I Let You Go (26 page)

‘Is it toxic?’

You nodded. ‘It’s got barium carbonate in it. It’s really dangerous stuff and I always, always make sure it’s safely put away. Oh God, it’s all my fault. Poor, poor Gizmo.’

‘Darling, you mustn’t blame yourself.’ I pulled you into my arms and held you close, kissing your hair. You stank of cigarette smoke. ‘It was an accident. You’re trying to do too much. You should have stayed and finished your model while you had everything out – surely Sarah would have understood that?’ You leaned into me and your sobs began to subside. I took off your coat and put your bag on the table. ‘Come on; let’s get you upstairs. I’ll be up before you in the morning and I’ll deal with Gizmo then.’

In the bedroom you were quiet, and I let you clean your teeth and wash your face. I turned out the light and got into bed, and you cuddled up to me like a child. I loved that you needed me so much. I began stroking your back in circles, and kissing your neck.

‘Do you mind if we don’t, tonight?’ you said.

‘It’ll help,’ I said. ‘I want to make you feel better.’

You lay still beneath me, but when I kissed you there was no response. I pushed my way inside you and thrust hard, wanting to provoke a reaction – any reaction – but you closed your eyes and didn’t make a sound. You took all the pleasure out of it for me, and your selfishness just made me fuck you harder.

‘What’s that?’ Ray stood behind Kate and looked at the card she was turning over in her hands.

‘Something Gray had in her purse. When I took it out she went quite white, as though she was shocked to see it there. I’m trying to figure out what it is.’

The card was the size of a standard business card. It was pale blue, with two lines of a central Bristol address, and no other writing. Ray took it from Kate’s hand and rubbed it between his finger and thumb.

‘It’s very cheap card,’ he said. ‘Any idea what the logo is?’ At the top of the card, printed in black ink, were what looked like two incomplete figures of eight, one inside the other.

‘No idea. I don’t recognise it.’

‘I take it the address doesn’t bring anything up on our systems?’

‘No intelligence, and nothing on Voters.’

‘An old business card of hers?’ He scrutinised the logo again.

Kate shook her head. ‘Not the way she reacted when I picked it up. It triggered something – something she didn’t want me to know about.’

‘Right, come on, then.’ Ray strode over to the metal cabinet on the wall and took out a set of car keys. ‘Only one way to solve this.’

‘Where are we going?’

Ray held up the blue card in reply, and Kate grabbed her coat and ran after him.

It took some time for Ray and Kate to find 127 Grantham Street, an unprepossessing redbrick semi in a seemingly endless row in which odd numbers were inexplicably far from their even counterparts. They stood outside for a moment, contemplating the scrubby front garden and the greying nets at every window. In the neighbouring garden two mattresses provided a resting place for a watchful cat, which meowed as they made their way up the path to the front door. Unlike the adjacent houses, which had cheap UPVC doors, 127 had a smartly painted wooden door with a spyhole. There was no letterbox, but fixed to the wall by the side of the door was a metal post-box, its door secured with a padlock.

Ray rang the bell. Kate reached into her jacket pocket for her warrant card, but Ray put his hand on her arm. ‘Best not,’ he said, ‘not till we know who lives here.’

They heard the sound of footsteps on a tiled floor. The footsteps stopped, and Ray looked directly at the tiny spyhole in the centre of the door. Whatever test was applied, they clearly passed, because after a couple of seconds Ray heard the door unlock. A second lock was turned, and the door opened by about four inches, stopped by a chain. The excessive security measures had led Ray to expect someone elderly, but the woman looking through the gap in the door was roughly the same age as him. She wore a patterned wraparound dress under a navy blue cardigan, with a pale yellow scarf looped around her neck and tied in a knot.

‘Can I help you?’

‘I’m looking for a friend,’ Ray said. ‘Her name’s Jenna Gray. She used to live in this road but I can’t for the life of me remember which house. I don’t suppose you know her, do you?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

Ray glanced over the woman’s shoulder to see into the house, and she closed the door a fraction, making eye contact with him and holding his gaze.

‘Have you lived here long?’ Kate said, ignoring the woman’s reticence.

