The Black Path (32 page)

She scrambles to her feet and grabs her phone, which is charging on the bedside table.

Her mother answers on the second ring. ‘Hello?’

‘It’s me.’

‘Helen? You sound strange. Are you alright?’

‘Not really.’ She feels her throat tighten. ‘Mum, I need to talk to you about something.’

‘What’s wrong? Is Owen okay?’

‘Not really.’ Tears prick her eyes. ‘We had a row.’

‘Oh’. Her mother pauses. ‘Well, it hasn’t been easy for either of you. I’m sure you’ll sort it out.’

‘But I’m not calling about him. I need to see you.’

‘Right. Why don’t you both come round for your tea tomorrow?’

‘No. This can’t wait. I’ll drive over.’

‘But Frank’s on his way home to pick me up. He’s taking me to Tesco’s.’

‘I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’

She slides the phone into the front pocket of her jeans, pulls on a pair of trainers and tucks the envelope in her handbag. As she reaches the top of the landing an image pops into her head – her father, swaying at the bottom of the stairs, gripping the bannister with both hands and mumbling to her mother, ‘Don’t let Helen see me like this!’

Hurrying downstairs, she grabs her car keys from the dresser in the hall and steps outside. Her first thought on seeing the car is that kids have smeared mud down the passenger’s side.

But it hasn’t rained in days.

Then, as she draws nearer, she sees that it’s far worse than that. It isn’t mud. It’s black spray paint.

A sudden cry makes her jump. But it’s just the jeering laugh of a crow flapping overhead. The streets are deserted.

Slowly, she begins walking around the car. All four tyres have been slashed. The right tail light is broken. There’s a deep scratch on the driver’s side, starting above the tail light and ending at the driver’s door. Written on the door in large ugly black letters is a single word – ‘Cunt’.

Helen clasps her hand to her mouth and fumbles in her pocket for her phone.

First she calls her mother. Then she calls the police.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

It’s over an hour before the police car finally pulls up. She’s peering through the front window, afraid to wait outside in case she draws attention to the graffiti on her car and one of the neighbours starts asking questions. She watches as two uniformed officers step out and inspect the car. She wonders what’s taking them so long.

Eventually there’s a knock on the door.

‘Sorry we’re late,’ the older of the two men says. ‘There’s been a fire over in Blackmill.’

‘Come in,’ she replies, and leads them through to the kitchen.

‘I’m Officer Garrett,’ the older officer says. ‘And this is Officer Hughes.’ He takes out his notebook. ‘When did you last use your car?’

‘Yesterday. We went to a funeral.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. And when did you notice the damage?’

‘This morning. It must have happened during the night.’

‘Do you have any idea who might be responsible?’

‘No,’ she replies, though she’s spent the past hour asking herself the very same question and keeps returning to the same answer – Jackson. She’d angered him yesterday and a man who beats his own wife is capable of anything.

‘You’re sure?’ Garrett asks.

She nods. ‘Quite sure.’

Tempting as it is to point the finger at Jackson, she has no proof, not even a clear motive. It would be her word against his. Besides, the thought of him scares her. What he might do. What he might say. The last thing she wants is a man like that trampling all over her personal life.

‘It’s so warm in here,’ she says, walking over to open a window. The heat has been building for days, much like the tensions in the house. And this visit from the police isn’t helping matters. She’s beginning to regret calling them. She knows it’s the right thing to do. It’s what Owen would have done. But Owen isn’t here. Where is he?

‘Mrs McGrath?’

She turns. ‘Sorry?’

The younger officer can’t be much older than her. His face looks vaguely familiar but she can’t quite place him.

‘Is there anyone you’ve argued with?’ he asks. ‘A neighbour perhaps?’

‘No.’

‘Any debts? Anyone you’ve fallen out with?’

‘Of course not.’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘Is there something more personal you’d like to share with us?’

‘What do you mean,
personal
?’ She recognizes him now. His name is Michael Hughes. He was in the year above her at school and had always been pretty full of himself. Joining the local constabulary has done little to deflate his preening sense of self-importance.

‘People don’t always tell us everything,’ Garrett says. ‘Especially if there’s something they’d rather keep quiet about. I take it you’re married, Mrs McGrath?’

