else would invite more kindness than I can handle.
It’s a nice room, more than adequate. Pristine white bedding with scatter cushions and pale lemon walls.
A white wooden blind is minimal but suits the decor.
It’s the kind of room you keep tidy for guests you want to impress.
‘You’ve got a good view of the lane from here—sorry about that,’ she says. ‘You might want to keep the blind closed.’
When I step closer to the window and glance between the slightly open slats I see what she means. From here, there’s a clear view of both the Coach House and the Stables. I swallow. In some ways it couldn’t be worse, but it can’t be helped either.
Lara glances at my face and says quickly, ‘Honestly, Emily, my advice is not to look. Focus on getting yourself calm, and hopefully, there’ll be positive news when Tim gets back from the police station. Wait here, and I’ll be back shortly.’
I nod, and she gives my arm a light squeeze before disappearing down the landing. I listen for her feet on the stairs, fading as she nears the bottom.
I walk over to the window and reach for the cord rod to tilt the blind.
The outside view gives me a jolt even though I know what’s out there.
I press my forehead lightly against the smooth wooden slats.
From up here, the police tape looping between the fences looks like a grotesque party decoration.
Police cars are still blocking half the lane, their lights silently pulsing against the neatness of the properties and pristine gardens.
The press crew has tripled in size since I arrived in the Uber.
A white van has reversed on to Vanessa’s drive and two SOCOs in full protective gear are wheeling out crates covered in sheeting. What are they taking away?
The whole street scene is surreal, like a film set that’s been constructed when we weren’t looking.
When we first arrived here, it was exactly the kind of place I told myself would finally make me feel safe and settled.
The place where Oliver swore we’d start a family and live an ordinary life.
Now, every glossy facade looks brutally stripped bare under the blue lights. All the magic washed away.
I feel so wretched here, even though Lara is being so kind. I’m filled with the kind of hopelessness that writhes in your guts and just won’t shift.
What have I done . . .
I don’t finish the sentence. I don’t need to. The words are stark and so unforgiving, but they speak the truth because I only have myself to blame.
Something outside draws my eye. Someone.
There’s a figure strolling across the lane, a lad, his hands loose in his pockets. It takes me a moment to realize, but then I know exactly who it is. Roman.
He’s taller than I remembered, all awkward angles and restless energy. He saunters right up to the police cordon and stands there, staring at the two houses beyond.
A stern, uniformed officer moves towards him, says something. Roman jerks his thumb back towards his house, then shrugs. The officer shakes his head, a firm indication that he should move away.
The police officer walks away, but Roman stays put.
He slips a hand into his hoodie pocket, pulls out his phone and lifts it, pointing it at the two properties, quick as a flash, to take a couple of snaps. Only then does he lope off.
When I pull the blind closed, my heart is hammering. What is he going to do with those pictures? Once something is photographed, it can go viral online in minutes. Bringing with it entirely the wrong sort of attention.
Lara’s voice calls along the landing, and I step quickly away from the window like a guilty teenager who’s supposed to be studying. I sit down on the bed like I’ve been waiting there all along.
She comes in carrying a neat stack of folded clothes.
‘Just a few basics until you can get back home. Leggings, a jumper, a fresh T-shirt. I put together a little wash bag for you, too. A toothbrush, face wipes and deodorant. I thought you’d probably want to freshen up, and the bathroom is only next door. ’
‘Thanks so much, Lara.’
She sets the stuff on the end of the bed and smooths back her hair. ‘Tim’s just texted. They won’t let him see Oliver, but he managed to find out that he’s about to be interviewed.’
‘It ought to be me there, trying to find out what’s happening,’ I say, and cover my face.
The truth is, I don’t want to go to the police station. It feels like tempting fate somehow . . . it might give them the idea to start looking closer at me, too.
‘You’re better off here,’ Lara says firmly. ‘You’ll be of far more use to Oliver if you keep calm and rested until we know the score, Emily.’
I nod, my throat too tight for words.
After a moment I say, ‘That boy who lives on the street—Roman. What do you know about him?’
Lara frowns. ‘Roman Thomson? He seems a nice enough lad.’
‘Nice enough’ is what people tend to say when they don’t know where someone’s sharp edges are.
‘We don’t see much of him,’ Lara continues. ‘Obviously, since what happened with his mum, we keep our distance.’ She pauses. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Nothing really,’ I hesitate. ‘I saw him out there a minute ago, taking photos of the two houses.’
Lara rolls her eyes. ‘Kids and their phones, eh? If they don’t film it, it didn’t happen!’ She half smiles. ‘So much for not looking out of the window. Trust me, do yourself a favour and stay well away. You’ve got enough on your plate.’
She has no idea.
She heads back out to fetch me some towels.
The second she’s gone, my phone buzzes.
I lunge for it, my pulse racing. Oliver. Please let it be Oliver.
But the screen shows an unknown number.
I usually ignore these calls, but today I can’t risk it. I swipe. ‘Hello?’
‘Mrs Sharpe? I’m a family liaison officer with Nottinghamshire Police.
’ It occurs to me that her voice carries that trained calmness that makes you feel both reassured and afraid things are getting more serious at the same time.
‘I wanted to let you know that DI Adebayo will be coming to speak with you at your neighbour’s house—Mrs Walker-Dent—in about an hour’s time,’ she continues. ‘Is that convenient?’
My throat suddenly feels bone dry. ‘Yes, of course. Will she have any news about my husband?’
‘She’ll be able to explain more of the process when she arrives. Is that OK?’
‘Yes, please,’ I say quickly. People who hesitate look like they’re hiding something. ‘That would be good.’
‘Excellent. She’ll be there shortly.’
She ends the call, and I stare at the phone in my hand.
Whatever comes next, this is the start of it.
I set the phone down carefully beside the folded clothes and close my eyes. I curse under my breath, the sound rasping in my throat.
This isn’t just bad luck. And it isn’t simply wrong place, wrong time.
I know in my bones that Oliver didn’t kill Vanessa. But if he didn’t, then who did? Someone who wanted her silent. Someone who knew enough about Oliver to make him look guilty.
The thought refuses to settle.
Vanessa had money. Secrets. A life people watched from the outside and quietly resented. I think of the lane, the smiles, the careful civility that masks the way people notice things.
If our buried truths are starting to surface, then hers must have, too.
And suddenly, the question isn’t just about whether the past is catching up with us, it’s more about who knows enough to have struck first?