The Cruellest Game (18 page)

Florrie lay half across my feet. I chastised her mildly for being such a useless dog. But was she really that useless or had she known and loved the intruder? That made me start to really think.
To ask myself more questions.

Was I absolutely sure that I had heard someone downstairs? Answer: yes.

Could I possibly have been mistaken? Could the police be right about me? Could I have turned into the madwoman, deluded by grief, they obviously thought me to be. Answer: no, no and no.

In that case who could possibly have been in the house? Who could have effected entry without leaving any telltale signs? Who had keys? Who would Florrie welcome most into the house apart from
me?

The answer to all of those questions seemed to be Robert. But he was at work on a North Sea oil rig. And this time I knew which one because I’d asked him, and made a mental note of it. But
was he and did I?

I now knew that my husband was a very convincing liar. Just because he’d told me he was returning to Jocelyn did not necessarily mean that was the case.

I was still shaky and I had a headache. I needed to calm down and sort out my muddled thoughts. I switched on the TV to distract myself, hopping from channel to channel and not staying tuned to
any of them long enough to really take in what they were broadcasting. Nothing could distract me. I switched the thing off.

My mind was whizzing around in circles, but I always reached the same conclusion.

The intruder had to be Robert. Surely. I had no idea why he would pretend, knowing that I was now aware of his long-time subterfuge, to be on a North Sea platform when he wasn’t. And I had
no idea why he would turn up surreptitiously in the middle of the night, at what was still his own home after all, and apparently take two such disparate articles away with him. The camcorder, yes,
I supposed. It had a lot of footage of Robbie and me, in happier times, and even some of Robert too. I hadn’t been able to bear to look at it. Not yet anyway, but I could understand Robert
wanting it and maybe just picking it up when he saw it lying on the sideboard, not least because he had always so disliked being featured on any kind of film. And now I knew why that had been, too.
But why on earth would he want my iPod? He had one of his own. He always said it was music that kept him sane on the rigs, particularly when the weather kicked up and the men were confined to their
quarters.

I wondered if either of us was sane any more.

Could Robert have been trying to frighten me? Surely the one thing I still believed about my husband was that he loved me, and had never deliberately set out to hurt me.

But I could not think who else would have broken into my house and behaved so strangely. Indeed, I could not think who else would have been able to. After all, there was no sign of a break-in
and, as I’d told the police, nobody but Robert and I had keys.

I tried to think logically. First of all I needed to ascertain for certain whether or not Robert was in the North Sea.

That shouldn’t be difficult, but it would be simplest to wait until nine o’clock or thereabouts, and time passed very slowly. Almost as the grandfather clock struck in the hall I
dialled the direct line of Amaco’s human resources department in Aberdeen.

I put on a Scottish accent just in case I ended up speaking to someone I had spoken to before, and told the young man who answered that I was Rob Anderton’s wife and that my husband had
recently been home on compassionate leave following the death of our son. The young man seemed at least vaguely familiar with what had happened and expressed his condolences.

‘Look. I need to speak to my husband urgently. Can you help? Please. I’m desperate.’ As I did the first time I called, I allowed a note of hysteria to creep into my voice. Once
again, given the circumstances, that wasn’t difficult.

The young man responded almost without hesitation. ‘Yes, of course, Mrs Anderton. I can patch you through on our VoIP line directly to Jocelyn. It isn’t usual company policy, but
under these tragic circumstances I’m sure we can bend the rules.’

I thanked him and waited.

After a minute or two another, older male voice, just a bit fainter, came on the line.

‘Hello, Mrs Anderton, you’re through to the manager’s office on Jocelyn. We’ve sent someone to fetch your husband. It shouldn’t take long. Just hold on.’

I held on. Until eventually I heard Robert’s voice. ‘Darling, what is it? Are you all right? Has something else happened?’

I didn’t reply. Instead I hung up on him. I still had no wish to speak to the man. But now I knew that he was on Jocelyn for certain. As far as that was concerned he had been telling the
truth. Or his version of it. And certainly he could not have been the intruder.

