Too Close For Comfort (35 page)

The streets of Little Copping were coursing with people. I slipped my way through, sunglasses clamped on, hoping I wouldn’t run into anyone I knew. Lysette had left a couple of angry
messages, demanding to know what was going on. I hadn’t been able to face calling her back quite yet. I understood why she was angry about Jim and me – particularly once the scene had
been moulded and shaped by Kimberley’s retelling – but I also suspected there was a strange kind of relief in being able to move the spotlight. Her pinched face, her wild eyes –
the half-confession she’d blurted out was haunting me. I knew now how bad her situation really was, and I needed to have my wits about me before I spoke to her.

I rang Patrick, yet again, without much hope of success. I’d given up leaving messages about ten calls ago, but by now I was desperate, gut-wrenchingly aware of how horrible it was to not
know he was there – quietly, if distractedly, adoring me. His love was a steady heartbeat, not a racing pulse, which had made it all too easy to take for granted. Not now –
there’s no way that you can ignore a cardiac arrest. I listened to his voicemail, the sound of his voice making the lump in my throat so big I didn’t know if a message was even
possible.

‘Patrick, it’s me. All I can think about is you. I’m dealing with all of this – this life and death stuff – and all I can think about is how lucky I am to have you.
Or to have had you. Please don’t let it be that.’ I paused, choked by a sob, then ran on, aware that soon his voicemail would cut me off: multiple messages was bordering on bunny boiler
behaviour. ‘Last night looked so much worse than it was. I know I should’ve told you that Jim had – that I’d seen him again – but I didn’t want to hurt you. I
know that’s a lame excuse. I’m so, so . . .’ but before I could lay on another pathetic sorry, the smug-sounding automated message trilled that I was out of time.

There was already so much I longed to tell him, and it had been less than twenty-four hours since we’d had that back and forth whilst he hunted down a baguette in Pret A Manger. It had
seemed scrappy to that unlovely princess part of me, but the way he had effortlessly integrated me into the fabric of his life now felt like the ultimate compliment. I wanted to pour out my fears
for Lysette, my paralysis about what was best to do. I wanted to ask him how, with that in mind, I should dance around Snake Hips Krall, particularly when Roger would be eagerly spectating. And
most of all I wanted to make him slow down and tell me what he was thinking and feeling – to pay him proper attention. I stopped a moment outside the hardware shop, winded by his absence, and
swivelled the small diamond on my ring finger as if it had magical powers and could transmit a message to him across time and space.

Then I forced myself onwards, past the newsagent, grateful to see that a premier league footballer’s quickie divorce had knocked the deaths off the front pages. But there was the local
paper, a beaming picture of Little Copping’s golden couple splashed across the front, all white teeth and perfect hair.
Charity Triumph!
it said. Triumph was
absolutely the last word I associated with last night’s events. I crossed the cobbled square and traversed the village green, the station now in sight. At that moment, I finally heard the
beep of my phone. I scrabbled in my bag, pulled it out. My heart was pounding, which made the disappointment even more crushing: Jim.

I growled with fury, stabbing at my phone to wipe his message off the screen. Kimberley wasn’t some obedient minion, eager to do his bidding: there was every chance this would get back to
his wife, coloured in and embellished for good measure. Perhaps it didn’t matter to them – perhaps Little Copping was a hotbed of swinging parties – but from the way that Rowena
had gripped his wandering hands, I didn’t believe it. It was hurtful too, although the fact it hurt made me even more infuriated with myself. What we’d talked about was real and
important, something that had been left unsaid twenty years. How had I still not learnt my lesson? Of course he couldn’t be relied on to acknowledge what mattered in life.

My phone beeped again. This time I raised it without a sense of hope, but finally it was Patrick.

Even now, even in the aftermath of my deception, he was still tracking the detail of my life – it was almost too much to bear. The train was pulling into the station: I knew I
couldn’t let myself collapse. I slowly paced the remaining distance, pulling ragged breaths into my centre. How much had this tragedy ultimately cost us? It took all my strength to respect
his wishes, to not call and call until he was forced to pick up, just to get rid of me. I’m not sure I would’ve succeeded if I hadn’t been able to see the train doors slamming,
known that Roger was right there waiting for me.

