Epilogue #2
Heat floods my face, but I keep my expression carefully blank.
Lara is still talking, still trying to make sense of her husband’s actions, of Oliver, of the entire mess. Completely unaware that the foundations of it were laid with my approval, my strategy, my silence.
Roman gave me something precious when he wiped those files. He introduced doubt. Left enough missing pieces that nothing can be proven cleanly.
My pulse steadies and I press my palms flat against my knees and say nothing.
‘When I spoke to Tim, he couldn’t stop saying he almost got away with it,’ Lara says quietly. ‘If Roman hadn’t interfered. If Jane Guthrie hadn’t found us. If, if, if.’
She looks at her hands.
‘I married a man who treated people like they were just pieces on a board,’ she says.
‘Me included. You asked me why I kept the recording? The answer is, I honestly suspected that, given time, I would end up one of his casualties. That he’d double-cross me and leave me in the dark and smelly. That recording felt like insurance.’
‘And the cliff-top crash?’
‘I did know about that,’ she says softly.
‘Not everything. I knew he’d been there when the car went over the cliff edge, but he swore it was an accident, that he’d be racked with guilt for the rest of his life.
He said the road was wet, that he’d flashed his lights to warn them.
That he’d panicked and was too afraid to go to the police because he’d go down for manslaughter.
’ She looks up at me then, eyes bright but dry.
‘There were no witnesses, so he reasoned that, although he was devastated, a confession wouldn’t bring Andrew back.
And I believed him . . . or I decided to. ’
‘Do you know what will happen to Jane Guthrie?’ I say.
‘DI Adebayo told me she’s been charged with murder,’ Lara says.
‘And she’s also facing a separate count for the attack on Ron Windsor—the poker to the head—although, in my opinion, he deserved it.
But given her state, the court remanded her under the Mental Health Act to a secure hospital, so she is currently under psychiatric assessment and treatment while the case is prepared. ’
So, no prison for Jane Guthrie. Not yet. Just locked doors and doctors . . . and a judge waiting at the other end of it.
Lara goes on. ‘I visited her in the hospital with her social worker present. We had a long talk, and there’s no doubt in my mind now that Tim meant to drive them off that cliff.
He wanted Andrew Guthrie out of his life, leaving him with the business and the money from a loan that nobody else knew about. ’
I can’t think what to say.
‘I supported Tim by not going to the police at the time,’ Lara says. ‘I helped him bury it. I told myself it was loyalty. Marriage. Damage control for what was just a terrible accident.’ Her mouth twists. ‘Turns out it was all about cowardice and greed.’
‘And do you know what’s going to happen yet?’
‘They’ve charged me with perverting the course of justice. I’m due at court next month.’
‘I’ve not heard what’s happened to Ron Windsor,’ I say.
‘He’s been charged with voyeurism. He confessed to installing covert recording equipment to film his lodger undressing over a period of weeks. How creepy is that?’
I shake my head, thinking about him being so self-righteous.
‘He’s been released on bail and is awaiting his court date,’ Lara adds.
‘But the long-suffering Margaret has come to her senses at least, and thrown him out of the house. She is standing by Jane Guthrie.’ She gives a half-smile at this point.
‘There’s a little controversy on the lane, though.
Despite the unspoken agreement that all the houses match on certain details, Margaret had the perfectly good front door at Sunnyside replaced with . . . wait for it, a bright green door!’
‘A green door?’
‘Yes. Somebody asked Margaret about it, and she said it was just something that Jane had begged her to do.’
‘How odd.’ I shrug, baffled. ‘Have you heard anything about Roman?’ I say, feeling a pinch that I haven’t tried to get in touch with him myself. ‘Even though his skills turned out to be so useful to the police, on paper he’s still seriously broken the law, I suppose.’
Lara lowers her voice. ‘Angela Thomson told a neighbour that Roman will be dealt with through the youth court. He shouldn’t get sent away—most likely he’ll be given him a Youth Rehabilitation Order instead.
Apparently, that means strict supervision, a curfew, and pretty much every device in his life monitored or taken off him for now. ’
She exhales, not quite a laugh. ‘Which, for Roman Thomson, is probably the closest thing to prison they could’ve come up with.’
I smile. ‘And what about you, Lara? What happens now?’
‘The house will go,’ she says. ‘The bank accounts are frozen. There’s talk of civil action from Jane Guthrie. From others, too, possibly.’ She pauses. ‘I deserve whatever comes my way.’ She studies me for a long moment. ‘And you?’
I don’t answer straight away. The old version of me would have had something ready as a reply. A reframing. A plan.
‘I don’t know,’ I say, suddenly finding myself speaking from the heart. ‘But I’m so tired of running, tired of making up a story.’
Lara frowns. ‘What do you mean?’
I shrug. ‘Just trying to make sense of it all, really. Thinking back and realizing the damage you’ve caused to other people . . . real people with real lives. How you can never go back and make it right again, so instead we look to the future.’
Lara nods slowly. ‘Try to reorganize a fresh start to give ourselves the misguided feeling we are somehow still in control. That it can make up for the mistakes we’ve made.’
‘And that it’s possible to leave the past behind,’ I murmur.
Outside, a group of young students pass the café, laughing and jostling against the glass. Living in the moment, not yet weighed down with their own errors and mistakes in life.
When we leave, there is no hug. Just a shared look that acknowledges how much we’ve both lost and what can never be retrieved or truly left behind.
Back in my tiny apartment, I take out DI Adebayo’s card and hold it for a moment. I call and get voicemail.
‘It’s Emily Sharpe,’ I say, my voice sounding strange. ‘There are things you need to hear. From me. Please call me back.’
When I end the call, silence rings in my ears.
I sit by the window, Ralph heavy and warm on my knee, his breathing slow and trusting.
Between the blocks opposite, a thin slice of the Trent slides past—grey, steady and indifferent—as if nothing in the world has changed.
Something settles in my chest anyway. Not relief. Not hope. Just the quiet clarity that I’m done lying to myself.
I don’t know what DI Adebayo will do with what I tell her. I don’t know who she’ll believe when Oliver tries to fold the whole thing neatly into his own hands. I don’t know if this will ruin me.
But it might just be the first honest thing I’ve done in years.
And, for now at least, that will have to be enough.