I Let You Go (12 page)

‘I’ll be down in an hour, I promise.’

It was closer to two hours later when Mags pushed open the door to the study. ‘I thought you might like a cup of tea.’

‘Thank you.’ Ray stretched, groaning as he felt something click in his back.

Mags put the mug down on his desk and peered over Ray’s shoulder at the thick sheaf of papers he was reading. ‘Is this the nightclub job?’ She scanned the uppermost sheet. ‘Jacob Jordan? Wasn’t that the boy who was killed in the hit-and-run last year?’

‘That’s the one.’

Mags looked puzzled. ‘I thought that had been filed.’

‘It has.’

Mags sat on the arm of the easy chair they kept in the study because it clashed with the sitting-room carpet. It didn’t really fit in Ray’s office, but it was the most comfortable armchair he had ever sat in, and he refused to part with it. ‘So why is CID still working on it?’

Ray sighed. ‘They’re not,’ he said. ‘The case is closed, but I never filed the paperwork. We’re just taking a look through with a fresh pair of eyes, to see if we missed anything.’

‘
We?
’

Ray paused. ‘The team.’ He didn’t know why he didn’t mention Kate, but it would be strange to make a point of it now. Better to keep her out of it, in case the chief did ever get wind of it. No need for Kate’s copybook to be blotted so early in her career.

‘Oh, Ray,’ Mags’s voice was soft, ‘haven’t you got enough on your plate with live jobs, without doing cold case reviews?’

‘This one’s still warm,’ Ray said. ‘And I can’t help feeling we were pulled off it too soon. If we could take another pass at it, we might find something.’

There was a pause before Mags spoke. ‘It’s not like Annabelle, you know.’

Ray tightened his grip on the handle of his mug.

‘Don’t.’

‘You can’t torture yourself like this over every job you don’t solve.’ Mags leaned forward and squeezed his knee. ‘You’ll drive yourself mad.’

Ray took a sip of tea. Annabelle Snowden had been the first job he had dealt with when he took over as DI. She had gone missing after school and her mum and dad had been frantic. At least, they had seemed frantic. Two weeks later, Ray had charged her father with murder, after Annabelle’s body was found hidden in the divan base of a bed at his flat; she had been kept alive there for more than a week.

‘I knew there was something odd about Terry Snowden,’ he said, finally looking at Mags. ‘I should have fought harder to have him arrested as soon as she went missing.’

‘There was no evidence,’ said Mags. ‘Copper’s instinct is all very well, but you can’t run an investigation on hunches.’ Gently, she closed Jacob’s file. ‘Different job,’ she said. ‘Different people.’

‘Still a child,’ Ray said.

Mags took his hands. ‘But he’s already dead, Ray. You can work all the hours God sends and you won’t change that. Let it go.’

Ray didn’t answer. He turned back to his desk and opened up the file again, hardly noticing as Mags left the room and went to bed. When he logged into his email there was a new message from Kate, sent a couple of minutes previously. He typed a quick reply.

You still up?

The response came seconds later.

Checking to see if Jacob’s mum is on Facebook. And watching an eBay bid. You?

Looking through the reports of burned-out vehicles in neighbouring forces. Here for a while.

Great, you can keep me awake!

Ray imagined Kate curled up on the sofa, her laptop to one side and a pile of snacks to the other.

Ben and Jerry’s?
he typed.

How did you know?!

Ray grinned. He dragged the email window to a corner of the screen where he could keep an eye on new messages, and began reading through the faxed hospital reports.

Didn’t you promise Mags you’d take the weekend off?

I AM taking the weekend off! I’m just doing a bit of work now that the kids are asleep. Someone’s got to keep you company …

I’m honoured. What better way to spend a Saturday night?

Ray laughed.
Any joy on Facebook?
he typed.

A couple of possibles, but they don’t have profile pics. Hang on, phone’s ringing. Back in a mo.

Reluctantly, Ray closed down his email and turned his attention to the pile of hospital records. It had been months since Jacob died, and there was a nagging voice in Ray’s head that told him all this extra work was a fruitless exercise. The piece of Volvo fog light had turned out to belong to a housewife who had skidded on ice and hit one of the trees lining the road. All those hours of work for nothing, and still they carried on. Ray was playing with fire, going against the chief’s wishes, not to mention letting Kate do the same. But he was in too deep now – he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to.