*

Roger was standing in the booking office, tall and suave, taking in his surroundings. When he saw me, he shot out a hand for a firm shake, as if we were two world leaders posing
for the cameras before we retired to discuss the fastest route to world peace.

‘Mia,’ he said. His keen gaze rested on me, searching for the right sentence. Saying I looked well would’ve been inappropriately dishonest, undermining our professional code of
honour. ‘You’ve obviously been giving this situation your all.’

I cast a quick, darting glance around myself in the way that I’d grown prone to. The silver-haired man behind the glass was pretending to be busy with his gigantic ticket machine, the
chubby young couple on the island of benches had ceased crunching their grab bag of crisps. I could no longer tell what was paranoia and what was self-preservation.

‘Shall we head into the village?’ I said, forcing an empty smile.

‘Lead on,’ agreed Roger, immediately pulling open the door for me.

*

We were tucked into a musty booth, right at the back of the pub, a few feet away from the well-worn, pocked dartboard. It wasn’t the perfect environment for a supervision
session, but it was all we had. Roger was returning from the bar, a friendly smile plastered on his smooth face, unaware of Rita’s sharp gaze burning a laser between his shoulder blades.
‘It’ll be lunchtime soon,’ she’d snapped, when I’d told her we needed a quiet spot for a meeting. ‘I know you like your pow-wows, but I can’t guarantee you
peace and quiet once we fill up.’

‘One orange juice and soda for you, and a Diet Coke for me!’ said Roger, landing them on the table. ‘When I used to work in conflict zones, there was nothing quite like an ice
cold Coke in the burning heat.’

Textbook technique – share a moment of personal vulnerability to build intimacy and trust.

‘I can’t imagine how you did it. I’d last about seven minutes in a war zone.’

‘Would you?’ asked Roger. ‘The way you were talking when we Skyped was almost like you were in a war zone of your very own down here. How have things been progressing? It would
be good to get an overview before we meet with Lawrence.’

Lawrence. His best buddy Lawrence. I couldn’t think
Snake Hips
: it would make that golf-ball-sized lump rise back up in my throat and choke me. I took a swig of
my drink, the ice cubes rising up and rattling painfully against my front teeth.

‘Well, it’s all but over!’ I said, my smile bright and bland. ‘I did what I came to do, which was provide support. I’m particularly glad to have worked with Max,
Sarah’s little boy, and from my conversation with her widower I think he might seriously contemplate finding ongoing support for him.’

‘Mmm,’ said Roger, giving the sound a meaningful burr. ‘But you did mention that some of the statements he was making were’ – he dropped his voice –
‘concerning to you.’

I was tired, my zeal all but gone. I worried desperately for Lysette, for Max, but it felt like anything I did was liable to cause more harm than good. It was as if we were watching a drama on
an old TV, the arial at a dodgy angle, the picture too blurry and static-filled to be identifiable. Making guesses was a dangerous game.

‘I certainly think it’s a complicated community.’ Max’s face flashed up for me – that zipping motion that felt like a vow. ‘It sounds like Peter and Sarah
most probably were involved. And obviously you know about the accusations Kimberley Farthing made and then withdrew against him.’ Her name tasted bitter in my mouth. So too did the
accusation.

‘What about the drugs?’ asked Roger, quick as a flash. ‘Are the Farthings aware of that?’

‘I think it’s possible there was drug taking, and it’s possible Kimberley was aware of that.’ She was cunning, the way she didn’t even acknowledge the flakes of
powder on the wrought-iron table. Plausible deniability. ‘But – lots of people take recreational drugs. There’s no reason to think it’s connected.’

‘But could it be? If Sarah was taking drugs?’

I shrugged, sipped from my icy drink.

‘It’s possible. Anything’s possible.’ Lysette reared up for me now; the desperation in her grief-ravaged face when she’d asked for that loan, the eerily contrasting
wads of cash that Jim described, the determination with which she’d pulled out the wrap. But none of that had been when I was on official business. I had no obligation to share it with Roger.
‘All the evidence suggests it was a love affair gone wrong.’

