I Let You Go (38 page)

‘Jenna keeps a box under her bed.’ Patrick looked uncomfortable. ‘I wouldn’t have dreamed of going through her things, only she wouldn’t tell me anything about what happened, and then when I touched the box she snapped at me to leave it alone … I hoped it might give me some answers.’

‘So you took a look.’ Ray eyed Patrick thoughtfully. He didn’t seem to be an aggressive man, but snooping through someone’s possessions was the act of someone wanting control.

Patrick nodded. ‘I have a key to the cottage: we agreed I’d go and pick up her dog this morning, after she left for court.’ He sighed. ‘I half wish I hadn’t.’ He handed Ray an envelope. ‘Look inside.’

Ray opened the envelope and saw the distinctive red cover of a British passport. Inside, a younger Jenna looked back at him, unsmiling, her hair tied back in a loose ponytail. To the right, he saw a name: Jennifer Petersen.

‘She’s married.’ Ray glanced at Kate. How had they missed that? Intelligence checks were run on anyone coming into custody – surely they wouldn’t have missed something as basic as a name change? He looked at Patrick. ‘Did you know?’

Court would be sitting in the next ten minutes. Ray drummed his fingers on his desk. Something about the name Petersen was nagging him. It felt familiar.

‘She told me she was married once: I assumed she was divorced.’

Ray and Kate exchanged glances. Ray picked up the phone and called the court. ‘Has R v Gray been called yet?’ He waited while the desk clerk checked the court list.

Petersen, not Gray. What a cock-up.

‘Okay, thanks.’ He replaced the handset. ‘Judge King’s been delayed – we’ve got half an hour.’

Kate sat forward. ‘That report I gave you the other day – after you sent me to deal with the woman at the front counter. Where is it?’

‘Somewhere in my in-tray,’ Ray said.

Kate began rifling through the paperwork on his desk. She picked up three files from the top of Ray’s in-tray and, finding herself with no free space on the desk, dumped them on the floor. She leafed quickly through the remaining paperwork, discarding each unwanted page and picking up the next in seconds.

‘That’s it!’ she said triumphantly. She pulled out the report from its plastic wallet and dropped it on to Ray’s desk. A handful of torn photo pieces fluttered on top of it and Patrick picked one up. He looked at it curiously, then glanced up at Ray.

‘May I?’

‘Be my guest,’ Ray said, not completely clear what he was giving permission for.

Patrick gathered up the sections of photograph and began piecing them together. As the photo of Penfach Bay took shape in front of them, Ray let out a low whistle. ‘So Jenna Gray is the sister Eve Manning is so worried about.’

He sprang into action. ‘Mr Mathews, thank you for bringing the passport. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to wait for us at the court. Rachel at the front desk will direct you. We’ll be there as fast as we can. Kate, meet me at DAU in five minutes.’

As Kate escorted Patrick downstairs, Ray picked up the phone. ‘Natalie, it’s Ray Stevens from CID. Can you see what you’ve got on an Ian Petersen? White male, late forties…’

Ray ran down a flight of stairs and along a corridor through a door marked Protective Services. A moment later Kate joined him, and together they rang a buzzer for the Domestic Abuse Unit. A cheery-looking woman with cropped black hair and chunky jewellery opened the door.

‘Did you find anything, Nat?’

She showed them in and swivelled her computer screen to face them. ‘Ian Francis Petersen,’ she said, ‘born twelfth April 1965. Previous for drink drive, aggravated assault and currently the subject of a restraining order.’

‘Against a woman called Jennifer, by any chance?’ Kate said, but Natalie shook her head.

‘Marie Walker. We supported her to leave Petersen after six years of systematic abuse. She pressed charges, but he got off. The restraining order was granted at civil court and is still in place.’

‘Any history prior to Marie?’

‘Not with partners, no, but ten years ago he was cautioned for common assault. On his mother.’

Ray felt bile rise in his throat. ‘We think Petersen is married to the woman involved in the Jacob Jordan hit-and-run,’ he said. Natalie stood up and walked towards a wall full of grey metal filing cabinets. She pulled out a drawer and flicked through the contents.

‘Here it is,’ she said. ‘This is everything we’ve got on Jennifer and Ian Petersen, and it doesn’t make pleasant reading.’