It’ll be warmer later in the day, but for now the air is still cool, and I pull my shoulders up to my ears.

‘It’s chilly today,’ I say out loud.

I’ve started talking to myself, like the old woman who used to walk along the Clifton Suspension Bridge, laden down with carrier bags stuffed with newspapers. I wonder if she’s still there; if she still crosses the bridge every morning, and crosses back again each night. When you leave a place it’s easy to imagine life going on there the same way as before, even though nothing really stays the same for long. My life in Bristol could have belonged to someone else.

I shake the thought away and pull on my boots, wrapping a scarf around my neck. I have my daily battle with the lock, which grips on to the key and refuses to let it turn. Eventually I manage to secure the door, and I drop the key into my pocket. Beau trots at my heels. He follows me like a shadow, unwilling to let me out of his sight. When he first came home he cried all night, asking to come and sleep on my bed with me. I hated myself for it, but I held a pillow over my ears and ignored his cries, knowing that if I let myself get close to him, I would regret it. Several days went by before he stopped crying, and even now he sleeps at the bottom of the stairs, awake as soon as he hears the creak of the bedroom floorboards.

I check I have today’s list of orders – I can remember them all, but it wouldn’t do to make a mistake. Bethan continues to promote my pictures to her holiday-makers, and although I can hardly believe it, I am busy. Not in the same way as before, with exhibitions and commissions, but nevertheless busy. I have twice restocked the caravan shop with postcards and a trickle of orders has come through my home-made website. It’s far from the smart web-presence I used to have, but every time I look at it I feel a flash of pride that I made it myself, without help. It is a small thing, but I am slowly beginning to think that perhaps I am not as useless as I once believed.

I haven’t put my name on the website: just a gallery of photos, a rather clumsy and basic ordering system, and the name of my new business: ‘Written in the Sand’. Bethan helped me choose it, over a bottle of wine in the cottage one evening, when she talked about my business with such enthusiasm I couldn’t help but go along with it. ‘What do you think?’ she kept asking. I hadn’t been asked for my opinion for a very long time.

August is the busiest month for the caravan park and although I still see Bethan at least once a week, I miss the quiet of the winter, when we would talk for an hour or more, feet pressed against the oil-filled radiator in the corner of the shop. The beaches are busy too, and I have to get up soon after sunrise to ensure a smooth stretch of sand for my photos.

A gull calls out to us and Beau races across the sand, barking as the bird taunts him from the safety of the sky. I kick through the debris on the beach and pick up a long stick. The tide is on its way out, but the sand is warm, and it is already drying. I will write today’s messages close to the sea. I pull a piece of paper from my pocket and remind myself of the first order. ‘Julia,’ I say. ‘Well, that’s straightforward enough.’ Beau looks at me enquiringly. He thinks I am talking to him. Perhaps I am, although I mustn’t let myself become reliant on him. I see him as I imagine Iestyn sees his sheep dogs: tools of the trade; there to perform a function. Beau is my guard dog. I haven’t needed protection yet, but I might.

I lean forward and draw a large J, standing back to check the size, before writing the rest of the name. Happy with it, I discard the stick and take up my camera. The sun has risen properly now, and the low light casts a pink glow across the sand. I take a dozen shots, crouching down to look through my viewfinder, until the writing is iced with the sea’s white froth.

For the next order I look for a clean stretch of beach. I work quickly, gathering armfuls of sticks from the piles thrown up by the sea. When the last piece of driftwood is in place I cast a critical eye over my creation. Strands of still-glistening seaweed soften the edges of the sticks and pebbles I have used to frame the message. The driftwood heart is six feet across: large enough to house the swirling script in which I have written ‘Forgive me, Alice’. As I reach over to move a piece of wood, Beau hurtles out of the sea, barking excitedly.