‘Long enough,’ the woman said briskly. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me…’

‘I’m sorry we disturbed you,’ Ray said, taking Kate’s arm. ‘Come on, honey, let’s go. I’ll make some calls – see if I can track down her address.’ He brandished his phone in front of them.

‘But—’

‘Thanks anyway,’ Ray said. He nudged Kate.

‘Right,’ she said, finally picking up on his cue. ‘We’ll make some calls. Thanks for your time.’

The woman closed the door firmly and Ray heard two keys turn, one after another. He kept his arm through Kate’s until they were safely out of view of the house, feeling acutely conscious of the closeness.

‘What do you reckon?’ Kate said, as they got into the car. ‘Somewhere Gray once lived? Or does the woman there know more than she’s letting on?’

‘Oh, she knows something, all right,’ Ray said. ‘Did you notice what she was wearing?’

Kate thought for a moment. ‘A dress, and a dark-coloured cardigan.’

‘Anything else?’

Kate shook her head, confused.

Ray pressed a button on his phone, and the screen burst into life. He handed it to Kate.

‘You took a photo of her?’

Ray grinned. He reached across and zoomed in on the photo, pointing to the knot of the woman’s yellow scarf, where there was a small circular mark.

‘It’s a pin badge,’ he said. He zoomed in a second time, and finally there it was. Thick black lines like two figures of eight, one nestling inside the other.

‘The symbol on the card!’ Kate said. ‘Nice work.’

‘There’s no doubt Jenna’s connected in some way to this house,’ Ray said. ‘But how?’

I never understood why you were so keen for me to meet your family. You hated your mother, and although you spoke to Eve once a week or so, she never made the effort to come to Bristol, so why should you trek to Oxford every time she wanted you there? But off you went, like a good little girl, leaving me for a night – sometimes more – while you cooed over her burgeoning bump and, no doubt, flirted with her rich husband. Each time you asked me to go with you, and each time I refused.

‘They’re going to think I’ve been making you up,’ you said. You smiled to show you were joking, but there was a desperation in your voice. ‘I want to spend Christmas with you – it wasn’t the same without you last year.’

‘Then stay here with me.’ It was a simple choice to make. Why wasn’t I enough for you?

‘But I want to be with my family too. We don’t even have to stay the night – we can just go for lunch.’

‘And not have a drink? Some Christmas lunch that’ll be!’

‘I’ll drive. Please, Ian, I really want to show you off.’

You were virtually begging. You had gradually toned down the make-up you used to wear, but that day you were wearing lipstick, and I watched the red curve of your mouth as you pleaded with me.

‘Fine.’ I shrugged. ‘But next Christmas it’s just you and me.’

‘Thank you!’ You beamed and threw your arms around me.

‘I suppose we’ll need to take presents. Bit of a joke, considering how much money they’ve got.’

‘It’s all sorted,’ you said, too happy to notice my barbed tone. ‘Eve only ever wants smellies, and Jeff’s happy with a bottle of Scotch. Honestly, it’ll be fine. You’ll love them.’

I doubted it. I had heard more than enough about ‘Lady Eve’ to make my own judgement on her, although I was intrigued to see what made you so obsessed with her. I had never felt the absence of siblings to be a loss, and found it irritating that you spoke to Eve so often. I would come into the kitchen when you were on the phone to her, and if you abruptly stopped talking I’d know you’d been discussing me.

‘What did you get up to today?’ I said, changing the subject.

‘I had a great day. I went to an artisans’ lunch at the Three Pillars – one of these networking groups, but for people working in creative industries. It’s amazing how many of us there are, all working on our own at home in little offices. Or on kitchen tables…’ You gave me an apologetic look.

It had become impossible to eat in the kitchen, thanks to the constant layer of paint, clay dust and scribbled drawings scattered on the table. Your things were everywhere, and there was no longer a place in which I felt relaxed. The house hadn’t seemed small when I bought it, and even when Marie was here there had been sufficient room for the two of us. Marie was quieter than you. Less exuberant. Easier to live with, in a way, apart from the lying. But I learned how to deal with that, and I knew I wouldn’t be caught out again.

You were still talking about the lunch you had been to, and I tried to concentrate on what you were saying.

