Behind the Lie Page 6

  ‘Yes. Told you I wasn’t mad.’ We do fake laughs and end the call.

  Iona is stirring and I hurry into her room. Her little arms are thrown back above her head and her lips suckle the air – dreaming of a feed. I can’t remember the last time I had a restful sleep. I smile. The storm in my head, though not quite over, is abating and I think I can see weak sunshine pushing at its edges. The feeling I had that he was alive before is back and growing in strength, even though it might mean the unthinkable. Perhaps it’s all in my head, wishful thinking that he’s alive, and this letter is just the product of a terrible, cruel, twisted person intent on hurting me and Simon. But what I can’t do is dismiss it, ignore it. I owe it to my boy to follow it up, even if it all comes to nothing in the end.

  ‘I promise I’ll find out what happened to your brother, little one. No matter how hard it is and no matter how long it takes.’ My whisper sounds strong, full of conviction in the peaceful quiet. I like the idea of strength. I need to prove I can stand on my own two feet. For too long I’ve relied on others, been a victim. The poor damaged butterfly, as Simon once called me, the damsel in need of rescuing. I’m damned if I’ll allow it to continue.

  The rocking chair takes my weight and, as I wait for my daughter to wake fully, I close my eyes and relax into the forward and back. Inside my head, the sky is blue now and storm-washed thoughts begin to order themselves into logical rows.

  I think I’ve found a place to start my quest.

  Chapter Eight

  If I ever work again in the future, I think I’ll become an actress. My ‘good wife’ act over the past two days has been perfect, so much so that Simon commented that he thought I had turned a corner. Little does he know that’s exactly what I have been doing all the time he’s been at work all day. Iona and I have been walking the streets, turning corners, revisiting places I have been recently to try and track down the man who delivered the letter. So far, the supermarket, post office, baker’s, park, swimming pool and baby clinic have all come to nothing. But I do know I saw the man fairly recently, and more than once.

  It had to be more than once, didn’t it? I mean, unless you’re someone with a photographic memory, faces don’t stick so readily. At least I don’t think they do. It had to have been more than just seeing him pass me in the street, surely? Cornwall is out too. He is a city man. Not that he dressed in a sharp suit or anything; no, he wore jeans and a light jacket. But his shoes were dusty. Brown, dusty brogues with a layer of London dust living in the pores of the leather and covering the round of the laces. Cornwall has dust, of course, but not city dust. I just know he lives here.

  So today’s visit is the last resort and one I’m not looking forward to making. Because if I’m spotted there, I’ll have to dredge up an Academy Award-winning performance from somewhere and there’s not much energy left in the tank for that. I’m tired from tossing and turning all night worrying about Ruan. If he’s alive, where is he? Are the people who have him looking after him properly? How did they take him from the clinic without anyone knowing? Will I ever be able to track him down? If he is dead – my gut tells me that’s increasingly unlikely – who wrote that letter and why? These thoughts exhaust me, and alongside all that, there’s the early morning feeds with Iona too. But needs must, and the need is great.

  Iona looks at me from under her ‘bunny ears’ hat with an expression that says she’d rather be on her play mat than waiting for me to fiddle with the car seat. Tiredness has turned my fingers to lumps of wood. An idea kicks me in the head – perhaps it’s not a good idea to be driving if you’re that tired? It will be an hour’s walk, but so what? The pram is in the boot and I lift the car seat out and fix it on to the frame.

  Ten minutes later and the warm sunshine and slight breeze reward me for my sensible decision. The overwhelming tiredness has been confined to a slight tension behind my eyes and the exercise is doing wonders for my positive outlook. Must be the endorphins. When I think of the word ‘endorphins’, I always picture dolphins. I say it out loud to Iona. She yawns.

  *

  ‘No, my husband isn’t expecting me. I just want to get a feel for where he works, you know? He’s here so much; I’d love to just be here on my own for an hour – have a wander. In that way I can try to understand, albeit it in a small way, the huge part of his life that is separate from mine.’ I give her a broad smile and hope it isn’t erring on the manic.

  The receptionist tries a smile back, but her eyes tell a different story. ‘I see. I could get someone to show you around?’