‘Is that what you believe, Mia? From everything Judith told me, from the feedback I’ve had, my understanding is that you’re deeply intuitive. That it was your intuition that
got the police all the way to Christopher Vine.’

I felt an answering flicker of it, a crackle.
He didn’t do it
– the conviction whispered through me, but then I reminded myself that I wasn’t some
kind of tribal elder with a medicine ball. All I needed to do right now was get home and attend to my real life. Nothing I did or said would bring Sarah back, and I couldn’t take the risk of
causing Lysette – the person who had brought me here, my friend of the ages – more trauma.

‘I don’t know anything definitive to the contrary, and I certainly don’t want to confuse things with half-truths and suggestions.’

Roger looked around the pub, buying himself a moment’s thinking time.

‘I get that – I admire your loyalty, your integrity – but I’m also here to help you steer a steady path through any legal responsibilities you might have around
disclosure.’

‘Thank you. I appreciate that.’

When Roger turned his ice blue gaze on me it was like a searchlight on dark water. I didn’t flinch.

‘OK – well let’s talk in more depth about your recent sessions. We’ll also need to cover the layer of complication offered by the fact that your oldest friend is right at
the hub.’

Fun times. Cake-munching Krall – with his growing certainty that this was an open and shut case – would be a breeze after this. I knew as I thought it that my logic was dangerous
– supervision was meant to be a support to me, a support to my clients, not an exercise in evasion. The last time I’d treated it that way, I’d nearly got myself killed.

Why was I so stubborn, so determined not to learn from my own mistakes?

‘Are we meeting him in The Crumpet?’ Roger gave me a look of bemusement. ‘It’s a restaurant – well, more of a tea shop. It’s where I met him
last time.’

We were standing in the lane outside The Black Bull now: it was almost as though the scenery had pulled out all the stops to seduce Roger. The fields were splayed out in front of us, greeny-gold
in the afternoon light, whilst the rushing stream bubbled its way past, the ducks providing a symphony of quacks.

‘No, we’re meeting him at the police station,’ he said, seemingly unmoved. ‘I asked Ruth behind the bar to call a cab when I settled the bill.’

‘Rita,’ I said, unnecessarily. I should’ve seen in his expression what I was failing to notice – I had gone dangerously native.

‘Aah, here it is,’ said Roger, as a bashed-up white saloon car pulled up next to us.

*

The police station loomed up in front of us, that forbidding grey slab of concrete. I gave a little internal shudder at the memory of Jim meeting me on the steps, the guilty
comfort it had shot through me.

I could chalk that up as yet another thing to avoid sharing with Roger. I’d described this morning’s session with Max, but as with our Gruffalo encounter, the pieces that unsettled
me were hard to grasp hold of, found as much in the spaces between the words as they were in the words themselves. To be fair to Roger, he’d done what he was supposed to do: helped me
identify those pieces and jigsaw them together into a clearer shape.

‘It sounds like you are picking up on something beyond simple grief,’ he’d said. ‘If he was aware her relationship with his teacher was transgressive – just the
fact he couldn’t tell his classmates he saw him in his home – he’ll be left with an extra complication. Something he might feel he can’t talk to the surviving parent about
out of loyalty to his mum.’

‘No, I get that,’ I’d said, mind racing with all the add-ons I didn’t want to bring to the party. Of course he’d gone back to the drugs, asked me if anything else
had emerged, and I’d shaken my head, not quite trusting myself to speak. Last night was still a noisy, painful blur, scrambled footage that I needed to rewind and play back frame by
frame.

The cab swung into the car park, the heavy metal pole swinging upwards like an execution in reverse.

‘Here we are,’ said Roger, who was clearly a master at stating the obvious.

He palmed the driver some cash, then led the way towards the looming grey building. I felt a furious stab of resentment as I looked up at it: I should’ve listened to that whisper of
instinct, not the shout of my ego. I knew that getting drawn into this case could only cause trouble – what I hadn’t known was quite how much.