The exhibitions you held were tedious. The venues were different: converted warehouses; studios; shop floors, but the people were always the same: ranting liberals in coloured scarves. The women were hairy and opinionated; the men insipid and under the thumb. Even the wine lacked personality.

During the week of your November exhibition you were particularly difficult. I helped you take your pieces to the warehouse three days early, and you spent the rest of the week there, getting ready.

‘How long does it take to set out a few sculptures?’ I said, when you came in late for the second night in a row.

‘We’re telling a story,’ you said. ‘The guests will move through the room from one sculpture to another, and the pieces have to speak in the right way to them.’

I laughed. ‘You should hear yourself! What a load of rubbish. Just make sure the price tag is nice and easy to read, that’s all that matters.’

‘You don’t have to come, if you don’t want to.’

‘Don’t you want me there?’ I eyed you suspiciously. Your eyes were a little too bright; your chin a little too defiant. I wondered what had caused such sudden joie de vivre.

‘I just don’t want you to be bored. We can manage.’

There it was: the flash of something unreadable in your eyes.

‘We?’ I said, raising an eyebrow.

You were flustered. You turned away and pretended to busy yourself with the washing-up. ‘Philip. From the exhibition. He’s the curator.’

You began wiping a cloth around the inside of a pan I had left to soak. I moved to stand behind you, pressing you between my body and the sink so my mouth was level with your ear. ‘Oh, he’s the
curator
, is he? Is that what you call him when he’s
fucking you
?’

‘It’s nothing like that,’ you said. Ever since your pregnancy you had adopted a particular tone of voice when I spoke to you. It was excessively calm; the sort of voice you might use when talking to a screaming child, or the clinically insane. I hated it. I moved a fraction backwards, and felt you breathe out, then I pushed you forward again. I guessed from the sound you made that you were winded, and you put both hands on the edge of the sink to get your breath back.

‘You’re not fucking Philip?’ I spat the words out on to the back of your neck.

‘I’m not fucking anyone.’

‘Well, you’re certainly not fucking me,’ I said, ‘not lately, anyway.’ I felt you tense, and I knew you expected me to slide a hand between your legs; wanted it, even. I was almost sorry to disappoint, but your skinny backside held little attraction for me by then.

On the day of the exhibition I was in our bedroom when you came upstairs to get changed. You hesitated.

‘It’s nothing I haven’t seen before,’ I said. I found a clean shirt and hung it on the back of the wardrobe door; you laid your outfit out on the bed. I watched you shrug off your tracksuit bottoms and fold up your sweatshirt for the next day. You wore a white bra and matching pants, and I wondered if you had chosen the colour deliberately to contrast with the bruise on your hip. The swelling was still noticeable, and when you sat on the bed you winced, as though making a point. You put on wide linen trousers and a voluminous top in the same fabric, which hung off your bony shoulders. I chose a necklace of fat green beads from the jewellery tree on your dressing table.

‘Shall I put this on for you?’

You hesitated, then sat on the little stool. I put my arms over your head and held the necklace in front of you, and you lifted your hair out of the way. I moved my hands to the back of your neck, tightening the pressure of the necklace against your throat for a split-second, and feeling you tense in front of me. I laughed and fastened the clasp. ‘Beautiful,’ I said. I bent down and looked at you in the mirror. ‘Try not to make a fool of yourself today, Jennifer. You always humiliate yourself at these things by drinking too much and fawning over the guests.’

I stood up to put on my shirt, choosing a pale pink tie to go with it. I slipped on my jacket and looked in the mirror, satisfied with what I saw. ‘You may as well drive,’ I said, ‘as you won’t be drinking.’

I had offered on several occasions to buy a new car for you, but you had insisted on keeping your battered old Fiesta. I went in it as little as possible, but I had no intention of letting you drive my Audi after you dented it trying to park, so I sat in the passenger seat of your filthy car and let you drive me to the exhibition.

When we arrived, there was already a crowd of people around the bar, and as we walked through the room there was a murmur of appreciation. Someone clapped and the others joined in, although there were too few people for it to be applause, and the resulting sound was embarrassing.

You handed me a glass of champagne and took one for yourself. A man with dark wavy hair approached us, and I knew from the way your eyes lit up that this was Philip.

‘Jenna!’ He kissed you on both cheeks and I saw your hand touch his so briefly you might have thought I wouldn’t notice. So briefly it might almost have been by accident. But I knew it wasn’t.