‘Steady!’ I call. I put a protective arm over the camera slung across my body, in case he should jump up at me. But the dog ignores me, racing past in a spray of wet sand, to the other side of the beach, where he bounds around a man walking across the sand. At first I think it’s the dog-walker who spoke to me once before, but then he pushes his hands into the pockets of his waxed jacket and I take a sharp intake of breath because the movement is familiar to me. How can that be? I know no one here, save Bethan and Iestyn, yet this man, who must be barely a hundred metres away now, is walking purposefully towards me. I can see his face. I know him, yet I don’t know him, and my inability to place him makes me vulnerable. I feel a bubble of panic rising in my throat and I call to Beau.

‘It’s Jenna, isn’t it?’

I want to run, but my feet are rooted to the spot. I’m mentally scrolling through everyone I knew in Bristol. I know I’ve met him somewhere before.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,’ the man says, and I realise I’m shaking. He seems genuinely regretful, and he smiles broadly as if to make amends. ‘Patrick Mathews. The vet at Port Ellis,’ he adds. And at once I remember him, and the way he pushed his hands into the pockets of his blue scrubs.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, finally finding my voice, which feels small and unsure. ‘I didn’t recognise you.’ I glance up to the empty coastal path. Soon people will begin arriving for a day at the beach: insured against all weather conditions with windbreaks, sunscreen and umbrellas. For once I’m glad it’s high season and Penfach is full of people: Patrick’s smile is warm, but I’ve been taken in by a warm smile once before.

He reaches down to rub Beau’s ears.

‘Looks like you’ve done a good job with this chap. What did you call him?’

‘His name’s Beau.’ I can’t help myself: I take two hardly noticeable steps backwards, and immediately feel the knot in my throat soften. I make myself drop my hands down to my sides, but straight away I find they have risen and have found each other at my waist.

Patrick kneels down and fusses Beau, who rolls on to his back to have his tummy scratched, delighted by the unaccustomed affection.

‘He doesn’t seem nervous at all.’

I’m reassured by Beau’s relaxed manner. Don’t they say dogs are good judges of character?

‘No, he’s doing well,’ I say.

‘He certainly is.’ Patrick stands up and brushes the sand off his knees, and I hold my ground.

‘No problems with Iestyn, I take it?’ Patrick grins.

‘None at all,’ I tell him. ‘In fact, he seems to think a dog is an essential part of any household.’

‘I’m inclined to agree with him. I’d have one myself, only I work such long hours it wouldn’t be fair. Still, I get to meet enough animals during the day, so I shouldn’t complain.’

He seems very at home here by the sea, his boots engrained with sand and the creases of his coat scored with salt. He nods towards the heart in the sand.

‘Who’s Alice, and why do you want her forgiveness?’

‘Oh, it’s not mine.’ He must think me extraordinary, drawing pictures in the sand. ‘At least, the sentiment isn’t. I’m taking a photo of it for someone.’

Patrick looks confused.

‘It’s what I do,’ I say. ‘I’m a photographer.’ I hold up my camera as though he might not otherwise believe me. ‘People send me messages they want written in the sand and I come down here, write them and then send them the photograph.’ I stop, but he seems genuinely interested.

‘What sort of messages?’

‘Mostly they’re love letters – or marriage proposals – but I get all sorts. This one’s an apology, obviously, and sometimes people ask me to write famous quotations, or lyrics from favourite songs. It’s different every time.’ I stop, blushing furiously.

‘And you make a living doing that? What an amazing job!’ I search his voice for sarcasm, but find none, and I let myself feel a little proud. It
is
an amazing job, and I created it from nothing.

‘I sell other photos too,’ I say, ‘mostly of the bay. It’s so beautiful, lots of people want a piece of it.’

‘Isn’t it? I love it here.’

We stand in silence for a few seconds, watching the waves build up and then break apart as they run up the sand. I begin to feel fidgety, and I try think of something else to say.

What brings you on to the beach?’ I ask. ‘Not many people venture down here at this time of day unless they’ve got a dog to walk.’

‘I had to release a bird,’ Patrick explains. ‘A woman brought in a gannet with a broken wing and he’s been staying at the surgery while he recovered. He’s been with us for a few weeks and I brought him to the clifftop today to let him go. We try to release them in the same place they were found, to give them every chance of survival. When I saw your message on the beach I couldn’t resist coming down and finding out who you were writing to. It was only when I got down here that I realised we’d already met.’