I made myself more tea. This was crazy. Maybe the police were right after all. Had I been having a nightmare, and had the noises I was so certain that I’d heard downstairs just been part
of it?

Yet I was still sure of myself, really, and quite sure about the disappearance of my iPod and Robbie’s camcorder. But I could make absolutely no sense of the events of the night before,
and certainly nobody else was going to believe me.

My mobile rang then, and I saw Robert’s Skype number flash up. I let the call go to 121, but I did listen to his message: ‘Marion, you must tell me what’s going on. Why did you
call me here through the office? And why didn’t you speak to me? If you don’t pick up, I shall come home.’

That’s what I’d been afraid of. Whatever happened, I couldn’t face that. I hurried to the study, jacked up our computer and used Skype to call him back. He was waiting online
as I’d expected him to be. He answered very quickly.

‘It’s OK, I just wanted to know exactly where you were,’ I told him without prevarication.

‘You mean, you were checking up on me?’ He had the nerve to sound rather indignant.

‘I suppose I was, yes. And can you blame me?’

He changed his tone at once.

‘No, I suppose I can’t, can I? But, look, I do so worry about you. I want to put everything right. I could easily get more leave again, you know—’

‘No, Robert, let’s just try to do what we normally do. We’re used to time apart. Let’s do what we’re used to. And maybe we can get through this somehow.’

‘Do you really think so?’

‘Yes, of course, yes.’

There had been such hope in his voice that I felt almost guilty when I so easily lied in my reply. But all that mattered really was keeping him at bay. I knew I couldn’t cope with having
him home, and I certainly couldn’t cope with how he would react if he knew about the night-time intruder.

After I’d extricated myself from the call I did something I’d been meaning to do ever since Robert had confessed to also being Rob Anderton. I searched the house from top to bottom
looking for any paperwork in the name of Anderton, or any reference at all to a Rob Anderton, or to a lottery win or a bank account showing an appropriate balance. I found absolutely nothing.
Robert had covered his tracks well, it seemed. But then, he had been my husband, if not absolutely legally, for sixteen years without ever raising my suspicions.

Frustrated and fed up, I made a snap decision. If I was going to hang on to what remained of my sanity, I had to give myself something else to think about other than the terrible chain of events
that had engulfed me.

I called the headmistress’s office at Okehampton College and when I was put through to Mrs Rowlands told her I was ready to come back to work.

She expressed concern and mild surprise, asking: ‘Are you quite sure?’

But when I said I was, I thought I caught a sigh of relief.

‘We certainly need you,’ she continued. ‘It’s black Monday here. Some sort of autumn flu bug seems to have hit the staffroom. I have three people off sick today,
including our new, regular part time English teacher. I don’t suppose you could work every morning for a bit?’

‘I certainly can,’ I replied. And I felt mildly cheered for the first time since Robbie’s death.

It was always good to feel needed. And I had to do something. I’d spent enough time sitting around an empty house all day torturing myself.

‘Can you start tomorrow?’ Mrs Rowlands asked.

‘I certainly can,’ I repeated.

Later that afternoon I briefly called everyone I knew – that small list again: my dad, Gladys, Bella, the Farleys – to tell them about my return to teaching. I hoped it might stop
them fussing over me and, most of all, lessen the danger of any of them turning up on my doorstep uninvited. My calls to Dad and Gladys were both diverted to answer services, which suited me fine.
I knew it was wrong of me in view of Dad being Dad and Gladys having been so kind, but I didn’t really want to talk to either of them. Ellen, Tom’s wife, answered the Farley phone, and
I kept that call as short as I politely could. Bella also answered her mobile straight away. But it was she, after welcoming my news, who cut the call short.

‘We’re just walking back from school, had to go to one of those parent–teacher meetings,’ she said. ‘But why don’t we try to get together next weekend? Take
the dogs to the beach perhaps? And if there’s anything I can do to help . . .’

I then emailed Robert for the same reason. I was still afraid that he might take emergency leave again, and if he knew I was back at work, full-time in fact, and apparently doing my best to
return to normality, he would hopefully be less likely to do so.