‘Yes.’

Hughes smirks. ‘And there’s nobody else?’

Helen glares at him. ‘I’m not cheating on my husband!’

‘I didn’t say you were. But sometimes people don’t give us the full facts.’

Garrett raises a calming hand. ‘What my colleague is trying to say is that it’s usually someone you know.’

He has a kind face and seems genuinely concerned for her welfare. Helen wants to trust him. She wants to place her faith in someone, anyone, who can help her through this nightmare.

‘Is there anyone you can think of?’ he asks. ‘Anyone at all?’

She hesitates before answering. ‘No.’

‘What about your husband?’

‘He’s a soldier. He’s just come back from Afghanistan. He was injured.’

The men exchange a look.

‘Could we have a word with him?’ Garrett asks.

‘He went out for some fresh air.’

‘How long ago?’

She glances at the kitchen clock. ‘A couple of hours.’

‘And you’ve not heard from him since?’

‘No.’

The radio on Garrett’s chest crackles into life. He pulls it up to his ear and turns away for a moment. When he turns back, the expression on his face has changed. His voice is harder too. ‘How is your husband, Mrs McGrath?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘How would you describe his state of mind? Has he been acting strangely at all?’

‘No,’ she lies. She feels herself flushing, wonders if it shows.

‘Does your husband have a problem with Muslims?’ Hughes asks.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘You said he was injured in Afghanistan. He wouldn’t be the first soldier to harbour a grudge. An experience like that can affect people in all sorts of ways.’

She scowls at him. ‘My husband is a professional soldier. What’s all this got to do with my car?’

‘I think you’d better sit down,’ Garrett says.

‘I’m fine standing, thank you.’

‘The fire in Blackmill,’ he continues. ‘We think it may have been started deliberately. The house belongs to a man who recently converted to Islam. He’s a bit of a local celebrity by all accounts. Red-haired chap. Maybe you’ve seen him around?’

Helen pictures the man from the café, that afternoon with Siân. ‘I think I may have seen him once. Is he okay?’

‘I think we ought to speak to your husband.’

‘My husband doesn’t have anything to do with any fire! Now what about my car?’

Garrett shrugs. ‘We’ll have a word with your neighbours, see if any of them saw anyone hanging around your car. But I’ll be honest with you. This sort of thing happens a lot around here. Unless someone saw something or you have an idea of who might be responsible, we don’t have an awful lot to go on.’

‘So whoever did this just gets away with it?’

‘We’ll do our best, Mrs McGrath. But like I said, we don’t have much to go on.’

She can tell when she’s being fobbed off. It’s obvious from the hurried way they draw the conversation to a close that the police aren’t really interested in finding the person responsible for damaging her car. They have bigger fish to fry. Someone set fire to a man’s house, and thanks to her unguarded comment they now think that Owen might be responsible. It’s him they really want to speak to. Everything else is just procedure.

Helen watches anxiously from the window as they go through the motions of knocking on a few doors. Nobody answers, though this doesn’t mean that nobody is home. People around here are wary of authority. The police are viewed with suspicion at best, contempt at worst. Usually she finds such attitudes small-minded. But for once she’s grateful. The officers had told her they’d make enquiries about her car, but who’s to say that they won’t be asking questions about her husband?

As the squad car pulls out of the road, she heaves a sigh of relief. At least she’s in the clear for now. But the feeling is short-lived. The police suspect that Owen is guilty of arson. And the worst part is, she can’t say for certain that they’re wrong. She glances at her watch. Where the hell is he?

***

Time passes. She drifts from room to room, unable to settle. She boils the kettle and sits coiled on the sofa, nursing a cup of tea until it goes cold in her hands. Head cocked, she listens for the door, wonders if she should go out looking for him. And start where exactly? He could be anywhere by now. She wonders if the police are watching the house.

Now you’re being paranoid
, she thinks. But is it any wonder?

Anxiously, she wanders back into the kitchen. The unused breakfast things are still on the table. Returning the empty bowls to the cupboard, it suddenly strikes her that she should eat something. But the thought of food makes her nauseous.

The phone rings in the hallway.
Please let that be him!