You introduced me, and Philip shook my hand. ‘You must be very proud of her.’

‘My wife is immensely gifted,’ I said. ‘Of course I’m proud of her.’

There was a pause before Philip spoke again. ‘I’m sorry to steal Jenna away from you, but I really must introduce her to a few people. There’s been a lot of interest in her work, and…’ He stopped talking and rubbed his thumb and fingers together, winking at me.

‘Far be it from me to stand in the way of possible sales,’ I said.

I watched you work the room together, Philip’s hand never leaving the small of your back, and I knew then you were having an affair. I don’t know how I got through the rest of the exhibition, but my eyes never left you. When the champagne was finished, I drank wine, and I stood next to the bar to save the need to return. And all the time I watched you. You had a smile on your face I never saw any more, and I had a brief glimpse of the girl I saw in the Student Union all those years ago, laughing with her friends. You never seemed to laugh any more.

My bottle was empty and I asked for more. The bar staff exchanged looks, but did what I said. People began leaving. I watched you say goodbye to them: kissing some, shaking hands with others. None were treated as warmly as your
curator
. When there were only a handful of guests left, I went up to you. ‘It’s time to go.’

You looked uncomfortable. ‘I can’t go yet, Ian, there are still people here. And I need to help clear up.’

Philip stepped forward. ‘Jenna, it’s fine. Poor Ian’s hardly seen you: he probably wants the chance to celebrate properly with you. I’ll finish up here and you can come for your pieces tomorrow. It’s been a huge success – well done!’ He kissed your cheek, only once this time, but the rage inside me threatened to boil over, and I could not speak.

You nodded. You seemed disappointed with Philip: did you hope he would ask you to stay? Send me away and keep you there? I took your hand and squeezed it tight as you continued talking to him. I knew you would never say a word, and I slowly tightened my grip until I could feel the cartilage in your hand slipping under my fingers.

Finally Philip was finished. He extended a hand to shake mine and I had to release my grip on you. I heard you exhale and saw you wrap one hand in the other.

‘Great to meet you, Ian,’ Philip said. His eyes flicked to you, before looking at me again. ‘Look after her, won’t you?’

I wondered what you had told him.

‘I always do,’ I said smoothly.

I turned for the exit and put my hand on your elbow, my thumb digging into your flesh.

‘You’re hurting me,’ you said under your breath. ‘People can see.’

I don’t know where you found this voice from, but I hadn’t heard it before.

‘How dare you make a fool of me?’ I hissed. We walked down the stairs, passing a couple who smiled politely at us. ‘Flirting with him in front of everyone, spending the whole evening touching him, kissing him!’ As we got to the car park I didn’t bother to keep my voice down, and the sound rang out in the night air. ‘You’re fucking him, aren’t you?’

You didn’t answer, and your silence made me even angrier. I grabbed your arm and twisted it behind you, bending it more and more until you cried out. ‘You brought me here to make fun of me, didn’t you?’

‘I didn’t!’ Tears ran down your face and fell in dark spots on to your top.

My fist clenched of its own accord, but just as I felt the tremor in my forearm, a man walked past us.

‘Good afternoon,’ he said.

I stilled my arm, and we stayed like that, two feet apart, until his footsteps faded.

‘Get in the car.’

You opened the driver’s door and got in, taking three attempts to put the key in the ignition and turn it. It was only four o’clock, but it was dark already. It had been raining, and every time a car came towards you the lights bounced off the wet tarmac, making you screw up your eyes. You were still crying, and you rubbed your hand across your nose.

‘Look at the state you’re in,’ I said. ‘Does Philip know you’re like this? A snivelling, pathetic mouse of a woman?’

‘I’m not sleeping with Philip,’ you said. You left a pause between each word to emphasise your point, and I slammed my fist on the dashboard.

You flinched. ‘I’m not Philip’s type,’ you said. ‘He’s—’

‘Don’t talk to me as though I’m an idiot, Jennifer! I have eyes. I can see what’s going on between you.’

You braked sharply at red lights, then jerked hard on the accelerator as they changed to green. I twisted in my seat so I could watch you. I wanted to read your face; see what you were thinking. Whether you were thinking about
him
. I could tell that you were, although you were trying to hide it.