  I remember vaguely chatting to her at the Christmas party here, but her name escapes me. I peer at her name badge. ‘No thanks, Brittany. I want to just be a fly on the wall… if that makes sense?’

  Brittany makes a noise in her throat that sounds like she’s trying to stifle a giggle and shuffles some files to disguise it. She makes her face straight and says to the small garden through the picture window. ‘So you don’t want me to page Mr West?’

  Is this woman dense? I just said I wanted to be alone. ‘No thanks. If I bump into him then that’ll be a nice surprise.’ It’ll be a surprise, all right.

  Brittany twirls a long blonde curl around her fingers and stares at a computer screen. ‘Let’s see… Ah, he’s in surgery, so I doubt that.’

  Hallelujah! ‘Righty ho. I’ll just get my daughter into her sling and then I’ll go for a wander. Can I park the pram behind reception?’

  The wide blue eyes grow rounder as if the request was for her to strip naked and do a tap dance on the countertop. ‘Well, we’re not supposed to store anything behind here really…’ Brittany begins. And then she looks at my face, respect in her eyes. ‘But as you’re married to Mr West and I know you from the party last year…’ She slips from her stool, takes the pram and hands me a visitor’s badge to clip on my clothes. ‘And may I say… I am so sorry for the loss of your little one.’

  I want to say he’s not dead, so no need, but of course I can’t. ‘Thanks, that’s very kind.’ I give a brief smile and then hurry off down the corridor.

  Half an hour later we have covered everything the small clinic has to offer and the little garden, twice. Of course we’re not permitted into the operating theatre or the private patients’ rooms, so I am considering going into the plush little coffee area for some much-needed caffeine and then heading off home. Iona needs a feed, so two birds and all that.

  I drink my coffee and talk to Iona as she’s the only person here. I realise I spend hours of my life alone now, apart from her, of course. It feels good to talk, even though Iona can’t reply, and I tell her all about her grandfather and how much he would have loved her, and about how happy Demi is with her new boyfriend, Alex. He came to Cornwall to stay for good last week and she’s told me she’s as happy as she can ever remember. Well, apart from when I spoke to her about the man and the letter the other day. She wasn’t happy then.

  Iona is on my lap and reaches out a hand for my hair. I lean forward, and she gives it a yank. Strong grip for a tiny baby. I untangle it and kiss her little fingers.

  ‘Your Auntie Demi thinks I’ve lost my marbles, made the whole thing up. Or at least that I’m imagining it. Oh, she’d say that wasn’t true, but I think it is. She thinks I’m depressed, falling apart because your brother is missing…’ I take a mouthful of coffee. Yes, missing sounds much better than dead. Not only does it sound better, I know it’s true.

  My daughter shapes her mouth into a grimace and gives a wail. It’s her hungry cry and I take a bottle from my bag. ‘But I’m not making it up or imagining it, even though, so far, we haven’t found the letter man. You know Mummy’s not crackers, don’t you, sweet pea?’ Iona doesn’t comment, of course; she’s too busy feeding.

  The lady behind the counter in the coffee area keeps smiling at me. Now she’s rearranging the cookie shelf. A few minutes later she smiles again and wipes the countertop. Perhaps she knows something? Perhaps she can’t pluck up the
courage to come forward and spill the beans on where Ruan is. Or then again, perhaps she’s just smiling at me because I have a cute baby, I’m the only one here and she’s bored stupid. Just as I’m thinking this, a young couple come in. The woman is hugely pregnant and frowny and he looks anxious. I’m guessing she’s in early labour.

  I make a story up about their lives and whisper it to Iona as she takes the last of her milk. The pregnant woman lowers herself into a seat at a table and the man puts their drinks down and tells her he’s off to get his phone from the car. As he leaves, reflected in the glass door as he pushes it open is a man with a mop and bucket, busy cleaning the main corridor. I only see him for a few seconds as the door swings back, but it’s enough to make my heart lurch. He is tall, middle-aged and balding.