Of course, nothing could take my mind off losing Robbie. Even though there can be few activities more diverting than trying to ram the wonders of English literature into the wandering minds of a
class of thirteen-year-olds. However, Robbie’s presence and the grim reality of his death were with me all the time.

One of my pupils, who I knew lived on the outskirts of Okehampton, was called Conor Shaw, and even though Shaw was not an uncommon name it seemed quite natural for me to ask if he was related to
Sue Shaw.

‘She’s my sister, miss,’ said the boy.

‘But she goes to Kelly,’ I blurted out stupidly, already knowing the response I would provoke. Like us, I didn’t expect the Shaws would have been able to pay the full fee for a
place at Kelly, and certainly not for two children.

‘Got a swimming scholarship didn’t she, like your Robbie,’ he said, then coloured up. ‘Sorry, miss, I didn’t mean to . . .’

They all knew so much more about my family now, with Robbie having died in such a public way, his bright young face all over the papers, than they ever had before.

‘That’s all right,’ I said. ‘It’s fine, Conor.’

It wasn’t, of course, and never would be. But after a couple of days back at school I knew I was beginning to function almost normally again. You didn’t get much choice when you were
teaching. And I was well aware I wasn’t properly up to speed, my previous regular one day a week having kept me only barely in touch with the curriculum, so I had to work all the harder.

Small things still threw me. I was just arriving at the beginning of my third morning back when I saw Conor Shaw emerge from an elderly Range Rover. The driver was a red-headed man I assumed
must be his father, his and Sue’s. I approached the vehicle, and the man wound down his window.

‘Hi,’ I said. ‘I’m Marion Anderson, Conor’s English teacher.’

The man smiled a greeting. ‘Michael Shaw, his dad,’ he responded easily.

‘I’m also Robbie Anderson’s mum,’ I said.

The smile faded at once.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Michael Shaw, sounding and looking anything but. ‘Unfortunately I’m in a hurry. Must go, I’m afraid.’

With that he started the engine of the Range Rover, slammed his foot on the accelerator, and took off at a considerably greater speed than was ever encouraged outside Okehampton College.

I’d only been able to see Michael Shaw through his car window. He had a broad, quite highly coloured face and looked as if he would be a big man when stood up. I remember what Sue Shaw had
said on the day of the funeral. ‘Dad will kill me.’

I wondered, watching the dust settle after his sudden departure in the big four-wheel-drive, if the man had a temper. And if so, just how bad it was.

I thought I would like to at least try to talk to both Michael Shaw and his daughter again one day soon. But not yet.

I still did not believe my son had killed himself, and I still wanted to find out the whole truth about his death. I also doubted that I yet knew the whole truth about the husband who had
deceived me for so long.

But I’d put all of that almost deliberately on hold by returning to teaching. I felt that I needed to heal myself before I could proceed further with anything else. And my wounds were
deep.

However, by the end of the working week, and of my fourth day back at Okehampton College, I felt pleasantly weary and certainly more in control than I had since Robbie’s
death. I’d stayed on in Okehampton for a Friday pub lunch with a couple of the other teachers, and almost enjoyed myself. On the way home I called Bella to see if she would like to set a time
for that dog walk she had suggested over the coming weekend. There was no reply so I surprised myself somewhat by leaving a message which, while far from cheery, was at least fairly bright and
positive.

But this very slightly better frame of mind was not to last for long. I arrived at Highrise to find Florrie running loose in the yard and the front door standing wide open.

Hesitantly, I approached the old house. My heart felt like Big Ben booming away within my chest. I was full of foreboding, but I just had to step inside.

The grandfather clock Robert had always been so proud of lay on its side on the flagstoned floor in the hall. Its lovely glass face had been smashed and its mechanism, its core, ripped from its
casing.

The sitting-room door was open and I could see that the chairs and settees had been turned on their sides and the TV screen smashed. There was also a horrible smell in the house. It was all too
familiar. The same smell which had greeted me when I’d found Robbie’s body. The sour stench of human excrement.