‘So we think that between the six of us, we can probably afford the rent.’

‘What rent?’

‘The rent on a shared studio. I can’t afford one on my own, but I’m bringing in enough money from teaching to go in with the others, and this way I’ll be able to have a proper kiln, and I can get all this stuff out of your way.’

I hadn’t realised you were making any sort of income from your teaching. I had suggested you run pottery classes because it seemed a more sensible use of your time than making figurines that you sold for a pittance. I would have expected you to have offered a contribution towards my mortgage before agreeing to go into some sort of business partnership. After all, you had been living rent-free all this time.

‘It sounds great in principle, darling, but what happens when someone moves away? Who picks up the extra rent?’ I could see you hadn’t thought it through.

‘I need somewhere to work, Ian. Teaching’s all well and good, but it’s not what I want to do for ever. My sculptures are starting to sell, and if I could make them faster, and do more commissions, I think I could build a decent business.’

‘How many sculptors and artists actually do that, though?’ I said. ‘I mean, you have to be realistic about it – it might never be more than a hobby that brings you in a bit of pocket money.’

You didn’t like hearing the truth.

‘But by working as a cooperative we can all help each other. Avril’s mosaics would fit well with the sort of stuff I make, and Grant does the most incredible oil paintings. It would be great to involve some of my uni friends too, but I haven’t heard from anyone for ages.’

‘It’s fraught with problems,’ I said.

‘Maybe. I’ll give it some more thought.’

I could see you had already made up your mind. I would lose you to this new dream. ‘Listen,’ I said, my voice belying the anxiety I felt, ‘I’ve been thinking for a while about moving house.’

‘Have you?’ You looked dubious.

I nodded. ‘We’ll find a place with enough outside space, and I’ll build you a studio in the garden.’

‘My own studio?’

‘Complete with kiln. You can make as much mess as you like.’

‘You’d do that for me?’ A broad smile spread across your face.

‘I’d do anything for you, Jennifer, you know that.’

It was true. I would have done anything to have kept you.

While you were in the shower the phone rang.

‘Is Jenna there? It’s Sarah.’

‘Hi, Sarah,’ I said. ‘I’m afraid she’s out with friends at the moment. Did she not call you back the last time you rang? I passed on your message.’

There was a pause.

‘No.’

‘Ah. Well, I’ll tell her you called.’

While you were still upstairs, I went through your handbag. There was nothing out of the ordinary; your receipts were all for places you had told me you had been. I felt the bubble of tension inside me dissipate. Out of habit I checked the notes section of your purse, and although it was empty I felt a thickness under my fingers. I looked more carefully and saw there was a slit in the lining, into which had been slipped a small fold of notes. I pocketed it. If it was housekeeping, tucked away for safe-keeping, you would ask if I had seen it. If not, then I would know you were keeping secrets from me. Stealing my money.

You never mentioned it.

When you left me, I didn’t even notice you had gone. I waited for you to come home, and it was only when I eventually went to bed that I realised your toothbrush had disappeared. I looked for the suitcases, and found nothing missing but a small bag. Did he offer to buy you what you needed? Did he tell you he’d give you anything you wanted? And what did you offer in return? You disgust me. But I let you go. I told myself I was better off without you, and that as long as you didn’t go running to the police with accusations of what they’d no doubt call
abuse
, I would let you run off to wherever you were going. I could have come after you, but I didn’t want to. Do you understand that? I didn’t want you. And I would have left you alone, were it not for a tiny piece in today’s
Bristol Post
. They didn’t print your name, but did you think I wouldn’t know it was you?

I imagined the police asking about your life; your relationships. I saw them testing you; putting words in your mouth. I saw you crying and telling them everything. I knew you’d break down and it wouldn’t be long before they came knocking at my door, asking questions about matters that are no concern of theirs. Calling me a bully; an abuser; a wife-beater. I was none of those things: I never gave you anything you didn’t ask for.

Guess where I went today. Go on, take a guess. No? I went to Oxford to pay a visit to your sister. I reckoned if anyone knew where you were now, it would be her. The house hasn’t changed much in the last five years. Still the perfectly clipped bay trees either side of the front door; still the same irritating chiming door bell.