  Calm. Be calm. I can’t turn round for a proper look, because I don’t want the man to see me through the glass door. If he sees me he might take off and I’ll never catch him, not with Iona in tow. My heart is far from calm, so I take a few deep breaths as I watch my fingers take the bottle from Iona’s lips and dab at her mouth with a muslin square. I’ll have to wait until he’s moved past, further along the corridor, then I’ll casually walk past and take a good look at him. I was here for three days after the C-section, so I must have seen him fairly often… it makes sense.

  In the sling again, Iona rests her cheek on my chest and closes her eyes. Good. A crying baby will cause the man to look up and notice me before I have time to see his face. I sidle out into the corridor and am dismayed by how far away he is. Damn it. I have a long way to walk looking casual and his attention might be drawn to my movement. At the moment his head is down and he’s swishing the mop back and forth, side to side – always the same rhythm and speed, as if he’s an automaton.

  A doctor comes out of a side room and I slip in behind him, mirroring his exact footsteps. I run into his back as he stops to check something – his pager, I think. Luckily, Iona is sound asleep and hasn’t been affected by the collision. I mumble an apology, step to the side and look up the corridor… The cleaner has gone. He’s gone! Shit, did he see me somehow, recognise me, and has legged it?

  As quickly as I am able with a baby strapped to my front, I hurry to the end of the corridor, just in time to see the man open a door and clank his mop bucket through it. He doesn’t seem to be in a rush, so chances are he hasn’t spotted me. I reach the door marked ‘Staff Only’ as it closes in my face and gently pull it open again. In front of me is a short concrete landing and beyond that some steep-ish steps. I know the man isn’t far away as the metal mop bucket can be heard clanking down to the next level.

  My hand grips the metal banister and I peer over it. Looks to be some kind of laundry-come-kitchen room. This place is isolated from the rest of the clinic. What if he’s dangerous – if he feels cornered or trapped, he might lash out, mightn’t he? A logical voice slips in, calms the thundering in my chest. He has a job here. Can he afford to lose it? If he attacks me, then it would be easy to find his name and address; the police would find him and he’d have to tell them all about the letter and who gave it to him. But what if he denies it all? Simon might back him – he’d say I was depressed, prone to imagining things. Who would they believe, Simon or me? A little voice in my head argues that Simon might not be far off the mark, so I squash the voice with a hefty dose of determination.

  Thoughts of being attacked give me little comfort, but I have almost convinced myself that he won’t do such a thing. Why would he need to? I’m not about to launch myself at him, baby first and tackle him to the ground, make him tell me everything on pain of death, am I? No. I stop when I realise I’m already halfway down the stone steps. In the air is a mixture of bleach and lemons and, as I walk through an archway, I see the man at a large sink. His back is to me and he’s swilling out the mop and humming. It might not even be the guy that delivered the letter… but I am almost sure it is.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say and the man gives a start, turns around. There is no doubt. It’s the letter man.

  Iona stirs as the mop clatters to the floor. The man wipes the back of his hand across his forehead, dark eyes shifty in his reddening face as if they are looking for a way out. ‘Can I help you? This area is for members of staff only.’

  So he’s pretending he doesn’t know me. I shush Iona back to sleep while I consider the next move and notice that his name is on his overall pocket. Excellent. ‘I’m not just any member of the public, Neville, as you well know.’

  His name on my lips drops his open. ‘How did you know my…?’ Realisation flits across his eyes and he belatedly puts a hand over his breast pocket. Neville sighs and picks up the mop. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Why do you think?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘What do you know about the letter you delivered?

  ‘What letter? I delivered no letter.’

  ‘Oh please. Look, if you don’t tell what you know about it, I’m going to the police.’ My voice sounds steady, strong.

  He shakes his head. ‘I can’t tell you anything.’ Neville’s eyes are still flitting around the kitchen and the mop bucket is overflowing in the sink.

  I walk over to the sink and he quickly sidesteps. I almost laugh out loud when I remember that I thought he might attack me. He’s scared witless. I turn the tap off and fix him with the kind of stare Simon uses when he wants to intimidate people. ‘I think you can tell me, Neville. Because if you don’t, while we’re waiting for the police, I’ll phone my husband and get him down here to ask you himself.’