She isn’t quick enough. It rings off just as she grabs the handset. She dials 1471 and presses the receiver to her ear. The caller withheld their number.

Upstairs, another phone rings. It takes her a moment to recognize the ringtone. It’s Owen’s iPhone. She runs up to the bedroom. The phone is flashing on his bedside drawer but rings off before she reaches it.

She pauses. Should she really be answering her husband’s phone? Is this what she’s reduced to? Spying on him?

It’s not spying. He’s your husband. You’re worried about him
.

Besides, she knows the passcode. If Owen didn’t want her using his phone, he’d never have told her the passcode. She slides a finger across the screen and enters the four-digit code – the day and month they were married. The display shudders and buzzes angrily. Strange. She tries again. Nothing. She tries entering the day and month of her birthday. Nothing. Then she tries his. Still nothing.

She sighs and sinks onto the edge of the bed, glances down at the chest of drawers. The bottom drawer is still open. Why did Owen hide the envelope there? Where did it come from? Why was it addressed to him and not her? It’s not like him to hide things from her. But then why change the passcode on his phone? What else is he hiding? The stresses and strains of the past few weeks bubble up inside her. Her head feels like it’s about to explode.

People aren’t always who you think they are
.

A car pulls up outside. She goes to the window, thinking it might be the police. A familiar red hatchback is parked opposite her house. She watches as Frank steps out and walks around to the passenger door. Her mother is the kind of woman who likes men to open doors for her. But it isn’t her mother who emerges from the car. It’s her husband. She runs downstairs and opens the door.

‘Owen! Where the hell have you been?’

He’s standing on the doorstep, his eyes staring down at the pavement. She reaches for his hand but he pulls away.

‘Frank? What’s wrong with him?’

‘Let’s get him inside,’ Frank says, looking around. ‘We can talk there.’

She steps aside as he steers Owen into the house. His head is still bowed, the look on his face one of bewilderment mixed with fear.

‘Owen? Please say something!’

Finally, he looks at her. His eyes are red and pained.

‘I think it’s best if we get him to bed,’ Frank says gently. ‘I’ll take him up. Did the doctors give you anything for him? Something to help him sleep?’

‘There are some pills in the bathroom cabinet.’ She frowns. ‘But shouldn’t I try talking to him first?’

Frank shoots her a warning look. ‘I’ll just take him up. Then we can have a chat.’

She hesitates, torn between a feeling of possessiveness and the understanding that Frank is better equipped to deal with this situation than she is. It doesn’t look as if Owen can make it up the stairs unaided. He’s barely able to stand.

She steps aside.

It’s only as he brushes past her that she notices the smell on his clothes. Smoke.

She’s in the kitchen when Frank reappears. ‘What’s going on?’ she asks, and bursts into tears.

‘Why don’t we sit down?’ He steers her to a chair and sits next to her. ‘Try not to worry, Helen. I’m sure everything’s going to be alright. My guess is he’s suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. It’s quite common. His doctor will know what to do.’

‘But he’s been gone for hours. Where has he been?’

‘I don’t know. I was on my way over to see you and got stuck in traffic. I think there’s been some sort of accident somewhere. Anyway, I was just starting to move again when I saw him standing at the bus stop.’

‘Where was he going?’

‘Search me. The bus came but he didn’t get on.’

‘Did he say anything?’

‘Not a word. He recognized me, but that was about it.’ Frank tilts his head. ‘Your mother told me about your car.’

‘And did she tell you we had a row?’

He nods. ‘Yes, she did. But you’re going to have to make some allowances for him, Helen. The poor lad’s not himself.’

You don’t know the half of it
, she thinks, but says nothing.

‘But he’ll come through this,’ Frank says. ‘You both will.’ He pauses. ‘So what did the police say? About the car?’

‘Not much. They didn’t sound very confident that they’ll find whoever did it’.

‘You haven’t fallen out with any of the neighbours?’

She shakes her head.

Frank thinks for a moment. ‘It could be kids, I suppose. Some people’s parenting skills leave a lot to be desired.’

Helen’s eyes fill with tears.

‘Well, it’s probably best if you put it to the back of your mind for now,’ Frank adds quickly. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll have one of the lads come and take the car to the workshop. We’ll get it back on the road for you in no time.’