  Misplaced confidence disables my ‘upper hand’ and I swallow hard as I see a calculating brain at work behind his now contemptuous gaze. ‘No, you won’t,’ Neville says quietly. ‘Because you’d have done that already instead of coming down here on your own, wouldn’t you?’

  I try to keep the tremor out of my voice. ‘Sounds like you’re hiding something to me. I thought you said you don’t know anything?’

  ‘I don’t know much.’ Neville turns one side of his mouth up, folds his arms and leans back against the sink. ‘Someone gave me the letter. I don’t know why. That’s it.’

  ‘So you were given a letter and told to deliver it. But you can’t tell me who gave you the letter.’ I state the obvious to give myself thinking time.

  ‘Yeah.’

  Now what? I decide to appeal to that contemptuous look in his eye. He thinks because I’m married to Simon, I’m loaded… a rich woman with no idea of what the real world looks like. Well, he’s wrong there. ‘Okay, Neville,’ I say, hitching Iona to one side and rooting in my bag for my purse. ‘Here’s two hundred pounds – now can you remember who gave you the letter?’ I hold out the notes and Neville’s tongue quickly runs over his bottom lip. It’s obvious he’s tempted.

  ‘Look, I don’t want to get on the wrong side of your husband. He’s a partner here. If he finds out that I did what I did I’ll be out on my ear, and I can’t afford to lose this job.’

  ‘He won’t find out from me.’ I flap the notes in my hand impatiently.

  ‘Like I said, I don’t know really anything, ‘cept it was to do with some secret or other that you should know and it was all written in that letter. I don’t even know the person’s name that gave me the letter.’

  I keep my arm extended and say, ‘Look – just tell me everything you know and you can have the money.’ I divide the notes and shove half at his chest. He pockets it so fast his hand is a blur.

  ‘Right. It was an agency nurse who used to work here. She was only here a few weeks. I used to say good morning to her but that was it.’ He holds out his hand for the rest of the money.

  I don’t give it to him. ‘You think I’m stupid? How can you not have known her name? You all wear badges, don’t you?’

  Neville’s voice has lost its softness and the dark eyes narrow. ‘I used to see her in the morning when we both got here. She had a coat on and, funnily enough, she never had a bad
ge on her coat – now give me the rest of the money.’

  ‘So why did you deliver a letter for her? Did she pay you?’

  ‘The money, please.’

  I consider refusing because I’m almost sure he’s lying, but what can I do? I promised him the money for information and at least I have more than I did when I left the house this morning. At least I have a person in front of me. A real, living person, not a figment of my imagination. This means it’s true, the letter is true and Ruan is alive! My heart is thumping. I’m euphoric… and then I hear Demi’s voice reminding me that it could all be a nasty, cruel joke. Damn it, I have to know the truth! I hand over the notes and he gives me a smug smile. Perhaps I could tell him about Ruan? Appeal to his better nature. Would he come clean then? But then, what if he knows all about him anyway? Might as well try it… ‘Neville…’

  ‘Neville! Are you down there?’ a woman’s voice calls down the stairs.

  ‘Yeah! Coming!’ he shouts, and then grabs my arm and ushers me towards a door. ‘It’s my supervisor. Get out and don’t bother me again. I’ve told you all I know,’ he hisses in my ear, opens the door and shoves me through it.

  The door slams behind me and I hear bolts ramming home. I’m in a yard facing a row of bins and it’s starting to rain. So that’s it then. I pull the material of the sling up around Iona’s head and hurry along a passageway into the main street, my thoughts swirling like the raindrops. On the surface it seems like I haven’t got much further in finding my boy, but, compared to this morning, I have taken a giant leap. Neville knows more, I can feel it in my gut. I just need to find a way of getting him to tell me what it is.

  Chapter Nine

  Naked on the rumpled sheets in the middle of the bed, Lauren dipped her forefinger into her glass of champagne and then sucked on it, her eyes dark with lust. Simon shook his head and pulled on his trousers. She gave him a lazy smile and shifted her position, leaving nothing at all to the imagination. There was a tingle in his groin and he almost gave in to it, but he had to get back before Holly woke.